The man began to spread lengths of chains out on the long worktable in his basement. It was dark outside, but all those links of stainless steel were bright and shiny under the glare of a bare light bulb.
He pulled one of the chains out to its full length. The rattling sound stirred terrible memories of being shackled, caged, and tormented with chains like these. But it was like he kept telling himself: I've got to face my fears.
And to do that he had to prove his mastery over the chains themselves. Too often in the past, chains had held mastery over him.
It was a shame that anyone had to suffer on account of this. For five years, he'd thought he'd put the whole matter behind him. It had helped so much when the church hired him to be a night watchman. He'd liked that job, proud of the authority that came with it. He'd liked feeling strong and useful.
But last month, they'd taken that job away from him. They needed someone with security skills, they'd said, and better credentials—someone bigger and stronger. They promised to keep him working in the garden. He'd still be making enough money to pay the rent on this tiny little house.
Even so, the loss of that job, the loss of the authority it gave him, had shaken him, made him feel helpless. That urge broke loose again—that desperation not to be helpless, that frantic need to assert mastery over the chains so they couldn't take him again. He'd tried before to outrun the urge, as if he could leave his inner darkness right here in his basement. This last time, he'd driven all the way down to Reedsport, hoping to escape it. But he couldn't.
He didn't know why he couldn't. He was a good man, with a good heart, and he liked to do favors. But sooner or later, his kindness always turned against him. When he'd helped that woman, that nurse, carry groceries to her car in Reedsport, she'd smiled and said, "What a good boy!"
He winced at the memory of the smile and those words.
"What a good boy!"
His mother had smiled and said such things, even while she kept the chain on his leg too short for him to reach any food or even see outside. And the nuns, too, had smiled and said things like that when they peered at him through the little square opening in the door to his small prison.
"What a good boy!"
Not everyone was cruel, he knew that. Most people really meant well toward him, especially in this little town where he'd long since settled. They even liked him. But why did everyone seem to think of him as a child—and a handicapped child at that? He was twenty-seven years old, and he knew that he was exceptionally bright. His mind was full of brilliant thoughts, and he scarcely ever encountered a problem he couldn't solve.
But of course he knew why people saw him the way they did. It was because he could barely speak at all. He'd stammered hopelessly all his life, and he hardly ever tried to talk, although he understood everything that other people said.
And he was small, and weak, and his features were stubby and childish, like those of someone who had been born with some congenital defect. Caged in that slightly misshapen skull was a remarkable mind, thwarted in its desire to do brilliant things in the world. But nobody knew that. Nobody at all. Not even the doctors at the psychiatric hospital had known it.
It was ironic.
People didn't think he knew words like ironic. But he did.
Now he found himself nervously fingering a button in his hand. He'd plucked it off the nurse's blouse when he hung her up. Reminded of her, he looked around at the cot where he'd kept her chained up for more than a week. He'd wished he could talk to her, explain that he didn't mean to be cruel, and it was just that she was so much like his mother and the nuns, especially in that nurse's uniform of hers.
The sight of her in that uniform had confused him. It was the same with the woman five years ago, the prison guard. Somehow both women had merged in his mind with his mother and the nuns and the hospital workers. He'd fought a losing battle simply to tell them apart.
It was a relief to be through with her. It was a terrible responsibility, keeping her bound like that, giving her water, listening to her moaning through the chain he'd used to gag her. He only undid the gag to put a straw in her mouth for water now and again. Then she'd try to scream.
If only he could have explained to her that she mustn't scream, that there were neighbors across the street who mustn't hear. If he could only have told her, maybe she'd have understood. But he couldn't explain, not with his hopeless stammer. Instead, he'd mutely threatened her with a straight-edged razor. In the long run, even the threat hadn't worked. That was when he'd had to slit her throat.
Then he'd taken her back to Reedsport and hung her up like that, for everyone to see. He wasn't sure just why. Perhaps it was a warning. If only people could understand. If they did, he wouldn't have to be so cruel.
Perhaps it was also his way of telling the world how sorry he was.
Because he was sorry. He'd go to the florist tomorrow and buy flowers—a cheap little bouquet—for the family. He couldn't talk to the florist, but he could write out simple instructions. The gift would be anonymous. And if he could find a good place to hide, he'd stand near the grave when they buried her, bowing his head like any other mourner.
He pulled another chain taut on his workbench, clenching its ends as tightly as he could, applying all his strength to it, silencing its rattle. But deep down, he knew that this wasn't enough to make him master of the chains. For that, he'd have to put the chains to use again. And he'd use one of the straitjackets still in his possession. Someone must be bound, as he'd been bound.
Someone else would have to suffer and die.