“Not that I know of. And I don’t know why he should. Speaking of him, you’re going to get some other medical advice, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I guess I don’t think very fast. I don’t know just what to do, except to pick up the phone book and try another number.”
“There’s a better way. Call one of the big hospitals and ask for an ambulance.”
“I’ll do that!” Randall said, standing up.
“You might wait until morning. You wouldn’t get any useful results until morning, anyway. In the meantime she might wake up.”
“Well…yes, I guess so. I think I’ll take another look at her.”
“Mr. Randall?”
“Eh?”
“Uh, do you mind if — May I see her?”
Randall looked at him. His suspicions had been lulled more than he had realized by Hoag’s manner and words, but the suggestion brought him up short, making him recall Potbury’s warnings vividly. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said stiffly.
Hoag showed his disappointment but tried to cover it. “Certainly. I quite understand, sir.”
When Randall returned he was standing near the door with his hat in his hand. “I think I had better go,” he said. When Randall did not comment he added, “I would sit with you until morning if you wished it.”
“No. Not necessary. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Randall.”
When Hoag had gone he wandered around aimlessly for several minutes, his beat ever returning him to the side of his wife. Hoag’s comments about Potbury’s methods had left him more uneasy than he cared to admit; in addition to that Hoag had, by partly allaying his suspicions of the man, taken from him his emotional whipping boy — which did him no good.
He ate a cold supper and washed it down with beer — and was pleased to find it remained in place. He then dragged a large chair into the bedroom, put a footstool in front of it, got a spare blanket, and prepared to spend the night. There was nothing to do and he did not feel like reading — he tried it and it didn’t work. From time to time he got up and obtained a fresh can of beer from the icebox. When the beer was gone he took down the rye. The stuff seemed to quiet his nerves a little, but otherwise he could detect no effect from it. He did not want to become drunk.
He woke with a terrified start, convinced for the moment that Phipps was at the mirror and about to kidnap Cynthia. The room was dark; his heart felt as if it would burst his ribs before he could find the switch and assure himself that it was not so, that his beloved, waxy pale, still lay on the bed.
He had to examine the big mirror and assure himself that it did reflect the room and not act as a window to some other, awful place before he was willing to snap off the light. By the dim reflected light of the city he poured himself a bracer for his shaken nerves.
He thought that he caught a movement in the mirror, whirled around, and found that it was his own reflection. He sat down again and stretched himself out, resolving not to drop off to sleep again.
What was that?
He dashed into the kitchen in pursuit of it. Nothing — nothing that he could find. Another surge of panic swept him back into the bedroom — it could have been a ruse to get him away from her side.
They were laughing at him, goading him, trying to get him to make a false move. He knew it — they had been plotting against him for days, trying to shake his nerve. They watched him out of every mirror in the house, ducking back when he tried to catch them at it. The Sons of the Bird —
“The Bird is Cruel!”
Had he said that? Had someone shouted it at him? The Bird is Cruel. Panting for breath, he went to the open window of the bedroom and looked out. It was still dark, pitch-dark. No one moved on the streets below. The direction of the lake was a lowering bank of mist. What time was it? Six o’clock in the morning by the clock on the table. Didn’t it ever get light in this God-forsaken city?