The Long Sleep

“It isn't?”

“It puzzles me,” he said.

She looked quickly at the window, frowned, stared hard at him. Her nervousness was an act, an obvious performance. Why? “Puzzles you?” she asked.

“Never mind.”

“Do you feel all right?” she asked.

“Better than ever.”

“You're sure?”

He forced a smile. “Positive.”

“I've brought your supper.” She grinned again. Her blue eyes seemed as large as half dollars, brighter than ever, as if the beauty of her own smile surprised her. “Your favorite dessert,” she said.

“What's that?”

She put the tray down and lifted the silver lid. “Apple pie with raisins.”

And it figured.

V

Joel waited until he knew that she was asleep before he got out of bed.

For awhile there, when they had finished making love, he had seriously considered forgetting the whole thing. If he were being misled, it was for a good reason. Wasn't it? Had to be. How could Allison be engaged in anything sinister…?

However, when she grew drowsy and slept, leaving him alone with his thoughts, his determination to know the truth returned. He had been acting and reacting as if he were drugged or witless. Now, while the others were not up and about to keep tabs on him, he dressed quickly and quietly, opened the bedroom door, stepped into the dark second floor hallway, closed the door again without waking Allison.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet?

He leaned against the wall for several minutes until his eyes adjusted to the darkness — and until he was certain that Allison was not going to get out of bed and follow him. Treading lightly and cautiously to avoid the loose floorboards under the carpet, he went to the head of the main stairs.

A light burned somewhere below; a weak glow leaked into the downstairs hall and spilled across the first two steps. He could hear voices rising suddenly from the back of the house. Two of them. Both men. Talking softly but heatedly. Henry and the male servant, Richard?

He went down the stairs to the main hall. Holding the polished mahogany railing, he kept away from the center of each step where the loose boards might sag, squeak, and betray him. He made no noise at all going down.

Originally, he had intended to investigate the ground floor exits to see what landscape they opened onto, and he had wanted to burglarize the drawers of Henry Galing's desk in the book-lined den. But now he would have to know for certain who was up and about and what their conversation might concern. The light and the voices came from the den where the door was ajar, and Joel crept in that direction.

As he stood against the wall by the partly opened door, he recognized Henry Galing's deep, officious tones. The other voice was that of a stranger.

“How much longer?” the stranger asked.

“How much longer until what?” Galing asked. He sounded peeved, disdainful.

“Until we stop with this damned 'recover' act,” the stranger said.

“When the program was devised, it was decided he'd stay in bed for five days,” Galing said. “That leaves three to go.”

“It won't work.”

“We have to try to make it work.”

“Impossible,” the stranger insisted.

Galing sighed. “I suppose you're right. He's become much too inquisitive. He's already discovered that the view from his window is an artificial construction.”

“I've heard,” the stranger said. “That window should have been locked.” He was angry and concerned. He had raised his voice above a murmur, but now he softened it again. “You overlooked an important detail.”

“Nonsense,” Galing said. The stranger didn't press the accusation, and it was clear that the old man had the final word. “If the window had been locked, he'd have picked it open to find out if what he suspected were true or not. You know him. You know how persistent he is.”

“Only too well,” the stranger said.

“And I'm worried about the girl,” Galing said. “Despite the drugs, she seems to be getting suspicious about me, the house, the whole deal.”

“Increase her dosage.”

“It isn't that simple,” Galing said. “If we raise her milligram intake, Amslow's going to realize she's hopped up. And that's no good at all.”

It was the stranger's turn to sigh. “Then what in the hell do you suggest?”

“We'll go to the next stage of the program ahead of schedule,” Galing said.

“That might not be wise.”

“It's our only choice,” Galing said. He opened his desk drawer and rustled some papers.

In the pause between their exchanges, Joel leaned away from the wall and peered into the den through the two-inch crack between the door and the jamb. Galing stood behind his desk, leafing through a sheaf of papers, absorbed in his search for something. In the chair beside the desk, slumped as if he were exhausted, sat the faceless man.

VI

Henry Galing said, “You'd better wake Richard and Gina so we can go over this together step by step. We don't want any mistakes. We have enough problems already.”

“Of course, Henry,” the faceless man said. The smooth plane of his face did not even wrinkle as he spoke. He got up, stretched, and started for the door.

With the swiftness of instinct, Joel backstepped to the next door along the corridor and went into the darkened library. He closed the door most of the way but left a narrow crack through which he could observe the hall.

The faceless man walked past without seeing him and went up the stairs even more quietly than Joel had descended them.

Joel hoped no one planned a bed check.

Two minutes later the faceless man returned with Richard and Gina in tow. None of them was particularly excited. They'd have been whooping if they had known that he wasn't tucked in bed with Allison, exhausted from lovemaking. The three of them entered the den and this time they closed the door all the way.

He remained in the library for a few minutes, then returned to the hall and sidled down to the den door. But the heavy oak door was too thick to permit eavesdropping. What were they saying in there? What had they planned for him? Why? Well, whatever the hell they were doing, they didn't have his best interest at heart. It hardly mattered whether or not he knew all the details or even the main intent. They were not humanitarians.

Noiselessly, he returned to the second floor bedroom. He found well cut, expensive streetclothes in the closet, and he slipped into them: knitted slacks, a blue silk shirt, a lightweight rayon jacket that had never come off any department store rack.