When God Opens a Door
by Tim Waggoner

A metal door, rust nibbling at the edges, fuck scratched into the gray paint.  No, one of the K's lines is so faint that it resembles an L.  Fucl, then, like a code or a word in some exotic language.  From behind the metal, muffled but still clearly audible, come screams.  Those of a woman, or perhaps a child.  Screams of agony, screams of pleasure?  He can't decide.  Both, maybe.

To the immediate right of the door is a row of newspaper vending machines.  USA Today, the daily from the nearest city, Ash Creek's weekly, and freebies like Employment News and Apartment Finder.  The machines are empty, every one, as if they're never stocked and instead are here merely for decoration.  Or camouflage.

Past the empty machines is a store called I'd Buy That For a Dollar, selling odds and ends that cost - you guessed it - a dollar or less.  Of course, with sales tax, you can go over a dollar easy, and usually do, but what the hell, anyone who'd shop there isn't about to sue for false advertisement.  To the left of the door is another store, Hand-Me-Down's.  The owner got the hyphens right, but screwed up on the apostrophe.  This establishment sells second-hand clothing and toys for children, one of many such businesses in town.  In the display window are three creepy kid mannequins, two girls and a boy, heads tilted up, gazing to the left (their right) with wide-open, flat-painted eyes, as if looking away from the door.

 The door fascinates him.  The screams, of course - sometimes interrupted by what sound like sobs, gasps, moans or sighs - but also the door's aspect, its placement, its very existence.  He's walked the length and breadth of this tiny shopping center, built before the days when it would've been called a strip mall, past a hardware store, paint store, diet workshop, the dollar store and the second-hand clothing store, of course, and a couple empty stores with FOR LEASE signs in the windows.  Stardust Video, as well, where he rented the three DVD's in the white plastic bag dangling from his left hand.  But this is the only metal door, and the only one not clearly attached to a specific place of business.  At first, he supposed it could be an access door to a storage area for one of the stores, but if so, then why was there only one?  And why would it be in the front of the building as opposed to the back?  Perhaps, he'd thought, it led to some sort of maintenance area for the entire shopping center, climate controls or circuit breakers, maybe.  But wouldn't each individual business have its own such controls, and again, why would the door to such an area be in the front?

 And then there is the screaming.  The sound sets his teeth on edge, like fingernails raking chalkboard, but it also excites him, electric tendrils of arousal curling their way into his cock, making him grow hard.

The door looks locked, which is a stupid thing to think: after all, how can a door appear to be locked?  But this one does.  Maybe it's the forbidding solidity of the metal or the crumbling neglect of the rust, but it looks as if it hasn't been opened in years.

Only one way to find out for sure if it's locked.

He reaches for the round metal knob - smooth, no hint of rust here - and he's surprised to see that his hand is trembling.  In fear or anticipation?  At this point, he decides, there's no real difference.

But before his flesh can come in contact with the metal, a horn sounds, making him jump.  He whirls around, feeling a surge of embarrassed guilt as if he's a fourteen-year-old boy caught masturbating in the bathroom by his mother.

"Sorry it took me so long, but I was almost out of gas and I stopped to fill up."

The passenger window of their SUV is rolled down, and she's leaning over from the driver's side, a smile on her face, but is there suspicion in her eyes?  Maybe.  He puts a smile on his own face and walks toward the vehicle, struggling to hide his disappointment.  If only she'd gotten here a minute or two later . . .

He feels the door's presence behind him, tugging at him, as if it's reluctant to let him go.

He opens the SUV's passenger door and climbs inside.  His wife - a pretty blonde with a hint of crow's feet around her eyes and the beginnings of middle-age sag in her cheeks and beneath her chin - gives him a quick kiss which he barely registers.

As he buckles himself in, he says, "No problem.  I picked up a couple movies -" he holds up the plastic bag containing the DVD's for emphasis -  "and then I strolled up and down the sidewalk in front of the shops a few times.  Got my exercise for the day."

"Good boy.  Your cholesterol level will thank you."  She puts the SUV in gear and presses lightly on the gas pedal.

As the oversized vehicle begins to move forward, he wants to shout No!, wants to tell her to stop, wants to get out of the car, rush to the door, and try that goddamned handle, fling the door open wide and see what the hell is inside.  But he doesn't.  He merely sits quietly as they pull away from the small shopping center, the sounds of faint, almost imperceptible screams lingering sweet and mysterious in his ears.

* * * *

It's not enough.

Darrell woke with these words whispering through his mind, almost as if they weren't his, as if they had been thought - or perhaps spoken aloud - by someone else.  Next to him, snoring softly, naked and covered by a single thin sheet, lay Patti.  As usual, she slept on her side, but she was facing away from him right now, which was fine with him.  Her breath tended to get sour as the night wore on, and when her head faced his, he couldn't escape breathing in the smell.  Funny, they'd been married close to twenty-five years and it had only been during the last few that he'd noticed her night-breath.

On second thought, maybe that wasn't so surprising.  A lot more than Patti's breath had seemed go sour for him lately.  Take his fabulous certified pre-owned Lexus: his status symbol announcing to the world that he had finally, at last Made It - or at least made it enough to afford a very expensive used car.  The goddamned oil light had been blinking on and off for no apparent reason lately, and Darrell had been forced to drop it off at a BP Procare after work because he hadn't been able to afford the extended maintenance contract the dealer had offered.  He'd called Patti on his cell phone and asked her to come pick him up, but since he hadn't felt like waiting at the Procare, he told her he'd walk across the street to Stardust Video and pick up some movies, and she could meet him there.

But she still hadn't come by the time he'd rented the DVD's,  so he'd wandered the sidewalk in front of the shopping center, and that's when he'd discovered it.

The door.

Moonlight filtered through a space between the curtains, bleeding a blue-white sliver of light onto the opposite wall.  He closed his eyes and in the darkness of his mind, summoned the image of the door.  He saw gray paint, rust, the enigmatic word fucl . . . heard once again those faint, high-pitched, almost childish screams, and he felt a shiver pass through his body, tremors rippling along his nerves like surges of electric current.  If only he'd had a chance to try the knob before Patti had driven up, maybe now he wouldn't be so . . .

Obsessed?

That might be overstating the case, he thought, but if so, it wasn't far from the truth.  The door was just about the only thing he'd thought about all night.  He'd been distracted during dinner, hadn't been able to concentrate on the paperwork he'd brought home from the office - not that he'd ever found drawing up wills to be all that captivating on any occasion - and he'd only half-listened when his daughter had called from college to say that she'd be coming home to visit this weekend.

Even worse, as they were getting ready for bed, Patti had suggested they make love.  She didn't initiate sex very often, and Darrell knew she'd feel rejected and hurt if he declined, so he agreed, though he felt no desire for her whatsoever at the moment.  At forty-seven, she looked at least ten years younger, her large breasts were still mostly firm, and thanks to regular exercise, her belly, while softer than it had been when they were first married, was still flat.  And even though for most of their marriage it was he who was the aggressor in the bedroom, once they got started, she always proved an enthusiastic partner.

But tonight, despite her best efforts to arouse him - efforts that might've made another man cum numerous times - he'd barely been able to sustain an erection.  He kept thinking about how he supposedly had it so good: a sexy, loving wife; a smart, beautiful daughter; a successful career; a five-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath house with a large yard in the right part of town, and of course his prized Lexus . . . but none of it was satisfying, none of it was enough, and he didn't know why.  Sure, money was tight, especially with paying for Catherine's tuition (hence the trip to Procare), but Patti and he weren't in danger of starving anytime soon.  By most people's standards, he was doing just fine, was well ahead of most of the other rats in the race - but he didn't give a damn.

He'd started to go soft inside Patti (for the second time) when he found himself thinking of the door again, hearing those screams, and his erection returned with a vengeance.  He kept replaying those screams in his head as he thrust into his wife, and he finally managed to achieve a climax of sorts, brief and unsatisfying as it was.  If she'd sensed any problem on his part, she didn't mention it, just kissed him sleepily, told him she loved him, then rolled over and went to sleep, leaving him alone with his dark thoughts until, after some time, sleep finally came to him as well.

But now it was - he opened his eyes and glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand - 2:17 in the morning, and he was wide awake.  He lay there for twenty more minutes, waiting for sleep to find him, but it was no use.

He sighed (not too loudly; he didn't want to wake his wife) and got out of bed.  He dressed in the dark - sweat shirt and jeans - and slipped out of the bedroom, leaving Patti snoring softly, alone in their bed.

He went into the family room, with its almost brand-new furniture and state-of-the-art entertainment system, intending to turn on the TV in hope of finding a good movie on cable.  But just as he was about to sit on the couch and grab the remote, his eye was drawn to the two DVD's he'd rented from Stardust Video.  They sat on the shelf next to the television, propped up on their sides against it.  Patti and he had watched one of the movies tonight, a new film by Robert Altman that Patti had thought hysterical but which Darrell had found meandering and only sporadically amusing.  But it was a new release, and at Stardust, if you brought a new release back the next day, you received a dollar credit toward your next rental.

He looked at the DVD for a long moment before going over to the entertainment center and pulling it off the shelf.

What the hell.  It wasn't like he had anything else to do right now.  Maybe running a late-night errand would help make him sleepy.

He snuck back into the bedroom to get his watch, wallet and keys, and to put on a pair of running shoes (no socks).  He left the bedroom, made his way through the kitchen, past the laundry room, and opened the door to the garage.  He closed the door behind him, and as he got into the SUV, he told himself that he was just going to return the movie, that's all.  But his hands were trembling in anticipation just the same.

* * * *

The DVD made a chunk! sound as it slid through the return slot and fell into the plastic bin inside the store.

That's one dollar credit, he thought.  One dollar wasn't much, but with the expenses he had these days, every dollar helped.  Nothing to do now but get back in the SUV, head home and try to get what sleep he could before he had to get up and go to work.

But he didn't turn and head back toward the parking lot.  Instead, he looked toward the door.  He listened, trying to catch the faint sound of a woman-child screaming, but he heard nothing.

The shopping center's parking lot was well lit by fluorescent lights, and there were a scattering of cars still in the lot, most of them down by the bar at the far end of the center, despite the lateness of the hour.  It was well past closing time.  Maybe the cars belonged to employees or perhaps to patrons that had gone home with someone else for the night - either because they were too drunk to drive, too lonely to go home alone, or both.

But there were other vehicles here and there.  His SUV, of course, but also a blue Tercel, a gold Saturn, a beat-up Pinto, and a VW bug.  He wondered who their owners were.  Cleaning staff?  Not this late, he decided.

Maybe they're on the other side of the door.

Maybe.

Well. you're here and no one else is around.  What are you waiting for?  Do it, if for no other reason than to get it out of your system.

He hesitated a moment, two, then took a deep breath - night-air cool and sharp in his lungs - then started walking toward the door, past I'd Buy That For a Dollar, past the row of empty newspaper vending machines.

And then he stood before the door once again.

It looked exactly the same: rust at the edges, gray paint, fucl scratched into the surface.  He listened, turning his right ear toward the door so he could hear better.

He heard the soft sound of a gentle breeze stirring the air, but when he didn't feel it touch his skin, he realized that what he had heard hadn't been a breeze at all, but rather a long exhalation that seemed to come from just the other side of the door.  Not exactly a sigh.  More like the weary release of air after long exertion.  Or perhaps the last breath filtering slowly from the lungs of the dying.

The last thought made him smile.  Amazing what - he glanced at his watch - 3:04 in the morning will do to a man's imagination.

He listened again, but this time heard nothing.

You wouldn't, would you?  No one gets a second last breath.

He did his best to ignore this latest 3:04 a.m. thought, and reached for the knob.  The metal was cold, colder than it should've been.  It was early October, but it had been unseasonably warm this fall; the leaves, fooled into thinking that summer was defying the calendar, had barely begun to drop.  But the knob felt as it were the dead of winter - almost burning-cold to the touch.

Just another morbid late-night imagining, he told himself.  Nothing more.

Quit stalling and give the fucker a turn!

Darrell took his own advice and tried the knob.

It wouldn't budge.

He tried several more times, attempting to twist it one direction then the other, but it didn't move, not even a fraction of an inch.  There was no rattle of metal, no looseness, no give at all.  It was as if the knob and door were single solid piece of metal.

Disappointed, but also on some level relieved, he let go of the knob.

That's that, he thought.  The damn thing's locked, and maybe rusted solid to boot.  No one's getting in there without some serious tools.

But another thought tickled its way into his consciousness.

You could always try to pick the lock.

Darrell examined the knob more closely.  Yes, there was a keyhole, but if the knob was rusted on the inside (for its smooth, cold metal showed no sign of rust outside), then attempting to pick it would hardly do any good.  Besides, who was he kidding?  It wasn't like he was a goddamned locksmith.  He wouldn't have the first idea how to -

The knob began to turn.

Startled, he took a step backward and then, as if he were a kid caught in the middle of playing a prank, he turned and ran back toward the video store.  At first, he ran out of instinct, but as he neared the store, he told himself to stand in front of the return slot to make it look as if he'd just put his movie in.  It might seem a little odd that someone was returning a movie this late, but then people kept all sorts of strange hours, didn't they?  They worked different shifts - some couldn't sleep.  So it might seem odd, but not that odd.  Hadn't he just returned a movie a few minutes ago?

He made it to the return slot just as the door swung open.  He turned, trying not to look like he was looking and failing dismally.  Plus, he was breathing hard from his sprint down the sidewalk, and whoever was coming out had probably heard the rubber soles of his running shoes slapping the concrete as he ran.

You're some smooth operator, he thought.  But he forgot his worries and recriminations when he heard the sounds coming through the now open door - moaning: in pleasure, pain, or from some sensation he couldn't name.  And the smell - a combination of sweetness and rot, like dying flowers standing in a vase of stagnant water.

A woman came out, the door shutting behind her with a solid chunk!  She stood for a moment, as if unsure what to do next.  She rocked on her feet, forward and back, forward and back, and for a moment Darrell thought she was going to faint.  But then she turned and started walking - toward him.

She was petite, her figure almost boyish.  Her short brown hair looked as if it could use a good washing, and her bangs were slightly crooked.  Her round face was slack, devoid of expression, and her eyes were wide, glazed, and unblinking.

As she came closer, Darrell experienced a strong feeling of recognition.  He knew this woman, he was sure of it, but he couldn't quite remember where from.

She wore black shoes, tight jeans, and a simple white T-shirt.  As she drew near, he saw tiny red splotches marring the white cloth of her shirt directly over the nipples of her small breasts.  Splotches that were widening.

By the time she reached him, he had given up all pretense that he was returning a movie, and he just stood and looked at her.  She gazed past him, and he thought she would continue on without so much as glancing in his direction, let alone stopping.  But then her eyes - eyes which he could now see were shot through with purple-red veins, and were the pupils tinged red as well? - flicked toward him, and she stopped and frowned.

"Darrell Gregerson?"  Her voice was rough and hoarse, as if she'd been yelling.  Or screaming.

Suddenly it came back to him.  "LeAnne . . . Ruland?"

She smiled, and he saw her teeth and gums were slick with blood.  "It's Hilles now."

That's right.  He'd represented her during her divorce a few years back.  He wasn't especially fond of handling divorces and didn't do all that many, but she'd been recommended by a friend, and so he'd taken her as a client.  The divorce had gone smoothly enough, and he hadn't seen her since.  Now here she was, coming out of whatever lay behind the door he hadn't been able to open.

He struggled to come up with something to say.  The normal small-talk - How've you been?  You look great - hardly seemed to fit the situation.  But she saved him by speaking first.

"Did you come for the Place?"

He could hear the capital P when she said Place.  "I . . . yes, but I couldn't get in.  The door was locked."

She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound, like the empty dried husks of insect carapaces rubbing together.  "Of course it was, silly!  It only opens if  you know how to make it open."

He felt a surge of excitement.  "And how do you do that?"

She shook her head.  "I can't tell you.  It's against the rules.  You have to figure it out for yourself."  She looked around as if afraid someone might overhear, then leaned forward and whispered, "It's how you prove yourself worthy."

This close, he could see that her pupils were definitely tinted red.  Colored contacts?  He doubted it.  Her breath was sour and sharp, from the blood coating her gums and teeth, he thought.  He glanced at her chest and saw the red stains had gotten large enough that their inside edges nearly touched.  Soon they would be one large red blotch.

He wondered if the Place were some sort of S&M club.  If so, it would make sense why there was no sign above and the door, and no windows to see inside.  It was late for a club to still be open, but if they didn't serve liquor, they could operate as late as they wanted - especially if they paid off the cops.  And this "prove yourself worthy" business might just be another part of the fun and games.

He was a little disappointed.  The idea of an S&M club existing between such ordinary businesses, places where simple working men and women took their children everyday, was intriguing, but it lacked the allure of mystery that the door had held for him when he'd first seen it.  As exotic as an S&M club might be in little Ash Creek, Ohio, it was still just one of thousands in the world.  Just another place to go in search of an orgasm, with a few cuts and bruises thrown in for good measure.

"Thanks for the tip, LeAnne, but I'm not sure the Place is for me after all."  He was about to bid her goodnight and head for his SUV, but she grabbed him by the wrist, her grip surprisingly strong for such a small woman.

"Keep trying to get in, Darrell.  If you give up, you'll regret it the rest of your life.  There's nothing to compare to the Place.  It's beyond anything you've ever experienced before.  It's . . ."  She paused, searching for words, but then she scowled and gave her head a quick shake, as if annoyed at her brain for failing her.  Then she looked up at him, vein-filled eyes wide, expression now one of almost religious ecstasy.  "It's everything."

She gave him a smile - displaying those bloody teeth one last time - squeezed his wrist affectionately, then released him and walked into the parking lot toward the Beetle.  He watched her get in, start the car, then drive away, giving one soft toot on her horn as she went.

He thought for a moment about what she'd said, about the look on her face, the tone of mingled reverence and lust in her voice.  Then he turned and looked in the direction of the door.

* * * *

On his way home, he passed a church with a sign board in the yard, red plastic letters spelling out an insipid homily: Happiness isn't a destination to reach; it's a road to travel.

Bullshit, he thought.

Back home in his bed, Patti sleeping soundly beside him, he tossed and turned, and when he did manage to drift off, he dreamed of locked doors and naked women with blood squirting from bruised nipples.

The next morning he said little to his wife as they got ready for work - Patti was a pharmacist at DrugRite - and he would've walked out the door before she could kiss him goodbye . . . if, that is, he had his Lexus.  As it was, he had to wait for her to finish getting ready, then they both climbed into the SUV and he dropped her off at the drugstore.

He had his cell phone in hand and was dialing his office before he pulled out of the parking lot.  He worked at a small practice, only two other lawyers beside himself, but it was large enough to need a secretary, and when she answered the phone, Darrell told her that he'd come down with the flu and wouldn't be in today.  He didn't bother trying to sound as if he were sick; he didn't really care if the woman believed him or not.  He disconnected as she was telling him to take care of himself and get some rest, dropped the phone onto the empty passenger seat, and headed for the shopping center.

I couldn't get in.  The door was locked.

Of course it was, silly.  It only opens if  you know how to make it open.

There was a way in - LeAnne had said so.  And he was going to find out what it was, was going to prove himself worthy.

He had just about everything a man could want: the family, the career, the house, but along with it all came two nagging questions: Is this all there is?  Is there no more?

He supposed he was going through a midlife crisis, which made him nothing more than another affluent, soft-bellied cliché of a man, but he didn't care.  He'd tried other things to fill the emptiness over the last few years: booze, affairs, drugs, gambling, exercise, the stock market, but none of it worked, not for very long, anyway.

There's nothing to compare to the Place.  It's beyond anything you've ever experienced before.  It's . . . it's everything.

If what LeAnne had said was true, then maybe he'd finally found what he was looking for.  He pressed down on the gas pedal and clutched the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

* * * *

By noon, he had seen three people enter the Place.  The first was a fat woman wearing a tent-like mu-mu with a flowerprint design and flip-flops.  She carried a large wicker bag with handles, and looked for all the world as if she were bound for a day at the beach.  The second was an elderly man in a brown suit, carrying a briefcase.  He was missing his left arm, and his suit sleeve was pinned to the shoulder.  The third was a girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen, fourteen tops - Shouldn't she be in school? Darrell wondered.  Her black hair was shot through with spray-painted streaks of red and blue, and her khaki backpack was decorated with anarchy symbols of various sizes drawn in magic marker.

Despite their differences in appearance, each of the three went through the same procedure.  First they approached the door during a time when the shopping center's sidewalk was deserted.  Then they walked up to the door and leaned their faces close to the crack between it and the wall.  The remained that way for a second or two, then pulled back, waited another moment, then reached for the knob, turned it, opened the door, and walked in.  The door, of course, always closed quickly behind them, and Darrell didn't have to hear the click! to know it locked again.

He knew one other thing, too: whatever the Place was, it operated day and night.

Now if he could only figure out how to get in!

His stomach gurgled, but he ignored it.  He didn't care that he was missing lunch, anymore than he cared about the clients he would inconvenience by skipping work today (not to mention his two partners).  While Darrell was growing up, his father - who had also been a lawyer - used to go on fishing trips with his buddies the last weekend of every month, no matter the season or what else might be happening with his family.  Birthdays, illnesses, school plays, award ceremonies, graduations . . . none of them stopped Darrell's father from going on his monthly trips.

When he was a teenager, Darrell had asked his father why those trips were so important to him.  (What he really wanted to know was why they were more important than he was.)  His father had thought about it for a moment before finally replying, in a voice almost completely devoid of emotion, "A man has to do some things for himself."

 Darrell had nodded then as if he understood, even though he hadn't, but now that he was older than his father had been at the time, he truly did understand.  His father had needed an escape, even if only a temporary one, from the straitjacket his life had become.  Darrell had been searching for his own escape for years, and now that it looked like he'd finally found one, he wasn't going to give up on it.

He got out of the SUV and headed across the parking lot toward the door.  But before he was halfway there, the door opened and the elderly man in the brown suit came out.  He no longer carried the briefcase, he was smiling, and he had two arms.

Darrell couldn't help staring as the man passed him.  For his part, the old man looked at Darrell, and his smile turned into a grin.  He gave Darrell a jaunty wink as if he recognized him, and said, "Mum is most definitely not the word, son."  Then he saluted Darrell using a hand he hadn't possessed when he'd first gone through the door, and continued on into the parking lot.  Darrell watched him get into a blue cadillac, start the engine and drive away, the old man giving Darrell a last goodbye wave with his new hand.

Darrell stood on asphalt and watched the caddy go down the road until he couldn't see it anymore.  He thought about what the old man had said, and then it came to him.  When the people going into the Place leaned close to the crack between the door and the wall, they were saying something - a password!  That's what the old man had meant: mum wasn't the word because something else was!

Darrell turned and hurried to the door, excitement building.  He was close, he knew it!  If only he could figure out what . . .

And then, as if it were staring him in the face (because it was), he once again read the word scratched into the gray paint.  Fuck.  He almost laughed out loud.  He looked around to make sure no one else was watching, then he leaned forward and opened his mouth to say the word, but at the last moment, he hesitated.  It wasn't fuck that was written on the door, was it, not the way the K wasn't quite finished.

"Fucl," he whispered.

He straightened, waited for a couple seconds, then grasped the knob.  It turned easily in his hand.

He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into darkness.

* * * *

Cold metal around wrists and ankles, the soft jangle of chains when he moves.  Beneath his bare flesh, the surface of a stone table, gutters carved into the sides.

Blades so sharp they slip beneath skin as if it were water.

The song of blood in his ears: sweet, strong, and pure.

Other instruments appear in dark hands, the metal twisted into ever more exotic shapes.  And as those hands go to work on him, he closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and sound issues forth - part scream, part moan, all pleasure.

* * * *

Darrell got out of his Lexus, which he had picked up earlier that evening, closed the door, and began hobbling across the parking lot.  The mechanics had done a good job, and for a reasonable price, but he didn't care about the car, not anymore.  He'd found something far better.

Though there were no visible wounds on his body, not even so much as a scratch, he was sore all over.  It felt as if every one of his muscles had been pulled from the bone, pounded with a meat tenderizer, and then reattached.  Not too far from the truth, he thought, then smiled, displaying teeth that were still not quite settled back in their sockets.

It was a little after midnight, just about twelve hours since he had first opened the door and entered the Place, and now he was back.  He'd tried to resist - after all, how much could his body and spirit take in one day? - but as soon as Patti had fallen asleep, he'd gotten into his car and driven to the shopping center at nearly twice the speed limit.  He wanted - no, he needed - more.  Much more.

He almost ran up to the door, didn't bother checking to see if anyone was watching, leaned forward, whispered "Fucl," then pulled back.  He counted one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and turned the knob.  Or rather, tried to.  It wouldn't budge.

He felt the first spiderleg-touch of panic in his belly as he leaned forward and tried the password again, but still the knob refused to turn.

Was he pronouncing the word wrong?  Was he not waiting long enough between saying it and trying the knob?  He looked at the door and saw that the gray paint that covered its surface was smooth and unmarked.  Fucl was gone, and there was no new word to replace it.

 He was locked out.

"No."  He shook his head, unable to believe it.  After all this time, he had finally found what he'd been searching for, and now it was denied him.  Had he done something wrong, had he failed to prove himself worthy?

"Hey, Darrell."

He turned to see LeAnne approaching.  She wore the same clothes she did yesterday - the blood stain on the chest of her T-shirt now brown and hard - but this time she carried a canvas bag at her side.  The bag hung full and heavy, and the bottom was crimson-wet.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"I . . . can't get in again."

 "Of course you can't."  Her tone was both amused and sympathetic.  "Only the first time is free.  After that, you have to pay."  She held up her canvas bag.  A thick red drop fell from the bottom and splattered onto the sidewalk.

Darrell felt cold and feverish at the same time, and his skin cried out for the touch of cool metal.  "Pay how?"

LeAnne smiled as she lowered her bag.  "I'm sure you'll think of something."  Then she brushed past Darrell, bent toward the crack between the wall and door, whispered a word that he couldn't quite make out, opened the door and stepped inside.

He hurried forward, hoping to sneak in while the door was open, but it slammed shut before he could get to it.  He tried the knob again, gripped it tight and twisted for all he was worth, but it was frozen once more.

He let go of the knob, stepped back, and thought about the fat woman's wicker bag, the old man's briefcase, the girl's backpack, and especially about LeAnne's canvas tote.

Patti was home in bed asleep right now.  And their daughter would be arriving tomorrow night to spend the weekend.

Some prices are too high to pay, he thought.

"A man has to do some things for himself," he said.

He started back toward his car.