bit more breathlessly this time and somewhat louder.
Interesting.
The lounge seemed to be a magical place for him.
He decided to settle down for a while and wait to see what might happen
next.
When the waitress arrived with his change, he said, “I’d like another
drink, ma’am.” He handed her a twenty. “This’ll take care of it, and
please keep the change.”
Happy with the tip, she hurried back to the bar.
Vassago turned to the window again, but this time he looked at his own
reflection in the glass instead of at the harbor beyond. The dim lights
of the lounge threw insufficient glare on the pane to provide him with a
detailed image. In that murky mirror, his sunglasses did not register
well.
His face appeared to have two gaping eye sockets like those of a
fleshless skull. The illusion pleased him.
In a husky whisper not loud enough to draw the attention of anyone else
in the lounge, but with more urgency than before, he said, “Lindsey,
no!”
He had not anticipated that outburst any more than the previous two, but
it did not rattle him. He had quickly adapted to the fact of these
mysterious events, and had begun to try to understand them. Nothing
could surprise him for long. After all, he had been to Hell and back,
both to the real Hell and the one beneath the funhouse, so the intrusion
of the fantastic into real life did not frighten or awe him.
He drank a third rum and Coke. When more than an hour passed without
further developments, and when the bartender announced the last round of
the night, Vassago left.
The need was still with him, the need to murder and create. It was a
fierce heat in his gut that had nothing to do with the rum, such a
steely tension in his chest that his heart might have been a clockwork
mechanism with its spring wound to the breaking point. He wished that
he had gone after the doe-eyed woman whom he had named Bambi.
Would he have removed her ears when she was dead at last-or while she
was still alive?
Would she have been capable of understanding the artistic statement he
was making as he sewed her lips shut over her full mouth? Probably not.
None of the others had the wit or insight to appreciate his singular
talent.
In the nearly deserted parking lot, he stood in the rain for a while,
letting it soak him and extinguish some of the fire of his obsession.
It was nearly two in the morning. Not enough time remained, before
dawn, to do any hunting. He would have to return to his hideaway
without an addition to his collection. If he were to get any sleep
during the coming day and be prepared to hunt with the next nightfall,
he had to dampen his blazing creative drive.
Eventually he began to shiver. The heat within him gave way to a
relentless chill. He raised one hand, touched his cheek. His face felt
cold, but his fingers were colder, like the marble hand of a statue of
David that he’d admired in a memorial garden at Forest Lawn Cemetery
when he had still been one of the living.
That was better.
As he opened the car door, he looked around once more at the rain-riven
night. This time of his own volition, he said, “Lindsey?”
No answer.
Whoever she might be, she was not yet destined to cross his path.
He would have to be patient. He was mystified, therefore fascinated and
curious. But whatever was happening would happen at its own pace.
One of the virtues of the dead was patience, and though he was still
half-alive, he knew he could find within himself the strength to match
the forbearance of the deceased.
Early Tuesday morning, an hour after dawn, Lindsey could sleep no more.
She ached in every muscle and joint, and what sleep she’d gotten had not
lessened her exhaustion by any noticeable degree. She did not want
sedatives. Unable to bear any further delay, she insisted they take her
to Hatch’s room. The charge nurse cleared it with Jonas Nyebern, who