"That’s all?"
"Isn’t that enough? Still, there is one more thing I might add. It can’t be of real importance, except in showing the effect the experience had on me."
"What is it?"
"Wait a minute."
Randall got up and went again into the bedroom. He was not quite so careful this time to open the oor the bare minimum, although he did close it behind him. It made him nervous, in one way, not to be constantly at Cynthia’s side; yet had he been able to answer honestly he would have been forced to admit that even Hoag’s presence was company and some relief to his anxiety. Consciously, he excused his conduct as an attempt to get to the bottom of their troubles.
He listened for her heartbeats again. Satisfied that she still was in this world, he plumped her pillow and brushed vagrant hair up from her face. He leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly, then went quickly out of the room.
Hoag was waiting. "Yes?" he inquired.
Randall sat down heavily and rested his head on his hands. "Still the same." Hoag refrained from making a useless answer; presently Randall commenced in a tired voice to tell him of the nightmares he had experienced the last two nights. "Mind you, I don’t say they are significant," he added, when he had done. "I’m not superstitious."
"I wonder," Hoag mused.
"What do you mean?"
"I don’t mean anything supernatural, but isn’t it possible that the dreams were not entirely accidental ones, brought on by your experiences? I mean to say, if there is someone who can make you dream the things you dreamed in the Acme Building in broad daylight, why couldn’t they force you to dream at night as well?"
"Huh?"
"Is there anyone who hates you, Mr. Randall?"
"Why, not that I know of. Of course, in my business, you sometimes do things that don’t exactly make friends, but you do it for somebody else. There’s a crook or two who doesn’t like me any too well, but—well, they couldn’t do anything like this. It doesn’t make sense. Anybody hate you? Besides Potbury?"
"Not that I know of. And I don’t know why he should. Speaking of him, you’re going to get some other medical advice, aren’t you?"
"Yes. I guess I don’t think very fast. I don’t know just what to do, except to pick up the phone book and try another number."
"There’s a better way. Call one of the big hospitals and ask for an ambulance."
"I’ll do that!" Randall said, standing up.
"You might wait until morning. You wouldn’t get any useful results until morning, anyway. In the meantime she might wake up."
"Well ... yes, I guess so. I think I’ll take another look at her."
"Mr. Randall?"
"Eh?"
"Uh, do you mind if— May I see her?"
Randall looked at him. His suspicions had been lulled more than he had realized by Hoag’s manner and words, but the suggestion brought him up short, making him recall Potbury’s warnings vividly. "I’d rather you didn’t," he said stiffly.
Hoag showed his disappointment but tried to cover it. "Certainly. I quite understand, sir."
When Randall returned he was standing near the door with his hat in his hand. "I think I had better go," he said. When Randall did not comment he added, "I would sit with you until morning if you wished it."
"No. Not necessary. Good night."
"Good night, Mr. Randall."
When Hoag had gone he wandered around aimlessly for several minutes, his beat ever returning im to the side of his wife. Hoag’s comments about Potbury’s methods had left him more uneasy than he cared to admit; in addition to that Hoag had, by partly allaying his suspicions of the man, taken from him his emotional whipping boy—which did him no good.
He ate a cold supper and washed it down with beer—and was pleased to find it remained in place. He then dragged a large chair into the bedroom, put a footstool in front of it, got a spare blanket, and prepared to spend the night. There was nothing to do and he did not feel like reading— he tried it and it didn’t work. From time to time he got up and obtained a fresh can of beer from the icebox. When the beer was gone he took down the rye. The stuff seemed to quiet his nerves a little, but otherwise he could detect no effect from it. He did not want to become drunk.
He woke with a terrified start, convinced for the moment that Phipps was at the mirror and about to kidnap Cynthia. The room was dark; his heart felt as if it would burst his ribs before he could find the switch and assure himself that it was not so, that his beloved, waxy pale, still lay on the bed.
He had to examine the big mirror and assure himself that it did reflect the room and not act as a window to some other, awful place before he was willing to snap off the light. By the dim reflected light of the city he poured himself a bracer for his shaken nerves.
He thought that he caught a movement in the mirror, whirled around, and found that it was his own reflection. He sat down again and stretched himself out, resolving not to drop off to sleep again.
What was that?
He dashed into the kitchen in pursuit of it. Nothing—nothing that he could find. Another surge of panic swept him back into the bedroom—it could have been a ruse to get him away from her side.
They were laughing at him, goading him, trying to get him to make a false move. He knew it— they had been plotting against him for days, trying to shake his nerve. They watched him out of every mirror in the house, ducking back when he tried to catch them at it. The Sons of the Bird—
"The Bird is Cruel!"
Had he said that? Had someone shouted it at him? The Bird is Cruel. Panting for breath, he went to the open window of the bedroom and looked out. It was still dark, pitch-dark. No one moved on the streets below. The direction of the lake was a lowering bank of mist. What time was it? Six o’clock in the morning by the clock on the table. Didn’t it ever get light in this God-forsaken city?
The Sons of the Bird. He suddenly felt very sly; they thought they had him, but he would fool them—they couldn’t do this to him and to Cynthia. He would smash every mirror in the place. He hurried out to the kitchen, where he kept a hammer in the catch-all drawer. He got it and came back to the bedroom. First, the big mirror—
He hesitated just as he was about to swing on it. Cynthia wouldn’t like this—seven years’ bad luck! He wasn’t superstitious himself, but—Cynthia wouldn’t like it! He turned to the bed with the idea of explaining it to her; it seemed so obvious—just break the mirrors and then they would be safe from the Sons of the Bird.
But he was stumped by her still face.
He thought of a way around it. They had to use a mirror. What was a mirror? A piece of glass that reflects. Very well—fix ’em so they wouldn’t reflect! Furthermore he knew how he could do it; in the same drawer with the hammer were three or four dime-store cans of enamel, and a small brush, leftovers from a splurge of furniture refinishing Cynthia had once indulged in.
He dumped them all into a small mixing bowl; together they constituted perhaps a pint of heavy pigment—enough, he thought, for his purpose. He attacked the big beveled glass first, slapping enamel over it in quick careless strokes. It ran down his wrists and dripped onto the dressing table; he did not care. Then the others— here was enough, though barely enough, to finish the living-room mirror. No matter—it was the last mirror in the house—except, of course, the tiny mirrors in Cynthia’s bags and purses, and he had already decided that they did not count. Too small for a man to crawl through and packed away out of sight, anyhow.
The enamel had been mixed from a small amount of black and perhaps a can and a half, net, of red. It was all over his hands now; he looked like the central figure in an ax murder. No matter—he wiped it, or most of it, off on a towel and went back to his chair and his bottle.