flapping like wings, her face a
white crescent in the folds of a hooded sweatshirt. Her eyes caught the red
glare of my taillights and glowed like an animal's. Her mouth opened. She
yelled something I couldn't hear. It wasn't an angry sound, more questioning or
pleading. Then my car rounded another curve and she was gone.
Stupid
fucking kid! I thought, but at least
the encounter had woken me up. I drove the rest of the way without passing
another car, or person, and reached the Lighthouse ten minutes later.
I
wanted to be nowhere near Gryffin. I considered asking Merrill Libby for
another room, but that seemed a little paranoid, even for me. Plus the office
lights were off. I hopped out of the car and ran across the empty lot. I
entered my room on tiptoe, locked the door and drew the curtains, then angled
the room's single chair beneath the doorknob. Security didn't seem a high
priority at the Lighthouse—there was no deadbolt, only a flimsy-looking chain.
And,
of course, no telephone. But my choices were limited to staying there or
sleeping in my car. I'd probably freeze to death if I did that. So I made sure
the heat was cranked as high as it would go and got ready for bed.
It
was only when I switched the light off that I realized there was no clock in
the room and, natch, I had no travel alarm.
I
checked my watch. It was just after nine. The last time I'd turned in that
early I was ten years old. At least I'd get a good night's sleep and wake in
plenty of time to meet Everett. I lay in bed, listening to the plastic crackle
every time I moved, half expecting to hear a knock at my door or on the few
inches of sheetrock that separated me from Gryffin. But there was only the
sound of wind, and mice scrabbling in the ceiling.
The
alcohol had done its job. I was drunk and exhausted. But I couldn't sleep. I
kept listening for the sound of a car pulling up outside. The thought of
Gryffin in the next room wouldn't leave me, like that sick rush when someone
else's pain lingers like the aftertaste of blood. It wasn't even him I was
thinking of, but the photograph of him, that unguarded, reckless eruption of
joy on the face of a total stranger.
I
switched the light back on and fumbled for the copy of Deceptio Visus, took
out the photo and stared at it.
A
happy man at a party. Sun, bougainvillea, and a champagne flute. That was all.
Our
gaze changes all that it falls upon.
I
looked around the motel room. Nothing had changed here in forty years. I slid
the photograph back into the book and turned out the light. At some point I
fell asleep; I at some later point woke, to the noise of car wheels on gravel
just outside my room. I lay there listening to a car door opening and closing,
and then as the door to the next room slammed shut. I held my breath. Would he
be able to tell I'd been in there? For a few minutes I listened as someone
moved around on the other side of the flimsy wall. There was the sound of a
flushing toilet and, finally, silence. I huddled beneath the blankets, telling
myself that my anxiety was meaningless, that nothing was different, and that at
any rate by the morning I would be gone. Only the last of these was true.
9
I
woke with a blistering headache, reached for my watch then sat bolt upright.
Seven-ten.
I was supposed to meet Everett at six.
I
stumbled out of bed and pulled on my boots—I'd slept in my clothes—grabbed my
bag and ran out to the car, my boots sliding on a sheen of ice. Sunlight
streamed across icy puddles; the grass glittered with frost. The Volvo that had
been in front of Room I was gone.
The
door to my car was iced shut. I scraped at it with my room key until I could
finally pull it open. Inside, I jammed on the defroster and started backing up
without waiting for the windshield to clear. I pulled over by the office, ran
inside, tossed my room key onto the desk then raced back to my car. As I
started to drive off I saw Merrill Libby yank open the office door.
"Hey!"
he shouted.
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