Somehow, he didn’t think it would tonight.
He was unable to repress a sudden yawn. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“Tired?”
“I shouldn’t be,” he said. “I took a nap earlier today and I’m not used to getting that much sleep.”
“Don’t forget jet lag,” she told him.
“Oh, that’s right.” He yawned again. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why don’t you lie down on the sofa for a while,” she suggested.
He thought about it momentarily. “Good idea,” he said then.
“Had enough to eat?” she asked.
He nodded. “I think so. Thank you.”
They got up and walked into the living room and Chris sat down on the sofa. “Lie down,” she said.
“Okay.” He took off his shoes and stretched out. “Here,” she said, putting a pillow under his head.
“Thank you,” he said. He took her hand impulsively. “Thank you for saving my life, too,” he told her.
She smiled. “It may not have been all that dramatic,” she said, “but you’re welcome.”
Again on impulse, he kissed the back of her hand. “Could you sit beside me for a while?” he asked, amazed at his own temerity. He’d never have been able to do such a thing at home. Maybe it was the unreality of it all.
“All right,” she said. “Ease over a little.”
He moved in against the sofa back, then turned half onto his left side and pressed against the back to give her room. Alexsandra sat beside him, smiling down at him. He groaned as he yawned again. “It’s not the company, I promise you,” he said.
He studied her face for a few moments, then said, “You are exquisite, you know.”
She smiled, not replying. Then she leaned over and kissed him lightly. The soft warmth of her lips made him draw in a sudden breath.
She sat up again, looking at him with a faint smile.
“Alexsandra,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Would you do it again?”
She made a soft sound of amusement, then leaned over again and kissed him a little more firmly. He felt the yielding pressure of her left breast against his side as she did. He put his arms around her and she pressed her cheek next to his. “Oh, God,” he said.
“You sound so unhappy,” she said.
“I am,” he responded. “To be with you like this and be as sleepy as I am is pure hell.”
Alexsandra drew away from him and he released her. She smiled down at him. His eyelids were getting heavier now.
“I want to know about you,” he murmured, “where you were born, what schools you went to, how you got into government work, if you feel toward me one one-hundredth of the way I feel toward you.”
She stroked his cheek gently and he felt her ring on his skin. Just before he slipped away, it came to him.
The woman in the painting was wearing the same ring.
7
So many times, in dreams, he had been conscious of the fact that he was dreaming. The more bizarre the dreams, the more his mind had thought, in essence, Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, I know this is a dream.
This dream was different.
He was in Rome; not today’s Rome, but Rome of the Caesars. He felt as though he had literally time-traveled there; he kept thinking to himself I’m actually here.
How long it went on, he wasn’t sure. He wished that he could film it or, at the very least, take notes.
He tried to tell some people he met how remarkable this was for him but they replied in Latin. Did they really speak it conversationally? he thought in amazement.
He saw men in chariots riding by. Women in robes. Children playing. Soldiers.
And the buildings! They were marvelous, white marble with graceful columns. He saw Roman numerals on them; construction dates he supposed, or dedication dates.
Then he was in a less populated street. It was lined with pine trees; The Pines of Rome, he thought. He was moving toward a house. Opening a gate and entering a courtyard.
The woman was on the other side of it, standing by a sparkling fountain.
It’s her, he thought.
He moved across the courtyard. Except for the splashing of water in the fountain, there was no sound. It is her, he told himself. He recognized the robe, the hair arrangement. And there was a ring on her finger he felt sure was the ring he’d seen.
But how can she be here? he thought. Unless, his mind explained, this is another Alexsandra. An ancient relative. A former life. No, that’s ridiculous, he thought. I don’t believe in that.
He reached her and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said.
“It is you.” He gazed at her beautiful face. “Alexsandra.”
He put his arms around her and felt her arms embrace him. Her body was warm against his; he could feel the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest.
“I love you,” he said.
“And I love you,” she whispered. “You are mine at last.”
He began to wonder what she meant by that but then they were kissing and he couldn’t think. He felt her warm lips moving under his, the tightness of her embrace.
Then her cheek was pressed to his. “I mustn’t lose you again,” she whispered breathlessly. “Say that you—”
She stopped and, suddenly, she was cold and lifeless in his arms.
He drew back to look at her.
And cried out, horrified.
He was holding a corpse in his arms. Her face was white, her eyes staring sightlessly. Her body weighed down his arms.
“No,” he muttered.
He felt a wave of horror rushing over him as she began to moult before his eyes, her features turning gray, skin crumpling, cheekbones showing through as flesh decayed and slipped from them.
With a scream, he flung her away and, turning, ran toward what appeared to be a tunnel. I won’t look back, he told himself. Terror-stricken, he hurled himself into the tunnel and ran along it. It smelled damp and fetid. Get me out of here! he thought.
He turned a corner, staggering to a halt.
There were four slabs lying just in front of him.
On each was a body.
He wanted to turn and retreat. But he knew that Alexsandra’s corpse was that way and he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing it again.
If he could edge past the slabs, not look at the bodies.
He pressed his back against the cold, wet wall and began to shift along it, trying to keep his eyes from the bodies. He couldn’t though. He felt compelled to look.
The first body, naked, was Gene’s. His flesh was bluish purple, his eyes staring. “Oh, God,” Chris murmured.
The next body was Nelson’s; he was naked too. There was a jagged, blood-rimmed hole in his stomach. Chris clenched his teeth, shuddering. This has to be a dream, his mind insisted. But he couldn’t make himself believe it this time.
The next body was that of Basy. He was naked, his eyes closed, his face white. This is where you went, Chris thought. He looked at the last body.
And froze in place.
It was Veering.
He wasn’t naked but was wearing the outfit he’d had on when Chris picked him up on the highway—even the baseball cap on his head.
Is it really him? the question came. Look. Make certain.
He edged closer to the slab and leaned over. The light here wasn’t clear. He had to make sure—
He gasped, choking, as Veering’s right hand shot up, grabbing at his jacket. Veering’s eyes popped open, and the old man leered at him, a toothy grin drawing back his lips. “We meet again,” he said.
Chris couldn’t speak. He could scarcely breathe. He tried to pull away from Veering but didn’t have the strength. He stared down at the grinning old man.
“Are you enjoying the wager?” Veering asked.
Chris could only utter sounds of dread as he tried to pull free.
Veering
’s face grew hard. “You aren’t going to get away,” he snarled. “Face it, Barton. That’s the way things are. You may as well accept it.”
He jerked Chris down until their faces were no more than several inches apart.
“Now listen to me,” Veering said. “Time is running out. You hear? Reality is dissipating for you. You have one chance to survive and one chance only. Use your mind. You hear?!” he shouted in Chris’s face. “Think or die!”
Darkness seemed to rush up at Chris like an ocean wave. It broke across him, swallowing him, pulling him down and down. He thought he heard himself screaming as he tumbled head over heels in blackness, unable to breathe.
***
He jolted awake. I’m screaming! he thought.
He looked around in panic. He was still in Alexsandra’s living room. And he wasn’t screaming. The shrill sound had focused itself into the ringing of a telephone.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to alert his mind. Jesus, what a dream, he thought.
The phone kept ringing. He looked around groggily. Why doesn’t she answer it? he wondered.
“Alexsandra?!” He tried to call out but his throat was dry. The crusty sound that emerged was more like a wheezing gargle.
Maybe she’s gone out, his brain provided.
Thanks for waking up, he thought. He sat up and looked at the telephone on the table next to the sofa. Well, for Christ’s sake, why don’t you give up? he sent a mental message to the caller.
Not received, he finally realized. And obviously Alexsandra was out. What should he do? Answer it? It might get him into even more trouble.
He stared at the ringing telephone. Was it possible that she would be calling him?
He grimaced at the continued ringing. Stop. Enough! he thought and, reaching out, snatched up the handset. He didn’t speak but held it to his ear.
A man’s voice, pleasantly polite, said, “Your limousine is here, Mr. Barton.”
He stared at the receiver as though it were an artifact from Mars.
Then he spoke into the mouthpiece. “What?”
“Your limousine is here.”
My limousine. Chris felt half-uneasy, half-amused. More insanity.
“Thank you,” he told the man and put the handset down on its base.
“Your limousine is here,” he muttered. Jesus Christ, now what? Had she sent it to have him taken to a safe place?
“Alexsandra?” he called out again.
No answer. If she was here, she wasn’t speaking to him.
Well, obviously she wasn’t here. He picked up the handset again.
“Front desk,” said the man.
“This is Mr.—” He broke off, then said, “This is room 634. Suite 634.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you just call me to tell me that a limousine is here?”
“Yes, I did, sir.”
“Did Miss Claudius order it?”
“Who, sir?”
“Miss Alexsandra Claudius,” he said. “The woman living in this suite.”
The man’s silence was like a cold blade being pushed into his stomach. Don’t say it, he thought pleadingly.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite understand,” the man said.
Chris forced a calmness to his voice he didn’t feel.
“Listen,” he said, “I was brought here last night by a young woman named Alexsandra Claudius. The desk clerk knew her. She had a key to this suite. She said she’d been here for a few weeks. Are you telling me there’s no one by that name here?”
“I… only have your signature on the register, sir.”
Don’t crack, Chris thought. “Who paid the bill?” he asked.
“You did, sir, with cash.”
“I see. Thank you.” Chris put down the handset and sat staring across the room.
Is this what going insane feels like? he wondered. He seemed to recall thinking that before.
The wager, he thought. There seemed no escaping it. The tissue of reality was tearing again.
He sat in silence, trying not to think. Thinking was getting him nowhere. Every time he came up with one answer, two more questions appeared.
He twitched as the telephone rang again. Turning his head, he looked at it. Now what?
He sighed defeatedly. Whoever was behind this, they were wearing him down. He picked up the handset. “Yes?” he asked.
“Will you be coming down for your limousine, sir?”
Chris’s voice was expressionless as he answered, “Sure. Why not?”
He hung up and stood. Walking into the bedroom, he checked the closets and bureaus.
All empty.
“What else?” he muttered.
He started back for the living room, then stopped midstride. Now wait a minute, he thought angrily. No one’s going to tell me I was not in here last night with Alexsandra. Do they think I’m a moron? She was in the theater, she drove me in a high-speed chase, she drank some wine with me and—
The thought broke off as he moved into the living room, toward the kitchen.
The crackers, caviar, chopped eggs and onions were still on the table. The bottle of white wine.
And one glass.
He turned away and closed his eyes. I will not believe this, he told the unknown. You cannot make me believe this. I know this woman exists. For God’s sake, he still had the tactile memory of her kiss!
“All right, all right,” he muttered. What was the alternative to what he remembered?
He had come to this hotel on his own. Signed the register, paid in cash and had come up to this suite. Eaten alone in the kitchen, then had fallen asleep on the sofa because he had to rise this morning to be picked up by a limousine.
“Bullshit!” he shouted.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “The limo waits without.” His voice assumed a burlesque comic’s nasal twang as he added, “Without what?” tipping the ash from an invisible cigar.
He washed off his face in the bathroom, combed his hair, then went into the living room, got his jacket and started for the foyer. What about my overnight bag? he thought. My clothes, my passport, my medication, my pistol? He sighed heavily. God will provide, he told himself.
He stopped at the foyer door, hesitated, then turned around.
It was hardly a surprise to see another painting on the wall.
Okay, he thought, amazed at how calm he felt. Someone’s playing pranks on me. Why? Who knows? Except to rattle me, of course. Well, they weren’t going to rattle him.
He left the suite and started along the corridor, thinking about his dream. Where did that fit in to all this? Or did it fit in? Did anything fit in? Or was he running barefoot over a gigantic jigsaw puzzle in which none of the pieces fit together?
“Fuck it,” he muttered. He could only resist so long. He had to go along with this mystery, impenetrable though it was and might always prove to be…
“No!” he snapped. Just give me time, he thought. He’d figure it out. He always figured out problems. “Think or die,” Veering had told him in his dream. All right, goddamn it, he would. But not right now. In time, in time. Right now he’d better drift with the current. Later on, he’d swim to shore.
The only thing he really needed at the moment was his medication.
***
Crossing the lobby, he glanced at the desk clerk to see if there was any furtive avoidance of eye contact.
The man was busy signing up a guest.
He’d thought, on the lift-ride down, of storming to the desk and ranting about Alexsandra, the night clerk, the door key, etc. He’d given up the idea before reaching the lobby. A scheme this carefully fabricated wouldn’t likely fall before a few shouted accusations.
As he left the hotel and saw the black limousine parked by the curb, he had a perverse inclination to ignore it and walk down the street. What would the driver do? Follow him? Call his boss for instructions?
He stopped on the bottom step of the hotel and looked around, taking in a de
ep breath of the cold air. Make him wait, he thought, really foul him up by going back into the hotel for breakfast.
No. He had to go along with this. He’d never find out what was going on if he tried to solve it all by himself.
The driver was wearing a uniform, standing by the back door, waiting. Still life with limo, Chris thought. I don’t move, he doesn’t move.
Sighing, he went down the last step and headed for the car. The driver opened the door for him. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
Yeah, yeah, Chris thought. Now you’ll tell me you’re my Uncle Charlie.
Bending over, he stepped into the large back area of the limousine and sat down on the leather seat, wincing at its coldness. The least you could do is warm the goddamn seat, he thought. I’m not accustomed to such shoddy treatment.
He grinned to himself as the driver, having closed the door, circled the limo and slipped behind the steering wheel. Home, James, Chris had an urge to tell him.
Then he saw the basket on the floor and picked it up, setting it down beside him on the seat. He raised its cover.
God, he thought.
A thermos jug, no doubt filled with hot coffee. A cup and plate and silver knife. A package of small croissants (still warm), two pats of wrapped butter and a tiny jar of strawberry jam. A most accommodating nightmare, he thought.
He looked up as the engine started and the driver pulled away from the curb. Should he inquire where they were going? No, the hell with it. “Surprise me,” he mumbled. The driver wouldn’t have told him anyway.
As he breakfasted on warm croissants spread with butter and strawberry jam, washed down with hot coffee, he noticed the small suitcase on the floor. A bomb? he thought. Feed him breakfast, then blow him to bits? One less mathematician to worry about.
He looked at the suitcase as he ate and drank. Assuming that it wasn’t a replacement of the things he’d had in the overnight bag, what could it be? He didn’t think it was a bomb. Basy’s head perhaps? Too gross. A computer? Pads and pencils? A disassembled rifle for assassination? A dwarf who’d leap out at him, wrestle him from the car and drag him down a manhole where they’d descend together to the fairy kingdom?
“Yeah, that must be it,” he said. It made the most sense.
7 Steps to Midnight Page 15
