There Are Doors

Scars, etc: Burns, palms of both hands. Misc. small scars on forearms, may be fresh. (North is self-mutilator.) Tattoo underside of right wrist “RN.” Often wears watch on this wrist to hide tattoo.

There was a picture of North (looking slightly younger than he remembered) and a set of fingerprints. He put the paper back into the folder and poked among the rest, wondering if he would find a similar report on Dr. Applewood or himself. He did not, but he discovered a sheet headed Daniel Paul Perlitz and stamped DECEASED. Dr. Applewood had called the man in uniform Daniel.

Suddenly afraid he was being watched, he closed the trunk. His uncomfortable warmth had vanished; he was chilled now as he returned to the rusted door, and eager to regain the warmth of the hotel and shelter from the wind. To reassure himself, he put his hand inside his overcoat and made certain his room key was still in the pocket.

The steel door was locked, and neither his room key nor the keys to the hunched brown car would open it. After a moment, he decided that the lot was probably reserved for employees and the concessionaires who leased the shops and offices of the arcade. No doubt they received keys to this door. He would have to walk around to the front of the hotel, and it appeared he might have to do it through the drifted snow.

Turning up his overcoat collar and adjusting the muffler (silently he blessed the woman who had persuaded him to buy it) over the lower half of his face, he circled the lot looking for a path cleared of snow. There was none, only the drive through which the four cars had come (now drifted half full wherever it ran at right angles to the wind) which appeared to wind away in the direction of a few scattered structures nearly at the limit of vision and almost lost in the white erasure of the snow.

The hotel spread long wings to either side. Not so long, perhaps, to someone strolling at ease down their corridors; and yet very long indeed for him, since he would have to walk twice their length through snow that in places rose higher than his waist. He tried it for a few steps, then abandoned the attempt. Sooner or later, the drive would surely join the highway that ran beside the sea.

As he crossed the lot, he considered the shortcomings of his equipment. The coat, the sweater, and the muffler had all been wise investments; but he should have chosen a cap in place of his hat, a fur cap with ear flaps that tied under the chin, or perhaps one of the woolen hoods the haberdashery had called balaclavas—he had seen a display of them and paid no attention to it.

He needed gloves as well. It seemed incredible to him that he had not thought of gloves; his fingers were freezing, though he had buried his hands in the pockets of the overcoat. Most of all, he needed boots in place of his shoes; his brief attempt to walk through the snow had filled his shoes with snow, and despite the exercise they were getting his feet were freezing. Worst of all, they slipped again and again, the smooth soles of his shoes refusing to hold the nearly invisible ice that coated the asphalt in random patches, refusing to grip the packed snow.

He had left the parking lot and entered the drive when he saw Fanny’s picture; he picked it up and discovered that he was holding just such a paper as had described North.

Associates members Blue September, Immortals, Iron Boot. Believed sympathizer.

Name: Frances Land, “Frannie Land,” “Faith Lord.”

Date of Birth: 7/9/64

Place of Birth: Marea AX

Height: 5’ 3”

Weight: 105 lb.

Hair: Black, curling.

Eyes: Brown.

Complexion: Fair.

Scars, etc.: Six fingers on right hand. Glasses for reading.

Shaking his head, he crumpled the paper and tossed it away. He had been wrong, completely wrong, about