A Fate Totally Worse Than Death (10 page)

“My, how you've changed,” she murmured softly. “But then, don't we all? Take me, for instance. Two months ago I had a stroke, couldn't talk, needed a walker—and now look at me.”

Danielle attempted to do so, the motion of her eyes substituting for speech.

“Do you remember me, Danielle?” asked the woman. “I'm Mrs. Witt. From the nursing home.” She smiled. “I remember you.”

Danielle, amazed, pushed her eyelids higher.

“I've just been to see the other girls. The doctors aren't sure yet whether they'll live.”

Danielle's
lips bunched briefly, contorted, then relaxed, unable to produce any words.

“But it's you whom I remember best.”

She stood, looked over Danielle's get-well cards, then picked up a paperback entitled
Revenge of the Vampire
Cheerleaders.

“If it amuses you, I suppose.” She shook her head, then put the book down. “Though I'm sad, I'll admit, that youngsters feel their lives so dull as to require such artificial shocks to keep them going. Ghosts and other such nonsense.” She sighed. “Real life is so very dramatic just as it is, don't you think?”

She glanced at Danielle, then at some flowers in the room. “What could be more dramatic than death? Or more a part of life?” She inspected a cluster of carnations and broke off a wilted head.

“A friend of mine died just last month,” she confided. “You met her at the nursing home. Estelle Beale. She was my roommate the first time that you came.”

Danielle dimly recalled a red-wigged woman and the empty bed she'd left behind.

“We'd actually known each other for years. Our husbands were chemists at Cliffside Research. She suffered agonies waiting for death.” Mrs. Witt leaned down. “Then one day her husband gave her a shot of something that lifted her straightaway to heaven.”

She raised the blinds and sampled Danielle's view.

“Death, however, is not always a blessing. Take Charity's, for instance.” Her voice changed in texture. She turned toward Danielle. “Did you know that she was my granddaughter?”

Mrs. Witt's gaze bore into Danielle, whose blue eyes widened with comprehension.

“I thought not,” the woman spoke for her. Her cheekbones shifted. She seemed to be pushing back tears. “Such a lovely child. So intelligent. And sweet-natured.” She was silent, letting the words and their subject linger in the room a few moments.

“How she'd have loved your Community Service. She took pleasure in cheering people in need. As I was, when you were assigned to me.” She sat down, pulled her chair close, and leaned forward, her face nearly touching Danielle's.

“You were right,” she whispered. “I couldn't speak. Or write. But I could see. Quite well. And I saw how you were treating me.” Her mouth became grim. “And I could hear. Which is how I found out that you and your friends were behind Charity's death.”

Danielle's irises danced, the only sign of life in her sagging face. The respirator
noisily
inhaled.

“When I learned what you'd done, I asked Estelle's husband for an extra-large dose of his potion, in case I should ever need it myself. He brought it, along with a hypodermic needle. But it wasn't for me. It was for you. For you and your two friends.”

Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact. She watched her words' effect in Danielle's agitated eyes.

The potion was extremely concentrated, or so he said. You might be interested to know that it came from his work on aging agents. Something to do with chemical warfare. The dose was apparently large enough to handle all three of you, though slowly. The faster the heartbeat, the faster the aging accelerates, if I remember right.”

Her thoughts whirling, Danielle recalled the near paralysis she and the others had suffered during the heart-quickening attempt to cut Helga's hair.

Mrs. Witt leaned back in her chair, taking in Danielle's helplessness.

“I didn't tell your friends all this. Why, you might ask, am I telling you?” She paused, as if waiting for a reply. “There you have the answer. Your silence.” She smiled. “You'll never speak again. Or write a word. Or take a step. My symptoms disappeared, as sometimes happens with strokes. You won't be so lucky.” She leaned close to Danielle again. “The doctors have perhaps feared to tell you that you've only a day at most left to live.”

Danielle's eyes darted wildly.

“Not that I'm so cruel as to wish you alone in your hour of need. Far from it. I'm here to be your companion. Just as you were mine.”

With a grunt, she raised her heavy black shoes and brought them down upon Danielle's bed. Noticing that the TV was off, she took the remote, flicked it on, passed the music video station, and settled on the world news.

“There now,” she said. “That's much better. But wait! I almost forgot. How foolish.” She reached for the bag she'd set by her purse and opened it with fanfare. “For you!”

From inside she drew out a box of chocolates. “Your favorites. Cherry truffles.”

She displayed the box. Danielle's eyes sparked. Then she clamped her eyelids shut.

“I'm sure you remember the entire box of them that you and your friends consumed.” Mrs. Witt removed the cellophane wrapping. “In my room, at the nursing home. While I pretended that I was sleeping. My, you were hungry. Too hungry to notice the flaws left by my shaky hands.”

Danielle's eyelids snapped halfway open.

“From
sticking in the hypodermic needle. And injecting the aging agent into the sweet, cherry centers.”

She pried off the lid and offered the chocolates. She waited. Danielle's eyes were unmoving.

“No? Such a shame.”

She withdrew the box.

“I hope you won't mind if I have one or two.”

THE END