It’s clear, as soon as our minds join, that he’s granted me access to the very core of his psyche. It’s like he strips away everything to reveal his soul to me. He doesn’t just share his memories, but his feelings as well, his dreams, his fears. Will I finally see the horror that transformed a good man into a psychotic clown?
There’s a rush of images and a swell of emotions, too much to process all at once. But one face is clear in the tsunami—Dr. Oystein’s. It’s the first time Mr. Dowling has let me browse any of his recollections of the doc. I’m fascinated to find out what happened between them and how they drifted so far apart.
But as soon as I fix on an image of the doctor, something clicks inside me. I sense my brain automatically switching to a specific track. It’s sort of like when I used to focus on a crossword puzzle, but I’m not trying to find a word this time—without knowing how, I’m somehow searching for Schlesinger-10.
I’ve tried to probe Mr. Dowling’s brain before, on the trail of the venomous virus. He’s always batted away my awkward, amateurish jabs with ease. But this is different. Suddenly, without meaning to, I’ve become a battering ram. I plow through the clouds of memories and mental barriers, bulldozing everything aside, driven by a force I don’t understand to find out where he stores his apocalyptic vial.
My actions shock Mr. Dowling. He wasn’t expecting a concentrated assault. This isn’t the B Smith he’s come to know from our previous couplings. It’s not the B Smith I know either. I’m not in control of my mind. It’s doing things I hadn’t planned, things I didn’t know I could.
While we’re both reeling, stunned by this lightning-fast twist, I zoom in on the resting place of the lethal liquid. Mr. Dowling screams wordlessly and I feel him wrench away from me, severing the link between us. I know instantly that I’m in trouble. I’ve betrayed him, and I now pose more of a threat to him than anyone ever has. The only reason Dr. Oystein hasn’t come after the clown is that he dares not act as long as his nemesis holds the virus that could wipe out humanity in a matter of days if unleashed.
I now know where the vial is being stored. It’s here, underground, in a room that only Mr. Dowling knew about before I pried the information from him. He didn’t tell any of his minions where it was. He didn’t trust them with such sensitive details, not even Kinslow. If Dr. Oystein had known that, he could have had the clown assassinated years ago. But there was always the risk that Mr. Dowling had left orders for the virus to be released if he was killed.
That risk doesn’t exist anymore. Mr. Dowling’s cover is blown. If he lets me walk out of here, I could take the vial with me or just tell the doc to set some snipers on the clown. Either way, Mr. Dowling can’t afford to let me leave. He can’t afford to let me live. He’ll have to kill me. The difficulty for him is that we’re both lying on the bed, zoned out, helpless.
I try to will myself out of the mental zone and back into my body, but it’s impossible to rush the process. We usually recover from the shock at roughly the same speed, but sometimes I’m on my feet before him, sometimes it’s the other way round.
While I’m waiting for the whiteness to recede, I focus on calming myself down. I can’t afford to panic. If the clown recovers before I do, he’ll finish me off and that will be that, nothing I can do to stop him. But if we return to consciousness at the same time, then the one who is more composed will have an advantage.
I tune into soothing thoughts and memories. I try not to think that my life is on the line. I don’t worry about wasting this chance to return Schlesinger-10 to Dr. Oystein. I’m a bottle floating on top of the sea during a storm. If I get washed ashore intact, all well and good. If I shatter from the force of the waves, so be it.
Heh—the secrets of the universe as revealed by Zen mistress B Smith!
Time normally passes quickly when I’m bonding with Mr. Dowling. There’s so much going on, so many memories to tap into and exchanges taking place, that minutes fly by like seconds. But he’s not interacting with me now–I guess he’s busy trying to force his mind back into his body–so time starts to drag. It feels like I’ve been suspended in this void for hours.
“Come on, come on…” I mutter, imagining a hand and a watch, staring at it as the seconds tick by oh. So. Slowwwwlyyyyyy.
Finally the whiteness starts to fade. The material stretched across the top of the four-poster bed comes into focus. As I stare at it numbly, lips opening and shutting as if I’m breathing, I realize that fingers are clenched round my throat. Mr. Dowling is strangling me, forgetting, in his haste to kill me, that he might as well be choking my big toe. Hell, I don’t even have lungs anymore.
I chill and let the clown carry on strangling. I want him to think that I’m still out for the count. My fingers are tingling and shaking the way they always do when I’m recovering. I’m waiting for them to steady. Then I’ll strike.
As I’m gathering myself, Mr. Dowling pulls back and his face pops into view. He’s grinning crazily, but I can see alarm and dismay in his expression. He’s just realized the uselessness of what he’s been doing. Inside my brain he croaks, “No good!”
“Damn right,” I snort as he lets go of my throat and looks for something to stab into my skull.
Mr. Dowling’s gaze snaps back and his eyes widen—he thought I was still in cloud cuckoo land. He bares his teeth and throws himself forward. But he’s too late. The B is back!
As the clown comes for me, I swing a hand at him. The bones that he so thoughtfully grafted onto my fingers slice effortlessly through the flesh of his cheek and he pulls away, screeching.
I realize, as I scrabble after him, that I’ve never seen the clown in a fight. He hasn’t needed to get his hands dirty before, always able to rely on his mutants and babies, as well as the sense of terror that he instills in most people simply through his eerie presence. I know he’s a genius. I know he’s spooky as hell. But what’s he like with his fists?
To my surprise, he’s pretty nimble. Whirling like an acrobat, he kicks out at my face and connects with one of my fake ears, which stabs into my scalp. It stings, but I’ve endured way worse than that in my time. Even if he ripped the ear off, it wouldn’t be a biggie. I’ve been worked over by experts. It takes a lot to hurt me now.
Snarling, I throw a punch at the clown’s nose. He tries to block my incoming fist, but he’s too slow. If it had my full force behind it, I think it would do serious damage, but my hand is shaking, so it only strikes a glancing blow. Still, it pops the eyeball that was pinned to his nose and knocks him aside.
Lurching to my knees, I clutch Mr. Dowling and wrestle with him on the bed. We’re both grunting like pigs as we struggle to gain the upper hand. If anyone was listening outside, they’d think we were having a wild wedding night.
The clown latches on to my right cheek with his teeth. He shakes his head from side to side and rips off a chunk of flesh. I shriek and punch him in the ribs. He huffs and scratches at my eyes. I try to knee him in the groin, but only catch his thigh. He gets a hand into the hole where my heart should be and gropes around inside my chest.
“Sod this,” I mutter, and headbutt him.
He wasn’t expecting that. It knocks the wind out of him. He falls away from me, eyes spinning. I raise an elbow and slam it into the side of his neck. He chokes and collapses, eyes bulging. I punch him in the ribs a few more times for good measure. Then I get off the bed, wobble a bit, clutch one of the posts for balance and wait for the dizziness to pass.
When my head is clear and my legs are steady, I study the gasping clown. He looks pathetic. He knows he’s in dire straits. He tries to crawl away from me. I flex my fingers, getting ready to punch him again.
Then I spot the wand and smile. Mr. Dowling took control of the wand in all of our sessions. He never let me zap him. It was always a case of ladies first, even tonight when he was more tender with me than at any time before.
As the injured clown struggles to regain the upper hand, I turn on the wand and carefully–lovingly–press it to his temple. He spasms and his eyes roll. Spit flies from his lips. He collapses. I zap him again. And again. One last, lengthy burst of electricity, enough to put even an elephant out of action.
And that’s the end of it. He can’t fight back. There are no weapons in the room, but I don’t need any. I can drive the wand through the back of his head, or use my finger bones to dig through his skull. Scrape out every last scrap of brain. Go get the vial of Schlesinger-10. Find my way to the surface. Give the virus to Dr. Oystein.
The world is saved. The battle is over. The day is mine.
“That was too easy,” I chuckle.
And, as if that acts as a self-serving jinx, the door to the room flies open. My head snaps round and I spot the babies outside, filling the corridor as far as I can see. Their eyes are glowing red. Their jaws are gaping, fangs glinting in the flashing glare of a set of Christmas-tree lights.
“daddy,” they say softly, staring at the clown. Then their heads swivel and their gaze settles on me. “she hurt daddy.”
Before I can say anything to defend myself, they sweep forward into the bridal suite, the way they used to sweep forward in the plane in my dreams, and, in a wave of bloodthirsty white, they attack.