Nine

"In fact, our only story tonight, 'cause you know we only report the news worth hearing, folks..."

It was the ringmaster, even though he was in a different role now. No one else had a face like that. It was all gleaming teeth and bright, flashing eyes. The thing called Mister Sticks stared blankly at the television screen with hollow eyes. Behind him, Penny glared.

"...it's the Columbine kidnapping, of course. We've got a positive I.D. on the culprit now, too: Edward Hyde. Yes, that's right, folks, you heard me. Old Mister Hyde is back in town, and he's got his claws on our very own Penny Columbine."

The voice was smooth and casual, more like a talk show host playing the crowd than a reporter. It seemed to flow over the mind like syrup, sweet and slow, turning your thoughts to mush.

"Of course, here at Land's End, we've dealt with this sort of thing before, haven't we?" The man gave a deep, full-chested laugh and grinned a little more broadly. The click of perfect white teeth was almost audible. "We've just let him get a little bit ahead of us this time. We can take care of it, even if we do have to try and round up the big one as well."

The man leaned forward over the desk and folded his hands. "And since I know you can hear me, Miss Columbine, I've got a message for you, all the way from the top: 'don't worry. We'll get things back on track very, very soon."

The movement wasn't conscious. He just found himself gripping Penny's shoulder.

"And to my old pal Ed." For the first time, the man's grin faded, becoming a slight scowl, and he extended two perfectly-manicured fingers to point at the camera. But the voice remained as hypnotic and easygoing as ever. "You just let her go, and we'll make it quick for you. Believe me, you don't want it to be slow. There are a lot of really creative ways to excise something like you, and believe me, you deserve the worst of the worst. Such a degenerate, filthy, disgusting thing... I mean, really. We'd be justified in ripping you apart mote by mote. But the boss is prepared to give you an easy one if you just give her back."

The winning smile was back, as quickly as it had gone. "Think about it, won't you? And, to everyone else listening to this broadcast: they're at her house. The cops are on the way, but why should we let them have all the fun?"

A bright, happy little laugh. "And that, ladies and germs, is the news. Good night, and God bless."

And the screen snapped off.

For a few seconds, there was silence. Then, gradually, Mister Sticks became aware of the sound of labored breathing. He turned his head.

Penny was breathing heavily, in sharp, heaving gasps. The rhythm was there, as if she was fighting a panic attack, but she didn't look frightened. She looked angry. Her face was twisted in rage.

"That bastard," she hissed between clenched teeth. "He wants me to go back? And talks about it like that's a good thing?"

She wrenched her shoulder out of his grip, stood, and snatched the alarm clock from the bedside table. A moment later, there was a resounding crash as it flew through the television screen.

"Fuck that."

She turned back to stare upward at his face, still glaring. "I'm not going back to them," she snarled. "So if you're thinking about handing me over-"

"I wasn't." He said it without any hesitation. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind; in listening to all of the man's threats, the idea that he might actually give Penny away had never even seemed like an option to him.

She glared at him for another moment, then shook her head and shuffled around him. "Then we've got to get out of here," she said flatly. "The cops are on their way, and I'm pretty sure he just sicced all the people who were watching that on us. Given how damn weird this place is, I'm pretty sure we're about to get an angry mob. Where can we go?"

The answer came to him in a flash of memory. Without really thinking, he rasped, "The shack. Bottom of the hill. There won't be anyone home."

She stopped at the door to the bedroom and gave him a suspicious look over her shoulder. He shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

She sighed and started walking again. He lurched after her.

"Better than nothing, I suppose," she said. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and hadn't been put up into its formal bun. She rammed the battered derby onto her head anyway and started down the stairs. "Come on. And try to be qui-"

She stopped abruptly, frozen, at the base of the stairs.

There was a man in the broken doorway - no, a teenager. Mister Sticks staggered haphazardly down the stairs, clutching the banister with a grip like iron, and stared at him. The kid was wearing an expression of utter terror on his pale, sallow face, but he was holding a kitchen knife in one hand, and it was pointed squarely at Penny.

"Y-you've..." The kid's voice was a squeak. He swallowed, and tried again. "You've got to come with me, miss. Away from..." He glanced up at Mister Sticks. "From him. You-" he swung the knife around to point at the scarecrow "-you stay back. Stay away from us!"

One of the scarecrow's boots thudded on the floor at the base of the stairs. He put one malformed hand on Penny's shoulder and pushed her aside, gently. Then he said, in his creaking, sharp voice, "No."

The kid swallowed again. "Then I'm gonna have to kill you," he said. His eyes flashed from side to side, as if looking for an escape. He looked as though he wanted to run more than anything in the world.

"Are you." Mister Sticks put both hands into the pockets of his jacket and straightened up as best he could. He towered over the other two; he must have had at least a foot over each of them. He felt as though he should be worried, intimidated, slightly wary of the glinting blade in the teen's hands. He wasn't. Everything was calm and simple.

The young man shook his head frantically, but said, "Yes. Yeah." There was a moment of strangled, terrified silence, and then a quiet, "I'm sorry."

He stepped forward, lurching almost as crazily as Mister Sticks when he walked. He seemed to be fighting with himself over whether to attack or retreat.

It was so easy. One step forward, bring the right arm up to deflect the blade, left hand comes around to grip the wrist, twist until you hear the snap, catch the knife in your still-moving right, spin it in uneven fingers, and push.

The flesh offered hardly any resistance at all.

The kid let out a soft sound, like a cross between a groan and a sigh, and slumped to the floor. Mister Sticks let him fall, then straightened up again and turned his head to look at Penny.

She gave a soft squeak and pressed herself further back into the wall. Her eyes were wide and fearful, locked firmly on the body at his feet. He nudged it with the tip of one boot.

"It's okay," he rasped. "He's dead."

"Y-you..." She gasped. "You killed him."

"It was that or have him take you away." He shrugged. It all seemed so simple. "We don't have time to waste with him. There'll be more."

She stared wildly at him. He could see her thinking, but he couldn't imagine what it was that she was wrestling with. He had done what he had to do. He had protected her.

There was a dull, rising sound from outside. After a second, he identified it as the sound of a police siren.

There was no more time. In one motion, he stepped forward and seized her arm again. "Come on," he said. "There are more coming." And he turned to pull her along behind him, out into the streets.