A few hours’ sleep made it all seem so much simpler. It wasn’t his business. He might make a few more anonymous calls, but he wasn’t going to ruin his life. The monsters, if they were really monsters, had come and taken over that one apartment complex, and he had been lucky enough to get out alive, and as far as he knew that was the end of it.
That they had turned up at the motel later on didn’t matter. After all, they’d had plenty of opportunity while he was asleep just now, or when he was poking around the unfinished office building; if they were going to attack him, they could have done so then.
Of course, he thought, looking out the window at the orange-streaked western sky, that had all been in broad daylight, and the two occasions when he had seen nightmare people undisguised had been in the middle of the night.
Clearing out his apartment had better wait until morning, he decided. And in fact, he might see about staying up all night again, just until he could get settled in at George’s place and start looking for a new apartment.
He was watching the glorious summer sunset and trying very hard not to think any more about any of it when his steak and shrimp platter arrived.
3.
“Hey, George,” he said into the phone as he lay back on the motel bed.
“That you, Ed?” George’s voice was calm and familiar.
“Yeah,” Smith said. “How’s life treating you lately?”
“Not bad, not bad. You gonna be at the poker game this month?”
“That’s a week from Friday, right?”
“Right, and it’ll be right here at my place.”
“Yeah, I expect I’ll be there. In fact… well, listen, George, I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask away; what’s up?”
“Well, see, there’s a problem with my apartment. In fact, I’m calling from a motel; I had to move out. Is your living room couch still vacant?” He tried not to sound as if he were begging.
George hesitated, and Smith’s heart sank.
“Jeez, Ed,” he said at last, “I don’t know. I mean, nobody’s sleeping on the couch, but Bridget’s been…” He let his sentence trail off unfinished.
“Oh,” Smith said. He paused for a moment, trying to decide how badly he needed somewhere else to stay, and then asked, “You think that would be a problem? I mean, it wouldn’t bother me.”
“Well, yeah,” George said, slightly annoyed. “I think it might have something of an inhibiting effect, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Smith acknowledged.
For a moment both men were silent; then George said, “Look, if it’s an emergency, maybe for a day or two…”
“No, that’s all right,” Smith said, a trifle reluctantly. “I can stay at the motel. At least for now.”
“Okay. Hey, I’m sorry; if the situation changes, I’ll let you know. And if I come across any good apartments I’ll give you a call.”
“Fine. Thanks, George. Really. I’m at the Red Roof Inn in Gaithersburg, room 203.”
“Right.”
“Right. Well, guess I’ll see you at the poker game.”
“Yeah. See you.”
He hung up.
It would seem, Smith thought wryly, that he was not going to be staying with good old George down in Bethesda.
Well, he could find an apartment easily enough. Right across Route 124 there were plenty of apartments, and there were bound to be vacancies – maybe not right now, but reasonably soon.
Then he’d have to go and get all his stuff out of his old apartment – maybe it was just as well he’d never really finished unpacking everything. That meant spending at least a couple of hours at the Bedford Mills complex, with the monsters all around – if they were real. That was a daunting prospect.
At least he’d be able to get George to help – he could play on the guilt about his refusing the couch.
But right now, he didn’t have much to do. He couldn’t go apartment-hunting at this hour, or call the police, and while he’d have been able to work if he were already there, he couldn’t get into the building this late; they locked up at six, and he didn’t have a key yet.
And all his books and records and tapes were back in his apartment, damn it.
He sighed, turned on the TV, and sat on the bed.
Midway through the Tonight Show, where Jay Leno was filling in for Johnny Carson, Smith came to a conclusion.
When you aren’t tired or sleepy or doing anything else, when there are things you’d like to do but can’t, and when you’re all alone in a motel room, watching late-night television is really, really boring.
Worst of all, the television didn’t distract him from worrying about when that nightmare face was going to peer in his window again. His earlier cheerful optimism had faded once night had settled in, the sky had darkened, and the traffic had started to thin.
And not only is late-night TV boring, he decided, but motel rooms are depressing.
Sitting in a motel room watching late-night TV was stupid. There had to be something better to do!
Well, a mere twenty miles away was the heart of the nation’s capital, and after living in Diamond Park for three months he still hadn’t seen most of the monuments and attractions. Except for one weekend in May when he’d driven around the Mall unsuccessfully hunting a parking space, he hadn’t been into the District at all in that time.
Midnight probably wasn’t the best time, but at least parking should be easier.
He got up and shut off the TV, then checked through his pockets to make sure he had his license and keys. He glanced out the window.
For an instant he thought he saw something moving, something dark and red-eyed, but when he stepped closer there was nothing there.
Imagination, he told himself, just imagination. This whole thing had him horribly jumpy.
He hoped it was just his imagination, but he had never imagined seeing things before.
He stood at the window for a moment, staring out. He saw Denny’s and the Shell station and Route 124, and no sign of any monsters.
He opened the door and left the room.
4.
Admiring monuments is all very well, Smith decided, but in the muggy August weather, even at night, he didn’t care to do much walking or climbing, and staying in his air-conditioned car put serious limitations on what he could see or do – not to mention that Washington was reportedly not a particularly safe place to walk at night. The national capital was the national murder capital as well, after all – there had been something like two hundred and fifty homicides in the District so far this year.
Of course, nobody got shot by crack dealers on the Mall, whatever the hour, and he wasn’t about to go wandering through the streets of Anacostia. All the same, except for a quick jaunt past the Vietnam Memorial over to the Reflecting Pool and back, he had stayed in his car.
Nobody had bothered him during his walk; he had glimpsed a few other people strolling the area, but they were just dark shapes in the distance.
He drove around the Washington Monument once more, and then, at about 3:30, he headed back out of the city, taking 18th Street north to Connecticut Avenue and following that straight out to the Beltway.
The city streets were almost empty; he saw an occasional taxi here and there, but for the most part there was no traffic. The only delays on Connecticut were the traffic lights, but despite the hour he didn’t care to run them. He wasn’t in any hurry.
There were other cars on the Beltway and I-270, of course. There were always cars on the Beltway and I-270, at any hour of day or night. Traffic wasn’t heavy enough to get in his way, though.
At twenty past four he hit the ramp off I-270 at Exit 10 and followed the loop around onto 117. Right up until he passed Bureau Drive and the entrance to the National Institute of Standards and Technology, he wasn’t sure where he was going.
If he turned right onto 124, he’d be back at the motel in seconds.
If he went straight through the light he’d be on his way back to Diamond Park, where he could take another look at that unfinished building, or drive past his old apartment, and see if anything had changed.