Cruel Devices

by George Wright Padgett

  Gavin reluctantly sat on the couch facing his. He tried to keep his voice low. “I can’t go into it, but it really is not a good idea for me to have you here now.”

  The laugh lines and crow’s feet around Billy’s eyes tripled. “It’s not a good idea for me, either. Wait till Beverly finds out that I rode my hog here.”

  “You drove your Harley all the way here?”

  “Yep, got the bugs in my teeth to prove it.” Billy comically mimed picking his teeth.

  This is gonna be harder than I thought.

  The man’s hairline had receded since the last time Gavin had seen him. More hair formed his grey speckled beard than remained atop his head.

  “Anyway, Josephine said you were acting a little off and might need some help working out some story arc or something, so she called in the cavalry. So here I am.” He slid the denim sleeve back on his left arm, exposing an expensive-looking watch. “I’m all yours for the next hour and a half. Fire at will.” He put a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, with a devilish grin, “Beverly thinks I’m at the golf course.”

  Gavin was in a hurry to get him on his way, but the statement dumbfounded him. “Since when do you play golf?”

  He tugged his beard and let out a mischievous laugh. “I don’t, not a single hole, but I got a country club membership at a place that’s a few miles down the road from a Store-All unit. That’s where I keep my scooter.” Billy’s blue eyes twinkled when he said it.

  “Billy, I mean it. I’m right in the middle of something important, and I really can’t be down here right now. I know that you’ve ridden a long way to get here.” Gavin stood. “I appreciate that, I really do. But you’ve gotta go.”

  How can I explain to you that dead Torri Barta is trying to regenerate her physical form in my suite?

  He reached to help the old man up.

  Billy batted the hand away and stopped smiling. “The day I let you tell me what I can do and where I can and cannot go is the day that I—”

  “Billy, I’m sorry. There’s just something going on.”

  “Like what?” The old man’s expression soured. “Well?”

  Gavin didn’t blame him for being perturbed. Billy had come a long way to be shut down and sent packing. This was the inversion of their relationship. Though he frequently disagreed with his mentor, he never told him no. It was unheard of.

  Billy stood up and put his hand on Gavin’s shoulder. The firm weight of it caused him to yield and sit back down.

  Billy’s harsh Marine face softened to a concerned expression. “Seriously, what’s rolling around in that head of yours? What’s going on?”

  “Something otherworldly, something evil.”

  This seemed to cheer him up. “So you are working on a story.”

  Gavin looked straight ahead at the floor. “Not a story.”

  Billy’s countenance was contemplative and serious for a moment, and then he erupted into unrestrained laughter.

  “Billy, I’m serious. Something’s going on, something unnatural. I know it sounds crazy.”

  The seriousness returned to Billy’s tone, and he shrugged. “Well, Beverly tends to be the more spiritual one of the two of us. I think… “ He paused and rubbed at his beard for a few seconds. “I think she’d say that there are things we don’t understand, things that are beyond us—beyond our comprehension. I’d have to agree. To quote Hamlet, ’There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’” He leaned in and spoke softly. “We humans think we’ve got the universe all figured out—everything quantified so that we can slide it in a little drawer, say ‘That’s that,’ and move on. But in truth, we know and understand about as much as a cat chasing a laser pointer on the ground.”

  He tugged at the beard again. “So whatever it is, Gavin, let me help you. Whatever this is, the two of us can handle it together.”

  Gavin’s eyes were misty. He stood up before Billy could see them. He said in as firm of a voice as he could muster, “Sorry, I have to do this myself. And I need you to go. You need to go. Go now. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to make you.”

  Billy bumped Gavin as he stood up. He was half a foot shorter than the writer was, but he had a presence that was nine feet tall. “And just how would you make me?”

  “Billy, please… just—”

  “Show me. I want to see how you’ll make me leave.”

  Gavin’s heart was breaking. He didn’t want to hurt this man. He loved him.

  “Come on, Gavin. Show me.”

  He never calls me by name.

  He leaned in and tightened up. His words were curt. “If I go over to the desk over there,” Gavin pointed over his shoulder, “and tell them that you’re a reporter or paparazzi hounding me—or better yet, a crazed stalker—the security in this place will throw you to the curb in a heartbeat.”

  Billy’s eyes narrowed to thin slits as he scratched the back of his leathery neck.

  Gavin bit his lip, bracing himself for Billy’s rebuttal.

  Finally, the man simply shook his head in disgust and let out a “Pfffft!” He exaggerated his movements as he put his gloves on. “What’s gotten into you? You should be ashamed, threatening to have me tossed out. I oughta crack your jaw, talking to me like that.” Billy stared, waiting for Gavin to answer, but a response never came. Exasperated, Billy added, “I’ll be eating at the Burger Boy a mile north of here if you should come to your senses within the next few minutes.”

  Without a word, Billy stormed off in the direction of the automatic doors.

  Gavin called out, “I’m sorry! We’ll talk at your party next week.”

  Billy raised his hand without turning around or slowing his pace. Gavin thought he heard him answer “Whatever,” but he couldn’t be certain.

  Gavin let out a sigh of relief mixed with a fair amount of shame as he turned to the bank of elevators. The metal clicks and jangles of the man’s biker boots made Gavin look back at him. He was nearly to the exit.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d never see Billy Cavanaugh again.

  Ten

  GAVIN SHIVERED WHEN HE TOUCHED THE DOOR HANDLE of the suite. The brass was frosty cold, and the condensation wet his hand. Wiping the droplets on his pants, he closed the door behind him as gently as possible. His breath was a vapor before him, and his heart drummed madly in his chest.

  It’s cold enough to hang meat in here. It must be getting close to happening.

  He tucked his key card into his wallet and puffed into his rapidly numbing hands. Across the room, the machine looked exactly as he’d left it, bundled in the comforter on the floor.

  Without warning, a round of ear-splitting raps erupted from the machine.

  Gavin’s heart was in his throat. He forced himself to take a step forward to see what was typed and destroy the words. Even as cold as the room was, Gavin felt feverish and clammy as he crept forward.

  He expected something horrific about Billy, but the message was even more dire.

  LEAVE AGAIN AND THEY DIE.

  He shuddered and felt his knees go weak.

  As he bent to reach the keyboard, the rollers automatically advanced the sheet upward as if to provoke him into a rebuttal. He knew what the typed line meant and whom it referred to, but he was compelled to ask. Kneeling on the floor, he cautiously pecked out three simple characters.

  WHO

  The response came quickly as the device backspaced and added two words in front of Gavin’s letters.

  YOU KNOW WHO

  He had no doubt that Torri had the ability to get to Josephine and the others, to make good on the threat just like she’d gotten to Monica. He massaged his temples. There must be a way to get control over the situation—over Torri and the device. Over himself.

  “Everybody wants something. Everybody does what they do for a reason.”

  He used the wall to steady himself as he rose to his feet. “So what is it? What is it that you want, Torri?
Your baby’s dead. Your mother doesn’t want anything to do with you, not like this. She’s afraid of you—of what you’ve become. So what does coming over get you? You wanna kill Barta? Or is he already dead? The boy at the restaurant said Barta hasn’t been seen for years. He’s already gone, isn’t he?”

  Gavin waited for a response and then shouted, “Isn’t he?”

  He paced the floor. “Hasn’t there been enough death? There’s nothing for you on this side. I refuse to help you!”

  The machine was silent.

  A mix of fear and anger raged through him as he shouted, “I know you’re in here, whatever you are!”

  The pressure was building in his throbbing head, feeling like it would explode at any second. “Torri, why are you doing this? Tell me. Why?”

  The room went dark, and Gavin let out a gasp. He waited a few seconds for his eyes to acclimate to the change, but it didn’t help. It was impossibly dark, given that it was morning. Reaching into his pocket, Gavin fumbled for his cell phone. He could use its glow to maneuver around the suite.

  After a few desperate attempts to activate it, he realized that it was in vain. But how could it be dead? He had just talked to Monica’s sister a little while ago.

  Using the wall as a guide, he carefully inched toward the balcony. Though he took slow, measured steps so as not to lose his balance, he still hit the edge of the desk hard enough to make him curse.

  The sickly smell of lavender invaded the darkness. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning in a room full of air.

  Amber light flickered from under the bathroom door, and there was the sound of running water. He thought of the gelatinous mass he’d drained earlier from the tub. Was she in there?

  His legs propelled him toward it one staggering step at a time, moving him awkwardly like an extra in a bad zombie movie.

  He knew that he’d demanded an explanation from her, but now he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. What would he find in there?

  Cautiously moving past the typewriter on the floor, he didn’t dare to touch or acknowledge it. He took small steps, timed with the slow flickers of amber light from beneath the closed door.

  Warmth emanated from the bathroom door as he moved closer to it. When he was less than five feet away, the knob turned clockwise on its own.

  Gavin froze in place, trying to control his breathing to keep from hyperventilating.

  The door burst open, startling him. A blast of steam escaped, making him cough. Inside, the faucet that was running the hot water shut off with a sharp squeak.

  Flickering light reflected off the crumpled shower curtain on the floor. The splattered sides of the basin and tiles would not have looked worse if a large pig had exploded in the tub. The smeared silhouette on the wall was gone.

  Gavin took an apprehensive step forward, crossing the threshold of the doorway. The steam settled enough for Gavin to see something written in the moisture of the fogged-up mirror. He moved closer, inhaling sharply when he read it: “Adulterer.”

  The bathroom door slammed shut.

  Trembling, Gavin reopened it. There was the pained moaning of a woman. He sensed that someone was in the other part of the suite.

  Is that her? Has Torri come through?

  He moved slowly, but his heart beat double-time. Cautiously exiting the bathroom, his eyes adjusted to the deep crimson glimmer that bathed the area. He was reminded of the red vision of the kitchen when he’d first held the typewriter in Béla’s warehouse. Was he about to see the younger version of Torri? Torri Kovács typing on her favorite plaything?

  He took another step toward the sound. He couldn’t determine the source of the light. It wasn’t from the overhead light or lamps. It was if everything in the room glowed in a phosphorescent red, growing brighter as the moans grew louder and then fading until the next rise.

  The temperature of the room went back to normal again. Then, behind him, the flickering amber bulb above the sink made a pop as it exploded into a showering burst of sparks.

  When he turned back toward the sounds of pain, a cleaning cart was before him—except that it wasn’t. The image of the cart glowed red and wobbled as if he were looking at it from underwater. He reached out to touch the blurred object but only felt cool wisps of air. On the bed, glowing figures moved. It was as if a scene was being projected in red light on top of his suite.

  He focused on the glowing figures on the bed and realized the woman wasn’t in pain. The female form lifted and fell in time to sounds of ecstasy. The glowing ghost figure of a man lay beneath her, also fading in and out of view. His muscular hands gripped the woman’s hips with every upward thrust.

  “Torri?” Gavin whispered, moving closer, then gulping. “Mr. Barta?”

  He moved to the opposite side of the bed.

  Why is she forcing me to watch this?

  That the bundled antique typewriter didn’t exist in either plane terrified Gavin more than the ghostly couple before him.

  The face of the woman looked different from the image in the newspaper clipping. The features were more slender, the eyes narrower, the nose more petite—she was Asian.

  Gavin remembered Theo’s account of what had happened in this room many years before and realized what he was watching—what Torri Barta was showing him.

  He took a step in the direction of the front door, but it wasn’t there. In its place was a door-sized rectangle outlined in a pulsating red trim.

  It opened.

  Bright, amber light in the shape of a woman’s dress poured into the entry—the yellow dress from his dream. She was here.

  The figure threw down an access key as the faux door behind her closed. The image shoved the ghostly cleaning cart into the bureau, causing it to topple with a crash. She produced a small-caliber pistol from her handbag and took slow, determined steps.

  Attempting to remove himself from the line of fire, Gavin stumbled toward the corner of the room.

  The events from the past took center stage, shining through with unmistakable clarity.

  The image of Torri approached the couple.

  That the two lovers hadn’t noticed her and failed to notice the noise of the cleaning cart infuriating her even more. Only when the gun was placed against the maid’s head did they stop.

  The man shouted at her, “Torri, don’t be a fool! Put that away!”

  Without a word, she mechanically aimed the gun at Barta’s naked chest.

  The hammer clicked as she readied the pistol to end him.

  He pleaded. “Okay, baby, I made a mistake. I’m… I’m sorry. Please put that away.”

  The trembling, naked woman straddling Barta didn’t move.

  Barta shouted in a voice that reeked of desperation. “Think about what you’re doing. This isn’t the way.”

  Torri wiped her eyes with her free hand.

  To Gavin’s astonishment, she turned the gun to her own temple. “You’re making me do this. You!”

  The maid took the opportunity to slide off Barta, taking the sheet with her as she fled the room.

  After the ghostly door slammed, Torri turned back to her husband. “You did this to me! You said you wanted a baby, and then—”

  Barta sat up with his back against the headboard, attempting to conceal the evidence of his arousal with a pillow. “Please put the gun away. You don’t need to do this. I’ll give you a divorce if you want. Whatever you want, just tell me.”

  “Whatever I want?” she screamed. “What I want is gone! What I wanted was you, but not now. Not after this.”

  Gavin’s eyes grew wide as Torri’s yellow dress burned the bright orange and red colors of flame. She pointed the gun at Barta again.

  “Torri, no, don’t!” Barta shouted. “The baby! Think of the baby!”

  After a few seconds of intense contemplation, she slowly clicked the hammer down with her thumb. “Yes.” She sniffed. “Think of the baby. How could I leave the baby with someone”—she corrected herself—”something like you?�
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  Gavin saw the rigidity drain from her muscles and her arm go limp by her side.

  Barta’s shadowy figure must have seen it, too, as he made a move to get closer to her. Gavin wasn’t sure if the gesture was to comfort her or to simply take the gun from her. Either way, it wasn’t received well.

  Torri pointed the gun at him for a third time, shouting, “Stay away! You stay away from me!”

  Barta retreated to his original position against the headboard.

  “Just stay away from me!” Torri threw the pistol at his head. The throw was awkward and missed her target by a foot or more, but her message was received loud and clear.

  She bounded over the debris of the spilled cart and rushed from the room. Hoping to escape, Gavin followed her, hurrying through the phantom cleaning products scattered on the floor.

  He reached the door—the real door—only to discover that the handle didn’t work.

  “Noooooo!” he shouted as he beat against it.

  He looked back across the suite toward the memory image of Barta, but it was gone. In his place lay the typewriter, glowing with a fiery red-orange that lit the room.

  Gavin returned to alternately working the handle and slapping at the door with sweaty palms. “Someone help! I’m trapped in here! Help me! Please help!” He broke into sobs, shouting, “Help me! I’m Gavin Curtis! There’s a… “

  How could he describe what was happening? The glow from the device was as bright as a spewing volcano. He opted for a lie that would suit what someone passing by might see under the door. “There’s a fire in here! There’s a fire, and I’m trapped! Help me!”

  From out of nowhere, the image of the bookstore clerk popped into his mind.

  Fire!

  Gavin raced across the suite to the desk chair. He positioned it beneath the sprinkler on the ceiling and stood on the seat. Setting off the fire alarm would force guests into the hall. They’d hear him and get security to open his door from the outside.

  It was a long shot, but it was all he had.