Child’s Play 3 Page 2

  And where is he?

  Where is Andy Barclay? Where is the damn brat who did this to me?

  Answer my prayers.

  He looked at the ceiling. And waited.

  Patience. And time. This time I must plan better.

  I’ve been given a second chance. Just—

  Due, Damballa!

  Help me to find him. Help me find Andy Barclay.

  4

  The string of Sullivan’s Good Guy yo-yo became tangled. The yo-yo didn’t unwind as smoothly as it should, and Sullivan reminded himself to send out a memo in the morning. Check the yo-yos.

  We’re not some Taiwanese sweatshop. We don’t produce junk.

  He wound the yo-yo up again, and now it spun smoothly.

  Sullivan made the yo-yo spin up and down as he looked out the window. He could see Lakeshore Drive and the glittering skyscrapers of Chicago. Most of the office buildings were half lit. Other people staying late, working hard . . . just like me.

  The American Dream.

  Put your ass in gear and keep it there.

  Or your neighbor will run away with your golden goose.

  He sent the yo-yo down again, trying for a trick he hadn’t done in decades.

  Walking the dog.

  But the yo-yo lost its spin too quickly.

  “Damn,” Sullivan said to himself. We make dolls that get weird . . . and a yo-yo that can’t cut the mustard.

  He turned to the computer terminal where Petzoid was tapping at the keyboard, a monkey playing with his new toy. Making Petzoid computer literate is a major achievement. His forte was getting coffee.

  Behind Petzoid was a wall of yo-yos, trains, battery-operated soldiers programmed to march and shoot. And Good Guy toys, some old, some new, everything from lunch boxes and pajamas to toy tool kits and the Good Guy video game—all whipped off store shelves immediately after the “incident.”

  A cornucopia of Good Guy goodies, ready to roll off the production line.

  Petzoid said, “Ah,” Then he sat back and turned to Sullivan.

  “There, Mr. Sullivan. Got your schedule for tomorrow right here. You have breakfast at eight with the cereal people. They’re very interested. Then breakfast at nine with your lawyer, breakfast at ten with the union rep, lunch with your wife—”

  Sullivan shook his head. “I thought we canceled that.”

  Petzoid leaned forward, studying the screen. “Oh. Yeah, that’s right.” Petzoid hit a key and removed the event.

  Sullivan, listening, walked to the window, a wall of black dotted with the stariike glow from the office windows and streetlights. I could live here, Sullivan thought. Who needs a home—when you have all this?

  “The board meeting’s from two to five. Your hair treatment’s at five-thirty, and the chiropractor’s at six.” Petzoid paused. “How’s your back today, Mr. Sullivan?”

  He hated it when Petzoid tried to get personal.

  “Don’t ask,” Sullivan said, looking out the window, down at the miniaturized people on the street, tiny toy people darting around.

  He heard Petzoid hit some keys, then the click as he shut the computer off. Sullivan gave the yo-yo another spin, but it cantilevered left and right, out of control.

  Petzoid stood beside him. And he had the Good Guy doll under his arm.

  It was night. Just me and Petzoid, he thought. But Dr. Patterson’s warning hung in the room. Something foul and smelly. Ruining my pleasure, Sullivan thought.

  And it made him think.

  Where is Andy Barclay? Is he out there? Whatever happened to the poor boy? Is he still having Good Guy nightmares? And his dear mother—did they ever release her from the mental home? She was a worse case than the son.

  Pathetic people.

  They nearly destroyed Play Pals.

  Petzoid stood beside him, as if he were a peer. Sullivan shook his head. At least it was someone to talk to.

  “You know, Petzoid, the Barclay boy just turned sixteen. He’s not a little boy anymore.”

  “Yes, sir. I updated his file myself. I’ve been following—”

  Sullivan nodded. “Well, I want to dump that file, Petzoid. Personally.” He turned to his toady. “Put this thing behind us.”

  Petzoid nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Sullivan smiled and then walked back to the terminal. He turned on the computer, but the screen was a blur. Sullivan dug out his reading glasses and put them on. From this terminal, Sullivan could reach the central files of the entire company, a list of branch offices, the entire worldwide Play Pals network.

  Sullivan hit some keys and brought up the menu called Personal Records. Another key brought a list of names, departments. Barclay, mom and son, were under the heading Good Guy Doll. He got the file.

  “Mr. Sullivan . . .” Petzoid walked close to him, holding the boxed doll under his arm. “Er, where do you want this?”

  Sullivan waved a hand in the air. “Just throw it anywhere.”

  Petzoid threw the box, and Sullivan heard it land on the floor.

  The world spun around. The lights, the dots on the ceiling, the blackness outside, all spinning, until Chucky inside his box landed hard on the floor.

  But there’s no pain.

  That was always the great thing.

  No pain.

  Not right away.

  No. The feelings, the sensations took time to penetrate through the layers of plastic and metal, transforming his doll body into something living.

  If the process is ever completed, I’ll be trapped forever, Chucky thought.

  Chucky moved his doll fingers. He closed them, just a bit, just enough to be sure that he had control, that he could move his body.

  Then he stretched the fingers out.

  Okay. We’re in business, he thought.

  But the damn meter is running.

  Then he thought of what the fat cat, Sullivan, had said. Andy Barclay was sixteen. Amazing . . . Well, is that a problem? Will it still work? I can still swap bodies with him now, can’t I?

  There were still things about his transformation that Chucky didn’t understand.

  He let his chubby-cheeked smile go, relaxing his face, letting the contours of his face fall into a more natural state. There, he thought, feeling the comfortable sneer. That’s better.

  Chucky listened, and waited, while the two men talked.

  Sullivan highlighted File—Andy Barclay, and then he hit the Enter key.

  He skimmed the file.

  Petzoid cleared his throat.

  “Well, Mr. Sullivan . . . if there’s nothing else. I’m gonna get along.”

  Sullivan turned and looked at Petzoid. “Fine.” He did nothing to hide the disapproving tone in his voice.

  “Er, it’s just that my wife, she’s expecting me.” Petzoid smiled. “It’s our anniversary.”

  How quaint.

  Sullivan stood up. “Fine, Petzoid. Wonderful. But remember, look out the window at all the office lights still on. There’s always someone, somewhere who’s working just a few minutes later than you.” Sullivan put a hand on Petzoid’s shoulder and gave it an unfriendly squeeze.

  Petzoid gulped, an audible sound in the quiet room.

  Sullivan let his hand fall and then said: “Think about it.”

  Petzoid nodded. He backed up, scooping up his papers from the desk. “Yes, sir, I guess it’s not too late. I guess I could bring something home—” Petzoid looked down at his papers.

  Times are tough. Unemployment is up. These are great days for the employer, Sullivan thought.

  “I guess I could look over the Larrabee report after dinner.” Petzoid kept backing up. “Yes, I’ll do that.” He was at the door. “Good night, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Sullivan turned away. “Good night.”

  Sullivan heard the door shut. And now he was alone. A bit of an adjustment, not having someone to hop and skip to his every whim. But only a bit.

  He looked out the window, rubbing his chin. There were things he could do
, other meetings to be set up. So much to see to, so that the Good Guy launch goes smoothly, and . . .

  He thought of something. He wanted the earnings report before his breakfast meetings. He needed to prove to the cereal people that Good Guy cereal would leap off the shelves, that it was worth every damn penny he was going to squeeze out of them. Sullivan tapped the Escape key, and the main menu came back.

  Petzoid had that report. He probably was already back at his office, maybe leaving the building.

  Sullivan ran to his door, opened it and called out: “Petzoid, wait!” He looked out, into the dark offices, the maze of cubicles, the other executives’ offices, the computer terminals, dark, sleeping. He heard something . . .

  The heavy whoosh of the elevator door shutting.

  “Petzoid?”

  There was no answer.

  Damn, thought Sullivan. He turned and went back into his office, shutting the door behind him.

  It was quiet. Too quiet, so Sullivan picked up the remote from the small coffee table in his office and turned on the television. It came on softly, inaudible. Sullivan used the remote to raise the volume before putting it down. The MacNeil-Lehrer report was on. Sullivan listened. Some congressman was wringing his hands about the country’s new militarism.

  Poor baby.

  Sullivan went to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a scotch. He opened the small refrigerator hidden in the wall and dug out ice cubes.

  He took a sip, feeling warm and safe in his corporate cocoon. The scotch tasted wonderful, burning his tongue, the back of his throat. He swirled the ice cubes around.

  He turned back to the TV. The cry-baby congressman was off and Jim Lehrer was giving the financial report. Figures came on the screen. The Dow Industrials were way up. Sullivan nodded. The economy was moving again. Maybe the nineties weren’t going to be so nasty after all.

  He walked to a bank of switches on the wall and hit a button, lowering his office lights to a gentle glow, bordering on darkness. Then Sullivan took his drink to the window, swirling the cubes around, sipping it, the TV droning on soothingly in the background.

  He heard nothing else.

  Until the TV went off.

  There was a small click. And then the TV went off.

  Sullivan wondered: Is it a power failure? No. The lights are on. Maybe the TV is broken. Brand new set, a Sony thirty-one-inch, state-of-the-art. It couldn’t be broken.

  He walked back to the coffee table to retrieve the remote. It wasn’t there. His drink felt cold in his hand. Icy cold.

  It must have fallen on the floor, he thought. Sure, the remote must have fallen and . . .

  Sullivan got down on his knees, the drink rattling in his hand. He didn’t see the remote, not at first. But then he saw its dark outline on the other side of the table, lying on the floor.

  He thought: How the heck did it get there? Like someone dropped it or kicked it.

  Sullivan reached under the table. His fingers stretching toward the remote, his head leaning down, almost under the table, his back twisted in a funny way, and he groaned.

  Oh, I’ll pay for that. It felt like someone had jabbed a spike into his spine.

  He stretched another few inches and finally felt the remote.

  “Gotcha,” he said, pulling it back.

  He stood up, turning to the TV, taking a step.

  Then he heard the sound. A clicking sound that struck him as vaguely familiar. Something was clicking; then he heard a rolling sound. He took a step, not looking down, not seeing . . .

  Hit feet slid out from underneath him. His arms flew out as he desperately tried to regain his balance. He looked like he was trying to fly.

  Only then did Sullivan get a quick glimpse of marbles, dozens of marbles rolling toward him, bouncing together, rolling under his feet.

  Sullivan went flying into the air, arms flapping. The remote—was it really so important to get that remote? he thought—went flying from his right hand, the drink glass flying from the other.

  He smacked down onto the floor, marbles pressing against his back. He heard a dull thud—the sound of his head smacking against the floor.

  A tidal wave, a tsunami of pain crashed over him.

  He moaned.

  He heard his drink glass smash against the wall, the expensive crystal shattering.

  Sullivan lay there, moaning, breathing heavily.

  Then he heard a police siren. A tiny police siren, coming right at him.

  He turned his head and saw a remote-control police car, its toy wheels burning rubber, coming right toward his head.

  Just a toy, he thought.

  No real danger, but it would hurt, smashing against my face. He sat up, twisting his back, driving another painful spike into his back.

  The police car pushed past him, bouncing on the marbles, out of control.

  Sullivan heard more noises, giving him no time to think, to wonder what’s going on here? Damn, what is going—

  He turned and saw a squad of soldiers marching against him and a battery-operated colossal man, a giant. Police cars and fire trucks were darting left and right. All the toys from Petzoid’s shelves were armed for a state of emergency.

  Sullivan crouched. He tried to stand up, but he slipped on a marble.

  The soldiers advanced, without any concern for their own safety.

  The room was suddenly filled with laughter.

  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-a-a-a-! Over and over, a maniacal laugh. Someone was enjoying the show.

  It’s that laugh toy, Sullivan thought. That stupid, eerie laugh toy.

  Mocking me. What the—

  There was a train in the corner, going around and around.

  The Good Guy express. A small setup to show the big chain buyers. How about this for a toy, guys? How about it? Some neat train set, huh?

  The whistle blended with the mechanical laughter, the hooting, and sirens.

  Sullivan stepped backward.

  Still without a clue. As if this was a game show. Guess what’s happening to you? Can you guess what’s happening here? Because if you don’t, you won’t get the prize. No, you’ll—

  There were voices.

  Voices! That should bring comfort. People talking. But these voices where high, scratchy voices. Like brats on amphetamine, jabbering away.

  Someone was sitting in his chair, hidden by its high back. He touched the back of the chair and crept close.

  Knowing what it was.

  From the conversation.

  Another step.

  Listening to the babble.

  “Hey, wanna play?”

  “I like to be hugged!”

  “I like to be hugged!”

  “Hey, wanna play?”

  Another step, now creeping closer to the chair, turning, watching the two Good Guy dolls, talking to each other.

  Their heads turned to each other’s eyes, blinking. Each one responding to the other, trapped by the inane conversation, forced to respond, forever and ever.

  Sullivan’s hand touched the arm of the chair.

  He had the beginning of a thought, the start of an idea, a theory . . .

  About what might be going on here.

  The dolls suggested it.

  The train’s headlight cut through the room during each tight loop, catching the doll’s chubby-cheeked freckle faces. Sullivan reached out and grabbed one doll’s head, gingerly, as if grabbing something very dangerous.

  “Hey wanna—”

  The doll stopped in mid phrase. The conversation, the surreal dialogue was interrupted.

  He waited. The dolls were still.

  Sullivan laughed. “Damn,” he said. Nervous laughter. He reached out to grab the other doll’s head. He touched it, feeling the cold plastic. He looked at them, studied them.

  No, he thought. A crazy theory. Crazy. The dolls didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He laughed again. Easy, Sully. You’re losing it. Take it—

  He heard a yell, a squeal. A Good Guy’s voice. But n
ot from these two. The voice came from behind him, yelling, squealing. He turned, crouched before the seat.

  Another Good Guy was right behind Sullivan. And his face didn’t look too friendly. It didn’t have that trademarked Good Guy smile. And this doll wasn’t saying “Wanna play?”

  Sullivan saw something else. The doll was waving Sullivan’s beloved golf putter over his head.

  Sullivan let go of the arm of the chair. And just then the doll brought the club down, smashing Sullivan on his forehead.

  He went flying backward, onto the marbles again, crushing a valiant soldier. A fire truck ran into his rump.

  He felt the wetness running off the top of his head, down his cheek. I’m hurt, he thought. I’m bleeding. This is bad, very—

  He scrambled to his knees and began crawling away, a frantic human crab, skittering to his door. Away from the toys. The dolls.

  Almost there. The door, only feet away. And after the door, he thought, I can get to the elevator and down, and—

  A needle plunged into his back at the base of his spine.

  “Bull’s-eye!” he heard the Good Guy say.

  That wasn’t one of the things it was programmed to say.

  Not at all.

  Sullivan fell forward, his chin smacking into the floor. The needle was stuck in his back.

  Sullivan’s hand flailed at his back, searching for the needle, the—

  Chucky watched him. Can’t reach the dart, poor guy, he thought.

  I’ll have to do something about that.

  Chucky waddled closer to the big bossman of Play Pals, who was lying on the floor like a wounded animal.

  Hey, Chucky thought, I’m moving pretty well. Only a little stiff. Maybe the old plastic joints aren’t quite broken in. But I’m moving!

  He saw a yo-yo on the coffee table.

  Got my picture on it, he thought proudly.

  He scooped the yo-yo off the coffee table. Old Sullivan seemed frozen on the floor. His get up and go, got up and left. Chucky slipped the string onto his plastic finger. It was close, but no matter. Chucky gave the yo-yo a sharp spin. The yo-yo went down smoothly and then snapped up.

  “Hey, look at that. I still got it. After eight goddamn years, I still got the moves.”

  Then, a bit of motion caught his glass eyes.

  Sullivan was crawling to his desk, so slowly now, his batteries on low. Probably going to call for help.