"Boy, do you look silly, Cassidy. Drop it before I drop you."_
_"No!" Evelyn screamed. "It's loaded, Mario! He found out! Mario!
Don't!"_
_Mario didn't even give her a glance on that one. "So's a fountain
pen," he said. "Okay, Cassidy, this is the last time I'm tellin' you."_
Fleetwood watched this interplay with careful interest. As silly as it
seemed, possibly Dermitt meant to just go ahead with the thing without
him. Then he knew better, as Kitty appeared from the hallway, crossed
the room with somnambulistic precision and placed herself solidly in
the projected line of fire. Fleetwood felt a new thrill of terror;
Dermitt was using Kitty as a hostage. Either he would go ahead with the
planned action and trade gunfire with Mario or Kitty was going to be
killed.
He reached quickly into his pocket where he had put the gun. It wasn't
there. Then he remembered that it naturally wouldn't be; he was out
of the story and the weapon, being fictional, existed only in the
story. The only way to return it to his possession was to enter into
the action again. He cast off his moorings and leaped forward with a
fleeting picture of Mario's finger closing in on the trigger.
The ensuing moments were characterized by a series of crashes which
began in a quiet sort of way but rapidly mounted to a nerve-shredding
climax. The first crash was really only a thud occasioned by a
collision of bodies as Fleetwood threw himself against Kitty. The
second instantly grew out of the first as Kitty toppled to the floor.
The third was the natural result of Mario's finger pressing down on
the trigger. The rest of it, the screams and random dialogue, was lost
to Fleetwood as hot pain licked through his hands and up his arm.
_"You've hit him!" Evelyn screamed. "He's bleeding!"_
_"Just winged him." Mario growled. "He'll bleed a hell of a lot more
than that before the night's out."_
_There was a clattering at Fleetwood's feet and he realized that he had
let go of the gun without knowing it. He looked down at it. The blood
dripping from the tips of his fingers was splashing against the barrel.
That's what he got for letting a dame take his attention when he was
on the spot. Business before pleasure, they always said. He'd have to
remember that from now on--if he lived to remember anything._
"Fleetwood!"
* * * * *
The scream jarred Fleetwood out of the stream of events which included
Mario and Evelyn. He looked around and almost shouted for joy. Sitting
on the floor, Kitty was staring up at him, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Where are we?" she asked frightenedly. "What's going on?"
It was miraculous! Apparently the recent violence had snapped her back
into the realm of reality; after all she was not originally a fictional
creation like the others. Smiling down at her, Fleetwood realized that
the pain had gone from his hand, the wound had vanished; he too had
escaped Dermitt's world of fiction through Kitty's awareness. The
action had been broken just enough. He looked about. The room had begun
to fade, Mario and Evelyn were slipping out of dimension. Together,
they could make it; two wills were stronger than one.
"Hurry!" Fleetwood said, helping her up. "We've got to get out of here
while we've got the chance."
"But, what?..." Kitty murmured dazedly. "Who are those strange looking
people?"
"Never mind them," Fleetwood said. "Just hurry." He bustled her along
toward the doorway, around the frozen figure of Mario and out into the
entry.
"I don't understand ..." Kitty said.
Reaching the outer door Fleetwood grasped the knob and threw it open.
Then he stopped, so abruptly that Kitty collided against him. Before
them, blocking the way, stood a small, hammered-down looking man in
enormous black-rimmed glasses. He was holding a gun in his hand which
he advanced to Fleetwood's chest.
"Dermitt!" Fleetwood gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"Get back in there," Dermitt said grimly, wagging the gun.
"You can't do this, you two-bit hack," Fleetwood said. "You can't be in
this story too."
"It's my story, isn't it?" Dermitt said nastily. "I can be in it if I
want to. I wrote myself in just to be on hand to keep an eye on you."
"It's anybody's story by the looks of it," Fleetwood said. "And you're
just another inconsistent character. Of course you've already made such
a hash of the thing I don't suppose it really matters."
"I'm Mario's henchman," Dermitt said firmly. "My name is Lester, and
I'm here to help him handle you. And believe me, Cassidy, I'm already
so sick of your interference I don't care much what happens to you. Now
get back in there and do what I tell you."
* * * * *
A curious intensity emanating from behind the eccentric spectacles
caused Fleetwood to give ground. He turned to Kitty to warn her to stay
behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words shriveled on
his tongue as she met his gaze darkly, with a look of extreme loathing,
then turned on her heel and marched back into the living room.
Fleetwood whirled back to Dermitt.
"It's no use," Dermitt said smoothly, "she's back in character. And
you'll follow her lead if you know what's good for you--and her."
Fleetwood turned and followed Kitty back into the center of the room,
toward the divan.
"Kitty ..." he said, but she gave no sign that she even heard him.
_"Hi, Lester," Mario said._ He was restored to dimension.
_"Havin' a little trouble?" Dermitt said from the corner of his mouth.
"I heard a shot."_
"Boy, are you corny," Fleetwood said spitefully. "You're all this
stinker needed." Dermitt swiveled his gun in his direction.
_"He got a rod from the lady," Mario smiled. "I had to slap his wrist
with a bullet to get him to let go."_
_"He won't act up any more," Dermitt said. "If he does he'll be a dead
character."_
Across the room Fleetwood swung around in a paroxysm of pain and
grabbed his wrist. Blood began to drip again from the ends of his
fingers. At his feet lay the gun, just as before. He had slipped back
again into Dermitt's pattern of action. The writer had tricked him with
the sudden pain.
_"How about it, Cassidy?" Mario said. "You comin' outa here on your
feet or by your heels? It doesn't matter a damn to me, you know."_
_"Okay," Fleetwood said. "Have it your way, Mario--for just a little
while."_
_"For long enough," Lester snarled._
Fleetwood started forward, but the struggle within his mind, the
straining effort to focus his mind in the direction of reality, did not
cease. The pain throbbing in his hand, however, interfered badly. He
bit his lip hard to provide a counter irritant. He stopped; the pain
disappeared.
"Now, dammit, Dermitt!" he said with final exasperation, "that doesn't
even hold water, and you know it. Why would any guy in his right mind
just shrug his shoulders and take off with a couple of murderous rats
as calmly as though he were on his way to the garden to pick lilacs?
Any guy would give himself a last chance and make a break for it. How
in the devil can you expect your readers to swallow swill like that? I
wouldn't even...."
* * * * *
There was something in Dermitt's round face--a dangerous angry
red--that warned him to stop. The little man was on the verge--perhaps
beyond.
"So!" Dermitt exploded with a high scream. "You've not only ruined my
story, now you're going to give me a lecture on writing! That does it
absolutely, Cassidy, that's the end! I created you and, by God, I can
destroy you too!"
As he spoke, he made fumbling preparations with his gun. "You'll
never get out of this yarn alive! You'll die on paper just where you
were born!" The glitter in his eyes, amplified by the glasses, was
unmistakably that of a man who had snapped his bolt.
_"Did you ring, madam?" Kitty said suddenly, with idiotic unconcern._
_Evelyn turned in response to this incongruity and smiled warmly. Then
she went limp against the back of the divan. "Eeeeeeeee!" she screamed
with shrill hysteria._
_"Gotta gat ... gotta gat ... gotta gat ... gotta gat ... gotta gat."
Mario began to chant, rolling his eyes insanely._
_"Madam, did you ring, madam?" Kitty chimed in. "Madam?... Madam?...
Madam?"_
_"Gotta gat," Mario said, grinning crookedly. He stepped back two
paces with jerky rapidity and pointed his gun at the ceiling. "Gotcha
covered, shamus."_
These stunning proceedings, occurring as they did in overlapping
rapidity, had a startling effect, even on Dermitt. He looked up from
his gun distractedly.
_"Did you ring, madam?" Kitty said, persisting with the same old
refrain. "Ring-a-ling-a-ling, madam?"_
_Mario fired three shots into the ceiling in rapid succession.
"Gotcha," he tittered. "Gotcha with my gat, yuh rat, yuh."_
_"Bless yuh," Evelyn said and moved away from the divan with a
lighthearted pirouette that delivered her to the center of the room
directly between Fleetwood and Dermitt._
"Oh, my God!" Dermitt wailed. It was plain that the little man was no
less stunned than Fleetwood at these outcroppings of his own madness.
Fact and fancy had gotten so snarled together that the result was
roaring insanity. He shook his head as though to clear it.
_"Why don't you shoot me, Mario?" Evelyn said, running her hand wildly
through her hair. "Kill me, too, and be done with it. God knows it
wouldn't be any great loss to the world after what I've done." She
turned to Fleetwood in a convulsive movement. "Go, Cassidy, make a
run for it. I'll shield you until he kills me. You can use my body to
protect yourself. Only promise you'll kill him--after he kills me.
That's all I want now, just to die and know that he's going to die
too." She smiled crookedly. "And when you check up on that gun you'll
find out it's registered in my name. That's right, I killed Blanchard.
I went to him to ask him for the jewels and he wouldn't let me have
them. We got into a fight over them. It was an accident, I suppose.
I don't really know how it happened--I just did it. I lost my head
and ran and I had to send Mario back to get the jewels for me. He was
the only man I knew filthy enough for that kind of job. And I was
frightened half to death...." Her voice trailed off slowly. She sank to
the floor like a discarded scrap of tissue paper._
* * * * *
It was only then that Fleetwood noticed that Dermitt had renewed his
intentions with the gun. With frenzied eyes he was sighting down the
barrel. Fleetwood tried to control the churning sensation in his head.
The distinction between reality and imagination was lost to him too.
Where, he wondered frantically, did one begin and the other end?
"Okay, Cassidy," Dermitt gritted. "This is the finish. Period!"
_"Ring-a-ling-a-ling, madam?" Kitty snickered, presenting herself in
front of Fleetwood._
"Get out of the way, Kitty," Fleetwood said.
She looked around at him. "Oh, Fleetwood!" she smiled. "I like you
so much." Then with a sudden frown, as though remembering something
unpleasant, she dealt him a stinging blow across the mouth and moved
rapidly away.
"Period!" Dermitt screamed and curled his finger down over the trigger.
Fleetwood threw himself to the floor in conjunction with the explosion
of the gun. It was close timing. The bullet thunked into the wall
behind him. Whether it was by accident or some unconscious planning in
his mind, his hand slapped down over the grip of the gun on the floor.
All in one movement, he grasped the gun, rolled over and fired blind
in Dermitt's direction. There was a scream of pain, a beat of silence,
then a dull thud. Fleetwood jumped to his feet, holding the gun ready.
"Oh, my God!" Fleetwood gasped.
Across the room, huddled on the floor, Dermitt sat in a spattering of
his own blood, clutching his stomach. Fleetwood ran to him.
"Dermitt!" he cried.
"I'm hit in the stomach," Dermitt groaned. "You've got to help me,
Cassidy, you've got to!"
"Get out of the story!" Fleetwood said. "Get out of here before you
die!"
"I can't. I can't move. Something's gone wrong with my legs."
"Let me help you up," Fleetwood said, slipping his hands quickly under
Dermitt's arms. "I'll carry you."
"No!" Dermitt screamed. "No! I can't stand the pain!"
Fleetwood released him. "What can I do?" he asked helplessly.
"Oh, Lord!" Dermitt wailed. "Let me think, let me think!" His face
contorted as a spasm passed through his body. Then he relaxed again
and opened his eyes. "You get out," he said. "That's it. Get to the
typewriter as fast as you can ... rewrite this ... mark out the part
where you shoot me ... make it a miss ... or a flesh wound.... It's the
only way. But hurry, for Godsake!"
"Okay," Fleetwood said. "I've got to get Kitty, though, and take her
with me."
"No," Dermitt put in quickly. "Write her out, too, when you get there.
It'll be faster. Hurry, Cassidy, hurry! I can't stand too much more of
this."
"All right." Fleetwood said. He whirled about and ran for the door. He
turned back once, just before leaving, to look at Kitty, but the room
was already in a state of half-dissolve and she was only a dim, grey
figure in the distance. He hurried outside.
As he ran forward into the swirling blackness ahead, the house quickly
evaporated behind him....
* * * * *
He didn't know how he had gotten back to Dermitt's Towers apartment.
It seemed that he had been there all along. He was sitting in the same
chair, as though he'd merely dozed there for a time. He shook his head
to clear it. Then he remembered.
He turned and saw Dermitt slumped over his typewriter, his hands
clutched to his abdomen. Fleetwood frowned. So that was the way of it;
the writer had managed to project himself into two separate dimensions
simultaneously, a dangerous undertaking even for a sane man. Fleetwood
shoved himself out of the chair and hurried to the alcove.
As he approached, Dermitt stirred weakly and opened his eyes and
twisted them in his direction. There was no blood, no wound--no
visible, physical wound--but still Dermitt was dying.
"Hurry!" he whispered. "I ... I blacked out. I guess I went a little
crazy for a while. Please save me."
Fleetwood took him under the arms, and, ignoring his moans of pain,
half-dragged, half-carried him to the nearest chair. He eased him into
the chair and turned back. Then he stopped and looked around at the
little man again. He sucked in his breath with a start of surprise.
Dermitt was losing substance! He was actually fading away into a shadow
of himself. The dying fictional projection was carrying away the
physical one. The wound was too vital, too real to the writer for him
to draw resistance from the fact of its fictional source. There wasn't
much time.
"Hurry, Cassidy!" Dermitt mouthed soundlessly. "Hurry!"
Fleetwood pulled himself away from the spectacle of the fading
bug-eyed little author who had forced him through volumes of abuse and
harassment, who had actually attempted to murder Kitty and himself. He
ran to the typewriter.
He sat down and poised his hands over the keys. Then, with one last
intense glance in Dermitt's direction, he began to type....
* * * * *
The drug store sparkled from its cleaning of the night before. Morning
sunshine, showing through the plate-glass windows, conspired with the
indirect lighting to make the displays, the jars, the bottles, the
paper clips and snake bite kits gleam like a rajah's ransom. Fleetwood
perched himself on the stool at the end of the counter and leaned
forward in an attitude of expectation. Presently he was rewarded.
"Fleetwood!" Kitty called, catching sight of him. She came swiftly to
dock at the napkin holder in front of him. "I was hoping you'd show up
today. I had the goofiest dream about you last night."
"I'll bet," Fleetwood said with a sigh of happy relief. Explanations
weren't going to be necessary after all.
"I'd tell you about it," Kitty went on, "but every time I try to get
it straight in my head everything just gets all mixed up. I was mad at
you, I remember, but at the same time I didn't really want to be."
"That's good," Fleetwood said, "that you didn't want to be, I mean.
Otherwise, you might have got up with a chip on your shoulder and you
wouldn't go out to dinner with me tonight."
"Huh?" Kitty said. "Are you asking me?"
"That's what I came here for," Fleetwood nodded. "Will you go?"
"Oh, I'll go, all right," Kitty said. "I'll be ready from seven thirty
on, any time you're ready. Gosh!" Her smile faded a bit. "You look
awfully tired, though...."
"I'll have to get some rest," Fleetwood agreed. "I worked last night."
"All night, you mean?" Kitty asked. "But that reminds me, what do you
do anyway? I should have asked you yesterday, I guess."
Fleetwood hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, he took the plunge. "I
write," he told her. "Stories."
"No kidding? What kind?"
"Oh, mysteries," Fleetwood said with extreme offhandedness. "About
a private detective, a little hammered-down looking guy with big
glasses who always gets into a lot of trouble. He gets kicked around
and stepped on and shot up until the last chapter when he catches the
murderer and they haul him off to the hospital. It's pretty rugged
stuff."
"Gee," Kitty said solemnly, "the poor little guy. I feel sorry for him."
A small, private smile touched Fleetwood's lips. "Don't," he said.
"After all, he's only a fictional character."
Then, with apparent irrelevance, his glance moved away and took in the
gleaming brightness of the morning, the store, the busy world outside.
Finally he looked back at Kitty and grinned.
"Gosh!" he sighed ecstatically. "This is really living!"