Alec Bartlett shivered. He was cold. The air conditioning in the police station was cranked just a little too high. It was, after all, set for people who were dressed in police uniforms: slacks and short- or long-sleeved top. It wasn't set for people who were dressed like cheerleaders.
After spending the better part of the day wearing this cheerleading uniform, Bartlett was almost getting used to wearing it. Almost. He was getting the hang of sitting in a miniskirt; he was beginning to forget how strange it was to be wearing a sleeveless top that showed off way too much of his belly. He was beginning to accept that people saw him as a cute teenage girl, not as a man pushing fifty, with love handles and hairy legs, stubble and all, who looked absolutely ridiculous dressed like a cheerleader. It didn't even surprise him anymore when he glanced in the mirror and saw not his own reflection but the petite and feminine figure of Josey Gellar.
Still, this cheerleading uniform was far from ideal, especially for a police officer. He still felt embarassed wearing it from time to time. And it had kept him trapped in the office all day, which Bartlett didn't like; with so much going on in town, he wanted to get out on the streets. But there simply weren't any uniforms that fit Josey's four-foot-ten-inch frame, and the chief had decided--probably wisely--that Bartlett should not be out patrolling the streets dressed like a cheerleader. So he had been stuck with office work all day.
Bartlett studied the list in front of him. Seven names, each of which sent a shiver through his entire body, even more than the cold. These were the men who had been confirmed so far to have escaped from John Wilson Penitentiary. Four of them had been captured... two of them by Ted Stark alone. Bartlett still couldn't believe that... Stark was a screw-up. Always had been. And yet he was responsible for catching half the monsters the police had collared so far that day. Perhaps being a woman suited Stark, somehow. Bartlett couldn't say it had been as good for himself.
However had had done it, though, Stark had captured Frank Murphy and Joe McCarty. Steven Brooks and Alejandro Martinez were off the streets as well. That still left at least three confirmed killers on the street, though. Terrible men, people like Rex Hunter and Peter "The Nazi" Wagner... and that was just the escapees who had been identified. There were plenty of other dangerous men in John Wilson... some of them, at least, must have escaped and eluded notice, especially with things so volatile out at the prison. And the list only covered the murderers and rapists, too... there might have been dozens of thieves and drug dealers on the loose. The police hadn't even bothered identifying the nonviolent offenders.
Bartlett had to admit... he was glad that Vic Rudolph was not on the list. Rudolph was a sociopath of the most dangerous sort. He had murdered a man named Charlie Larsen five years before. Their dispute had been over a girl, of course; nothing unusual there. Easily a third of the women in John Wilson were probably there because of a girl in some fashion or another. Rudolph had been stalking Larsen's girlfriend... and when Larsen had refused to break up with the girl, Rudolph had kidnapped Larsen, tortured him, murdered him, and dismembered his dead body. It had been one of the ugliest cases Bartlett had ever seen in his twenty-three years on the force. Bartlett had put Rudolph away himself, and Rudolph had sworn bloody revenge. Bartlett was no coward... but he didn't want to deal with an escaped Victor Rudolph, and more importantly, he didn't want his wife and daughter to have to worry about Rudolph. Fortunately, Rudolph had been confirmed to still be in his cell as of two hours ago. Bartlett just hoped that he was still there.
Putting aside the list, Bartlett took out some paperwork he had been avoiding all day and began filling it out. A few minutes later, though, he was interrupted by the sound of a young woman's voice.
"Daddy?"
Bartlett looked up and saw a teenage girl, about Josey's age, with long red hair dressed in a pink dress. The girl was attractive, and she had a sweet look about her. Bartlett looked at her in surprise for a moment; then he said, "Excuse me?"
"Daddy," the girl said, "it's me, Annabelle, your daughter."
Bartlett gaped at the girl. Could this be his twelve-year-old daughter? "Bella?" he asked, tentatively. "Is that you?" Then he frowned. "No. No, you're not Annabelle. I know my own daughter, and you're not her."
The girl's expression turned distressed, and she looked like she was on the verge of crying. "No, Daddy, I swear, it's me... it's Annabelle. I switched with this girl, and--"
"Young lady," Barlett said, rising to his feet, "I don't know what game you're trying to play here, but you're not my daughter. In fact, I'm pretty sure you haven't even been switched with anyone; you look far too comfortable in that body." Bartlett sat back down. "Now, it's not illegal to impersonate someone else who's been swapped. Not yet, anyway. You haven't broken any laws here, so there's nothing I can do to you. But claiming to be someone you're not, especially when everyone is feeling so upset and so frightened already... it's immoral. And it's dangerous." Shuffling through the paperwork on his desk, he added, "You should go home. Find your own family, be glad you still have your own life. There are a lot of people in town who aren't as lucky as you."
The girl let out a swear word he was fairly certain Annabelle had never heard, and he was more sure than ever that this wasn't his daughter. Taking a few steps away from his desk, the girl reached into her purse and pulled out some kind of stone. She mumbled a few words that Bartlett couldn't make out... and then it was like Bartlett's eyes were opened, all at once.
Of course. Of course, the girl had been telling the truth. She was his daughter. Only she wasn't Annabelle. This was Amy... this was his adopted daughter. Bartlett and his wife had adopted Amy sixteen years ago, when she'd just been a baby, from her birth parents, the Johnsons. How could Bartlett have been so blind, so cold to his own daughter? How could he have forgotten her?
"Oh, Amy," he said, jumping to his feet and rushing to Amy's side, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please... I'm not sure... it's been such a long day, and..."
"Don't worry about it," Amy said, grinning as she turned back to him. "I'm just glad I've found you, Daddy... Mom and Annabelle and I, we were so worried..."
It broke Bartlett's heart to see her smile like this. Amy had such a lovely smile... how could he have forgotten it? He reached out instinctively to hug his daughter, but then he stopped himself. "I guess we shouldn't touch, should we?" he said. "Oh, Amy, I'm so glad to see you're all right. I've been so worried..."
"I'm glad you're okay, too, Dad," Amy said.
"Even if I did jump into one of the girls on your cheerleading team?" Bartlett said, grinning weakly.
"I don't know," Amy said, "I think you look pretty cute. You're just the sweetest little thing." For a second Bartlett thought he saw something strange cross over Amy's face... something cruel, almost mocking. But then it faded, and Bartlett suspected he had just imagined it. It must have just been his own embarassment he'd read into her expression, his own guilt.
"Dad," Amy said, "there's something I need to talk to you about."
"Of course, sweetie," Bartlett said. "You know you can talk to me about anything."
"No," Amy said, looking around uncomfortably, "I want to talk to you alone. It's kind of... private."
"Oh," Bartlett said, suddenly a little nervous. "Oh, of course. I'm sure we can find--"
"Let's go to the alley next to the building," Amy said, striding out to the front doors of the police station. "Plenty of privacy there."
"Honey," Bartlett said, "there are probably better--"
But Amy was already out of earshot. Bartlett hurried to catch up with her, but her steps were surprisingly quick. His daughter was not a tall girl, nor prone to walking fast; she was walking aggressively, in a rush, almost like... like a man. And yet her steps were smooth and graceful, despite her high heels. Perhaps it wasn't that she was walking so quickly, but that somehow being in Josey's body had slowed Bartlett down?
Through the station they went, and down the steps, and around the building to the dark shadowed depths of the alley between the station and the office building next door. Bartlett felt a sudden surge of panic as he imagined his teenage daughter assaulted, robbed or raped or murdered by one of the beasts on his list of escapees. Then he imagined someone assaulting him, trying to rape him... a very real possibility, now that he looked like a very small, very weak teenage girl. Suddenly Bartlett felt more vulnerable than he ever had in his life, and the threatening shadows along the alleyway began to dance menacingly in his imagination.
"Amy," Bartlett said, finally catching up with his daughter, "there are better places for us to talk. A dark alley is not a safe place for two--"
"I'm not Amy," his daughter said, suddenly twirling to face him. There was a terrible, furious, predatory look in her eyes. It was a look Bartlett had seen before, many times... but never on Amy. "My name is Victor Rudolph," she went on. "You put me away five years ago. I've suffered five years of hell because of you, and I've never forgiven you for that. I swore five years ago that I was going to kill you for what you did to me, and I've made the same promise to myself every day since. That's eighteen hundred promises, Bartlett... and whatever you may think of Vic Rudolph, he's a man of his word."
"Amy?" Bartlett's head was spinning; his brain was a mess. He couldn't quite process what Amy was saying. It was like he was drunk... very drunk. "Amy," he said, "I don't understand."
"I know you don't," Amy said, reaching into her purse. "And nothing I say is going to change that. You'll believe I'm Amy no matter what I tell you. I have a wish to thank for that." She pulled a gun from her purse, and suddenly Bartlett's heart began to race. "So I take it all back. I'm Amy, "Dad.' I'm your daughter. Your loving, sweet, innocent little girl, who you adopted sixteen years ago. Isn't that right?"
"Yes..." Bartlett said weakly. "Yes, of course you're Amy..."
"That's right," Amy went on. "I'm your little girl, who you love more than life itself. And you know what, Dad? I hate you. More than anything in the world."
Amy lifted her gun and pointed it directly between Bartlett's eyes. Bartlett tried to speak, but his whole body was trembling too furiously to form words.
"And that's why I'm doing this, Daddy," Amy said, cocking the gun. "Because I hate you. You're a terrible father and a terrible man. You're pathetic. I want you to think about that. Let it burn. Let it torture you for eternity in whatever hell you go to. Think about it while you die. You spent your whole life loving me, giving me everything I ever asked you for, and this is what you get for it. The one person you love more than anyone in the world is the same person who's going to end your life. Think about what kind of father that makes you. Think about what kind of failure that makes you." Amy grinned a nightmarish grin. "Killed by your own daughter. Think about it."
Bartlett thought about it. He couldn't think of anything else.
And those were the thoughts Alec Bartlett thought as his daughter pulled the trigger and his world was swallowed by the sound of gunfire...
...then by darkness...
