On the right of the nursing home, the drooping branches of a line of weeping willow trees hovered over a simple concrete path. Brushing leaves out of our faces as we walked single-file, it was only a few feet until we came to a glass side-door. To my surprise, it opened. Every door but the main one in a nursing home should be locked to the outside at all times, and I joked to Josh that I was already considering dumping my imaginary mother somewhere else that was a little more secure. After waiting a second for a chuckle that never came, I once again held out my arm for him to take, and he again just stared at it like it was a dead fish. Finally I just decided to give up on the cover and walked inside alone into a musty-smelling hallway with muzak piping softly from a loudspeaker in the ceiling.
The hallway stretched out straight ahead for quite a ways, with numbered doors on either side covered in various macramé, knitted and dried-macaroni-covered decorations. I stepped up to a door adorned with a "#1 GRANDMA!!!" plaque and let myself in. Josh hissed behind me to stay in the hall, but I flicked on the lights and took a quick look at the accommodations. The apartment was clean and surprisingly roomy, even sporting a brand-new high-definition television. Of course, it still had the trademark mysterious mustiness that seemingly every old person's domicile possessed, but overall it was probably the most comfortable living arrangements in the entire town. I poked through the nightstand and dresser drawers while telling Josh to keep watch in the hall, and after I was satisfied I crossed the corridor to the apartment opposite and repeated the search. Finally, I had Josh do the same in a third room just in case there was something I wasn't seeing. "Let me know if you find anything in the nightstand or dresser besides clothes, bibles or medication. So far it's all the same story."
He reported back within less than a minute that there was nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of what he referred to with a shudder as, "A lady's personal pleasure device. With high, high mileage." I rolled my eyes, made my way down the corridor toward the central commons area and froze when I got there.
The nursing home's main room was two stories high with plush leather couches, love seats and recliners scattered about. In the center of the room were three enormous plasma TV's placed in a triangular configuration facing in all directions, the one I could see displaying a silent episode of "Murder She Wrote". One other long hallway connected to the room at a ninety degree angle, the complex built in the shape of an "L". The lights were dimmed and it took a moment for it to sink in that all the many large lumps scattered about the carpeted floor were bodies. Everywhere we looked corpses of elderly people were lying on the ground or on the furniture, their eyes wide with shock and terror. Not three feet away from me an old woman lay prone, her dead body contorted and the area around her mouth scratched and torn by her own bloody hand. There was something else around her lips as well- some brownish goo I couldn't identify.
As I bent down to check the old woman for life signs just in case, I heard someone coming down the other hallway, whistling a tune I didn't recognize. I motioned for Josh to get down behind one of the recliners and hide, and I did the same. The whistling echod off the walls of the main room, then ceased. Slowly and as quietly as I could manage, I eased my gun from its holster, the first time I'd ever drawn my weapon with the thought of having to actually fire it. It was a Glock 26 subcompact slimline model, quite common and easy enough to conceal but still with decent stopping power and ten rounds of ammunition in each magazine. I never carried extra magazines as I had never so much as fired a single bullet in combat much less ten. Besides, until now I had always been of the thought that if it takes more than ten rounds to stop someone then I should probably just put down the gun and concentrate more on prayer anyway. Now, though, hiding behind a love seat and surrounded by wrinkled, bloated corpses, I would not have turned down an offer of extra bullets.
Towards the middle of the room I heard a voice begin to speak and watched Josh's eyes widen in recognition. Silently he mouthed the words, "The Old Man." I thumbed the safety off my pistol, but otherwise stayed stock-still, listening.
I heard The Old Man make a "tsk"-ing sound and say, "Harrison, my good man, this room is a disaster, and there can be no question of it. Do be a fine fellow and open the gas main, we simply cannot leave the old home in such a state. Much as I-"
Rising from behind the love seat and pointing my gun, I yelled, "Freeze!" I had no intention of allowing anyone to destroy more evidence, and knew that I could not permit The Old Man to escape, leaving Josh to take the fall for the murder he had committed. The Old Man was just as Josh had described, even wearing the same clothes, complete with dried blood on his shirt cuff and down his leg where Josh had shot him. He carried a cane, though while it was touching the ground he didn't seem to be leaning on it. Behind him stood an enormous black man dressed entirely in dirty denim, his frizzy, wild hair covered in dust. His smile was wide and never wavered, and it did remind me of the smile on Mrs. Walentowicz's face when we discovered her body. He carried an ancient-looking wood and iron chest-about the size of a microwave oven-seemingly without effort.
Josh hesitantly rose from behind the chair and shuffled over, standing just next to and behind me. The Old Man's expression was one of wonderment, then delight. "Why, Mr. Howland, you are a marvel, sir. A great pleasure to make your acquaintance once more. And what have we here? You must be Miss Stroud. Lovely, lovely girl. If circumstances permitted I would kiss the back of your pale hand and pay you every compliment, but the developments of the day do not permit, I well understand." All the same, he gave a little bow, his pale blue eyes never leaving mine. A shiver went up my spine, and I fought the urge to retch.
I took a deep breath and said, "You are coming with us. You are going to confess to the police that it was you, not Josh, who-"
The Old Man put up a hand to stop me. "I think we both know that will never happen, Miss Stroud. Let us not labor under delusions neither of us share. Now unless you care to shoot me in the back or make conversation that is either more pertinent or agreeable, I will bid you both good night. Come, Harrison." The two men turned, and my finger tightened on the trigger. Foremost in my mind was the fact that if I killed this man, he would never be able to confess to framing Josh for his bodyguard's murder.
I decided to stall him, whispering to Josh, "Call 911, but don't draw attention to it." Then louder, I said, "Then let's make conversation. You know our names- what's yours? How did you kill all these people? Poison? Some kind of gas? Why are you doing this... whatever you're doing? What's your relationship to the driver that crashed into the Howlands and Doctor Yoshida?" My hope was that by bombarding him with questions I might find something he would want to talk about long enough for the police to arrive.
The Old Man turned back to us, as did Harrison, both smiling. The Old Man put out a hand and casually swatted the corpse of an elderly man off a recliner and sat down in the newly vacated seat. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an unfiltered cigarette, lighting it with a match he had hidden in his palm. I was relieved to see the flame as up until then I hadn't been certain that the room wasn't already filled with gas. Harrison remained standing motionless behind him. The Old Man exhaled, cleared his throat and said amiably, "The name is Hollis, of course. As to my relationship... I am an assistant." He seemed to think better of it immediately, shook his head and amended, "No... not even that. I am a mere stagehand, that is all. Or even simply a favored slave who has been given some small access to a few rooms of the master's house." He chuckled a little at this, and turned back to look behind him at Harrison, whose grinning expression never changed.
He leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable and growing expansive, pausing only for the occasional pull on his cigarette. My pistol was beginning to grow heavy, so I lowered it to my side, still aiming it at him as best I could. Hollis continued, "The trouble with slavery was, they decided who should be slaves based on criteria that was far too broad-based, in my own, humble opinion. Why be beholden to the history of the industry when history could not have less meaning? Every Negro a slave? Every one? Preposterous. Have we not all met the rare Negro who was the match and even the better of some white men?" He leaned forward, warming to his subject. "In the perfect world, slavery should be individually decided. Why, have we not all known at one time or another some shiftless, useless layabout that gives nothing to society and only takes? A man who never once considers any civic responsibility but instead grifts and swindles everything they can hold? Would life not be far better if it were these bottom-feeding leeches who were pressed into slavery, all the decisions they had made wrong all their lives suddenly being rightly made for them instead? Do not tell me you have never met individuals who would not fit this criteria, for I would find such a claim impossible to recognize."
Josh and I exchanged looks, both of us for the first time utterly unable to think of a thing to say. Sensing this, Hollis crushed out his cigarette on the upholstered arm of the recliner and stood. I jerked my gun up and aimed it at him carefully. "I can't let you leave." Ignoring me, he turned toward the front door, as did Harrison. My mind scrambled for something, anything that could be used to delay him. Finally, desperately I blurted, "I have a wager for you."
He turned back to us, his eyebrow cocked. For the first time, I believe he was genuinely surprised. "What? What is this? A wager." His smile split his face, exposing a mouthful of dark, yellow teeth. "This is unexpected. Continue."
Taking a deep breath, I said as evenly as I could, "I bet I can tell you the contents of that chest."
Hollis spared a glance back at Harrison then turned back to me, his blue eyes gleaming. "Doubtful. Highly. But it is your wager, my dear. The stakes?"
"The murder weapon. The blade used to kill Mrs. Walentowicz. I want to know where it is. The Driver's name, I want that too." I tried to think of something else and failed.
Frowning, Hollis said, "The first I would provide, but not the second. However, having found the former it would give a clue to the latter. His initials were carved into the knife's hilt long ago." His expression turning more severe, he added, "Do not refer to him as 'The Driver'. You walk, yet that does not make you 'The Walker'. It is insulting and demeaning to his true profession." Before I could ask what I should call him instead he continued, "And for my prize I ask only that I receive a lock of your pretty, pretty blond hair. That is all." The eagerness in his voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
Josh spoke for the first time. "F*ck that, old man." Turning to me he said, "Don't do it, Mary. Just shoot the bastard. I don't know why he would want your hair, but whatever he wants that badly would be-"
"I agree to the stakes."
Josh swore again. "Are you entirely insane?! Don't bet with this-"
Hollis raised his voice, saying, "Mr. Howland, the wager is agreed upon." He turned to me confidently. "You may make your guess, my dear. What is inside the chest?"
My heart pounding, I raised my head and said, "Bingo charms."
Giving me his best what the Hell?? expression, Josh put a hand on my arm and began trying to gently pull me back into the hallway. Hollis stared into my eyes for a long moment, then smiled again in that way that made my skin crawl and began softly applauding while still holding his cane. "Bravo, my dear. It seems we may have underestimated you. You are certainly not obligated to answer, but how did you know?"
"It was what I didn't see. There were no charms on any of the bodies, nor in their rooms. Since everyone here was recruited because they were the best Bingo players, it stood to reason that at least some of them would have those charms. I should have thought of it back at Mrs. Walentowicz's house in Milwaukee, but I didn't see her Bingo necklace at the murder scene, either. He took her charm, didn't he? The killer."
Hollis nodded. "He has it in his possession this very moment." He once again sat down in the chair, making himself comfortable and putting a foot up on a nearby corpse. "The game of Bingo began right here in Georgia, did you know that? Back in the twenties. Not the game itself, that had its roots in Europe in the fifteen-hundreds, a game that later was called 'Beano' here in the states until someone was so excited with a win they mistakenly called out 'Bingo' instead and the name stuck." He lit another smoke and continued genially, "The game is played around the nation and the world... it has infiltrated virtually every single city and town in this nation, primarily played by those too old to contribute anything else of worth to the world. It is played in halls and even in churches everywhere, and no one thinks about it for a second." He laughed, a grating sound conveying more cruelty than actual mirth.
He gestured at all the bodies at our feet, saying, "These were the best of the best of them. The world considered them 'lucky' of all things. Ridiculous. Their friends and family were under the mistaken impression that they played Bingo all the time. They thought about playing all the time, but the fact is that the very best played rarely. Played rarely, but won often, and big. We would ask them if they wished to go to one large Bingo contest or another, and you would think that they would all want to go, but it was only one or two every time. Why didn't they all go? Because only one or two knew they would win. They did not win at Bingo because they were lucky or because they played constantly, they won because they only played when they felt that they would win."
Josh stared at him incredulously, "So... all these people were, what... little Bingo Nostradamuses? They could see into the future and tell when they were going to win? Gimme a brea-"
"They didn't know, necessarily, but they felt something. Not with one hundred percent accuracy, mind you, but enough. More than enough." Hollis took another drag and leaned forward in his chair, animated. "Do you have any idea how many people play this game around the globe? With what frequency they sit and stare at that piece of paper, desperate to blot out a single line, their will bent entirely toward that purpose? It is in every community everywhere and no one asks any questions about it because it gives the elderly something to do besides rot, take up space and complain of their own obsolescence."
I considered it. "It's like an experiment. For generations you have people crowd in and take part- actually, they pay to take part- in a system where it's essentially determining, what... how to tell when you are going to win? Seeing the future in a way, is that right?"
Hollis grinned. "Think of the size of the sample... the sheer number of those taking part. Eventually, if someone was paying attention, they could find those impossibly happy few that posssessed... special gifts."
"What about the charms, then?" Josh pointed to the chest. "Those necklaces and bracelets of worthless plastic... are they, what, 'special'? They squirt out of the machine at the factory and give someone the ability to see the future?" I kept my gaze-and my gun-on Hollis, but I could practically hear Josh's eye-roll from behind me.
I took a shot, answering for Hollis, all the while thinking, where are the damn police? "They aren't special when they buy them... but after years and years of being looked at and touched and concentrated on by the best players... they become special?" Hollis winked and gave a single nod.
A thought occurred to me then about something Yoshida had said earlier. Seeing as my guesses had been hitting the mark, I ventured, "The money they won... if these people were the very best of the best- if they somehow knew when they were going to win- they must have made millions. This is a nice facility, but it's nowhere near what they must have been pulling in. The town... all of Hollis Crossroads... this is how you kept it going, isn't it? Subsidizing the entire dying town with money won from the nursing home."
The old man rose from his chair once more and said, "My dear, we have absolutely undervalued you. It is too bad for us that the young gentleman there did not get his way early on as concerns your employment." Hollis brushed a stray cigarette ash off his sleeve and gave an unconvincing stretch. "Well, I believe it is time that I be on my way. While I fully comprehend that the two of you were merely stalling until the authorities could arrive, I found our conversation to be genuinely agreeable." Josh and I shot each other a look, then he continued, "Just so you do not think ill of our local gendarmes here in Hollis Crossroads, I thought it best to kill the town's police force and disable their communications system before the night's foray, so the delay in response time could hardly be considered a mark against them. They are- or were- quite a competent brigade, and I would hate to think their reputation would be slandered based on this evening's events. The call will eventually be re-routed to the sheriff's department, but their travel time is more significant."
I took a deep breath, raised the gun and pointed it at Hollis's head. "I can't let you leave. I want you alive so we can clear Josh's name, but I'll shoot you if I have to. Sit down."
Hollis nodded but didn't move. "I was granted a boon this time around... my special trick. At first I found them unpleasant, but you get used to them. In time. And to answer your earlier inquiry, it was not poison." Another pause, then, "Oh, and to pay up on our little wager, the knife is currently aboard the Liberator, a small cargo ship in the North Pacific bound for Nagasaki, Japan. Farewell, I doubt we shall meet again until the next world."
Tightening my grip and preparing to fire if he took one step toward the door, I began to hear a muted rumbling sound coming from all around me. Keeping my eye on Hollis, I felt Josh tug at my sleeve and whisper my name. Refusing to be distracted, I ignored him, but then he pulled harder. "Mary," he hissed. "Look down." Finally lowering my gaze, I saw the corpse of the elderly woman at my feet shift ever so slightly. A quick scan of all the bodies showed subtle movement. Just then I gave a sharp yelp as the woman's mouth opened and an enormous, black, blood-covered centipede crawled out. This followed by another and another, until centipedes of all shapes and sizes gushed from her open maw, spilling out onto the carpeted floor.
Josh and I staggered back, and we could see that every corpse in the room had centipedes pouring out of their mouths and in the case of the smaller insects, their nostrils. I was petrified that they would begin scuttling over in our direction, but they did the opposite, charging toward Hollis and Harrison. There were thousands of centipedes swarming around his feet, and after a minute we could see that they were moving in a sort of pattern, a figure-eight between his legs. After a few long moments of this, Hollis looked up at Josh and I, smiled that vile, yellow grin and pointed right at us.
Suddenly, all the thousands and thousands of bloody, glistening, writhing centipedes began skittering straight at us. I let out a scream, and this time when Josh pulled at me, I went with him. The two of us ran back down the hallway, the centipedes advancing with astonishing, terrifying speed. The glass door we used to enter had a push-bar on the inside, and we hurtled into it, bashing it open. Josh turned around and began pushing the door closed again, but at the top of it was a hydraulic device that hissed and protested, forcing it to be shut slowly. "Come on, come on," Josh muttered through gritted teeth as the wave of centipedes flowed like an obscene river down the hallway toward us. "Close, goddamn it, close!" he yelled, but it was still open almost a foot wide and the centipedes were almost on us. He turned to me and yelled, "Sh*t, not going to make it. Run!" He abandoned the door just as the insects slammed into it en masse and spewed outside like water through a broken dam. I started to run down the narrow path next to the nursing home heading toward the front of the building, but even as I sprinted I could feel multiple tiny legs begin to crawl up my pantyhose past my ankles and up my calves. I heard Josh scream behind me, "In my pants, biting! F*ck! Don't stop, head for the car!"
We broke from the willows and into the parking lot, the majority of the swarm of centipedes still behind us. I could feel the ones that were on me reach my knee and continue up, their long antennae scraping my thighs underneath my skirt. I screamed again and swatted at them ineffectually as I ran, pulling the car keys out of my purse and praying I wouldn't drop them in my haste. As I unlocked the car with the remote, the centipedes crawled all the way up to my belt and began squeezing through underneath my blouse to my bare belly and back, biting as they went. Finally I reached the car, ramming into the side of it at full speed and nearly losing my balance, narrowly avoiding falling to the ground. Recovering quickly I tore at the handle, flung open the door and dove inside. Once there I pawed at the car door and slammed it shut, then reached over and opened the passenger door for Josh- all while the centipedes under my shirt continued their inexorable, frantic crawl upward, their many wriggling legs grasping for purchase against my flesh.
A moment later Josh threw himself into the car, slamming the door behind him, and the two of us began essentially beating ourselves up, pummeling our own bodies in an attempt to crush the centipedes underneath our clothes. Before we could kill them, though, Josh pointed to the car's dashboard vent, and I saw a pair of long antennae jutting out, waving around tentatively. "They're getting in! Drive, drive, drive, Mary!" I fumbled with the keys, and this time in my panic I actually did drop them on the floor with a clatter. Desperately, I bent over, running my hands over the plastic floormat in search of them. The centipede that had crawled through the vent dropped down right on the back of my exposed neck, and I jerked up with a scream, banging my head on the underside of the dashboard. Before I could completely lose it, Josh quickly swiped at the centipede trying to wriggle up into my hair, pulled it off of me and smashed it against the dashboard, turning it to pulp. A moment later the keys were in my hand, the car was revving and we were peeling out of the Hollis Nursing Home parking lot.
As we hit the street there was a large explosion behind us, and in the rearview mirror I could see flames pouring from the nursing home's many windows. Another few moments and we could see flashes and hear the muffled thumps of other explosions throughout the entire town. "The fire must have traveled down the gas main somehow," I said, my voice sounding distant to me. "The whole town, every building... it's all going, all burning..." I floored it, and Josh and I fled north, bypassing what we could of the ruined inferno that was Hollis Crossroads, the flames reaching up ever higher into the night.
The car swerved all over the road as Josh and I tore open our clothes and crushed the centipedes underneath, their smashed innards mixing with the blood that seeped from our many bites. Modesty was forgotten as we stripped down to our underwear to be certain of killing every last bug, and I never took my foot off the gas. Finally, after driving for a solid half-hour I pulled the car over to the side of the two-lane highway and put it in park.
My voice came out in a husky whisper. "He said not to call him The Driver. Hollis said that he was an assistant... a stage hand, and that he had been granted a 'trick'. Those are show-business terms, and there is only one type of performer that fits the description. I know what to call our enemy now- I know what to call Hollis' master. He was right, he isn't The Driver.
"He is The Magician."
We sat there in silence, our breath ragged, and then I put my head on Josh's shoulder and sobbed, crying and crying until the thought of the swarm of centipedes somewhere behind us spurred me to put the car back in gear and continue the drive back to the city.