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1973 he began a romantic relationship with May Pang, a former aid to the couple.”
      “Yeah, I know the story,” Sanchez said. “It came to be known as his ‘Lost Weekend,’ even though it lasted for nearly a year and half. It was with Yoko’s full knowledge and consent. But what does it have to do with you and these other women?”
      “Yoko bears responsibility for emasculating Lennon as a creative force by persuading him to abandon the brilliant work he did with the Beatles,” Deb told Sanchez. “Yoko never knew about the room. She never knew about the work he did there or about us. That was his place, protected against outside influence. But something went wrong. When he knew he was going to die he made us promise.”
      “Jesus, this is weird.”
      “He said he could live vicariously through us. That all we had to do was come back to him from time to time and he could go on living. But I don’t want to do it anymore. Every time I go there I lose another piece of myself. And I don’t have that many pieces left. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.” She went to Sanchez, put her arms around him and placed her wet face against his chest. “They’re going to make me be with him again.”
      “When?
      “Tomorrow.”
      “Who are they?”
      “You saw them today. I don’t know who they are. Not from here, that’s for sure.”
      “Can’t you call the cops or something?”
      “I’ll not be believed. Besides they’ll kill me.”
      “You mentioned an old man.”
      “He’s the one that rented John the room. That’s where you come in. I want you to talk to him. Please? Maybe he can do something. Give me a reprieve.” Stiles pulled away from Sanchez and began taking off her clothes.
      Sanchez shook his head. “Don’t,” he said.
      “Please,” Deb Stiles said. “I’ve been so lonely.”
    Her body was beautiful, more than he could resist, and the sex was like nothing he had ever experienced, nearly supernatural in its beauty and rough urgency.  
     

4
     
      When Sanchez finally slept he didn’t dream exactly. At least there was nothing coherent, just a jumble of random images: Cold blue light engulfing the city washing away all other colors. Streetlights disappearing in a haze of gauzy gray. Cold then hot. Fire. Millions of errant sparks scattering into a dead sky. The bodies of children; stretchers; smoke. A whirlpool of confusing lights. And in amongst all of it; a beautiful red rose.
      He woke at dawn, dressed and slipped out of the apartment before Stiles stirred.
     

5
     
      The hotel was in one of those eerie lost quarters of the city, neither commercial nor residential. Streets of warehouses and ugly tenements broken up by vacant lots. Traveling there by taxi, Sanchez realized that he was right in his assessment of the city. It was dying, perhaps already dead, leached of color and heart. He watched it roll by; bleak, grimy brick and rusting steel, ancient graffiti, as if it was no longer worthy of defacement.
      The snow had begun in earnest before dawn and six inches or more had already fallen. Now the wind was picking up. The taxi pulled silently up in front of the building.
    All Sanchez wanted to do was talk to the guy, see if he was real. See if any of this was real. Above the entrance there was a small sign that said simply: STRAWBERRY FIELDS.
      Odd that he’d never been to this section of the city. Strange how one can live an entire life in a place and not know its secrets.
      He paid the cabbie, got out and told him not to wait.
      In an alley beside the hotel the black vehicle with the reflective windows purred like a sleeping cat. For a moment Sanchez thought about walking over and smashing the window, pulling the driver out and demanding to know what was going on.
      Instead he went inside the building. A tiny bell rang as he entered. A man that had to be at least a century old hobbled into the small lobby from a back room.
      “Ah, yes,