floor. All nine sets of doors might conceal empty shafts.
Perhaps, when power was lost, the elevators were programmed to descend on backup batteries to the lobby. If that was the case, my hope was that this safety mechanism had failed-just as others in the hotel had failed.
When I let go of the doors, they eased back into the position in which I had found them.
The second set were closed tighter than the first. The leading edges were bull-nosed, however, to facilitate prying in an emergency. Shuddering in their tracks, they opened with a creaking that made me nervous.
No cab.
These doors remained apart when I released them. To avoid leaving evidence of my search, I pressed them shut again, eliciting more shudders, more creaking.
I had left clear images of my hands in the grime that filmed the stainless steel. From a pocket I withdrew a Kleenex and brushed lightly to obscure the prints, feather them out of existence, without leaving a too-clean patch that might raise suspicion.
The third pair of doors would not budge.
Behind the fourth set, which opened quietly, I found a waiting cab. I pushed the doors fully apart, hesitated, then stepped into the lift.
The cab didn't plunge into the abyss, as I half expected that it might. It took my weight with a faint protest and did not settle whatsoever from the alcove threshold.
Although the doors slipped shut part of the way on their own, I had to press to complete the closure. More prints, more Kleenex.
I wiped my sooty hands on my jeans. More laundry.
Although I thought I knew what I must do next, it was such a bold move that I stood in the alcove for a minute or two, considering other options. There weren't any.
This was one of those moments when I wished that I had striven harder to overcome my deep-seated aversion to guns.
On the other hand, when you shoot at people who also have guns, they tend to shoot back. This invariably complicates matters.
If you don't shoot first and aim well, maybe it's better not to have firearms. In an ugly situation like this, people who have heavy weaponry tend to feel superior to people who don't; they feel smug, and when they're smug, they underestimate their opponents. An unarmed man, of necessity, will be quicker of wit-more aware, more feral and more ferocious-than the gunman who relies on his weapon to think for him. Therefore, being unarmed can be an advantage.
In retrospect, that line of reasoning is patently absurd. Even at the time, I knew it was stupid, but I pursued it anyway, because I needed to talk myself out of that alcove and into action.
The leaf in the moonlit water, sharing its essence with the pool, sinking deep and carried on a lazy current that pulls, pulls, pulls…
I stepped out of the alcove, into the corridor. I turned left, proceeded north.
Some tough, violent phone-sex babe, crazy as a mad cow, gets it in her addled head that she's got to kidnap Danny so she can use him to force me to reveal my closely guarded secrets. But why does Dr. Jessup have to die, and in such a brutal fashion? Just because he was
This phone-sex babe, this nut case, has three guys-now two- who apparently are willing to commit any crime necessary to help her get what she wants. There's no bank to be robbed, no armored car to be held up, no illegal drugs to be sold. She's not after money; she's after true ghost stories, icy fingers up and down her spine, so there's no loot for the other members of her gang to share. Their reason for putting their lives and freedom on the line for her at first seems puzzling if not mysterious.
Of course even nonhomicidal guys often think with the little head instead of with the big head that has a brain in it. And the annals of crime are replete with cases in which dim-bulb men in the thrall of bad women did the most vicious and idiotic things solely for sex.
If Datura looked as sultry as she sounded on the phone, she would find it easy to manipulate certain men. Her kind of guy would have more testosterone than white blood cells in his veins, would lack a sense of right and wrong, would have a taste for excitement, would savor every cruelty he performed, and would have no capacity to think about tomorrow.
Putting together her entourage, she would not have encountered a shortage of candidates. The news seemed to be full of such cold-blooded men these days.
Dr. Wilbur Jessup had died not just because he was in the way, but also because killing him had been
In the elevator alcove, I had found it hard to believe that she could have put such a crew together. While walking a mere hundred feet of hotel corridor, I had come to find them inevitable.
Dealing with these kinds of people, I would need every advantage that my gift could provide.
Door after door, whether open or closed, failed to entice me, until I stopped finally at 1203, which stood ajar.
THIRTY-ONE
MOST OF THE FURNITURE HAD BEEN REMOVED FROM Room 1203. Only a pair of nightstands, a round wood table, and four captain's chairs remained.
Some cleaning had occurred. Although the space was far from immaculate, it looked more accommodating than any place I'd seen previously in the ruined hotel.
The pending storm had dimmed the day, but fat candles in red and amber glass containers provided light. Six were arranged precisely on the floor in each corner of the room. Six more stood on the table.
The pulse and flicker of candlelight might have been cheerful in other circumstances. Here it seemed cheerless. Menacing. Occult.
Scented, the candles produced a fragrance that masked the bitter malodor of long-settled smoke. The air smelled sweet rather than flowery. I had never breathed anything quite like it before.
White sheets had been tucked and pinned to the upholstery of the captain's chairs, to provide clean seating.
The nightstands flanked the big view window. On each stood a large black vase, and in each vase were two or three dozen red roses that either had no scent or could not compete with the candles.
She enjoyed drama and glamour, and she carried her creature comforts with her even into the wilds. Like a European princess visiting Africa in the century of colonialism, having a picnic on a Persian carpet unrolled on the veldt.
Gazing out the window, her back to me as I entered the room, stood a woman in tight black toreador pants and a black blouse. Five feet five. Thick, glossy blond hair so pale it looked almost white, cut short but not in a manly style.
I said, 'I'm almost three hours ahead of sundown.'
She neither twitched with surprise nor turned to me. Continuing to stare at the gathering storm, she said, 'So you're not a complete disappointment after all.'
In person, her voice was no less bewitching, no less erotic than it had been on the phone.
'Odd Thomas, do you know who was the greatest conjurer in history, who summoned spirits and used them better than anyone ever?'
I took a guess: 'You?'
'Moses,' she said. 'He knew the secret names of God, with which he could conquer Pharaoh and divide the sea.'
'Moses the conjurer. That must have been a freaky Sunday school you went to.'
'Red candles in red glasses,' she said.
'You camp out in style,' I acknowledged.
'What do they achieve-red candles in red glasses?'
