by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Three
It had been seven days to the hour. My guess would be to the minute. It was as though a week of time had been cut out of existence for these guests. In the seven days since they had disappeared, nothing was cleaned or organized, or anything but inspected. Norrah and I saw the very drinks that had been collecting dust for seven days now being consumed. Were they wondering why their ice cubes—shapely only seconds ago—had melted and their drinks were room temperature? Perhaps. But these fucking people were acting as though nothing had happened. I actually wondered if I what I was seeing were ghosts. But ghosts shouldn’t look so… non-transparent.
A guy in a Phantom of the Opera mask rushed to us, asked if Norrah was all right. I didn’t reply to him. Hell, I wasn’t far from joining Norrah there on the floor. Another couple approached us, asked what happened to her. I shook my head distractedly, eased Norrah onto her back. I told the nearest guy—a guy wearing a Peacock mask—to turn the music off. He turned it off seconds later.
I groped the cellphone out of my pocket and pulled up my contacts list, found Fred, the fat cop who was with me a week ago, pressed Call.
“Yo,” he said, “what’s up, Davis?”
“Fred,” I said shortly.
“What’s the good word?”
“Get your ass over to Norrah’s this second.”
“Why? What happened?”
“You won’t believe me.”
A moment later he said, “Are you there now?”
“Yes.”
“I hear people. Who’s there?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“No… don’t tell me. That’s impossible.”
“Just come over. Now.”
“Be there in five minutes.”
“Are you on duty?”
“You know I am.”
I should have known it, but memory was coming by with great difficulty at the moment. “Good. Make the call to dispatch. I want everyone here as soon as possible.”
“Davis, are you shitting me? Are you putting me on? I got to know before I make the call. This is nothing to joke about, you know that.”
“Just do it. And when you get here, tell the fucking news people to back up, give us space. It’s about to become a three-ringed circus here. National news? No, international. Fred, they’re back. They’re all back.”
After I ended the call I took a seat on the bottom step of the stairs. Norrah was still out. There were several kids standing around her, worried for her. Absently I said she’d be fine. With a little effort I sharpened my policing mind, asked where the hell they’d been over the last week. All I got in return were blank stares.
“Where have you all been? Where!”
A guy in a mouse mask asked what I meant. Just then the bathroom door opened and a couple came out. The guy zipped up his trousers. They were both flushed, undoubtedly just finished having sex.
“Over the last seven days, where the hell were you all!”
“Are you feeling okay?” an unmasked girl asked with marked concerned.
Norrah stirred, moaned. I got off the bottom stair and knelt beside her.
“Honey, are you okay?” I said to her. Her eyes opened weakly. “Norrah, I need you to be strong for me right now. Can you do that for me?”
She turned her head toward the gathering of six or seven well-dressed teens and twenty-somethings. Her eyes widened. She was awake, all right.
“It’s okay, Norrah, it’s okay.” I don’t know what I meant by it. It was a damned retarded thing to say. Consolation has never been my thing. I took her by the hands, helped her to her feet.
“What is this?” she said to me in such a high tone that it sounded pre-adolescent.
“I don’t know. Cops are on their way.”
“Woah, woah,” said the guy in a Phantom of the Opera mask. “The cops are coming?”
“Yes. I’m a cop, too. None of you are to leave here. Not a one of you.”
“What’s this about? Did we do something wrong? Norrah said we could be here, we didn’t do anything wrong,” he said defensively.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I agreed.
“This can’t be happening,” Norrah whispered incredulously. “It can’t be.”
I couldn’t agree more. It most certainly couldn’t be happening. I heard one kid ask another where Paul was. Paul would be able to get Norrah to call off the cops, he judged. None of them seemed to know where Paul was, until a girl said she thought she saw him go upstairs a few minutes ago. Another girl overhead that and agreed, said he went up there to piss because Batman and Catwoman were busy “getting it on” in the bathroom.
A mask-less boy whisked by me, mounted the stairs. I asked where he was going.
“To get Paul.”
“Paul isn’t here.”
“He’s not? Where’d he go?” He continued ascending the stairs.
“He moved out of here a week ago, hasn’t been back since. Kid, why don’t you come back down here. Nobody is to leave till I say you can. Got it? I mean it, I’m detaining each and every one of you for the time being.” I sensed horror in each of these kids who received my threatening words. “Don’t worry, nobody is in trouble.”
A guy approached me from the far end of the room. He was the oldest one here, maybe late twenties. He wore a tux just like the rest of them, and mask, only it was raked back high on his head. His name I now know to be Aaron Mendelssohn. Aaron will be writing his account of things on pages to come. When he arrived at my side he put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him with a questioning stare.
He leaned close to me and said, “What day is it? The date. What’s the date?”
I stared silently at him in disbelief. I suppose my reaction meant something to him, because he grinned at me. He knew.
