Besides, even if he could learn something from her he would gain no edge from the knowledge. He would be put to sleep again. And the next time he woke up they might take more care with the illusion so that he would not recognize it, immediately, for what it was.
And ever since this nightmare had begun, he'd been afraid that he would be put to sleep and never brought back again, or not for a long, long time, anyway. He was afraid he'd sleep for years and then regain consciousness in a life support pod — and have to start all over from scratch. He remembered that note he'd found on the porch of that fake house, the note he had left for himself. He had been through this before, the note said; well, he didn't want to go through it again.
So… What next?
Lying on the edge of the king-size bed, staring at his reflection in the ceiling mirrors, he decided that his best bet was to appear to be fooled, lull them into thinking that he was so dumb he didn't suspect a thing. They could be tricked. He'd proven that already. Now it was time to trick them again, though more subtly than he had done the other times. He would put them off balance, take his time, then make a move when they were least expecting it.
The only thing he needed was a hypodermic glove. He'd have to take it from them. With that, he could sedate all of them and have plenty of time to probe more deeply into the background of their game.
Two days…
In two days he'd make his move and become master of the house. He saw now that escape was not enough. Galing and the others must become his prisoners. Whereas he wouldn't have harmed Allison, he had no compunctions against torturing Galing to extract the information he needed.
Beyond the room's single window, skyscrapers thrust at an overcast sky. Distant traffic noises rose against the window.
He knew that he could open that window and smash the hologram scene to bits. But he would not.
Not yet.
But soon. “Soon,” he said softly.
Allison rolled over and blinked at him. She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “Did you say something?”
“No.”
“No?”
“That's right.”
She sat up and brushed her long hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ears. “I thought for sure I heard you say something.” She was wary.
He pointed to the mirrors overhead and smiled at her. “Just talking to myself.”
“Nice place for mirrors, huh?” She grinned at him, then broke into another yawn.
“Sleepyhead,” he said.
“Narcissist.”
“I was only looking at myself because you were all covered up with sheets.”
“Likely story.”
He grabbed for her.
She playfully fended him off. But behind the playfulness, there was a look of uncertainty.
He kissed her, caressed her breasts, let his hands slide down her slim flanks, cupped her buttocks and kneaded them gently. “Old sleepyhead.”
She smiled, slipping back into her role now, sure of him now. “Sex fiend,” she said.
“Better than a narcissist.”
“Oh, you're still a narcissist.”
“A narcissist sex fiend,” he said. “I guess that means I shouldn't be in a room alone with myself.”
She laughed and pushed him back and rolled atop him, and she began to plant kisses all over his chest and stomach. He didn't mind at all when they began to add a dash of verisimilitude to the phony honeymoon setting.
XXI
His deception worked well.
They passed two days alone in their suite. They made love in every style, every position, at any hour of the day or night. They read and watched old movies on the gram screen and made love again and slept and napped and talked. She was quick to laugh, witty, and beautifuclass="underline" she entranced him, even though he knew that they were living a lie. He supposed that he had been hypno-programmed not to want to leave the room; therefore, he didn't once mention the world outside, as if they would spend the rest of their natural lives inside the hotel.
Two days later, when Richard delivered their dinner on a silver cart, he was confident enough to turn his back on Joel. He knelt down and took the food out of the heated storage compartment beneath the cart,
That was a mistake.
Joel picked up a silver wine goblet and knocked the other man unconscious with two savage blows.
Red wine speckled the carpet and showered across the rumpled bed sheets.
Allison said: “You weren't fooled.”
“No.”
“Don't hurt me.”
“Only a little.”
He clipped her gently on her delicate chin. She should have gone down, but she only swayed on the balls of her feet and made a face as if she were about to scream for help. He chopped at her jaw again, harder this time, surprised at her strength. She slumped into his arms.
“Sorry,” he said. He lifted her and carried, her to the bed where she would be comfortable.
Richard groaned, shook his head, and tried to get back onto his knees.
“Hold it,” Joel said. He used the goblet again: two sharp blows to the back of the neck.
He listened.
The house was quiet. No alarm had gone off; no one had heard or seen what he'd done. Yet. However, if Richard were too long in reporting back to Galing, it was all over before it began.
He bent down, rolled Richard onto his back, and searched the man's pockets. He found the hypodermic glove in the inside pocket of the white serving jacket. It was thicker than he had thought it would be, and the rolled cuff was a hollow tube in which most of the glove's mechanisms lay. He pulled it on and gave both Richard and Allison a dose of their own medicine.
Then he picked up the room service phone and, when Henry Galing answered, said, “I think you'd better come up here right away.” He hung up.
He went and stood by the door, stretched his fingers in the glove, and raised his hand.
A minute passed.
Then another…
Come on, dammit!
No one knocked. The door was suddenly flung open, and the faceless man came into the room. He was wearing a hypodermic glove.
Joel stepped away from the wall and used his own glove on the back of the freak's neck before it had time to turn on him.
Galing came in a moment later, confident, sure that all was in order now, not aware of how drastically the balance of power had shifted. When he saw Joel, he turned and ran. He didn't make it out of the room. When Joel's glove touched him, he sighed and took one more step and crumbled.
For an instant Joel was elated-and then he heard quick footsteps on the stairs. Gina! He had forgotten the damned maid.
He ran out into the upstairs corridor of the Galing mansion and hurried to the stairs. She was in the downstairs hall. He went after her, taking two steps at a time. By the time he gained the downstairs hall, she was in the kitchen.
“Wait!”
She didn't wait, of course.
She started for the back door, but she realized that she would never make it across the lawn with him at her heels. As a small cry escaped her lips, she turned, pushed a chair at him, and ran for the cellar door.
Stumbling over the chair, kicking it out of his way, he lunged for her.
She went through the cellar door and pulled it shut behind her, barely avoiding the swipe of his glove. The hypodermic needles struck the door and bent. He tried the knob; it was locked. When he put his ear to the door, he heard her going down the basement steps as fast as she could.
So close. So damned close!
He tried to force the door. He wrenched the knob violently back and forth, applied his shoulder to the panel. It was stronger than it appeared to be. Perhaps the wood veneer concealed not porous panelboard but metal.