The Skeleton Key, part 2
The Skeleton Key
It had been a fortnight since Mrs. Smith died in Mr. Cobb’s wingback chair. He stared at it, a ray of sunshine from a partially opened curtain warming the spot where her body had cooled. The chair cleaning service had been prompt and professional. There was no stain to be seen. For some reason, he experienced a shiver, but not from dread or fear. Mr. Cobb had not attended the funeral, but the director assured him five others mourned her at the cemetery and one woman had cried. They were no doubt personnel from the hospital where she had obviously spent many happy years. A few believers saved by her heroics, he hoped, but it did lead to more questions than answers.
Was the key really capable of unlocking hidden talents, or becoming a conduit to the future or the past? Was that why someone had attempted to destroy it before Mrs. Smith had unwittingly picked it up? Or was the best guess from the medical person - Mrs. Smith had suffered from an illness in her brain - the logical inspiration for Mrs. Smith’s delusions?
He stared at the Sucrets tin resting on the blotter in front of him. Also on the desk was a sword from one of the walls. While technically a machete-type instrument from centuries past, he had considered it a sword due to the story behind it: a good and noble chieftain had killed a despotic one in a duel to save two tribes. The person who had sold it to him had assured Mr. Cobb that the ruler had then married the evil king’s widow as a kindness to cement relations between the peoples. Mr. Cobb had agreed to return the sword should the man wish to repurchase it, as it was a family heirloom, but the man had never returned. He had needed money for a divorce but had later committed suicide when the woman he had an affair with left him. It was a sad end to what Mr. Cobb envisioned as a noble lineage, headed by a brave and thoughtful ruler. Mr. Cobb had dreamed often of one day becoming as courageous and compassionate a person.
Here, ostensibly, was his chance.
Slowly Mr. Cobb leaned forward and opened the tin with gloved fingers, removing the key and laying it on the blotter. He then picked up the sword and touched it to the key with the flat of the blade. He was hoping for the inexplicable, though he was not sure what to expect. The fact that nothing happened did not surprise him. He glanced at the chair for guidance and realized he was wearing gloves. Mrs. Smith had said a bare touch was needed. The reasoning was sound, so he removed his cotton safety nets and picked up the weapon again, tapping it gently on the small, mysterious object.
Nothing happened.
Sighing now, he dropped the sword on the desktop. Its weight was enough to shake the blotter and send the key flying off and onto the rug at the foot of the chair, out of his sight.
Mr. Cobb had half a mind to leave it there and let the housekeeper pick it up, but decided that would be childish on his part.
She had, he reflected, been very quiet of late, which he appreciated immeasurably. Perhaps the death of Mrs. Smith had reminded her of discovering her murdered husband late one night in their apartment. In a fit of benevolence Mr. Cobb had invited the woman to live with him instead of risking the gang-infested neighborhood each evening. She had been grateful then, though less so with the passage of time, forgetting that the murderer was still undiscovered as she greeted him each day with increasing mutters of disrespect. That had changed since Mrs. Smith’s visit. She was much more accommodating of late. He should reward such behavior by not having her pick up the trash for him.
Mr. Cobb rose, picked up the gloves, and circled the desk, determined to put the key back in the tin and lock it away as evidence of the unsupported ramblings of a dying woman. It wasn’t until he straightened up from retrieving it and held it in his left hand that he realized the gloves were still clutched in his right one.
Immediately he dropped all three things. Then he frowned. Nothing happened. He stared at his left hand and flexed his fingers experimentally. Nothing happened.
Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had no secret desires as a boy. All his fantasies had been quite evident and singularly focused: to hide from bullies. A thought struck him. Had he become invisible?
Mr. Cobb picked up the sword and held it in front of his face. His puzzled features were reflected perfectly back at him from the polished metal blade. He stared down at the key and realized he had given credence to Mrs. Smith’s story only because she had predicted her family’s deaths, but those, though tragic, could be explained. An unnoticed child had opened a valve on a gas fireplace during the graduation ceremony of Mrs. Smith’s eldest grandchild. When someone lit a cigarette, the house, full of people, had exploded.
While the event was horrific, it was not supernatural in nature. Evidently, neither was the key. He picked it up in his left hand again and then started to replace it in the tin and put the sword on the desk.
It was at that moment the room darkened considerably and stars appeared above him on the ceiling. A bonfire sprang from a wall that had no fireplace and revealed a group of men and women dressed scantily in feathers and skins surrounding both it and him in a large circle at an outdoor setting. The heat from the fire was stifling. There was no breeze. Insects buzzed about but the crowd was silent.
A large man broke through their ranks, carrying a machete and hauling a woman behind him. He flung the woman into the dirt near the fire and contemptuously gestured first at Mr. Cobb and then to her, spouting obvious anger in an incomprehensible language. The woman pleaded, the crowd backed away, and the man strode forward, machete upraised in an obvious threat. Terrified, Mr. Cobb did the only sensible thing he could think of, he threw his arms up in surrender. Unfortunately, the sword was still in his hand and the man strode right into it, impaling his neck upon the point of the blade. Shock followed, from all involved, but by the time the man fell, covered in his own blood, the woman regained her feet. She smiled coyly, slapped Mr. Cobb harshly on the cheek and grabbed the hand of a man obviously eager she should take it. He strode forward, picked up the dead man’s machete, batted aside Mr. Cobb’s useless weapon and plunged his blade into Mr. Cobb’s stomach. There were cries from the crowd. The pain, the shock, the betrayal - all were overwhelming, and Mr. Cobb fell to his knees in despair. He stared at the woman, who blew him a kiss before turning her ardor to the rescuing man. He had been used, and he was now dying - that much Mr. Cobb realized before the anguish forced his tear-filled eyes to close.
As soon as they did, the noise of the crowd stopped, the heat disappeared, and the insects grew silent. His mind pleaded with him to get up and run away from this madness. Still gasping with pain, Mr. Cobb opened his eyes and found himself back in his home.
The study was still neat and cool. The sliver of sunshine still rested on the chair. The sword and key were still in his hands. But he was on his knees and his stomach screamed with agony and his mind with fear. His eyes were wet with tears and his palms slick with sweat.
It had happened. He knew it had happened, and yet Mr. Cobb had no proof.
He dropped the machete and the key and quickly unbuttoned the shirt beneath his suit coat. A neat little red line was fading from view, the only evidence of his ‘wound.’
Without thought, he picked up the key barehanded and put it on the desk. He then grasped the sword and rose, then staggered in bent-over anguish to hang it back on the wall. Mouth dry and heart pounding harshly against his throat, he opened his study door and made his way toward the kitchen to get a cold drink of water.
It was empty, but because the door was open and boxes of groceries were on one of the preparation tables, Mr. Cobb reasoned the grocer had arrived and the housekeeper was sending him on his way.
Good. That meant he could slip in and out without notice.
Still in agony, head spinning, he grasped the edge of a table for support as he circled it and headed for the refrigerator and a glass to use in its water dispenser. His fingertips inadvertently brushed against the handle of a knife left near a half diced onion on the preparation table’s surface and another unbidden vision assaulted his senses.
Lightning flashed. A woman screamed and raced out of view in a darkened apartment. An unknown man yelled something at him in Spanish as he zipped up his pants and reached for a shirt. Mr. Cobb gripped the knife in his hands and cried out in anguish, his heart broken. The man advanced and raised a fist to silence the cry. Mr. Cobb thrust the knife at him and felt it tear into the man’s bare abdomen. They both stared at each other in disbelief. The man began to sneer, his mouth to fleck with blood, and his eyes blaze with fury. Mr. Cobb began to wave the knife about in terror. Again and again, fear struck out and sank the knife deep into the irate man. Panting, Mr. Cobb fell to the floor when the man did, exhausted and shaking.
Again he closed his eyes. Again he opened them to find he was back in his home, lying on his kitchen floor surrounded by bits of diced onion. Shivering uncontrollably, Mr. Cobb realized he was gripping the very knife he had killed the man with, only he hadn’t done it. He raised his eyes to the kitchen doorway and there stood the housekeeper. The knife in his hand belonged to her.
“You killed him, didn’t you?” Mr. Cobb gasped out.
With a screech, the housekeeper snatched up a knife and fell on him, straddling him as she screamed words in Spanish he didn’t understand. Again and again he felt the strike of her weapon on his hands, his forearms and even his face. He remembered the machete in his study and held up the knife still clutched in his hand the same way. There was a gurgle, warm wetness enveloped him, and then silence reigned as he was crushed to the floor by a soft, awkward weight.
The stench of hot copper overwhelmed him, nauseated him, and he turned his head as best he could before he threw up.
*-*
“You were lucky,” said the detective seated beside him in the hospital room.
Mr. Cobb did not agree but he wisely held his tongue. It hurt to move his facial muscles.
“The grocer heard her yell and followed her into the kitchen where he saw her attack you. Before he could pull her off, he said you picked up a knife and she impaled herself on it. Corroborates your story. Case closed.” The man’s eyes raked over the bandages on Mr. Cobb’s hands, arms, and face. “You got 43 stitches. Like I said, you were lucky. I wonder what made her go off like that?”
Mr. Cobb remembered the look of terror on her face and decided to keep her secret. It would do no one any good to hear the whole truth now. He cleared his throat with difficulty and tried to explain. “She discovered that a woman died in my study two weeks ago. It possibly reminded her of discovering the body of her husband in their home. I believe she was frightened. She had been quiet of late. Very pensive.”
The detective nodded. “I thought that was you under all those wrappings. You’re the guy with the bowtie and the study full of ‘toys.’” There was an unconscious smirk of contempt on the detective’s face, one Mr. Cobb recognized all too well.
“I do have such a collection,” Mr. Cobb admitted sadly. “Perhaps I felt braver, having such a manly room in my home, but I am still, at heart, a coward.”
For a moment the detective seemed startled by Mr. Cobb’s honesty, then he seemed to respect it. “Every guy needs a hobby,” he said. He scribbled a few notes in his pad of paper and put it and his pen away in a coat pocket. “I do like your bowties. Some say they are coming back in style.”
“Where is she now? My housekeeper?” asked Mr. Cobb. “I don’t believe she has any family. I feel,” he searched for the right word, “obligated.”
The detective studied him. “You buried that Smith woman, too. I would say this has been an expensive month for you.”
Mr. Cobb nodded and flexed the fingers of his left hand thoughtfully. “Expensive, yes. I have learned so much and regret so much. I should have been a better host to Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Smith had said not to touch the key. She had said it would unlock secret desires. She was correct; it had.
He realized now his secret desire had been to someday have weapons reveal to him the source of emotion that had wielded them so it could rise within his own heart. They had, horribly. The man in the village had been betrayed. There had been no nobility in his act, only sorrow, surrender and confusion. Perhaps men who succumbed to women that way were attracted to the weapon, judging by the fate of its last owner. And his poor housekeeper had not meant to hurt her husband, only to scare the woman off. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered her fear and the desperation that had accompanied it. He found the detectives eyes and met their questioning stare with one of his own.
“My poor housekeeper. She was so frightened. There was so much blood,” he said, trying to explain.
The detective nodded. “Amen to that.”
A nurse entered, carrying a metal tray with some food on it. “Mr. Cobb, it’s lunch time.” She set the tray down on a table with wheels and rolled it up to the bed. “Let’s adjust that bed, shall we?”
“I think that’s my cue to leave,” said the detective. He winked at the nurse. “Care to escort me out?”
She hesitated and looked to Mr. Cobb for a decision.
“I will be fine, I assure you,” Mr. Cobb said, wiggling his fingers. “I am sure I can manage Jello and soup.”
When they left, and he pulled the table to him, Mr. Cobb inadvertently touched the tray.
He was now in a closet and a man was laughing at him. Mr. Cobb felt a huge flush of embarrassment heat his face. The man pulled a joint and a lighter from his pocket. “You wanted this, sweetheart, so you’re going to try it, or I’m going smoke it in your face and your blood will still test positive. Either way, I get to enjoy myself.”
He flicked the lighter and Mr. Cobb, desperate to save himself, his reputation, and stop the cruel laughter, grabbed up a metal tray and slung it at the man. The lighter flipped out of his grip and landed in between some boxes. He grabbed Mr. Cobb around the neck and began to squeeze. Just then, they both smelled smoke. Fear showed briefly in the man’s eyes before he clamped it down with sneering bravado. “Tell anyone and I’ll blame you. Until then, the fire was set by that bitch in the lab outside, got it?” He pocketed the joint. “She’s nobody. They’ll believe me over her.”
He grabbed Mr. Cobb and pulled him out of the closet, shutting the door behind him. “And we’re going to let it burn for a little while. Just for fun.” He pushed Mr. Cobb away and down a hall.
Mr. Cobb closed his eyes in shame. When he opened them and found himself back in his room, he continued to cry. Not for himself, not for the change the key had wrought, but for poor Mrs. Smith.
Cassandra Smith, indeed.
It had been a fortnight since Mrs. Smith died in Mr. Cobb’s wingback chair. He stared at it, a ray of sunshine from a partially opened curtain warming the spot where her body had cooled. The chair cleaning service had been prompt and professional. There was no stain to be seen. For some reason, he experienced a shiver, but not from dread or fear. Mr. Cobb had not attended the funeral, but the director assured him five others mourned her at the cemetery and one woman had cried. They were no doubt personnel from the hospital where she had obviously spent many happy years. A few believers saved by her heroics, he hoped, but it did lead to more questions than answers.
Was the key really capable of unlocking hidden talents, or becoming a conduit to the future or the past? Was that why someone had attempted to destroy it before Mrs. Smith had unwittingly picked it up? Or was the best guess from the medical person - Mrs. Smith had suffered from an illness in her brain - the logical inspiration for Mrs. Smith’s delusions?
He stared at the Sucrets tin resting on the blotter in front of him. Also on the desk was a sword from one of the walls. While technically a machete-type instrument from centuries past, he had considered it a sword due to the story behind it: a good and noble chieftain had killed a despotic one in a duel to save two tribes. The person who had sold it to him had assured Mr. Cobb that the ruler had then married the evil king’s widow as a kindness to cement relations between the peoples. Mr. Cobb had agreed to return the sword should the man wish to repurchase it, as it was a family heirloom, but the man had never returned. He had needed money for a divorce but had later committed suicide when the woman he had an affair with left him. It was a sad end to what Mr. Cobb envisioned as a noble lineage, headed by a brave and thoughtful ruler. Mr. Cobb had dreamed often of one day becoming as courageous and compassionate a person.
Here, ostensibly, was his chance.
Slowly Mr. Cobb leaned forward and opened the tin with gloved fingers, removing the key and laying it on the blotter. He then picked up the sword and touched it to the key with the flat of the blade. He was hoping for the inexplicable, though he was not sure what to expect. The fact that nothing happened did not surprise him. He glanced at the chair for guidance and realized he was wearing gloves. Mrs. Smith had said a bare touch was needed. The reasoning was sound, so he removed his cotton safety nets and picked up the weapon again, tapping it gently on the small, mysterious object.
Nothing happened.
Sighing now, he dropped the sword on the desktop. Its weight was enough to shake the blotter and send the key flying off and onto the rug at the foot of the chair, out of his sight.
Mr. Cobb had half a mind to leave it there and let the housekeeper pick it up, but decided that would be childish on his part.
She had, he reflected, been very quiet of late, which he appreciated immeasurably. Perhaps the death of Mrs. Smith had reminded her of discovering her murdered husband late one night in their apartment. In a fit of benevolence Mr. Cobb had invited the woman to live with him instead of risking the gang-infested neighborhood each evening. She had been grateful then, though less so with the passage of time, forgetting that the murderer was still undiscovered as she greeted him each day with increasing mutters of disrespect. That had changed since Mrs. Smith’s visit. She was much more accommodating of late. He should reward such behavior by not having her pick up the trash for him.
Mr. Cobb rose, picked up the gloves, and circled the desk, determined to put the key back in the tin and lock it away as evidence of the unsupported ramblings of a dying woman. It wasn’t until he straightened up from retrieving it and held it in his left hand that he realized the gloves were still clutched in his right one.
Immediately he dropped all three things. Then he frowned. Nothing happened. He stared at his left hand and flexed his fingers experimentally. Nothing happened.
Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had no secret desires as a boy. All his fantasies had been quite evident and singularly focused: to hide from bullies. A thought struck him. Had he become invisible?
Mr. Cobb picked up the sword and held it in front of his face. His puzzled features were reflected perfectly back at him from the polished metal blade. He stared down at the key and realized he had given credence to Mrs. Smith’s story only because she had predicted her family’s deaths, but those, though tragic, could be explained. An unnoticed child had opened a valve on a gas fireplace during the graduation ceremony of Mrs. Smith’s eldest grandchild. When someone lit a cigarette, the house, full of people, had exploded.
While the event was horrific, it was not supernatural in nature. Evidently, neither was the key. He picked it up in his left hand again and then started to replace it in the tin and put the sword on the desk.
It was at that moment the room darkened considerably and stars appeared above him on the ceiling. A bonfire sprang from a wall that had no fireplace and revealed a group of men and women dressed scantily in feathers and skins surrounding both it and him in a large circle at an outdoor setting. The heat from the fire was stifling. There was no breeze. Insects buzzed about but the crowd was silent.
A large man broke through their ranks, carrying a machete and hauling a woman behind him. He flung the woman into the dirt near the fire and contemptuously gestured first at Mr. Cobb and then to her, spouting obvious anger in an incomprehensible language. The woman pleaded, the crowd backed away, and the man strode forward, machete upraised in an obvious threat. Terrified, Mr. Cobb did the only sensible thing he could think of, he threw his arms up in surrender. Unfortunately, the sword was still in his hand and the man strode right into it, impaling his neck upon the point of the blade. Shock followed, from all involved, but by the time the man fell, covered in his own blood, the woman regained her feet. She smiled coyly, slapped Mr. Cobb harshly on the cheek and grabbed the hand of a man obviously eager she should take it. He strode forward, picked up the dead man’s machete, batted aside Mr. Cobb’s useless weapon and plunged his blade into Mr. Cobb’s stomach. There were cries from the crowd. The pain, the shock, the betrayal - all were overwhelming, and Mr. Cobb fell to his knees in despair. He stared at the woman, who blew him a kiss before turning her ardor to the rescuing man. He had been used, and he was now dying - that much Mr. Cobb realized before the anguish forced his tear-filled eyes to close.
As soon as they did, the noise of the crowd stopped, the heat disappeared, and the insects grew silent. His mind pleaded with him to get up and run away from this madness. Still gasping with pain, Mr. Cobb opened his eyes and found himself back in his home.
The study was still neat and cool. The sliver of sunshine still rested on the chair. The sword and key were still in his hands. But he was on his knees and his stomach screamed with agony and his mind with fear. His eyes were wet with tears and his palms slick with sweat.
It had happened. He knew it had happened, and yet Mr. Cobb had no proof.
He dropped the machete and the key and quickly unbuttoned the shirt beneath his suit coat. A neat little red line was fading from view, the only evidence of his ‘wound.’
Without thought, he picked up the key barehanded and put it on the desk. He then grasped the sword and rose, then staggered in bent-over anguish to hang it back on the wall. Mouth dry and heart pounding harshly against his throat, he opened his study door and made his way toward the kitchen to get a cold drink of water.
It was empty, but because the door was open and boxes of groceries were on one of the preparation tables, Mr. Cobb reasoned the grocer had arrived and the housekeeper was sending him on his way.
Good. That meant he could slip in and out without notice.
Still in agony, head spinning, he grasped the edge of a table for support as he circled it and headed for the refrigerator and a glass to use in its water dispenser. His fingertips inadvertently brushed against the handle of a knife left near a half diced onion on the preparation table’s surface and another unbidden vision assaulted his senses.
Lightning flashed. A woman screamed and raced out of view in a darkened apartment. An unknown man yelled something at him in Spanish as he zipped up his pants and reached for a shirt. Mr. Cobb gripped the knife in his hands and cried out in anguish, his heart broken. The man advanced and raised a fist to silence the cry. Mr. Cobb thrust the knife at him and felt it tear into the man’s bare abdomen. They both stared at each other in disbelief. The man began to sneer, his mouth to fleck with blood, and his eyes blaze with fury. Mr. Cobb began to wave the knife about in terror. Again and again, fear struck out and sank the knife deep into the irate man. Panting, Mr. Cobb fell to the floor when the man did, exhausted and shaking.
Again he closed his eyes. Again he opened them to find he was back in his home, lying on his kitchen floor surrounded by bits of diced onion. Shivering uncontrollably, Mr. Cobb realized he was gripping the very knife he had killed the man with, only he hadn’t done it. He raised his eyes to the kitchen doorway and there stood the housekeeper. The knife in his hand belonged to her.
“You killed him, didn’t you?” Mr. Cobb gasped out.
With a screech, the housekeeper snatched up a knife and fell on him, straddling him as she screamed words in Spanish he didn’t understand. Again and again he felt the strike of her weapon on his hands, his forearms and even his face. He remembered the machete in his study and held up the knife still clutched in his hand the same way. There was a gurgle, warm wetness enveloped him, and then silence reigned as he was crushed to the floor by a soft, awkward weight.
The stench of hot copper overwhelmed him, nauseated him, and he turned his head as best he could before he threw up.
*-*
“You were lucky,” said the detective seated beside him in the hospital room.
Mr. Cobb did not agree but he wisely held his tongue. It hurt to move his facial muscles.
“The grocer heard her yell and followed her into the kitchen where he saw her attack you. Before he could pull her off, he said you picked up a knife and she impaled herself on it. Corroborates your story. Case closed.” The man’s eyes raked over the bandages on Mr. Cobb’s hands, arms, and face. “You got 43 stitches. Like I said, you were lucky. I wonder what made her go off like that?”
Mr. Cobb remembered the look of terror on her face and decided to keep her secret. It would do no one any good to hear the whole truth now. He cleared his throat with difficulty and tried to explain. “She discovered that a woman died in my study two weeks ago. It possibly reminded her of discovering the body of her husband in their home. I believe she was frightened. She had been quiet of late. Very pensive.”
The detective nodded. “I thought that was you under all those wrappings. You’re the guy with the bowtie and the study full of ‘toys.’” There was an unconscious smirk of contempt on the detective’s face, one Mr. Cobb recognized all too well.
“I do have such a collection,” Mr. Cobb admitted sadly. “Perhaps I felt braver, having such a manly room in my home, but I am still, at heart, a coward.”
For a moment the detective seemed startled by Mr. Cobb’s honesty, then he seemed to respect it. “Every guy needs a hobby,” he said. He scribbled a few notes in his pad of paper and put it and his pen away in a coat pocket. “I do like your bowties. Some say they are coming back in style.”
“Where is she now? My housekeeper?” asked Mr. Cobb. “I don’t believe she has any family. I feel,” he searched for the right word, “obligated.”
The detective studied him. “You buried that Smith woman, too. I would say this has been an expensive month for you.”
Mr. Cobb nodded and flexed the fingers of his left hand thoughtfully. “Expensive, yes. I have learned so much and regret so much. I should have been a better host to Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Smith had said not to touch the key. She had said it would unlock secret desires. She was correct; it had.
He realized now his secret desire had been to someday have weapons reveal to him the source of emotion that had wielded them so it could rise within his own heart. They had, horribly. The man in the village had been betrayed. There had been no nobility in his act, only sorrow, surrender and confusion. Perhaps men who succumbed to women that way were attracted to the weapon, judging by the fate of its last owner. And his poor housekeeper had not meant to hurt her husband, only to scare the woman off. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered her fear and the desperation that had accompanied it. He found the detectives eyes and met their questioning stare with one of his own.
“My poor housekeeper. She was so frightened. There was so much blood,” he said, trying to explain.
The detective nodded. “Amen to that.”
A nurse entered, carrying a metal tray with some food on it. “Mr. Cobb, it’s lunch time.” She set the tray down on a table with wheels and rolled it up to the bed. “Let’s adjust that bed, shall we?”
“I think that’s my cue to leave,” said the detective. He winked at the nurse. “Care to escort me out?”
She hesitated and looked to Mr. Cobb for a decision.
“I will be fine, I assure you,” Mr. Cobb said, wiggling his fingers. “I am sure I can manage Jello and soup.”
When they left, and he pulled the table to him, Mr. Cobb inadvertently touched the tray.
He was now in a closet and a man was laughing at him. Mr. Cobb felt a huge flush of embarrassment heat his face. The man pulled a joint and a lighter from his pocket. “You wanted this, sweetheart, so you’re going to try it, or I’m going smoke it in your face and your blood will still test positive. Either way, I get to enjoy myself.”
He flicked the lighter and Mr. Cobb, desperate to save himself, his reputation, and stop the cruel laughter, grabbed up a metal tray and slung it at the man. The lighter flipped out of his grip and landed in between some boxes. He grabbed Mr. Cobb around the neck and began to squeeze. Just then, they both smelled smoke. Fear showed briefly in the man’s eyes before he clamped it down with sneering bravado. “Tell anyone and I’ll blame you. Until then, the fire was set by that bitch in the lab outside, got it?” He pocketed the joint. “She’s nobody. They’ll believe me over her.”
He grabbed Mr. Cobb and pulled him out of the closet, shutting the door behind him. “And we’re going to let it burn for a little while. Just for fun.” He pushed Mr. Cobb away and down a hall.
Mr. Cobb closed his eyes in shame. When he opened them and found himself back in his room, he continued to cry. Not for himself, not for the change the key had wrought, but for poor Mrs. Smith.
Cassandra Smith, indeed.