Changed Minds

"What did you do?" asked Beauty, an up-and-coming actress who had changed her name on the advice of her agent.

The handsome Dr. Dorian turned a tribal doll over in his hands. He did not look at her. "In the end, of course, I did it."

She took a sharp intake of air. Her smooth hands tightened on the red arms of the chair. "But you just said--"

"You are very young," he said, turning to face her and smiling sadly. He put the doll down. "I survived. Despite what we tell ourselves--despite our best intentions--most people, most of the time, will do what it takes to survive."

Beauty looked at him, a small frown knitting her milky white forehead.

She'd come by invitation to visit Cecilia Grayham, that legend of stage and screen, only to be informed the aged actress was too ill to see her; she was preparing for last-minute surgery. This slim, polite doctor had appeared, amused her with his fantastic tale of science and madness.

Despite herself, she was interested.

"So... you gave in to his demand, you switched their brains?"

He nodded, sitting down opposite her and folding his hands. "It was dangerous, quite dangerous, really, but I managed to keep them both alive."

"What happened?" she said. "Did the--fat, rich man--did his body die like you suspected, or did the other man manage to keep it alive?"

"Oh, he did his best, but he didn't live out the year. I told him, 'Money isn't worth your health.' But to him, apparently, it was. Or he thought it would be. After the surgery, Nedon Jackman let me go. He had youth and health; his use for me was over. I'm still surprised he kept his end of the bargain."

"Did he go on a killing spree like you thought he might?"

The doctor shrugged expressively, raising his hands. "He was a hedonist at heart, a man of huge and twisted appetite. I don't know what he did, but I suspect the worst. Every time I hear of an unsolved murder on the news, I wonder if he did it."

She drew back, moving her lips like a rabbit smelling. "Then--you don't know what became of him?"

The doctor shook his head.

"And he's never tried to contact you again?" Her voice rose with querulous youth and disbelief.

"No." The doctor rose again--he could not seem to stay still--and faced the table. "No, he did not. But in his travels, he must have made mention of me." He picked up an object, a small, ceremonial blade from some ancient, forgotten tribe.

Her eyes fell on it, and then returned to his face.

"What happened?" she asked.

"You know the tragedy of giving in once," he said, turning the blade over in his hands slowly, looking down at its dull, metal sheen.

"What?" she said, her voice hoarse, her eyes afraid.

"It's always easier to give in the next time. And the next."

"What?" she said again, as though to play for time. Her eyes darted to the door and back.

He moved forward. "There is always someone who will threaten your life to get what they want. Health. Fame. Beauty."

Now she was out of her chair, moving behind it, trying to shield herself from him. Her frantic eyes darted to the heavy door.

"I'm sorry, Beauty," he said. He ran at her, and stabbed.

A small hypodermic needle, hidden in the ancient blade, pierced the skin of her arm. Darkness overtook her as she tried to scream, tried not to slump to the floor. Her eyes looked as though she was falling into deep water. Her eyes closed.

Dr. Dorian straightened, stood, his face haggard, one strand of hair dangling over a tortured gray eye.

"I'm doing it again."

He stared at the young, sleeping face, the face that would soon house the brilliance and insanity of Cecilia Grayham.

He straightened, his mouth quivering, his eyes hardening.

He dragged Beauty behind a thick curtain by the window. She would awake in a few hours. Perhaps she could escape.

Either way, he would not operate.

He had barely finished hiding her when Cecilia arrived. She stepped into the room, flanked by two guards with guns. Something theatrical engulfed her, something frightening and beautiful despite the wrinkling, hunching number Time had played on her.

"Are you ready?" she rasped, licking her lips. She held a gun in her corpse-like hand.

The doctor turned to face her, opening his twitching eyes. A tear slipped down his face. He answered slowly. "I've--changed my mind."

Her face twisted with rage; her eyes flashed. "Then die!" Without a flicker of hesitation, without suggesting he reconsider, she squeezed the trigger.

He barely felt the bullet. He drifted to the floor, nearly on the spot where Beauty had fallen, and gazed at the ceiling with filming-over eyes.

He was a beast, seeking his redemption, not well perhaps, but the best way he knew.