Lacey pressed herself to the wall beside him. Craning her neck, she gazed at the dark arrows above the doors. She gasped for air. The spray can and knife were slippery in her hands. She could feel the vibrations of the elevators against her back, hear the distant, quiet bells as they stopped at other floors. She looked up the corridor, squinting as if that might help her see the man’s approach, then glanced again at the arrows above her. They stayed dark.
“This is no good,” she whispered.
With a nod of agreement, Scott flung himself away from the wall. They left the elevators behind and dashed down the corridor. Their feet thudded on the carpet. From behind came the quiet ding of an elevator bell. Lacey looked back. They were too far away to return in time. She ran hard to catch up with Scott.
Just ahead, a hallway led off to the left. Scott slowed and turned the corner. He stopped, and Lacey halted beside him. She leaned back against an ice machine, panting for breath.
“What now?” she gasped.
Scott pointed with the club in his left hand. A yard away was a fire door.
“Might as well.”
Across the hall, a door opened. A slight, young man in blue pajamas and a satin robe stepped out backward. He pulled his door shut gently so it stopped against the frame. Turning around, he smiled a surprised greeting. In his hands, he held a cardboard ice bucket.
“Cheerio,” he said.
Scott lunged across the hall, grabbed the front of his robe, and thrust him into the room. Lacey followed. She shut the door quickly and silently.
“Hey now!” the man said. He seemed more offended than afraid. “What…?”
Scott snarled and raised the club. The man’s mouth snapped shut. He looked from Scott to Lacey, eyes narrowing behind his oversized glasses.
“We’re Nick and Nora Charles,” Scott said. “Asta’s back in our room.”
“Oh?”
Scott let go of him. The man offered a small, pale hand. “Hamlin Alexander.”
After shaking hands, they moved away from the door. One of the double beds was mussed, the other neatly made.
“You alone?” Scott asked.
“I just shooed away a nymphet. I don’t expect her to return in the immediate future.” He set the ice bucket on the dresser beside a full bottle of Stolichnaya. “Room ser vice didn’t provide ice. Expected me to fetch it myself, obviously. I don’t suppose we might venture out for some, now that we’re acquainted?”
“I don’t think so,” Scott said.
“If you’re indeed Nick and Nora, I doubt you intend to rob or mutilate me. Would you care for a warm drink?”
They nodded, and he opened the bottle.
“I don’t suppose you caught my concert to night? Really first-rate.”
“Sorry,” Scott said.
Hamlin poured vodka into three glasses. “To a warm and healthy relationship,” he toasted.
Lacey sipped her vodka. Its strong taste made her cringe, but it felt warm and pleasant going down.
“Now,” said Hamlin. “To what do I owe your presence? You’re not a pair of lunatic fans, obviously. Am I a hostage of choice or opportunity?”
“Opportunity,” Scott told him. “You came out your door at the right time.”
“The right time for you, perhaps.”
Though they were talking softly, Lacey worried that their voices might carry through the door. She crossed the room and turned on the tele vision.
“Oh please,” Hamlin muttered. “Ah, I see,” he said as Lacey increased the volume. “Background noise. That’s about all the cyclops is good for. Now, what brings you in to my august presence?”
“We’re being pursued by a killer.”
Hamlin raised his eyebrows, sat on his rumpled bed, and crossed his legs. “I see you’re well armed.”
“He has an Ingram, a small assault weapon capable of firing twenty rounds per second.”
“Nasty.”
“Extremely. So you can see that we’d prefer to avoid a confrontation. If he didn’t see us come in, we’ll be all right. Even if he knows which floor we’re on, I don’t think he’ll take the chance of barging into every room.”
“I hate to appear simplistic, but have you considered bringing in the gendarmes?”
“A special team is flying in from Washington,” Scott told him. “We expect it to arrive,” he checked his watch, “in roughly three, three and a quarter hours.”
“Washington? So we’re embroiled in a cloak-and-dagger scheme? I should have guessed; you have that clean-cut, boy-next-door, FBI look about you.” He peered at Lacey as she sat down beside Scott on the other bed. “Nora, however, is not an agent. No no. To o delicate, feminine, vulnerable. I should think Nora is an innocent bystander cast by mischance into the role of heroine.” He nodded shrewdly. “Perhaps a witness?”
“Very observant,” Scott said.
“The fellow with the nasty weapon, a Ruskie agent?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“The solution to your problem is make up. I just happen to have, in my possession, an elaborate make up kit complete with hair, teeth, blood, and Dick Smith’s Flex-flesh. I don’t just happen to have it—very deliberate. I often travel incognito. For security and privacy, you understand. The kit has many uses, however. The nymphets blush and cream at the chance to be transformed into the monsters they are: zombies, hags with oozing pustules, vampires. The vampire is my specialty. Those submoronic sexpots throw themselves into the role with such abandon—snarling, baring their fangs—and it’s rarely my neck they insist upon sucking. Quite delightful. I’d be more than happy to transform the two of you. Not in to monsters, perhaps, but with a few deft touches and a change of clothes you might walk right past the murderous Ruskie without being recognized.”
“Thanks anyway,” Scott said.
“On the other hand, I might apply a multitude of wounds: bullet holes, slash marks, quantities of artificial blood. I’m superb at corpses. I’ll arrange you on the floor. If your maniacal Soviet should burst through the door, he’ll assume you’ve already been dispatched. No need to repeat the process. Voila!”
“That’s ridiculous,” Scott told him.
“It’s genius. A subtle but profound difference.”
“Maybe. But I still think…” The deafening clamor of a bell in the corridor stopped his words.
Hamlin jumped, spilling his drink.
The high-pitched ringing went on.
“Fire alarm!” Scott shouted.
“You don’t think…?”
Grabbing his makeshift club, Scott scurried off the bed and raced toward the door. Lacey picked up her spray can, her knife. Hurrying after him, she saw him touch the knob. “Not warm,” he said. He looked back. “Hamlin,” he yelled over the din. “Get over here!”
The small man rushed to them. His face, so confident before, now looked drawn and pale.
“Look out the door. See if there’s smoke.”
They stepped aside so they couldn’t be viewed from the hallway, and Hamlin opened the door. “Appears fine,” he said.
“Check around the corner.”
He stepped out. Scott held the door open a crack. A moment later, Hamlin shoved through it and gazed at them. “Jesus H. Christ! The other end of the hall—all kinds of smoke. People spilling out of their rooms like…Christ, my horn!” He hurried past them. Seconds later, he returned with a black leather case. “Don’t know about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of here!” Flinging open the door, he dashed across the hallway to the fire door.
Lacey stepped out beside Scott. Half a dozen people were now in the short hall, most in night clothes, rushing for the door. Hamlin threw it open. He coughed as dark smoke bellowed into his face. He started to shut it, but the door knocked him backward and a flaming man stumbled from the stairwell. His fiery arms reached for Hamlin, but the little man smashed them aside with his instrument case and leapt out of the way.
Screams mixed with the blaring alarm bells as the
burning man staggered toward the onrushing group of guests. They scattered. Falling among them, he clutched the negligee of a horrified young woman. She lurched away, but flames were already starting to curl up her white gown. A nearby man ripped it from her shoulders. She kicked free of the garment and threw herself into his arms.
Scott grabbed Lacey’s wrist. He jerked her after him, around the corner to the long corridor. Hamlin was far ahead of them, dashing through stunned guests, dodging some, stiffarming others aside, the black case hugged under one arm like a football. Though the far end of the corridor was gray with rolling smoke, Lacey saw no flames.
“This way’s blocked,” Scott yelled to an elderly couple heading toward them. The couple stopped, looking at each other with confusion as Scott and Lacey hurried by.
The greatest number of people was gathered in front of the elevator bank, screaming and shoving in a frenzy to get closer to the doors.
As Scott and Lacey reached the edge of the crowd, an elevator arrived. Its double doors slid open, but the small enclosure was already packed. A roar of protest bellowed from those inside as the mob pressed forward. Through a gap in the crowd, Lacey saw one of the men in the elevator jerked out. Amid darting fists, a new man took his place. The doors rolled halfway shut, then slid open again. A tiny, dark-haired man leapt high, clambering over the shoulders and heads of those inside, his right hand clasping a black leather case. A moment later, the doors closed.
“What’ll we do?” Lacey asked.
“Forget the elev…”
A woman’s shriek rose above the tumult. Lacey looked, couldn’t see her, then saw the bloody head of a fire ax rise above the figures at the far side of the crowd. It swung down. The mob parted, people stumbling out of the way, yelling and screaming. The ax chopped down, knocking through the upraised arm of a man staggering backward, and split his head. As he fell, the ax swung sideways, biting into the belly of a naked woman—the one whose nightgown had caught fire earlier.
Lacey gaped as the slaughter continued, the ax chopping from side to side, catching people in the chest and belly and throat. They fought and tripped over each other, trying to get away. For an instant, Lacey glimpsed the length of the weapon. It swung, held by no one—no one she could see. It hacked through a man’s neck. His severed head tumbled through the air, spraying blood.
Lacey clutched Scott’s arm. “It’s him!” she shouted.
“Come on!”
“Where?”
Side by side, they raced down the corridor. As they neared the corner, Lacey looked back. The ax had finished hacking its way through the mob. Splatters of blood hung suspended in the air behind it. Abruptly, it lurched forward.
Lacey gasped, and rounded the corner after Scott. He threw himself against the door of Hamlin’s room—locked.
“Come on!”
They rushed farther down the short hall, leaping past the small fire spreading around the dead man like a pool of strange, burning blood.
The next door, too, was locked.
Only three remained. Scott glanced at them, apparently decided they would offer no more than this one, and drew out his automatic. He blasted a single shot through the area where the lock tongue entered the frame, and kicked the door open.
Lacey looked back.
The ax flew at her, flipping end over end.
Scott jerked her inside and slammed the door. He threw himself against it.
“Get a chair!” he yelled.
Lacey dashed across the room, grabbed a straightbacked chair from beneath the table, and ran with it to Scott. He braced it under the knob.
An instant later, the door thundered. An ax head burst through it, high up, throwing out a shower of splinters.
“You’re mine!” a man’s voice cried out. “Mine, cunt!”
The ax crashed again through the door, this time lower, smashing the chair down from the knob. The door flew open.
Gunfire shocked Lacey’s ears, and she gazed at Scott. He was crouched and snarling, the automatic bucking in his grip as he fired shot after shot at the doorway.
Lacey covered her ears against the gun’s endless roar.
The ax lunged forward, jerking in midair, and dropped to the floor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Spray him,” Scott snapped as he braced the door shut.
Kneeling, Lacey aimed the paint can toward the ax. She pressed down the nozzle. A fine, silvery cloud sprayed out and drifted down, spreading into a layer half a foot above the carpet. As she moved the can back and forth, the surface took on features. She saw the heavily muscled, jutting slopes of shoulder blades, and realized she must be kneeling at his head. She gave it a quick blast. The paint misted his thick hair and sprayed cool against her own thighs. With a quick sweep to the right, she coated one of his arms. Then she sprayed the other. Its thick hand still gripped the haft of the ax.
Scott crouched and pried the fingers loose. He held the wrist. “Still has a pulse,” he muttered. “Hit lower, let’s find the wounds.”
Lacey sprayed down the long, tapering expanse of his back. She hesitated at his waist, but only for a moment. Invisibility was his greatest weapon: painting him was like cutting Samson’s hair. The hell with modesty. She sprayed his buttocks.
Then she took her finger off the nozzle and stared at his shiny back, at its three gaping, ragged wounds. Looking into them, she saw the green carpet several inches down. Clear, silverdusted fluid overflowed the holes.
At the shoulder, she saw the crater of a healed gunshot wound. Near the center of his back was a narrow, inch-long ridge. The knife wound from Wednesday night? She touched it, feeling an edge of hardness. A scab? Her finger came away wet with paint. As she wiped it on her shorts, the fire alarm stopped blaring.
She looked at Scott. He shrugged.
In the quiet, she heard distant voices.
“Maybe it’s out,” Scott said, his voice sounding odd in the stillness.
His hands moved from wound to wound. “I missed the heart, thank God. Not much flow. If I didn’t hit a major vessel…” He took off his shirt, and ripped its sleeves off. Folding one of the sleeves into a thick pad, he pressed it tightly to a wound near the side of the back. “Hold it there,” he said. “Hard.”
While Lacey kept the pad in place, he folded his other sleeve and pressed it to a second wound, lower down. Lacey held that one for him. He tore his shirt up the back, and used one of the halves to make another compress. He pushed it against the final wound.
“Right back,” he said. He hurried away and returned seconds later, holding a suitcase. He dropped it to the floor and threw it open. Crouching, he rummaged through it. He flung out a pair of panty hose, a half slip, several pairs of briefs. “Those’ll do,” he muttered. He took out a leather case, jerked open its zipper, and upended it. Out fell scissors, a plastic container of rubber bands and safety pins, a tiny sewing kit, a tube of Krazy Glue, a Swiss Army knife, and a roll of adhesive tape. “Fantastic!” he blurted. He snapped open the metal canister of tape.
Tearing off a strip, he tried to secure one of the bandages in place. The tape slid on the wet paint. Scott cursed under his breath, then grabbed the torn remnant of his shirt from the floor and swabbed the man’s back, clearing off excess paint around the compresses until each was surrounded by no more than a vague, translucent stain. He tested the tape: it held.
Working together, Scott and Lacey quickly secured the pads to his back.
“Let’s turn him.”
They rolled him onto his back.
“Don’t paint him yet. I’ll work by touch.” He picked up a pair of nylon briefs, scowled, and tossed them aside. Then he pulled a cotton blouse from the suitcase and started to tear off its sleeves. As he folded them into pads, Lacey gazed down at the strange, sprawled shape of the man.
He looked like a legless, one-sided sculpture molded of aluminum foil. Circles of carpet were visible around his bandages. The unreality of the sight made Lacey ner vous. “I want to
spray him,” she said. “I’ll stay away from the chest.”
Scott nodded. He bent over, a compress in one hand, reaching down with his other hand like a mime pretending to examine a make-believe patient.
Lacey aimed the paint can at the silver half-shell of the man’s nearest arm, and sprayed. The paint wrapped over it, and the arm was suddenly human. Crawling past Scott, she sprayed the other arm. Then she scurried alongside the body. Using the concave globes of his rump as a guide, she sprayed the tops of both legs. Then she lifted them at the ankles and coated their undersides.
Scott was busy applying the final compress as Lacey shot spray from hip to hip, spreading a silver layer over the man’s groin.
She stared at his penis. It lay to one side. Even flaccid, it looked thick and heavy, much larger than others she’d seen. No wonder it had felt so enormous inside her—ramming painfully, stretching her, making her bleed.
Disgusted, she looked away.
Scott met her eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
Down the hall, someone knocked roughly on wood. “Fire’s out,” called a strong voice.
“Quick,” Scott said. “Get the ax.”
Lacey picked it up. Scott grabbed the man’s hands and raised his back off the floor. He dragged him away from the door. He pulled him around a corner of the room, and let him down alongside a wall. Then he took the ax from Lacey. He lifted a corner of the mattress, and hid the ax beneath it.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go see.”
“Just…leave him here?”
“Come on.” Scott slid his automatic under the bed, and hurried to the door. As they stepped into the smoky corridor, a policeman came out of the first room—Hamlin’s room. He pivoted, bringing up his ser vice revolver.
“Thank God you’re h ere,” Scott blurted. “Some maniac…”
“I know.” The cop holstered his pistol.
A fireman with a smudged face stepped out of the room.
“Came after us with a goddam ax,” Scott said. “We were over by the elevators, and…Christ, did you see what he did to those people? He came after us—my wife and I…” Scott put an arm around Lacey. “We barely got away. He tried to bash our door down.”