She had disappeared.
His eyes probed the shadows around him but she was gone, as though she had been merely a ghost. Only the crow was still there. It sat on the floor a few paces away from him, squat and unmoving, beady eyes glowing red within its head.
For a moment he felt as alone as he had ever felt in his entire life. But then he took a deep breath. He would make her proud of him.
Slowly he turned on his heel and looked about him. Set within the wall were doors. Thirty to be exact.
Thirty doors. Behind one of them the prize. But which door was the one he was meant to open?
He hesitated. Why couldn't he remember? He had never visited the portal before but he should know the answer. Which door?
The doors stared back at him, relentless in their similarity.
Which door must he choose? Remember… but the certain knowledge, which had guided him throughout the earlier part of his journey, had deserted him. And he knew he would never be able to retrace his steps.
He was lost.
Terror-stricken, he spun around. Which door? Which door? He tried to control the panic, which was taking possession of his mind. No! Stay calm.
But which door? Which door?
He tried to empty his mind of all emotion. To breathe with discipline. To decide. And, like the answer to a prayer, one of the doors opened a crack…
The relief was overwhelming. Stepping forward, he placed his hand on the door, pushing it wide open.
He screamed as a cacophony of sound and movement slammed into his brain with the force of a freight train. The onslaught was so intense, he was unable to process the information, unable to make sense of the images hurtling toward him like a giant fist. It was as though someone was pouring information into his brain at lightning speed, an avalanche of images and emotions filling up his head, only his mind wasn't big enough-not nearly big enough-to contain it all. He stared; unable to blink, eyeballs dry, lips stretched painfully over his teeth in a grotesque smile, feeling his mind collapsing under the stupendous weight of the information dumped into his brain all at once. It was as though he could suddenly see underneath the skin of his body and watch as every individual organ inside him pulsed and labored against the massive attack. He was going insane. And the horror of it was that he knew it.
His mind popped like an overripe fruit. Bright globules of blood ran down the inside of his eyes.
Quiet.
Peace. Like moonlight on water.
Water. He was floating on his back in a swimming pool. His mind was blessedly still.
He heard music. A violin. And looking up at the sky, there was the moon: heavy and swollen, caught in the arms of a tree.
But he was becoming tired. His body felt paralyzed on one side. The water pulled at him. He turned his head to where the house loomed black against a charcoal sky. The only light came from behind the French doors. A woman's figure was silhouetted against the buttered glow.
She stepped into the garden. Thank God. He knew she would never abandon him. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude.
Her face was still masked. Her breasts were ice cream against the green velvet of her dress. A pendant was swinging from her throat: a thin silver chain from which dangled a charm in the shape of the letter M. On her shoulder was perched the crow.
Help me. Rescue me.
Her pale white fingers reached out to him.
And pushed his head under the water.
The crow shrieked. With a wild flap of its wings it swooped to the side, alighting on the overhanging branch of the tree.
Her grasp was soft but her fingers were steel. His nose and mouth filled with water. He was drowning. His chest on fire. She had one hand on his shoulder, the other on his head. He tried to twist away from her, to loosen the hand holding him in a gentle death grip.
She pushed his head down again. Oh God, no. Why? He had followed the rules perfectly… perfectly…
He couldn't fight her. He didn't have the strength. And his body so sluggish, so heavy. He was starting to sink.
She lifted her hand: a gesture of regret. The water was blurring her figure, but as he continued to spiral downward, their eyes locked.
Why? His mouth opened and closed fishlike, the water drowning his words. Why? Why?
CHAPTER SIX
Sunlight. Splinter-sharp in his eyes. His body no longer chilled by water but bathed in sweat. Around him the comforting familiar environment of his loft apartment. For a few moments Gabriel sat without moving. One part of his brain knew that the ride was over, that he was safely inside his home, but another part of him was still reeling from the experience he had just been through.
His mouth was stretched wide, and he had to make a conscious effort to relax his face. He was sitting in his armchair next to the window, the picture of Robert Whittington on his knee. It was quiet in the apartment but the air seemed alive, as though he had just screamed and the sound of his distress was still lingering in the room.
Clumsily he got to his feet, the photograph clutched between his fingers. Frankie. He needed to talk to her. Rather urgently.
As he dialed, he squinted at the numbers she had written on the back of the picture. He seemed to have problems focusing. He dropped the picture on the tabletop and saw that his fingers had left damp smudges on the photograph's glossy surface.
The sound of the ringing reverberated inside his head. A click. A crisp "Whittington residence." The slightly officious voice of a well-trained manservant.
"I'd like to speak to Cecily Franck, please." He found to his surprise that he had trouble speaking.
"I beg your pardon?" The voice sounded pained.
"Cecily Franck. I mean, Whittington. I'd like to speak with her." His tongue was unbelievably sluggish. No wonder the asshole on the other side of the phone sounded so disapproving. He probably thought there was a drunk on the line.
"Tell her it's Gabriel. And that it's urgent."
A doubtful pause. Then, "Please wait. I'll see if Madam is available."
You do that, you twit, he thought. Placing his hand against his forehead, he found it dripping with sweat. In fact, his entire body was drenched. And his brain… his brain felt like mashed potato.
It seemed that Madam was indeed available.
"Hello? Gabriel?"
"Frankie."
"Gabriel? What's up? You sound strange."
"Maybe you should come over."
"Why? What's wrong?"
He started to laugh weakly. "A ride. I've slammed a ride." For some reason it suddenly seemed funny.
An even longer silence this time. When she did speak, her voice sounded tight as though she was trying to rein in her excitement. "Wait for me. Don't go anywhere. Wait for me."
"Believe me. The way I feel now I'm not going anywhere."
Just before she hung up she asked, breathless, "Gabriel… is he alive?"
"I don't know." He remembered the feeling of drowning: the heavy legs, fire in his chest, and then the blessed feeling of letting go as he spiraled downward. It had certainly felt like the end of something. "I'm not sure."
"Well, was it at least a good ride?"
"Good?" He thought of the nightmarish journey, the insane images that had battered his mind. "Again, I don't know. Just get here, OK? We'll talk when you get here."
He replaced the receiver in its cradle, his mind still on the question she had asked him. A good ride?
Well, that depended now, didn't it? If with "good" she meant "detailed," then yes, it had been a spectacular ride. The best ever. But if with "good" she wanted to know if the ride made good sense, then no, afraid not. Of course, remote viewing was not exactly like baking a cake. Images and emotions accessed during a ride were often ambiguous.