I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to tell her.
“I don’t want it to end like this, either.”
She drove to the front of the hotel to drop me off. She said she had to get back. A guy in a red jacket with gold braid on the shoulders opened the door for me, robbing us of any privacy. I wanted to kiss her but something about the situation and being in the G car made it seem inappropriate and awkward.
“I’ll see you when I can,” I said. “As soon as I can.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. “Good-bye, Jack. Good luck with the story. Call me at the field office and let me know if you are writing from here. Maybe we can get together tonight.”
That was a better reason than any I had come up with for staying in Phoenix. She reached over and touched my beard like she had done once before. And just before I got out of the car she told me to wait. She took a card out of her purse and wrote a number on the back of it, then she gave it to me.
“That’s my pager number in case something happens. It’s on the satellite, so you can beep me wherever I am.”
“In the whole world?”
“The whole world. Until the satellite falls.”
32
Gladden looked at the words on the screen. They were beautiful, as if written by the unseen hand of God. So right. So knowledgeable. He read them again.
* * *
They know about me now and I am ready. I await them. I am prepared to take my place in the pantheon of faces. I feel as I did as a child when I waited for the closet door to be opened so that I could receive him. The line of light at the bottom. My beacon. I watched the light and the shadows each of his footfalls made. Then I knew he was there and that I would have his love. The apple of his eye.
We are what they make us and yet they turn from us. We are cast off. We become nomads in the world of the moan. My rejection is my pain and motivation. I carry with me the vengeance of all the children. I am the Eidolon. I am called the predator, the one to watch for in your midst. I am the cucoloris, the blur of light and dark. My story is not one of deprivation and abuse. I welcomed the touch. I can admit it. Can you? I wanted, craved, welcomed the touch. It was only the rejection—when my bones grew too large—that cut me so deeply and forced on me the life of a wanderer. I am the cast off. And the children must stay forever young.
* * *
He looked up when the phone rang. It was on the counter in the kitchen and he stared at it as it rang. It was the first call she had gotten. The machine picked up after three rings and her taped message played. Gladden had written it out on a piece of paper and made her read it three times before it was recorded on the fourth. Stupid woman, he thought as he listened now. She wasn’t much of an actress—at least with her clothes on.
“Hello this is Darlene, I. . . I can’t take your call right now. I’ve had to go out of town because of an emergency. I will be checking messages—uh, messages and will call you as soon as I can.”
She sounded nervous and Gladden worried that because of the repeat of the one word that a caller would know she was reading. He listened as a male voice left an angry message after the beep.
“Darlene, goddamnit! You better call me as soon as you get this. You left me in a big lurch over here. You shoulda called and just might not have a job to come back to, girl, goddamnit!”
Gladden thought it had worked. He got up and erased the message. Her boss, he assumed. But he wouldn’t be getting a callback from Darlene.
He noticed the smell as he stood in the kitchen doorway. He grabbed his matches off his cigarettes on the living room coffee table and went into the bedroom. He studied the body for a few moments. The face was a pale green but darker since the last time he had checked. Bloody fluid was draining from the mouth and nose, as the body purged itself of decomposition fluids. He had read about these purges in one of the books he had successfully petitioned to receive before the warden at Raiford. Forensic Pathology. Gladden wished he had the camera so he could document the changes in Darlene.
He lit four more sticks of jasmine incense, placing them in ashtrays at the four corners of the bed.
This time, after he had left and closed the bedroom door, he laid a wet towel along the threshold, hoping it would prevent the odor from spreading into the area of the apartment where he was living. He still had two days to go.
33
I talked Greg Glenn into letting me write from Phoenix. For the rest of the morning I stayed in my room making calls, gathering comments from players in the story ranging from Wexler in Denver to Bledsoe in Baltimore. I wrote for five straight hours after that and the only disturbances I had all day were calls from Glenn himself, nervously asking how I was doing. An hour before the five o’clock deadline in Denver, I filed two stories to the metro desk.
My nerves were jangling by the time I shipped the stories and I had a headache that was almost off the scale. I had been through a pot and a half of room service coffee and a full pack of Marlboros—the most I had smoked in one sitting in years. Pacing the room and waiting for Greg Glenn’s callback, I made a quick call to room service again, explained that I couldn’t leave my room because I was expecting an important call, and ordered a bottle of aspirin from the hotel’s lobby shop.
After it arrived I downed three tablets with mineral water from the minibar and almost immediately started feeling better. Next I called my mother and Riley and alerted them that my stories would be in the next day’s paper. I also told them there was a chance that reporters from other media outlets might try to contact them now that the story was out and to be prepared. Both said they didn’t want to talk to any reporters and I said that was fine, not missing the irony that I was one myself.
Lastly, I realized I had forgotten to call Rachel to tell her I was still in town. I called the Phoenix field office of the FBI but was told by the agent who answered that she was gone.
“What do you mean ‘gone’? Is she still in Phoenix?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Can I speak with Agent Backus then?”
“He’s gone, too. Who may I ask is calling?”
I hung up and dialed the hotel’s front desk and asked for her room. I was told she had checked out. So had Backus. So had Thorson, Carter and Thompson.
“Son of a bitch,” I said after hanging up.
There had been a break. Had to be. For all of them to have checked out, there had to have been a major breakthrough in the investigation. And I realized I had been left behind, that my moment on the inside was surely over now. I got up and paced the room some more, wondering where they would have gone and what could have made them move so quickly. Then I remembered the card Rachel had given me. I dug it out of my pocket and punched the paging number into the phone.
Ten minutes surely seemed enough time to bounce my message off the satellite and then down to her, wherever she was. But ten minutes came and went and the phone didn’t ring. Another ten minutes passed and then a half hour. Not even Greg Glenn called. I even picked up the phone to make sure I hadn’t broken it.
Restless, but tired of pacing and waiting, I fired up the laptop and logged into the Rocky again. I called up my messages but there were none of any importance. I switched to my personal basket, scrolled the files and called up the one labeled HYPSTORIES. The file contained several stories on Horace Gomble, one after the other in chronological order. I began to read from the oldest story forward, my memory of the hypnotist coming back as I went.