Awakening, 2nd edition (33 page)

Chris waved him off indifferently.

“You’re right. I ’m sorry but , indeed , that’s the least of my worries now. I appreciate your comment, b ut whatever you write will suit me fine.”

“I’m sure it will, ” smiled Clark. “Now, please don ’t feel obliged to stay any longer because of me. Thanks for letting me know and I hope your wife gets better soon.”

“Thanks!” Chris replied, already walking away down the hallway.

Clark looked thoughtfully at the tall, well-built figure walking away down the hall and closed the door, his face stretched in another yawn.

Chris tossed the last shirt into the suitcase and with a loud bang snapped the lid shut. Anything left? He scanned the room, looked under the bed, peered into the bathroom. Yes, it ’s important he leave as soon as possible, but that isn ’t a reason to leave things behind. A few minutes won ’t make a difference even under these circumstances. Although who knows ? The sooner he leave , the better.

He returned to the bedroom, checked the closet and picked up his watch from the nightstand. That should be it. The cold metal of the bracelet embraced his wrist. It ’s okay to go now. No, it ’s imperative to go now. It ’s a pain to leave like this, after everything that has been done, after all the work that had gone into this weird game so far. But there ’s no choice. It doesn ’t matter how much he wants to stay. There ’re things that make even career pale before them.

He stood, clicking his bracelet, opening and closing it , unable to make up his mind completely. It felt so wrong taking the suitcase and fleeing , leaving all his efforts in vain. Everything was going so well. Almost everyone was on the hook by now. Even Joan was growing tame . Brandon was nodding respectfully and that boy scout Kevin was hanging on his every word. Everything was going so well, everything was falling into place. And then this shit hit the fan.

In the blink of an eye, what had happened had made all the elections, voting and machinations look like a kids’ game. Yes, in a blink of an eye. Still, it sucks to leave like this. It plain sucks. Tomorrow would have been such a perfect day for strengthening his position, for solidifying everyone ’s support, for making the final strides towards the finish line. There ’re more votes to secure and there ’re ways—they ’re so clear now—to secure these votes.

Perhaps it’s better to stay? Is it a right judgment call to leave now? Maybe not. It would be prudent to leave, but the stakes are so high and there will be no other chance like this. Not anytime soon anyway. Maybe—And then his wandering glance fell upon the crumpled bed sheet in the corner. And at the sight of the shapeless lump, the sticky, body-engulfing, animal fear returned . No, it was the right judgment call! Screw voting! Screw this stupid workshop! And if it comes to it, screw the entire career! He promptly grabbed the suitcase handle and headed for the door.

Fear was not letting go. It was supposed to disappear, to flow down the body to the ground, to vanish , like waking from a nightmare. Instead , with every step , it soaked deeper and deeper into the skin. It was there to stay.

Chris stepped up his pace, hearing behind him the quiet rustle of the suitcase rolling on its wheels . But the fear remained. It ’s all because of that freaking sheet! Was it so damn necessary to look round ? Couldn ’t you just have made a decision, pack ed and left ? No, you had to muse over the lost opportunities. How about musing over something else? Something that made you pack in the first place? Instead of useless reflect ion and procrastination . . . Had you done it the way it was supposed to be done there would ’ve been no need to stare at that stupid stinking thing. . .

Memories began playing their powerful chords in his head. A mere hour—no, scrap that —just half an hour ago everything was fine. The evening had been going in the best possible way , and the prospect of a tempting adventure had joined the growing expectation of forthcoming victory. Only a complete dork would ’ve misinterpreted that kind of glance . As he was going back to his room , he kept pondering whether it made sense to make the first s tep tonight. It was a nice topic to ponder and he thought about it while taking a shower. Finally, he decided that even the best kind of entertainment should wait until the critical career-related things had been taken care of. There wa s still too much work to do and it was too early to lose focus and relax. Besides, her flirt ing could ’ve been caused not only by his charm, but also by some very pragmatic considerations and she might ’ve been trying to get something other than good sex out of it. Even more of a reason to wait another day . Thinking about it , he turned off the light and slid under the blanket.

And then it happened. Instead of the naturally expected nice chill of fresh sheets , an unspeakably disgusting icy dampness met him under the blanket. For a moment he lay there almost entertained by the silliness of such a sensation , and then he sprung out of the bed as if someone had poured boiling water on him. The light switch clicked, the blanket flew to the side—and he froze, his stare fixed on the bed. And at that moment fear rolled across his entire body in a aching surge. It rolled—and left its inerasable mark.

The entire sheet was soaked in blood.

A humongous, man-sized dark-crimson spot was still wet. Suddenly, it occurred to him that this blood was his own and he began examining himself furiously. But even before he reached for his back he had realized that it could not have been his own blood, and he froze again looking at the spot, hypnotized by it, unable to remove his fixed gaze from it. Then, just as suddenly , it occurred to him that a man had been killed in this bed.

This thought left no room for doubt. It was clear, crisp and finite. Right here, in his room, in his bed , a man had been killed. No one could survive, having lost such a puddle of blood. And it had happened very, very recently—perhaps while he was still in the shower. And then the murderer had taken the corpse and left. Or—hadn’t . He could ’ve stayed in the room. He might ’ve wanted to leave but then had heard Chris coming out of the bathroom and had had no option but to stay put . He ’s somewhere in the room. Perhaps in the closet . . . The closet door . . . it was shut tightly . Now it isn ’t. Or maybe he ’s hiding out on the balcony. He is somewhere nearby, he is somewhere close . . . He did not leave! This horrible wet blood -soaked sheet was speaking louder than a rustle in the closet might ’ve spoken.

Something else was bothering him. Something kept preventing him from doing the most obvious thing—grabbing some clothes, rushing out to the hallway, calling people, calling police, getting away from this horrid place. Something ungraspable, unidentifiable. And , despite all the fear and horror, this something made him slowly sink to his knees before this ghastly bed just as he was—naked—and , just as slowly , inhale.

And then this something turned out to be a weak but very familiar smell.

And the blood turned into wine.

The bed had been generously doused with wine, red like blood, ordinary wine . . . Abruptly he sensed this wine on his back, on his feet, on his fingers—and darted back to the shower. And as he, with unexpected exasperation, was scrubbing himself, washing away the icy stickiness and the teasing smell, he started laughing. It was a hoarse, unhappy laugh and it didn ’t last. Replacing it, came horror.

This horror was different. It was not the same feeling that had struck him like lighting back in that icy -wet instant . That horror had been chilly, bellowing in his temples —the shock of a situation that was bordering on impossible. The new fear was the fear of true danger. The bed soaked in wine wasn ’t a joke. It was a hint, a warning. Not a joke.

While he was away, someone had entered this room, pulled the blanket aside , poured , in cold blood , a bottle or a couple of bottles of wine onto the bed, just as coolly fixed it and left, remembering to take the empty bottles with him. This person knew what he was doing and there was nothing random about his actions. And he ’d intentionally made the stain look like blood. Why would any one do this? Was it some sort of a sociopath, an idiot, a practical joker with a sick sense of humor? No. Despite all the oddity of the action, there was nothing stupid about it , and its goal was obvious. The bed served as an envelope, the wine—as a message. A brief message: “Today—wine . Tomorrow—blood. Your blood.”

And however nonsensical this was, it was easy to imagine that a man, capable of relaying a message like this by such means of communication, was capable of acting on his threat. And even if he wasn ’t capable of that, waiting and seeing didn ’t seem like a good option. The question was simple: is this game worth this candle? The answer was even simpler.

For another moment or two, Chris stood silently by the bed. Then he began packing rapidly. He still had to stop by Clark ’s room before leaving . . .

Now he walked across the parking lot, and the incessant mumbling of the suitcase rolling behind him was getting more on his nerves by the second. Finally, with a brief curs e, he grabbed the handle, propped the suitcase up and dashed to the car. His convertible was parked at the farthest end of the lot, hardly reached by the dim yellowish light of the streetlamp. With an immense feeling of relief , Chris tossed the suitcase into the trunk, banged the lid shut and , already imagining arriving home , jumped into the driver ’s seat. His hand flew in an automatic movement to the ignition lock—and stopped halfway.

Slowly, as if in a slow -motion video , Chris dropped his hand and froze , staring at the white square to the right side of the steering wheel. He was at a loss as to why he hadn ’t noticed it until now. A small piece of paper was stuck there, stating gloomily , “Don ’t even think about it! I ’ll find you.”

The bold printed letters were darkening menacingly in the yellowish light. The paper was attached to the car ’s interior by an object Chris would never have picture d as a paper -holding device. A nail of an unthinkable size , with a warped head , penetrat ed the paper sheet, having been driven into the cream panel. A single glance revealed that it was nailed in one powerful blow. A long thin crack ran underneath the paper, fading away near the door.

Chris touched the nail and felt the soulless cold of the metal. His mind was completely blank. Such vandalism was completely beyond everything he was accustomed to, beyond everything he had been getting accustomed to all his life. This kind of ruthless barbaric action was typical of street gangs on the news and movie villains. For people surrounding him every day this was unthinkable.

Then a single thought emerged out of the void: “Escape!” But right after it came another thought: “No way! He ’ll find me.” And this second thought was rapidly growing final and more inescapable. It kept ruthlessly squeezing and strangling the feebly -squeaking first one until finally it took over. There was no way he could leave. No way.

The man who left the bloody warning in his room, who found his car and with no hesitation drove a rusty nail into its multi-thousand shining plastic would stop at nothing to win. To win —this was the keyword. All this intimidation has a single goal—to win. He wants, requests, insists on one single thing : namely that Chris stays and helps him win. That ’s where it ends. He doesn ’t care what happens to Chris after this Friday. As soon as the workshop is over, Chris will be free to return to his comfy and cozy world, where obsessed maniacs don ’t pour wine into beds and don ’t drive five-inch -long nails into expensive convertibles.

But if Chris were to decide to return to his home world right now, before Friday, this may drive this anonym ous man crazy. For some reason he believes that Chris ’s pre sence is crucial for his victory. If he loses after Chris is gone, his sick inflamed brain may become set on a different goal: revenge. And just like he had entered this car and that room, one night he could enter Chris ’s real home. He or someone sent by him. And the cozy, warm and comfy world will be demolished forever.

Chris looked around. The yellowing dimness around him whispered quietly about the danger lurking everywhere. This horrible man could ’ve been hiding somewhere very close, sitting in a nearby car, standing behind a nearby tree. He could ’ve stayed here to ensure that everything went according to the plan. Who knows what other surprises he has prepared? Perhaps at the first sound of the engine a large stone would fly through the front windshield. No, trying to leave now is potentially more dangerous than staying. Sensing an unusual weakness in his knees, Chris stepped out of the car, took the suitcase, which he had nearly grown to loathe by now , from the trunk, and headed back to the lodge, shoulders drooped and eyes downcast . He didn ’t even give the car with its mutilated panel a single glance.

Grum . . .grum . . .grrrrum . . . the suitcase kept grum bl ing behind his back as he walked, and every sound resembled cautious eerie steps. Glancing around endlessly , Chris finally reached the entrance. But inside the building the vile suitcase remained just as unsettling. Its loud grunting had turned into a muffled whisper, and again it was so easy to suspect that all this ceaseless mumbling had the single goal of covering up its accomplice , silently crouching behind them. Whe n Chris reached his room he was ready to throw the black leather bag off the balcony. Making his mood even sourer was the need to go back to Clark and feed him a new story, this time about a miraculous recovery .