HE AWOKE LIKE A MAN suffocating beneath a hundred very heavy blankets. He struggled, pushing them aside one by one, rising slowly to the surface and to cool air. He struggled for a long time, and then he felt a mild breeze and lay back, gasping for breath, and his eyes closed.
He rested that way for a long time. How long, he did not know, but then he began to smell a strange, sick-sweet odor. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the ceiling.
The ceiling was whitewashed, with a diagonal crack running through the plaster. But that was not what caught his eye. What he saw were the red streaks: they were everywhere, in a long, haphazard pattern. Dark red and ugly looking. Like welts on a ceiling.
Odd.
He glanced over at the wall and saw more streaks. A mad painter, gone berserk, flinging his brush wildly around the room—that was the way it looked. Except that this was not paint.
He sat up and looked around him. For a moment, he could not believe it; it was like an illusion, an elaborately posed and grisly still life.
In one corner, Carrini. His body slashed and torn, his clothes shredded, his neck cut through, his face ripped almost beyond recognition. He lay propped against the wall, in a spreading pool of his own blood.
In other parts of the room, the other three men. Each had died the same violent death. One man had his stomach torn open; another, his arms and shoulders; the third had deep slashes in the skull which had opened to expose white bone. And there was blood everywhere.
Ross felt sick and retched dryly; he had a wave of dizziness and closed his eyes until the world stopped spinning. When he opened them again, the men were still there. The men, and the walls, and the blood. He could not imagine who had done such a thing. He could not imagine how or when it had happened. Apparently, he had slept through it all.
And he was untouched. Strange, that the others should be killed but he permitted to live.
He explored his body, feeling for broken bones, but he was apparently all right. He felt weak and had a splitting headache, but that was all. After a few minutes, he stood, leaning on a chair.
More dizziness. He waited, and it passed.
He walked out of the room and found himself in a warehouse. It was a long, giant room, filled with cardboard boxes, which apparently contained furniture for export to Italy. He walked to the far end of the warehouse and found another door, which led out to the street.
He walked until he saw a cab. It was eleven o’clock; only an hour and a half had passed since the men had picked him up and pushed him into the car. It seemed like years. He got into the cab and returned to his hotel. He would have to clean himself up before he registered. And he wanted to see Angela.
In the hotel, the concierge rushed up to him.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Ross was feeling better. Weak, but better. “Yes.”
“Was it an accident?”
“What?”
The concierge gestured vaguely to his clothes. “An accident?”
“Yes,” Ross said. “I fell, and a car …”
“You wish a doctor?”
“I think so,” he said touching his forehead. “I may need X-rays.”
“If you go to your room, I will call the doctor. He is very good. Trained in New York,” the concierge said. Ross went to his room.
“Well howdy.”
Ross closed the door behind him. The cowboy, still dressed in his leather and fringes, lay casually on the bed.
“Hello,” Ross said.
He was not surprised to see him. Nothing would have surprised him. Not now.
“You look a tad beat-up, boy,” the cowboy said.
“I’m a little bit tired,” Ross said.
“Get into a scrape?”
“You might say so.” He dropped into a chair. “Where’s Angela?”
“Is that your girl?”
“Yes.”
“I asked her to leave for a while, so’s we could be alone.” The cowboy smiled. “Mighty fine piece of woman, if I say so myself. Mighty fine.”
“I’m glad you like her.”
“Oh, I do, I do. I never exaggerate, where women are concerned.”
“That’s good,” Ross said. He sighed. “And what are you and I going to do, now that we’re alone?”
“Just talk.”
“You don’t want to beat me up?”
“Heck no, son.”
“It’s the thing to do,” Ross said. “Everyone’s trying it.”
“Heck no, I just want a peaceable chat.”
Ross sighed. “Chat away. Going to introduce yourself first?”
“You can call me Tex.”
“You’re joking,” Ross said.
“Nope. Tex. Everybody does. Natural enough: that’s my name.”
Tex gave a laugh, a big, booming, hearty laugh.
“You can call me Doc,” Ross said.
“I like that,” Tex said, nodding seriously.
“Okay, Tex. What’s on your mind?”
“Just a chat.”
“I suppose you’re playing the game, too?”
“What game’s that?”
“Body, body, who’s got the body,” Ross said.
Tex smiled. “You’re a sharpie, boy. I knew it from the start.” He paused. “That why you were beat up?”
“Right.”
“Damned shame. I told you to be careful.”
“I was doing my best,” Ross said.
“Oh, don’t take it to heart. I’m sure those fellas didn’t mean anything personal.”
“I’m sure,” Ross said. “Were they friends of yours?”
“Hell no,” Tex said.
There was a short silence. Tex stared at Ross for a moment, then said, “What finally happened to them?”
“Them?”
“The fellas who beat you up.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re hardly scratched. Just a bruise or two.”
“So?”
“So I’m wondering why you got blood caked an inch thick on your shoes.”
“It’s their blood,” Ross said.
“Their blood?”
“I killed them,” Ross said. “All twelve of them.”
“Now son, you’re pulling my leg.”
Ross smiled slightly. “Am I?”
A knock on the door. The doctor arrived. Tex sat patiently on the bed and waited while the doctor examined Ross and pronounced him battered but fit. Ross was advised to stay in bed for a few days and to have someone around in case he lost consciousness. There was always the chance of a subdural hematoma. Ross nodded, knowing that he would never have a chance to stay in bed.
When the doctor left, Tex said, “Probably you ought to take a shower and change.”
Ross glanced at his watch. It was past eleven thirty. He had to register. “No time,” he said.
“Sure there’s time,” Tex said.
“What makes you so sure?”
He shrugged. “Plane doesn’t leave for another hour.”
“What plane?”
“Better take your shower,” Tex said. “We can talk later.”
“I’m not going on any plane.”
“Sure you are,” Tex said.
“Why?”
“Cause I’m bigger than you,” Tex said, with an easy grin. “Now don’t make trouble. Just take a shower and change your clothes so you’ll look respectable.”
“Where am I going?”
“Paris,” Tex said. “Now git.”