The woman entered his motel room screaming.
Max Caul turned away from his reflection. Tendrils of steam twisted around him as hot water ran into the sink. She sounded close. He thought she might be standing right there, between the toilet and the curtained tub. But the space was empty. Had he left the TV on?
No.
The terror was too real.
The woman screamed again.
Max emerged, brandishing an orange Bic razor in his right hand. The room was smeared. He knew why. His other hand made a quick search of the dresser top for his eyeglasses. He stopped and touched his head. The round silver-edged lenses pushed up on his bald dome. He exhaled deeply through his nose as he lowered the frames.
He pivoted and saw Opal—one of the owners of the motel.
Saw her crumpling to the carpet.
Her husband, out of breath, appeared behind her in the doorway. The two of them gaped at Max. They both seemed shocked.
Max checked his state of undress: He wore corduroys, suspenders, and a flimsy grayed undershirt. His crooked, ivory toes protruded from holes in his socks. Half his face was lathered in
mint shaving foam. Not ideal but it would have to suffice. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“You’re alive,” Opal said.
Max laughed. “Yes, technically, that is true.”
The dog materialized from between the double beds.
Her wet nose shined and her golden red tail wagged—the picture of excellent canine health. She ducked her head and nuzzled Opal’s cheek.
“Ann-Margret. Annie girl, leave her alone.” Max clasped the Irish setter’s collar. She immediately sat back on her haunches and began licking his fingers.
Wyatt started apologizing.
“They’re coming here,” Opal said to Max. “It’s too late.”
“Excuse me? What?” Max bent and felt a familiar stabbing in his kidneys.
“The Pitch are coming for you. Leave now. The Pitch are coming.”
Max nodded politely and frowned; his overgrown eyebrows twitching.
Wyatt helped his wife to her feet. “I’m really sorry about this, Max. Opal hasn’t been feeling well. I think she’s . . .” He was at a loss for words.
“Under the weather?” Max suggested.
Wyatt nodded. The lower muscles of his face clenched. He seemed to bite and chew on nothing. He’s teetering on the verge of panic , Max observed to himself. This was not a panicking man. Something had him afraid.
“She’s not been well,” Wyatt said again.
Wyatt’s eye patch made Max uneasy; the cancellation behind it couldn’t be disguised. Max tried to focus on the remaining eye. It did no good. His mind supplied the image of a blinking red socket. Nausea rippled across his abdomen. He covered his mouth with his knuckles and expelled a tiny pocket of sour air.
Wyatt attempted to usher his wife from the room.
She wouldn’t budge.
Arctic wind charged past them, invading the lodging. The three people huddled closer together for a moment. Opal reached out and snagged Max’s bare wrist. Her grip was like pliers. Max became certain her purpose was to verify his corporeal existence; he patted her hand to reassure her.
She released him.
“I’m very sorry,” Wyatt said as he led Opal into the bitter cold. Their steps crackled in retreat. A grating of ice particles showered them, blowing sharply into the room. Pinprick water beads formed on the old man’s glasses.
“No problem,” Max called out. “No problem at all. I hope she feels better later. Try some chamomile tea. Celestial Seasonings. Cup of tea and a nice long soak in a bubble bath can work wonders. I’m fine. Please think nothing of it.”
Max closed the door. The automatic lock clicked. He engaged the deadbolt and carefully attached the length of chain.
He realized he was still clutching the disposable razor in his trembling fingers. He threw it in the corner. The shaving cream on his chin had started to sag and dribble into the notch of his throat.
From his pocket he withdrew a peg of chalk and began to draw symbols on the inside of the door. Hastily, he used the heel of his other hand to erase the symbols already sketched there from the night before.
Thank God they hadn’t discovered his mild acts of defacement. He had no valid explanation to offer them. Usually he cleaned up with a damp paper towel whenever he left the room for longer than a few minutes. They had never caught him. His main symbol was a boxy labyrinth; around it he placed spirals. He recited the incantations. Let my enemies be lost. May they find their pathways blocked. Let them wander in endless circles.
Or circle around him like sharks.
He was old and he was dying. He knew that.
His blood flowered in the water. The scent of his wounds transmitted for all those capable of reception. His enemies.
They were out there, to be sure.
He went to the draped window and repeated the rituals. He didn’t bother erasing his older markings this time. The drapery opened into the room like a huge wing. He worked feverishly over the fabric, slashing marks with his chalk stick. Yesterday’s symbols were smudging, but soon the old and new together lay hidden in the folds of stiff material.
“At last.” He sighed.
His protections hadn’t failed. Thank goodness.
But a false breach was still a breach.
He was startled by what had happened: a woman bursting into his room and collapsing. Max sat on the bed. Ann-Margret jumped up and placed her soft rusty head against his thigh. He scratched her ears and she closed her eyes in bliss. He’d been startled, yes, but not entirely surprised. He had long suspected contact was eminent. But he hadn’t foreseen it coming from the motel owners. An unexpected direction—it caught him off-guard.
He needed to be more alert in the future.
The ex-policeman, Wyatt, thought his wife had gone utterly hysterical, ranting and acting mad in public. Her husband was confused, embarrassed.
And wrong.
Opal didn’t appear to understand the import of her visions.
Max wasn’t about to explain. Not now. How could he? No one would believe him. He’d learned the hard way how reluctant people were to give up their assumptions about reality. He wasn’t sure how much the woman already knew. Bits and pieces, likely, but she couldn’t fit the puzzle together. She must have the gift. Funny, though. He’d been her acquaintance for years, and while he liked her and conversed with her easily, he had never detected she was psychic.
He hadn’t planned on that.
Although, as he pondered, it occurred to him her talent could prove useful.
Go figure. The cosmos finds a route. Always does. It keeps on
spinning. He hoped to keep Opal out of harm’s way. He’d always gotten a warm apricot-hued vibe around her. Pleasant, quite strong. She harbored an old soul and a decent one at that. It would be a shame if she died.
But a greater excitement filled him.
To think the final process was in motion ...
It gave him a delicious thrill. Like swallowing a smoking cold scoop of ice cream right off the top of the cone and feeling it slip- slide down his throat, burring up against his spine. He received the same chasing ice cream headache, too: a dull butter knife inserted behind his eyes at the temple and slanting upward at forty- five degrees.
The Pitch are coming.
Opal was dead on the money with that call.
In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were already here. The Pitch. Close at hand. Keeping to the shadows they loved so dearly. He shivered.
Dead on, indeed.