Now that she's standing, I can tell that she's about five foot two inches. In spite of her shock, her movements are graceful and precise. She glides.
She looks small surrounded by the murdered dead. Her bare feet are splashed with blood; she either doesn't notice, or doesn't care. I walk back to let her move through the doorway. She plods past me, keeping her eyes on my hands. A watchful zombie.
"I'm going to reach over and close the door. Okay, honey?"
She nods. I don't care, the nod says. About living or dying or anything at all.
I close the door and allow myself a moment of relief. I wipe sweat from my forehead with a trembling hand.
I take a deep breath and turn to Sarah. Now let's see if I can get her to give me that gun.
"You know what? I'm going to sit down."
I take a seat so the bedroom doors are at my back. I do this without breaking eye contact. I'm here, I see you, you have all my attention, I'm saying.
"It's a little hard to talk while you're up there and I'm down here,"
I say, squinting up at her. I indicate the space in front of me. "Why don't you take a seat?" I examine her face. "You look tired, sweetheart."
That eerie head-cocking gesture again. I lean forward and pat the carpet.
"Come on, Sarah. It's just you and me. No one is going to come in here until I tell them to. No one's going to hurt you while I'm here. You wanted to see me." I pat the carpet again, still maintaining eye contact. "Sit down and relax. I'll shut up and we'll wait here until you're ready to tell me whatever it is you wanted to tell me."
She moves without warning, stepping backward and then lowering herself to the floor. It's done with the same pouring-of-water grace that she displayed as she slid off the windowsill. I wonder idly if she's a dancer, or perhaps a gymnast.
I give her a reassuring smile. "Good, honey," I say. "Very good."
Her eyes stay on mine. The gun is still glued to her right temple. As I consider my next move, I remember one of the key lessons my negotiations instructor gave:
"Speaking when you want, not speaking when you want, it's all about control," he'd observed. "When you're dealing with someone who's refusing to speak, and you don't know what buttons to push--
don't know much about them personally, in other words--you need to shut up. Your instinct will be to fill that silence. Resist it. It's like letting a phone ring--it makes you crazy, but it'll stop ringing sooner or later. Same thing here. Wait them out, and they'll fill that silence for you."
I keep my face calm, my eyes on hers, and I stay silent. Sarah's face is a superlative of stillness, and absence of motion, formed from wax. The corners of her mouth don't twitch. I feel like I'm having a staring contest with a mannequin that blinks. Her blue eyes are the most "alive" part of her, and even they seem glassy and unreal.
I examine the blood on her as I wait.
The spatter on the right side of her face looks like a collection of sideways teardrops. Elongated, as though each drop hit her skin with force and then was stretched by inertia.
Flung there, maybe? By fingertips soaked in blood?
Her nightgown is a mess. The front is soaked. I see spots at the knees.
As if she knelt. Maybe she was trying to revive someone?
My train of thought derails when she blinks, sighs, and then looks away.
"Are you really Smoky Barrett?" she asks. It's a tired voice, filled with defeat and doubt.
Hearing her speak is both elating and surreal. Her voice is dusky and subdued, older than she is, a hint of the woman she'll become.
"Yep," I reply. I point to my scars. "Can't fake these."
She keeps the gun to her head, but as she looks at my scars, sorrow replaces some of the deadness in her face.
"I'm sorry," she says. "For what happened to you. I read about it. It made me cry."
"Thank you."
Wait for her. Don't press.
She looks down. Sighs. Looks back up at me.
"I know what it's like," she says.
"What, honey?" I ask in a soft voice. "You know what what's like?"
I watch the pain rise in her eyes, like two moons being filled up with blood.
"I know what it's like to lose everything you love," she says, her voice cracking, then dropping to a whisper. "I've been losing things since I was six."
"Is that why you wanted to see me? To tell me about what happened then?"
"When I was six," she says, continuing as though I hadn't said anything, "he started it all by murdering my mother and my father."
"Who is 'he,' Sarah?"
She locks eyes with me, something in them flares up for a moment before dying back down.
What was that? I wonder. Sorrow? Anger?
It was something huge, that's for sure. That was no minnow that had swum to the surface before diving back down into deeper waters, it was a soul-leviathan.
"He," she says, her voice flat. "The Stranger. The one who killed my parents. The one who kills anything I love. The . . . artist." The way she says "artist," she could be saying "child molester" or "shit on a hot sidewalk." The revulsion is strong and pure and palpable.
"Did The Stranger do this, Sarah? Was he here, in this house?"
Her sorrow and fear are swept away by a look of cynicism that rocks me. It's far, far too terrible and cunning for a sixteen-year-old girl. If that dusky voice belongs to a twenty-five-year-old woman, this look belongs to a world-worn hag.
"Don't humor me!" she cries, her voice high-pitched and derisive. "I know you're only listening to me because of "--she wiggles the gun--
"this. You don't really believe me!"
What just happened here?
The quiet air between us starts to hum.
You're losing her, I realize. Fear thrills through me. Do something!
I gaze into those rage-filled eyes. I remember what Alan said. Don't lie, I think. Truth. Only truth. She'll smell a lie from a thousand yards away right now and then it's game over. My words come from somewhere effortless, almost extemporaneous. "I'll tell you what I care about right now, Sarah," I say, my voice strong. "I care about you. I know you didn't do what happened here. I know that you're very close to killing yourself. I know you asked for me, and that means that maybe I have something to give you, something to tell you, that will keep you from pulling that trigger." I lean forward. "Honey, I don't know enough about anything going on here to humor you, I promise. All I'm trying to do is understand. Help me understand. Please. You asked for me. Why? Why did you ask for me, Sarah?" I wish I could reach out and shake her. I plead instead. "Please tell me."
Don't die, I think. Not here, not like this.
"Please, Sarah. Talk to me. Make me understand."
The words work: The anger leaves her eyes. Her trigger finger relaxes and she looks away. Thank God, I think, fighting down a bubble of semi-hysteria, a bout of the clangy-jitters
When she looks back, anguish has replaced the rage.
"You're my last hope," she says. Her voice is small and hollow.
"I'm listening, Sarah," I urge her. "Tell me. Last hope for what?"
"Last hope . . ." She sighs, and it rattles in her throat. "Of finding someone that'll believe I'm not just bad luck," she whispers. "That'll believe The Stranger is real."
I stare at her, incredulous.
"Believe you?" I blurt. I yank a thumb behind me, indicating the bedroom and what's inside. "Sarah, I know something happened here that you didn't have anything to do with. And I'm willing to listen to whatever you have to say."
I think she's caught off guard by the fact that my response comes as such a reflex action and that I seem so genuinely astonished at the idea of not taking her seriously. Hope lights up her eyes and wars with that terrible cynicism. Her face twists, her mouth wrenches. She looks like a fish drowning in the air.