The Meridians(67)

"You're the only crazy one, you piece of shit," spat Scott from between clenched teeth.

"There we go," said Mr. Gray, seemingly appeased out of his confusion by Scott's anger. "That's more like it." He cocked the gun. "Let's not have any more nonsense talk about dogs. You and the bitch and her retard son got away from me last time, but it's not going to happen again."

He pointed the gun at Scott's face, and Scott saw the man's finger whiten on the trigger. And this time he knew, knew without the least shadow of doubt, that no John Doe would appear to save him. Apparently the universe would allow for only one substitution of John Doe's death for Scott's. Although why shouldn't it? he thought. John Doe wasn't dead anymore, was he? So why couldn't he appear again?

As if Scott had spoken the words aloud, Mr. Gray smirked and said, "No blue eyed old bastard going to show up this time and save you, either. He used up all his juice on the last one."

Last one? thought Scott. Mr. Gray knows that John Doe visited me in my office? How much does this guy know?

He was tempted to actually ask that question, but before he could, Mr. Gray spoke again. "Wait," he said, and lowered the gun ever-so-slightly. "This isn't quite right, is it?"

And with that, the killer racked off a shot. The sound was hollow-sounding and distant, as though in this universe, this replica of the alley where Scott's family had died, things were not quite right, were not quite following the laws of physics.

I've been shot in the head, Scott thought instantly. Then, on the heels of that thought came another: So why am I still standing?

He could not help but look askance at Mr. Gray, who appeared to be distilling perfect pleasure from Scott's obvious confusion and discomfiture.

"You don't remember? It's been only eight years for you, and you don't remember?" said Mr. Gray in exaggerated shock. "I was going to shoot you in the head. But before I did, I got off three other shots. One that just missed you. One in the stomach. One in the chest." He laughed, and like the sound of the bullet, the laugh was thin and unreal. "So now we've got one down, two more to go." And with that he lowered the gun, aiming it at Scott's stomach. "I've still got enough juice for that, you know," he whispered, as though sharing a great confidence with his enemy.

Scott thought at that moment that he was on the verge of passing out. Not because of fear; any fear for his own life had long since been burnt away by the all-consuming grief he had endured in the days following his family's death. But darkness was seeping in at the edges of his vision, just as it had on that day so long ago.

"You shot me out of order, you dumbshit," he said, as though to defy the unconscious state that had to inevitably follow the darkness at the edges of his sight. "You shot me in the stomach first, then you missed, and then you got me in the chest." Scott turned his head and spat. "You are not only a piss poor hitman, you have a memory that's for crap."

The gunman stopped laughing then, the amusement dying instantly in the face of Scott's derision. "Get on your knees," said Mr. Gray.

But Scott didn't get on his knees. Indeed, he barely registered that Mr. Gray had said anything at all. Because when he turned his head to spit on the pavement, he had realized something: the darkness he had thought was a byproduct of impending unconsciousness was something else. Something else entirely.

The edges of his vision, he realized, were not growing darker. Rather, they were shimmering. And it wasn't really the edges of his vision, either. If that had been the case, then when he had turned his head, the shimmering would have moved as well. But it hadn't. It was not pinned to him, but to a specific location in the alley.

Locations, he realized. Plural. Because as he glanced around, he saw that shimmering lights were appearing throughout the alleyway. He looked at one of them, and saw something even stranger perhaps than the appearance of a Los Angeles alley in downtown Meridian: he saw both an alley in L.A. and a corresponding one in Meridian. As though he was looking through a window painted to look like the Los Angeles alley, and on the other side of the window a slim passage between buildings in Meridian - cleaner and nicer in every way, and without the stench of old urine and rotting trash - could be dimly viewed.

Mr. Gray apparently noticed that Scott was not paying attention to him, for he, too, looked around.

"Dammit," muttered the old man. Then he hit Scott in the stomach with the gun. "Get on your knees," he said.

Scott didn't move, just looking at the old man with unveiled contempt. Mr. Gray hit him again, on the head this time, the pistol whipping out with frightening force and almost knocking Scott senseless.

He fell to his knees in spite of himself, and saw through a thin veil of red as blood poured from the gash that Mr. Gray had opened on his forehead.

Mr. Gray moved the gun so that it was pointing directly at Scott's forehead.

"You just can't do anything right, can you?" said Scott, laughing and then coughing as he inhaled some of the blood that was pouring steadily down his face. "First you take the shots out of order, and now you're going to skip the gut and chest shots completely?"

He laughed again. The small sane part of him was crying out for him to stop baiting Mr. Gray, but a larger part, the part that had curdled and gone quietly mad within him following the death of Amy and Chad, knew that this was his last chance to inflict a little pain of his own. Sociopathic killers tended to be narcissists, he knew, and Mr. Gray fit the bill perfectly. So even if he died - as it looked like he was going to; as it looked like he must - at least he would die with the satisfaction of knowing that his last words had chipped away at the brittle shell of ego that Mr. Gray had surrounded himself in. "You're a champion screwup, Mr. Gray," he said.