Page 109 of The Furies

“Like what?” said Wadlin.

There it was again, Veale thought: edginess. Veale had been witness to it often enough to be able to spot it, even when it was concealed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Like a child, maybe?”

Wadlin flinched, and Veale knew for sure.

“I got things to do,” said Wadlin.

He got up, killed the TV, and retreated to his private quarters. Veale stayed where he was, staring at the scarred security screen and thinking that Wadlin was a prisoner of the Braycott, but didn’t know it or didn’t care. The exchange with the manager was the longest he’d had with a stranger in years. He’d been killing time, postponing his return to the room.

He also realized two other things. His headache had gone, which was good. But he could now hear clearly the voice in his head.

Which was bad.

Very, very bad.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Bobby Wadlin waited behind the door of his apartment, one ear pressed to the wood, until he was sure Veale had gone. Even then Bobby did not immediately resume his post. If someone wanted their key or their mail, they could goddamn well wait. He went to his bedroom, opened his bedside table, and took out a spray bottle of Bach’s Rescue Remedy. Abigail Stackpole had recommended it to him a while back, when some of his guests were proving unusually recalcitrant. He’d been skeptical about the Rescue Remedy at first. As far as he could tell, it was made up of flowers, but it worked, although Bobby suspected this might be a result of the placido effect, like the singer. Whatever the reason, since he wasn’t a drinker, and didn’t hold with heavy narcotics, Bach had become Bobby’s go-to guy in times of stress. He spritzed his mouth five times. Bobby just wanted this day to be done. He’d already dealt with one fatality, endured more unwanted conversations than a man could bear, and wasted valuable time searching for an elusive child.

At this, Bobby knocked back another five shots of spray.

Old Esther had been right, Phil Hardiman too: there was a child in the hotel, but it wasn’t one that Bobby was in any hurry to meet again. The Braycott might have been old, but until today, and unlike so many institutions of similar vintage, Bobby had been convinced that it had no ghost stories to share. Perhaps because the surroundings were so deficient, even spirits didn’t care to mope around inside its walls for too long for fear of becoming depressed. As a result, Bobby had never been frightened of the Braycott at night, or certainly not because of the dead, although some of the living might have given him pause for thought.

But he didn’t think he’d be going back to the basement, not for a while.

* * *

IT HAD BEEN A hell of an afternoon for Bobby, what with the fuss over Esther Vogt and all—not that he’d be grieving excessively for her, although nobody liked to lose a tenant who paid on time, even one as occasionally vexatious as she. One of the housekeepers had discovered the still-warm body and raised such a hollering and lamentation you’d have figured her for Mary Magdalene stumbling from Christ’s empty tomb, except in this case the vault was most certainly occupied, even if the spirit had definitely departed. The police and paramedics had found no signs of foul play, with the medics being of the view that old Esther had probably suffered a sudden cardiac arrest, a conclusion supported by a search of her room, which revealed enough medications to start a pharmacy, including antiarrhythmics and ACE inhibitors.

After the professionals had finished their business, Bobby took a brush and pan down to the locus of all the activity with the intention of clearing up the mess they’d left, including some broken glass and a busted chair. He’d planned to take pictures of the damage for the insurance company, because he knew an antiques dealer who might be prepared to produce inflated valuations in return for a few bucks. Bobby thought he could also find a couple of other pieces that were already broken long before the first responders started moving stuff around. His insurance policy had a bitch of a deductible, but if he assembled enough exaggerated estimates, he was certain to come out ahead while getting rid of some junk.

Unfortunately, the replacement bulb, inserted to aid the removal of the body, had blown, which meant Bobby had to go dig out yet another and retrieve the ladder, because he’d need decent illumination for the insurance photos. Once he’d located both, and a flashlight, he returned to the basement, picked his way to the heart of the room, and cleared enough space to erect the ladder. He climbed up carefully—he didn’t want to end up going ass-over-tit and have to summon 911 for a return visit—and positioned the flashlight so it was pointing at the ceiling. Bobby hoped he wouldn’t have to replace the light fitting, because every nickel counted these days.

He had just begun removing the spent bulb when the ladder shook.

* * *

IN HIS COZY APARTMENT, with its shelves upon shelves of movies, novels, and reference volumes, and its biographies and autobiographies of western stars, Bobby Wadlin—for the first time that he could recall—no longer felt comfortable or safe. Something had been stolen from him in that basement, never to be recovered, but the Braycott itself had also been tilted on its axis, its dimensions altered, if not beyond recognition, then in such a manner as to guarantee that its precincts could no longer be negotiated as before. It was as though Bobby’s beloved hotel had been replaced with a simulacrum that was almost, but not quite, identical: a foot narrower here, an inch lower there; a doorway where once there was a wall, a step where none had previously existed. His sanctuary was gone, wrenched from him in a matter of moments, pulled away from beneath him like—

Like a ladder.

He set aside the Rescue Remedy. He felt a bit calmer already, but he thought it was more that he wanted, needed, to be pacified than the combination of ingredients he had ingested. It was already dark outside, although its impact on the interior of the Braycott was set to be marginal, given its natural tendency toward sepulchral gloom. But Bobby was now looking at the darkness in a different way: not as a product of the sun going down, or the effect of the accumulated dirt on the windows, but as an atmospheric state generated from within, a dreadful caliginosity with its source to be found in the basement, its principal animus a new and uninvited guest.

* * *

THE LADDER: BACK TO the ladder.

At first, he took the shaking to be his own fault. He must have misplaced one of the supports so that it rested on the edge of an old rug, or stood in one of the slight depressions that pitted the floor. In removing the bulb, he had caused his weight to shift, and the ladder to teeter. Yes, that was it. He’d have to proceed slowly, but it wasn’t worth climbing back down again, because the light fixture was just within reach—

The ladder rattled hard again, but this time he felt the impact from below. Someone had thrown their weight against it, causing it to sway more sharply. Bobby managed to hold on to the grips, but the old bulb slid off and exploded on the floor, and before he could stop it, his flashlight went the same way. It did not break, but instead came to rest pointing toward the door, lighting his way back to safety.

“Who’s there?” said Bobby. “Goddammit, you better quit fooling around. I got a gun, and I’ll use it.”

He didn’t have a gun, of course. He liked guns in Westerns, preferably when they were in the hands of Audie Murphy or Gary Cooper, men you could trust, but he didn’t hold with them as a general principle. He’d spent long enough at the Braycott to realize that most guns were in the possession of people who couldn’t be trusted with a water pistol.

Bobby listened. Whoever was fooling with him was delicate on their feet. All that junk—sorry, antique furnishings—in the basement, and he still hadn’t heard the approach. They might as well have materialized beneath him, so stealthy had they been. Whatever their method, he needed to get back on firm ground, and fast. Once he had the flashlight in his hands, he could get a good look at them. Just to his left, but out of reach for now, was a brass lamp that would serve as a weapon. He risked moving his right foot, searching for the rung below so he could begin his descent.

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