Ghosted - A Novel Part 36

"It should be obvious," said Mason, and lifted his hands. "You put up your G.o.dd.a.m.n scalp."

76.

This was to be their last night in the QT room, and Mason and w.i.l.l.y were happy.

"In some ways I'll miss this place," she said.

"Yeah," said Mason, though he didn't exactly agree with her. Even now the knowledge lurked: how easy this room could turn-if your friends disappeared, if the door refused to open-from a hideout into h.e.l.l.

"I still can't believe you bet your scalp! You're hair's so thick and nice!"

The nervous energy of watching the game through a one-way mirror had made w.i.l.l.y giddy, then just tired, and soon she fell asleep. Mason lay with her awhile, looking out through the bulletproof window. The Cave would be opening in an hour or so. He got up, put his left hand to the wall, then rolled on out.

Chaz was alone at the bar, still holding a deck of cards. "So tell me," he said. "How'd you learn to do it?"

"Fifteen years of practice," said Mason. "And a lot of shuffling."

"Yeah, but how?"

Mason sat down and looked at him. "I had a good teacher."

"No way ...," said Chaz.

"Yup."

"You're kidding me?"

"Remember what he said that night?"

"Boom, boom ... and boom."

Mason nodded. "Yeah. Then he said, 'If you're going to stack the deck ...'"

"So he taught you how? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"He told me not to."

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Why didn't he teach me?" me?"

Mason shrugged. "I guess he just liked me more."

"Okay. Well if you're so good at cheating, why do you lose so much?"

"I won today, didn't I?"

"Yeah. You did."

"To Tenner." Mason raised an empty gla.s.s.

"To Tenner ..." There was silence as Chaz swallowed down his drink. Mason watched him.

"It was hard to play sober-I guess a lot of things are going to be hard."

"You played better."

"Maybe. Cheating helps."

"I guess so.... You think he'll do it?"

"Who, Seth? We'll see. At least we got him tagged."

Chaz picked up the bottle and gestured to Mason. Mason shook his head. "I got a question," he said. "Those paintings in there. They're Soon's, right?"

Chaz poured a gla.s.s. "I found them in the Dogmobile."

"What do you mean?"

"I needed somewhere to store things. Didn't want you detoxing in a room full of c.o.ke and guns."

"Good thinking."

"I got it towed back here-nice driving, by the way."

"Sorry about that."

"So I thought I'd stash it all in that big empty hat. I took down the drop ceiling, and there they were...."

"Hats off to you...."

"What?"

"A note he left."

"Well, he left you another one, too." Chaz dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and put it on the table.

Mason stared at it.

Chaz looked at his watch. "The rabble will be here soon."

"Thanks," said Mason. He picked up the envelope and headed back in, to the cave within the Cave.

Dear Mr. D., I have ent.i.tled the series: "The Ghosts of Soon." Enclosed is a signed letter of provenance, so that no one will debate either authorship or ownership of these paintings. They belong to you, and as long as I am held in the public consciousness they should be worth something. It is in both our interests that I am well remembered.I'm sorry I misled you, but I also misread you; I didn't expect your conscience to kick in quite so fast. Thanks for caring. You're a good man.Soon Sahala Fishy was supposed to have been watching the monitor. As it was, Chaz was on the wrong side of the room when he heard the thunder: Detective Flores and fifteen other cops in flak jackets, six of them holding shotguns.

w.i.l.l.y was still asleep. Only Mason saw it happening-drinks and chips scattering, Chaz hurtling over the bar. But that was it-he didn't drop to the floor, didn't roll through the trap door. He stood up straight and Mason knew what he was thinking: his friends were safe, and that's all that mattered. Why push his luck?

He and Mason were facing each other now, and although Chaz couldn't see though the gla.s.s, they found each other's eyes. Chaz gave him a smile, then turned around with his hands up-shotguns trained on his generous grin.

Who wants to take that long shot gamble?

And head it out to Fire Lake?

THE EIGHTH.

BENEATH THE BLACK HELMET.

77.

Mason stood on the subway platform. There was hardly anyone around, even here at St. George station, where the University line crossed over the Bloor. His hands were shaking, he was looking down at the track. Air rushed in and out of the tunnels, the distant sounds of metal on metal, radio buzz, fluorescent humming.

At 12:07 a.m. the sound system clicked on-a low hiss from the speakers in the ceiling, a computerized bell: bong, bong (two bong, bong (two notes deemed suitable for getting people's attention). And then a level, vapid voice: "Attention TTC commuters. At this time, travel both east and west on the Bloor line has been suspended until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience. Attention TTC commuters ..." notes deemed suitable for getting people's attention). And then a level, vapid voice: "Attention TTC commuters. At this time, travel both east and west on the Bloor line has been suspended until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience. Attention TTC commuters ..."

Mason stood there another minute, until the air shifted. The southbound train came screeching out of the tunnel.

He stepped in, the doors closed behind him and he was off. As the train flew through the darkness, an image of a man came into his head. He was in a business suit, running through a field. There was a look of exhilaration and fear on his face. Then Mason realized what it was: a Monty Python Monty Python skit he hadn't seen for years, the voice-over something like, "G.o.d gave this convicted killer the rare opportunity to choose the manner of his own execution ..." And at this moment, cresting the hill behind him, came a legion of naked, buxom women. Mason could see them now, their long, soft hair flying as they ran. They chased the man right off a cliff. skit he hadn't seen for years, the voice-over something like, "G.o.d gave this convicted killer the rare opportunity to choose the manner of his own execution ..." And at this moment, cresting the hill behind him, came a legion of naked, buxom women. Mason could see them now, their long, soft hair flying as they ran. They chased the man right off a cliff.

G.o.d knows, with all those options out there, why Seth would choose the subway. But apparently he had.

Mason got off at Queen's Park and walked the rest of the way. Near his apartment, he cut through the alley. There was still police tape around the loading dock and the Dogmobile was gone. He was pretty sure the cops hadn't found the QT room. Flores and his men had emptied the Cave while he and w.i.l.l.y watched from behind the gla.s.s. They'd waited all through the day-then, in the evening, he'd carried her out.

They'd left everything behind-including "The Book of Handyman," "Notes on the Novel in Progress," seventy Socratic statements, the letters he'd written for Warren, w.i.l.l.y and Soon, Soon's research and anything else incriminating Chaz had found in Mason's apartment and transferred to the QT room, believing that would be safer.

His laptop was down there, too. But still, he wasn't in a hurry to go back-especially considering the bag of cocaine. Mason had found it tucked down between the bed and the wall. Chaz must have dropped it there while moving his cache out to the Dogmobile. All that time detoxing, Mason had been locked in a room with a pound of pure Peruvian. He salivated thinking about it. Unless the cops had miraculously found the entrance to the QT room the c.o.ke was down there right now-along with "The Ghosts of Soon" and a tape deck that played only one song, over and over and over ...

Mason climbed the stairs to his apartment. He liked the feeling of opening the door, knowing there was someone inside.

"Hey there, cowboy," said w.i.l.l.y. She was propped up in the captain's bed.

"You're awake."

"I wasn't uncomfortable," she said. "Just waiting for you ..." He could see she was nervous. She didn't know how to ask the question.

"He did it," said Mason.

"Seriously?"

"The subway stopped running right after midnight. We'll know for sure tomorrow."

"Holy s.h.i.t," she said.

"Yeah."

78.

Mason's alarm rang at 8:45 a.m. It was the first time he'd ever set it, his first day with rules: awake before nine a.m., breakfast, lunch and dinner, at least an hour of exercise, no drugs, no gambling-and for the time being, no booze-to bed by one a.m. He'd even decided to look for a job, something that didn't involve hotdogs, suicide or writing. Let other people write books.

w.i.l.l.y stirred. He told her to sleep a bit more, then got out of bed and climbed down the steps. He shaved, ate some granola, then called Dr. Francis.

There was no answer at the MHAD office. He tried her cellphone.

"Dr. Francis speaking." There was noise in the background.

"It's me," said Mason. "Where are you?"

"I work at the shelter on Tuesdays."

"Oh. Do you have any news?"

"The prognosis looks good!" she said.

Mason realized he'd been holding his breath, and let it go.

"Come to my office tomorrow and we can talk about it."

"w.i.l.l.y needs her medication," he said. It had been over forty-eight hours. Had the doctor forgotten?

"Right ...," she said. "Why don't you meet me here at noon."

In the hope that she could sleep through most of the day, Mason gave w.i.l.l.y some Imovane. "But if you wake up in pain," he said, "take a sedative. And you call me on my cell." He put the phone next to the bed.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll be all right."

Except for the trip to the St. George subway station, he hadn't gone farther than a city block in weeks-the Cave, the MHAD building, the market, the park. When had the world got so small he could see the breadth of it from his window? It was time the universe started expanding again. He took long strides and a roundabout route: through the university, around Queen's Park, down into the financial district, then back up Yonge Street. The air was cool, the sky was clear, and he figured this counted as exercise.