Eleven

GAVIN WAS GRATEFUL THAT THE SLIDING DOOR of the neighboring suite was unlocked. He rushed into the room, gasping, “Hello, is anyone in here?”

Wiping the gunk from the desk onto the perfectly made bed, he noted that the suite wasn’t as nice and roomy as his was.

“Hello? I’m just walking through. Don’t shoot me or anything.” The announcement trailed off once he realized there were no personal items anywhere, just a room prepped to receive resort guests.

He picked up speed as he rushed for the front door. He flung it open. A shocked bellhop wheeled a brass-plated luggage valet up to the entrance. They exchanged dumb looks for a second.

A preppy man in his mid-thirties forcibly emerged from behind the bellhop, complaining, “Room 717 is supposed to be empty.”

The bellhop’s shrug was interrupted when a blonde trophy wife shrieked, “Look at him! He’s been shot!”

Gavin realized that he must’ve been a sight, out of breath and dripping wet, but the kicker was the frog blood on his trousers from the knees down and the blood oozing from his forehead.

He decided to go with it.

“Yeah, that’s right. You’ve gotta get out of here. It isn’t safe!”

When the men didn’t respond, Gavin pushed his way through the door. He shoved the towering luggage cart, causing some of the smaller bags to fall. “I said go!”

Preppy Man protested, “Hey, what are—”

Gavin cut him off. “We gotta go now! There’s no time to explain!”

The blonde was already jiggling down the hallway to the elevator.

“Marcia, wait!” the man yelled, starting to trot.

Meanwhile, the bellhop was returning the fallen luggage pieces to their original places on the valet. He pointed to something on the floor.

“You dropped something there.”

“Huh?” Gavin looked at the ground at a faded sticky note, a note that had lost its adhesiveness many years ago. He slowly crouched to pick it up.

The bellhop start heading down the hallway, leaving the valet next to 717. He still eyed the wet, bloody man suspiciously.

Gavin turned the note over and saw the small printed image of a unicorn, its horn impaling the stick man that he’d drawn what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Aren’t you comin’, mister?” the bellhop asked from the open elevator compartment.

Gavin turned the note over and saw the small printed image of a unicorn, its horn impaling the stickman that he’d drawn for what seemed like a lifetime ago.

He didn’t look up. “You go on, kid. I’ll take the next one down.”

Gently rubbing his fingers over the handwritten note, which read, “This one is you, Gavin. Love, Jo,” he muttered, “I love ya too, baby.”

He’d gazed at it a thousand times before, but he couldn’t peel his eyes off it now.

From nowhere, he remembered Torri’s words—that she would use him as a pathway to get to others. He’d witnessed firsthand how her power had amplified from taking the life of exotic dancer Misa Kawaguchi, the kid on the bike, and finally, Monica. He suspected she’d be unstoppable if she had the chance to feast on the dying energy of a few more lives.

Staring at the note in his palm, he sluggishly moved to the elevator.

He extended a finger but hesitated to push the elevator call button.

He couldn’t do it. He had to finish this.

He pictured Ms. Hodges, Thad, that annoying Theo guy from the bar and grill, Billy C., and even that Puma-jacket-wearing jerk—every one of them at risk, everybody an unknowing target of the vindictive spirit whom he was fused to and who would be manifesting soon. Though he didn’t see or hear her, now that things had settled down a bit, he could feel the time of the transformation drawing closer. It wouldn’t be long now—of that he was sure.

And there was Josephine. Why should she be punished for his mistakes? Hadn’t she paid enough already?

A tear wet the sticky note, and Gavin sniffed.

How many people had he met over the years at movie premiers and book events? Were those people in danger, too? The toll would be in the thousands. Could he just walk away and allow this spiteful being to destroy all of them?

Clenching his fingers into a ball, he lowered his fist to his side and turned to look down the hallway.

“Aw, Jo,” he said, returning his eyes to the unicorn and stick man. “I really need your help here. You always help me, always know just what to do and how to fix what I screw up.” He laughed as he sniffed and leaned against the metal threshold of the elevator. “So how do we go about fixing this one?”

Though Gavin imagined himself having a dialogue with his ex-wife, Billy Cavanaugh’s voice butted into his head. The imaginary response from the old man was two chilling words: “Reichenbach Falls.”

“Hell’s bells, Billy. Who invited you into my head?”

Then, all at once, he knew the reason why Torri hadn’t pushed him off the balcony with a gust of wind—why she hadn’t killed him.

He knew her weakness. More importantly, he knew how to exploit that weakness.

Gavin slowly shook his head from side to side. It was an awful solution.

Addressing the imaginary editor, he pleaded, “You said it didn’t even work when Doyle did it in The Final Problem.”

He studied Josephine’s note in his hand, staring at the last two words: “Love, Jo.”

The bad idea grew stronger and took root. In his mind’s eye, Gavin pictured the scene as if it were straight out of a Damien Marksman story.

It was the worst idea he’d ever had, but he couldn’t argue with the logic of it, and what else was there to try? Imaginary Billy, just like the actual Billy, was annoyingly right. And who knows? Maybe Gavin could keep all those people from being harmed.

Maybe he could protect Jo.