The Ninth Nightmare Part 2

'OK, OK! Keep your toupee on!' The bathroom door opened, and Rhodajane stepped out, still brushing her hair. 'Sorry if I kept you waiting but I was busting.' She walked across the room and opened her pocketbook. 'How much do I owe you?'

John said, 'The TV, ma'am. Take a look at the TV.'

'Hold up. Let me get my gla.s.ses. I can't see a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing without my gla.s.ses.'

As she was rummaging in her pocketbook for her purse and her spectacles, John saw a dark red stain spreading quickly across the sheet on which the woman was lying. The man stood up straight, and for a split second John could see the woman's face again. She seemed to be staring directly at him, her eyes bulging in pain, her mouth dragged downward in a silent howl. Then the TV screen flickered and jumped, and the image of the darkened room vanished, and was instantly replaced by a commercial for HeadOn headache cure, (or nOdaeH as it appeared in the mirror.) Rhodajane came up behind him wearing her gla.s.ses and laid a surprisingly familiar hand on his shoulder. 'So what did you want me to see? Not this G.o.dd.a.m.ned HeadOn commercial? It must be the worst commercial ever! "HeadOn - apply directly to the forehead! HeadOn - apply directly to the forehead!" Jesus, I can hear it in my sleep!'

'No, no, not that,' John told her. 'There was something on The Tyra Show, that's all. It doesn't matter.'

'The Tyra Show? That c.r.a.p? You have very strange tastes, Mr Eldest-Son-Of-The-King-Of-France. How much do I owe you?'

'Forty-four bucks, but let's call it forty. The traffic wasn't your fault.'

Rhodajane gave him a fifty-dollar bill and said, 'Keep the change my good man. But don't spend it all on bacon fries.'

John headed for the door and opened it. Before he left, though, he turned around and said, 'Here - let me give you my cellphone number.'

'What for? I'm still not going out with you.'

'I know that. I'm not asking you to. But just in case.'

'Just in case of what, for instance?'

'Just in case something weird happens. Weird things do happen. I've had some pretty weird things happen to me, in my time.'

'You and that detective, you're both as screwy as each other if you ask me. Tweedle-de-dum and Tweedle-de-dee.'

John took a catsup-spotted business card out of his breast pocket and offered it to her. 'More than likely, ma'am, everything's going to be fine. But if you get spooked or anything, and you feel too reticent to phone the cops, give me a call and I can be round here in five minutes flat. I only live in Glenville.'

Rhodajane hesitated for a moment, but then she took his card and tucked it into her cleavage. 'OK, big boy, whatever you say. But I don't believe for one single second that my room is going to change into the chamber of horrors or that I'm going to hear screaming in the middle of the night. And n.o.body else is getting in here once I've locked this door behind you, and you can be one hundred and eleven percent sure of that.'

'Sure,' said John. He could have tried to explain to her what he had seen on the reflected TV screen, but she would probably think that he was deliberately trying to frighten her so that she would ask him to come around and protect her. Either that, or she would think that he was mentally challenged, or that he had been smoking something more exotic than Marlboro Lights.

'Goodbye, then, Mr Dauphin,' she told him. 'And thank you. You're a gentleman.'

'Well, I was the last time I looked. But don't forget, will you? Anything outre occurs, anything at all, anything eldritch, you pick up your phone and it'll be John Dauphin to the rescue. I mean that.'

Rhodajane looked at him and gave him a very slight shake of her head. 'Do you know something, Mr Dauphin? Half the time I don't understand a word you're saying. But I like you. I really dooski. I give you permission to have a dream about me tonight if you want to.'

'Well, I'd be careful about saying that if I were you, ma'am. Some dreams are good, but other dreams are not so good. And some dreams you can never really wake up from, even if you want to. Some dreams stay with you for the rest of your life, and you wish you'd never had them.'

Rhodajane looked at him narrowly. 'What are you, some kind of dream expert?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes, I guess you could say that I am.'

They were both silent. It was only for two or three seconds, but in those two or three seconds something pa.s.sed between them, one of those indefinable feelings that they were more than just cab driver and fare, more than just pa.s.sing acquaintances who would never see each other again, except by coincidence. Ostensibly they had nothing at all in common, but John pointed at Rhodajane with a pistol-like gesture as if to say 'see you later, OK?' and Rhodajane closed her eyes as if to acknowledge that he would.

John turned and waddled off toward the elevators and Rhodajane stood in the doorway of her hotel room watching him go. Behind her, Tyra was talking to a twenty-two-year-old woman who wanted to auction her virginity on the Internet.

The woman was saying, 'I always dreamed of having a lover... but somehow it never happened. Every man I ever met turned out to be a nightmare.'

THREE.

Room 104 Lincoln was sitting alone in a corner booth of the Boa Vinda Restaurant, wishing that he hadn't ordered such a messy dish as caldeirada, when his cellphone played Tracks Of My Tears. He shook open his white linen napkin and hastily started to wipe the thick tomato-and-saffron sauce from his fingers.

'Lincoln?' said a woman's voice, very small and far away.

'Grace?' he laughed. 'Wait up a second, honey, I'm in kind of a pickle here.'

He put down his cell and finished wiping his hands and his mouth. Then he picked it up again and said, 'Sorry. The waiter recommended this Portuguese fish stew and it's absolutely outstanding but you pretty much have to take a bath in it to eat it.'

'Lincoln?' the woman's voice repeated, as if she hadn't heard him.

'Grace? Are you still there? You're very faint.'

'Lincoln?'

'Listen, honey,' he said, 'why don't I call you back? I'm sitting in the hotel restaurant here and maybe the signal's too weak.'

'Lincoln?'

'Hang up, and I'll call you right back, OK?'

He listened for a few seconds more, in case Grace answered him, but as he took his cell away from his ear, he heard a man say, 'Lincoln?'

Lincoln frowned and lifted up the cell again. 'Hallo? Hallo? Who is this?'

The man sounded hoa.r.s.e, like a heavy smoker. 'No need for you to know that, Lincoln.'

'What do you mean, "no need for me to know that"? Who the h.e.l.l is this?'

'You know what they say, Lincoln. Curiosity killed the cat.'

'I'm trying to get through to my wife here, so if you don't mind-'

'You need to listen to me, Lincoln. I'm your friend.'

'What friend?'

'A concerned friend. A very concerned friend. So long as you do what I tell you, that is.'

Lincoln suddenly slapped the table. 'Bennie? Is this you, man? Quit horsing around, OK? I'm trying to finish my G.o.dd.a.m.ned dinner here.'

'Eat your G.o.dd.a.m.ned dinner then, Lincoln. Enjoy it. But do not return to your room.'

'If this is your idea of a joke, man-'

'No joke, Lincoln. Do not return to your room. Not if you know what's good for you.'

'That's enough, Bennie. It's been a long day, OK? I have two more meetings in the morning and then I'll get back to you. It looks like we can get top billing for Millie D and maybe second spot for The Jive Machine.'

'You need to listen to me, Lincoln. You'll regret it if you don't. Tonight, I need my privacy, you got that? I don't want any witnesses. Not you, not anybody.'

Lincoln took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. Then he said, 'If this is you, Bennie, this isn't funny any more. If this isn't Bennie, then all I can say is go screw yourself.'

There was a sudden blurt of white noise, and then a thick, persistent crackle, but that was all. Lincoln tried to see who had called him, but the only number that showed up was his own home number, in Ann Arbor. He tried calling Grace again, but he couldn't get a ring tone. He edged his way out of the booth, stood up and started to walk toward the restaurant door.

One of the waiters intercepted him. 'Sir? You finish up already, sir? The caldeirada - it was not to your like?'

'The caldeirada's terrific. I have to make a phone call, that's all.'

'You don't go back to your room?'

'Excuse me?'

'I said, "Do you want me to keep it warm?"'

Lincoln stared at him. The waiter looked back at him, unblinking. Lincoln was sure that he had said, "You don't go back to your room?" but maybe he had genuinely misheard him. The restaurant was noisy, after all, with talking and laughter and clattering cutlery and piped salsa music in the background.

'No... you're OK,' he said slowly, and walked toward the restaurant entrance. The maitre d' was standing behind his lectern by the doorway, with polished black hair and a little black moustache and a maroon tuxedo. As Lincoln approached he bowed his head and said, 'Good evening, sir. I hope you enjoyed your meal.'

'I'm only stepping out to use my cell. I'm coming back in a minute.'

'You are not returning to your room?'

'Why? What's it to you?'

'Excuse me, sir, I don't follow you.'

'Why should you care whether I'm returning to my room or not?'

'I'm sorry, sir. I still don't understand.' The maitre d' looked totally baffled. 'I made no mention of your room.'

Lincoln opened his mouth. He was about to tell the maitre d' that he was either a deuce hole or an idiot, but he decided that it was pointless. Instead he gave him a dismissive flap of his hand and walked off.

He was still unable to get a cellphone signal out in the hotel lobby, so he went outside and stood on the front steps of the hotel. A strong gusty wind was blowing from the north-west, off the lake, and dead leaves were skipping across the hotel driveway with a clatter like dancing skeletons. He tried calling Grace again, but all he could hear was the same thick crackling that he had heard before. Maybe his phone was on the fritz. The best thing he could do was go back to his room and call her from there.

No joke, Lincoln. Do not return to your room. Not if you know what's good for you.

He went back into the hotel lobby and took a left at the reception desk. There was a gilt-framed mirror at the end of the corridor and he could see himself walking toward it - a tall, lithe African-American in a black suit and a black silk shirt. His head was shaved which emphasized the Nubian looks that he had inherited from his mother - a thin face with high cheekbones and a straight narrow nose. In fact his features were so sharp that his friends at school had nicknamed him Icepick.

He reached Room 104. As he took out his key card, a hotel chambermaid in a frilly white ap.r.o.n came out of Room 106 next door with clean green towels over her arm. She stopped and stared at him as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

'Good evening,' he said, giving her a smile.

'Yes, sir,' she replied, still staring at him. She walked off, turning her head around twice as she made her way along the corridor, as if she were afraid that he was going to come after her. Lincoln watched her until she reached the lobby and disappeared out of sight. He thought: what the h.e.l.l was that all about? But then he shrugged and inserted his key card into the lock. She could have mistaken him for somebody famous. Grace maintained that he bore a strong resemblance to the murdered rapper Tupac Shakur, so maybe it was no surprise that the housekeeper had looked at him with such anxiety. He guessed that he would be anxious, too, if he met a man who had been shot dead in 1996.

He entered his room and switched on the light. Everything appeared to be normal. The chambermaid had closed the drapes and switched on the bedside lamps, as well as turning down the bed and leaving two chocolate mints in the pillows. Lincoln went across to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed nine for an outside line. While he waited, he rotated his head to ease his neck muscles. It had been a long, punishing day and he couldn't wait to finish his dinner, take a shower and climb into bed.

Instead of an outside line, however, he heard that sharp blurt of white noise again, followed by the soft crackling of static.

s.h.i.t, he thought. Maybe there was something wrong with his home phone line. But he hadn't even dialed his number yet, so how could that be? And how come he couldn't get a line either on his cellphone or this regular landline? It didn't make any technical sense.

He dialed zero for the hotel operator. This time, he got a response.

'Operator, how can I help you?'

'I'm trying to get an outside line from Room One-Oh-Four, but all I'm getting is this crackling sound.'

'Hold on, Mr Walker. I'll see what I can do.'

There was a moment's pause, and then he heard the crackling noise again. He dialed the operator again and said, 'I'm still getting it.'

'I'm sorry, sir, you're still getting what, exactly?'

'The crackling sound, just like before.'

'I'm sorry, sir. I don't hear it. All I can hear is a regular dialing tone.'

'There's no dialing tone. There's only this crackling sound.'

There was another pause, and then he heard the crackling again. He tried the operator's number again, and it rang, but this time n.o.body answered.

'This is f.u.c.king unbelievable,' he said to his reflection in the mirror. He would have to go to the front desk and see if they could dial his home number for him. He was growing increasingly annoyed now. His dinner was getting cold, he couldn't get through to Grace, and everybody in this five-star hotel was talking five-star bulls.h.i.t. He was beginning to agree with his late lookalike Tupac, who had once said, 'Reality is wrong. Only dreams are for real.'

He thought it would be a good idea to take a leak before he went to reception, so he made his way around the bed and headed for the bathroom door. His hand was already on the doork.n.o.b when there was a thunderous crash from inside the bathroom and the whole door shook as if somebody had thrown themselves against it. He jumped back, startled, and he almost lost his balance and fell over backward on to the bed.

There was another crash, and then another, and then a tumbling, squeaking noise like somebody falling into the bathtub.

'Who's there?' he shouted. 'What the h.e.l.l are you doing?'

He took hold of the doork.n.o.b again and twisted it, but the door was either locked or jammed. He heard more squeaking and more knocking, and then, suddenly, a woman moaning. Her moan started off quite shivery and low, ohhhhhhhhhh, as if she were calling out in dread; but then it grew increasingly shrill and panicky, and then she started screaming at the top of her voice, and begging 'No! No! Please don't do that! No! Please don't do that!'

Lincoln rattled the doork.n.o.b and beat on the door panel with his fist.

'Who's in there? Open up! What the h.e.l.l are you doing? If you don't open up I'm going to call for security!'

The woman's screaming went on for four or five more seconds, accompanied by what sounded like bare heels drumming against an empty bathtub. Then, just as suddenly as the noise had begun, it stopped, and there was silence.

Lincoln waited, his ear close to the door. He tried the doork.n.o.b again, and this time the door unlatched, and opened. Inside the bathroom it was completely dark.

'Who's in there?' he repeated.