“Why you using that voice?”
“Only one I got.”
“Don’t sound normal. Don’t sound anything like you.”
“Boy, you are one critical son of a bitch today, aren’t you? Pardon my voice, Danny, pardon my manner of speaking, and pardon my occasional desire to spit. Sorry such qualities don’t find your favor this evening.”
“Whatever, man.”
“You had enough of helping me? Going to leave me to handle this on my own?”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t understand what I’m supposed to do that can help.”
“Good thing I do, then. I got a real clear sense of your role, Danny, and it won’t be a difficult task. All I’ll require now is that you go on down to the gas station and buy two of those prepaid cell phones. I have some cash for you to use. Bring them back up here. I’ll wait before I make my call. Seems like the sort of call you make in the middle of the night.”
The pain held off until evening. Eric lingered with Kellen at the bar, drank a few more beers and even ate a meal and felt fine through all of it, actually had himself thinking maybe it was done.
It wasn’t.
The first headache came about an hour after he’d eaten. The nausea settled in soon after the headache, and when he looked up at the bartender and saw the vertical hold go again, that rapid shuddering of the scene in front of him, Eric knew it was time to go.
“Feeling bad again?” Kellen said when Eric got to his feet.
“Not great. Probably just need to lie down.”
He wasn’t sure why he said that; they both knew it was bullshit.
“You want me to hang around or…”
Eric shook his head. “No, no. You don’t need to worry about it, man. If it gets bad, I’ll do what I’ve got to do.”
“And see what you have to see,” Kellen said, face grave, studying him. He put out his hand. “All right, my man. Good luck to you. And I’ll be in town tonight. So anything gets away from you…”
“I’ll be fine. Guarantee it. By the time we talk tomorrow, you’ll see.”
There was an odd ghosting to the door as he walked out of the bar, a hint of double vision returning, and the lights in the hallway burned in his skull, but somehow neither occurrence struck quite the same the chord of fear that it had before. Bad things were coming for him, yes, but he could hold them at bay now. He knew that.
He’d just take some more of the water, that was all. Every day. Have some bad moments, sure, maybe deal with some effects that weren’t ideal, but it would keep the real demons away, too. Even though it had given birth to them, it could now keep them away. Wasn’t that a hell of a thing? So he’d stay on the cycle, that was all, protect himself with the same thing that threatened him.
Up to the fourth floor, hand on the elevator wall for balance, then out into the hall, smiling and nodding past a middle-aged couple who went by without a second look. He was getting the hang of this now, learning how to hide the symptoms, knowing that he no longer had to cope with them-the water would do that for him.
There was a rapid tremor working deep within him and his vision was blurred and unsteady, but he found himself laughing at it as he took the keycard from his pocket, whistling as he opened the door, cheerful as hell. Can’t touch me, can’t touch me, can’t touch me. Not anymore, it couldn’t. He had the cure, and who gave a shit if it was also the cause? Important part was that it worked. Control was his again.
He’d left the bottle in the room, but this time he’d taken a precaution. The room had one of those traveler’s safes in the closet, the sort people used for jewelry or wallets. He’d put a bottle of water in his. Now he punched in the code-the number of Claire’s old apartment in Evanston-popped the door open, and found the bottle.
Cool but not cold to the touch, completely normal in fact, and he found himself almost missing the Bradford bottle as he opened this one and drank. The taste of Anne’s water was so unpleasant, fetid and harsh, with none of that honey flavor that had developed over time in the Bradford bottle. It would do the job, though, and that was enough.
Only this time it didn’t do the job. Not as quickly, at least. Five minutes later, his nausea was worse and the headache still present. Odd. He gave it another five and then drank again. Full swallows this time, steeling himself against the sulfuric taste.
Finally, success. A few minutes after this second dose, the throbbing in his temples diminished and his stomach settled and his vision steadied. His old friend was coming through again. He’d just needed a touch more this time, that was all.
He was still in the chair when the violin called to him. Whisper-soft at first, but he raised his head like a dog hearing a whistle. Man, it was beautiful. An elegy, the boy had called it. A song for the dead. The more Eric heard of it, the more he liked it.
He got to his feet and went to the balcony, where the music seemed to be originating. He opened the doors softly and stepped out and the rotunda below was gone, vacant gray space stretching on beneath the balcony instead, falling away like an endless canyon. Even the smells of the hotel were missing, replaced by dead leaves and wood smoke. Two points of light showed somewhere down in the gray canyon, and he turned to watch them. As they approached, the hotel and his memory of it faded away.
He was with the lights now and saw that they were the cold white eyes of Campbell’s roadster, which had pulled to a stop outside a long wooden building with a wide front porch. Rain was pouring down, finding holes in the porch roof here and there. A few black men sat on the porch in the dry areas, smoking and talking in voices that went soft when the car door opened and Campbell stepped out into the puddles beside the car. A moment later the passenger door opened and there was Lucas, with the violin case in hand. It seemed always to be in hand.
“Gentlemen,” Campbell said. “Enjoying the porch on a rainy evening, I see.”
None of the black men responded.
“Shadrach’s indoors?” Campbell said, unbothered.
“Downstairs,” one said after a long pause, and Campbell tipped his hat and went to the door, opened it, and held it for the boy to step through. Now they were in a dark room with round tables and a long wooden bar with a brass rail. The bar and all of the tables were empty. Stacks of cards and chips stood on one of the tables. Everything was covered with a fine layer of dust.
The two of them walked through the empty room to a dark staircase in the back, went down the steep, shadowed steps. At the base of the stairs was a closed door, and Campbell opened it without knocking and stepped inside.
“Easy there,” he said. A short but muscular black man was standing just inside the door and had lifted a gun when Campbell intruded. There was another man, much larger, probably close to three hundred pounds, hulking on a stool on the other side of the door, and a third, rail-thin and very dark-skinned, seated behind a wooden desk. He leaned back in the chair with his feet propped on the desk, enormous feet, a pair of equally large hands folded over his stomach. He didn’t speak or move when Campbell and the boy entered, just flicked his eyes over and studied them without a change in expression. The man with the gun lowered it slowly and moved a step back from Campbell.
“Shadrach,” Campbell said.
“Mr. Hunter is what I’m called by those who aren’t friends,” the man behind the desk said.
“Shadrach,” Campbell said again, no change of tone at all.
Shadrach Hunter gave that a wry curling of the lip that seemed to pass for amusement, and then he looked past Campbell to Lucas.
“This is Thomas Granger’s boy?”
“His nephew.”
“What in hell’s he carrying the fiddle for?”
“He likes to have it with him,” Campbell said. “You’ve heard him play.”