"All of them. You know I did it. I shot them, and they were all dead.
He said so--the policeman." Her hands shook.
"Look over there." He pointed to a small Wall. "They're alive and
performing, aren't they, Mrs. Davis?"
She looked at the Wall. Alice and Lester were planting a small rose
bush together.
"You see, occasionally women do suffer from delusions like yours," he
said. "But now that you've recovered, I'll drive you home. After a
quiet night you'll forget all this."
"They aren't delusions," she insisted. "I did it, with my husband's
gun. I waited until they closed the door, then I aimed--I know I did
it."
"Yes, certainly," he said, leading her to the door. "Now come along
home, Mrs. Davis."
She continued to protest, but he pulled her through the corridors and
down the steps to a waiting car. He nudged her into the front seat.
* * * * *
They passed darkened buildings. She saw the neon sign atop the _Herald_
offices ahead. If no one knew she'd killed them, no one would awaken.
No one would live again. The world would end after all.
She opened the door and jumped from the moving car. Stumbling, she ran
toward the _Herald_ offices.
She stumbled into the building and began seeking through its bright
corridors. Stopping to stare at each office door, she finally found the
one labeled "Editorial. Mr. Gray." She pushed into the office.
The little man behind the desk wore horn-rim glasses and smoked a pipe
that was a copy of Lester's. He smiled paternally. "Yes, dear?"
"I killed them! They're all dead!"
Realizing excitement did nothing to make her words more believable, she
forced herself to be calm.
Editor Gray wore his gray hair combed straight back, Lester-like. He
stood, putting one hand into his trouser pocket, as Lester always did.
"Who did you kill?" he asked quietly. "Calm down, dear. Tell me who you
killed."
"Lester and all the rest. You have to print it. I shot them--they're
dead. Print it in your paper."
He crossed the room to his Wall. Bass and Kippie were rolling pie dough
together, one on either end of the rolling pin.
"I'm afraid you're imagining these things, my dear." He sucked his
pipe, looking lovingly at Kippie. "I could love that child, but of
course Alice would be jealous."
She backed away from him into the arms of the tweedy man, who had come
into the office.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," he said. "This poor woman is suffering
from delusions. I was driving her home when she escaped me."
"That's all right," Editor Gray said mildly. "Perhaps she needs
professional help. Have you considered that, my dear?"
But Amanda was staring at Bass. She stared at his penetrating eyes, his
broad shoulders, at the curl of hair combed low over his forehead. The
curl was swirled left, not right.
The tweedy man took her arm, guided her from the building and nudged
her into the car.
Do they curl a dead actor's hair differently, she wondered. She had
killed them. Why weren't they dead?
* * * * *
When they reached her house, it was completely dark. Either Dell and
Kippie had gone to bed or the Wall had been replaced and was playing.
"I'm sorry I had to bring you away so abruptly," the tweedy man said.
"We can't afford to have the press print unfavorable reports about the
force, you understand." He fingered his pipe. "Now, Mrs. Davis, get a
good night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll realize it was all a bad dream. You
wouldn't kill the stars."
Woodenly she walked up the front walk. Hearing Bass's mellow voice from
the Wall room, she knew Kippie and Dell were up.
She entered the room. Kippie sat curled on the Wall seat.
Amanda stared at the handsome face on the Wall. Bass McDowall, Wall
idol. Why wasn't he dead?
His curl was still curled wrong. She looked more closely at his face as
he leaned toward Kippie, gasping, "Sweetie-bug."
There was a small scar beneath his left eye. The tiniest, most
insignificant scar, but it had never been there before.
"Poor Bass, he looks so tired," the Kippie on the Wall seat said. "See
how his face looks thinner when he's tired? I wonder if she notices it."