No barricades. No signs of somnambulistic panic.
He looked at the digital clock: two-oh-nine A.M. A half-empty can of warm beer stood on the nightstand. He washed down another Dalmane tablet.
I am getting better.
It was Friday the thirteenth.
10. Elko County, Nevada
Friday night, three days after his weird experience on the I- 80, Ernie Block couldn’t sleep at all. As darkness embraced him, his nerves wound tighter, tighter, until he thought he would start screaming and be unable to stop.
Slipping out of bed as soundlessly as he could, pausing to make sure that Faye’s slow and even breathing had not changed, he went into the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the light. Wonderful light. He reveled in the light. He put down the lid of the commode and sat for fifteen minutes in his underwear, just letting the brightness sear him, as mindlessly happy as a lizard on a sun-washed rock.
Finally he knew he must return to the bedroom. If Faye woke, and if he remained in here too long, she would begin to think something was wrong. He was determined to do nothing that would make her suspicious.
Although he had not used the toilet, he flushed it for cover, and went to the sink to wash his hands. He had just finished rinsing off the soap and had plucked the towel off the rack when his eyes were drawn to the only window in the room. It was above the bathtub, a rectangle about three feet wide and two feet high, which opened outward on an overhead piano hinge. Although the glass was frosted and provided no view of the night beyond, a shiver passed through Ernie as he stared at the opaque pane. More disturbing than the shiver was the sudden rush of peculiar, urgent thoughts that came with it:
The window’s big enough to get through, I could get away, escape, and the roof of the utility room is under the window, so there’s not a long drop, and I could be off, into the arroyo behind the motel, up into the hills, make my way east, get to a ranch somewhere and get help....
Blinking furiously as that swift train of thoughts flashed through his mind and faded away, Ernie discovered that he had stepped from the sink to the bathtub. He did not remember moving.
He was bewildered by the urge to escape. From whom? From what? Why? This was his own home. He had nothing to fear within these walls.
Yet he could not take his gaze from the milky window. A dreaminess had come over him. He was aware of it but unable to cast it off.
Got to get out, get away, there won’t be another chance, not another chance like this, now, go now, go, go....
Unwittingly, he had stepped into the tub and was directly in front of the window, which was set in the wall at face-level. The porcelain coating of the tub was cold against his bare feet.
Slide back the latch, push up the window, stand on the rim of the tub, pull yourself up onto the sill, out and away, a three-or four-minute headstart before you’re missed, not much but enough....
Panic rose in him without reason. There was a fluttering in his guts, a tightness in his chest.
Without knowing why he was doing it, yet unable to stop himself, he slid the bolt from the latch on the bottom of the window. He pushed out. The window swung up.
He was not alone.
Something was at the other side of the window, out there on the roof, something with a dark, featureless, shiny face. Even as Ernie recoiled in surprise, he realized it was a man in a white helmet with a tinted visor that came all the way down over his face, so darkly tinted that it was virtually black.
A black-gloved hand reached through the window, as if to grab him, and Ernie cried out and took a step backward and fell over the edge of the tub. Toppling out of the tub, he grabbed wildly at the shower curtain, tore it loose from several of its rings, but could not arrest his fall. He hit the bathroom floor with a crash. Pain flashed through his right hip.
“Ernie!” Faye cried, and a moment later she pushed open the door. “Ernie, my God, what’s wrong, what happened?”
“Stay back.” He got up painfully. “Someone’s out there.”
Cold night air poured through the open window, rustling the half-wrecked, bunched-up shower curtain.
Faye shivered, for she slept in only a pajama shirt and panties.
Ernie shivered, too, though partly for different reasons. The moment the pain had throbbed through his hip, the dreaminess had left him. In the sudden rush of clear-mindedness, he wondered if the helmeted figure had been imaginary, a hallucination.
“On the roof?” Faye said. “At the window? Who?”
“I don’t know,” Ernie said, rubbing his sore hip as he stepped back into the tub and peered out the window again. He saw no one this time.
“What’d he look like?” Faye asked.
“I couldn’t tell. He was in motorcycle gear. Helmet, gloves,” Ernie said, realizing how outlandish it sounded.
He levered himself up on the windowsill far enough to lean out and look across the full length and breadth of the utility room’s roof. Shadows were deep in places, but nowhere deep enough to hide a man. The intruder was gone—if indeed he had ever existed.
Abruptly Ernie became aware of the vast darkness behind the motel. It stretched across the hills, off to the distant mountains, an immense blackness relieved only by the stars. Instantly, a crippling weakness and vulnerability overwhelmed him. Gasping, he dropped off the sill, back into the tub, and started to turn away from the window.
“Close it up,” Faye said.
Squeezing his eyes shut to guard against another glimpse of the night, he turned once more to the in-rushing cold air, fumbled blindly for the window, and pulled it shut so hard that he almost broke the pane. With unsteady hands he struggled to secure the latch bolt.
When he stepped out of the tub, he saw concern in Faye’s eyes, which he expected. He saw surprise, which he also expected. But he saw a penetrating awareness for which he was unprepared. For a long moment they looked at each other, neither of them speaking.
Then she said, “Are you ready to tell me about it?”
“Like I said ... I thought I saw a guy on the roof.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Ernie. I mean, are you ready to tell me what’s wrong, what’s been eating at you?” Her eyes did not waver from his. “For a couple of months now. Maybe longer.”
He was stunned. He thought he had concealed it so well.
She said, “Honey, you’ve been worried. Worried like I’ve never seen you before. And scared.”
“No. Not scared exactly.”
“Yes. Scared,” Faye said, but there was no scorn in her, just an Iowan’s forthrightness and a desire to help. “I’ve only ever seen you scared once before, Ernie—back when Lucy was five and came down with that muscle fever, and they thought it might be muscular dystrophy.”
“God, yes, I was scared shitless then.”
“But not since.”
“Oh, I was scared in Nam sometimes,” he said, his admission echoing hollowly off the bathroom walls.
“But I never saw it.” She hugged herself. “It’s rare that I see you like this, Ernie, so when you’re scared I’m scared. Can’t help it. I’m even more scared because I don’t know what’s wrong. You understand? Being in the dark like I am ... that’s worse than any secret you’re withholding from me.”
Tears came to her eyes, and Ernie said, “Oh, hey, don’t cry. It’s going to be all right, Faye. Really it is.”
“Tell me!” she said.
“Okay.”
“Now. Everything.”
He had woefully underestimated her, and he felt thick-headed. She was a Corps wife, after all, and a good one. She had followed him from Quantico to Singapore to Pendleton in California, even to Alaska, almost everywhere but Nam and, later, Beirut. She had made a home for them wherever the Corps allowed dependents to follow, had weathered the bad times with admirable aplomb, had never complained, and had never failed him. She was tough. He could not imagine how he had forgotten that.
“Everything,” he agreed, relieved to b
e able to share the burden.
Faye made coffee, and they sat in their robes and slippers at the kitchen table while he told her everything. She could see that he was embarrassed. He was slow to reveal details, but she sipped her coffee, remained patient, and gave him a chance to tell it in his own way.
Ernie was about the best husband a woman could want, but now and then his Block-family stubbornness reared its head, and Faye wanted to shake some sense into him. Everyone in his family suffered from it, especially the men. Blocks did things this way, never that way, and you better never question why. Block men liked their undershirts ironed but never their underpants. Block women always wore a bra, even at home in the worst summer heat. Blocks, both men and women, always ate lunch at precisely twelve-thirty, always had dinner at six-thirty sharp, and God forbid if the food was put on the table two minutes late: The subsequent complaining would burst eardrums. Blocks drove only General Motors vehicles. Not because GM products were notably better than others, but because Blocks had always driven only General Motors vehicles.
Thank God, Ernie was not a tenth as bad as his father or brothers. He had been wise enough to get out of Pittsburgh, where the Block clan had lived for generations in the same neighborhood. Out in the real world, away from the Kingdom of the Blocks, Ernie had loosened up. In the Marine Corps he could not expect every meal at precisely the time that Block tradition demanded. And soon after their marriage, Faye had made it clear that she would make a first-rate home for him but would not be bound by senseless traditions. Ernie adapted, though not always easily, and now he was a black sheep among his people, guilty of such sins as driving a variety of vehicles not made by General Motors.
Actually, the only area where the Block family stubbornness still had a hold on Ernie was in some man-woman matters. He believed that a husband had to protect his wife from a variety of unpleasantnesses that she was just too fragile to handle. He believed that a husband should never allow his wife to see him in a moment of weakness. Although their marriage had never been conducted according to those rules, Ernie did not always seem to realize they had abandoned the Block traditions more than a quarter of a century ago.
For months, she had been aware something was seriously wrong. But Ernie continued to stonewall it, straining to prove he was a happy retired Marine blissfully launched on a second career in motels. She had watched an unknown fire consuming him from within, and her subtle and patient attempts to get him to open up had gone right over his head.
During the past few weeks, ever since returning from Wisconsin after Thanksgiving, she had been increasingly aware of his reluctance—even inability—to go out at night. He could not seem to make himself comfortable in a room where even one lamp was left unlit.
Now, as they sat in the kitchen with cups of steaming coffee, the blinds tightly closed and all the lights on, Faye listened intently to Ernie, interrupting only when he seemed to need a word of encouragement to keep him going, and nothing he told her was more than she could cope with. Indeed, her spirits rose, for she was increasingly certain that she knew what was wrong with him and how he might be helped.
He finished, his voice low and thin. “So ... is that the reward for all the years of hard work and careful financial planning? Premature senility? Now, when we can really start enjoying what we’ve earned, am I going to wind up with my brains all scrambled, drooling, pissing my pants, useless to myself and a burden on you? Twenty years before my time? Christ, Faye, I’ve always realized that life isn’t fair, but I never thought the deck was stacked against me this bad.”
“It won’t be like that.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Sure, Alzheimer’s can strike people even younger than you, but this isn’t Alzheimer’s. From what I’ve read, from the way it was with my father, I don’t think the onset of senility—premature or otherwise—is ever like this. What it sounds like is a simple phobia. Phobia. Some people have an irrational fear of flying or heights. For some reason, you’ve developed a fear of the dark. It can be overcome.”
“But phobias just don’t develop overnight, do they?”
Their right hands were still clasped. She squeezed his as she said, “Do you remember Helen Dorfman? Almost twenty-four years ago. Our landlady when you were first assigned to Camp Pendleton.”
“Oh, yeah! The building on Vine Street, lived in number one, first floor front. We lived in number six.” He seemed to take heart from his ability to recall those details. “She had a cat ... Sable. Remember how the damn cat took a liking to us, left little gifts on our doorstep?”
“Dead mice.”
“Yeah. Right there beside the morning paper and the milk.” He laughed, blinked, and said, “Hey, I see what you mean by bringing up Helen Dorfman! She was afraid to go out of her apartment. Couldn’t even walk out on her own lawn.”
“The poor woman had agoraphobia,” Faye said. “An irrational fear of open spaces. She was a prisoner in her own home. Outside, she was overwhelmed with fear. Doctors call it a ‘panic attack,’ I think.”
“Panic attack,” Ernie said softly. “Yeah, that’s it, all right.”
“And Helen didn’t develop her agoraphobia till she was thirty-five, after her husband died. Phobias can spring up suddenly, later in life.”
“Well, whatever the hell a phobia is, wherever it comes from ... I guess it’s a lot better than senility. But good God, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being afraid of the dark.”
“You won’t have to,” Faye said. “Twenty-four years ago, nobody understood phobias. There hadn’t been much study done. No effective treatments. But it’s not like that now. I’m sure it’s not.”
He was silent a moment. “I’m not crazy, Faye.”
“I know that, you big jerk.”
He mulled over the word “phobia,” and he plainly wanted to believe her answer. In his blue eyes, she saw a rebirth of hope.
He said, “But the weird experience I had on the interstate on Tuesday.... And the hallucination—I’m sure it must’ve been a hallucination—of the motorcyclist on the roof.... How does stuff like that fit this explanation? How could that be a part of my phobia?”
“I don’t know. But an expert in the field could explain it all and tie it together. I’m sure it’s not as unusual as it seems, Ernie.”
He pondered for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. But how do we begin? Where do we go for help? How do I beat this damn thing?”
“I already have it figured out,” she said. “No doctor in Elko is going to know how to treat a case like this. We need a specialist, someone who deals with phobic patients every day. Probably isn’t anyone like that in Reno, either. We’ll have to go to a bigger city. Now, I suspect Milwaukee’s big enough to have a doctor with experience in these things, and we could stay with Lucy and Frank—”
“And at the same time get to see a lot of Frank, Jr., and Dorie,” Ernie said, smiling at the thought of his grandchildren.
“Right. We’ll go there for Christmas a week sooner than planned, this Sunday instead of next. Which is tomorrow, in fact. It’s already Saturday. When we get to Milwaukee, we’ll look up a doctor. If, by New Year’s, it looks like we’ll have to stay there awhile, then I’ll fly back here, find a full-time couple to manage the place, and rejoin you. We were planning to hire somebody this spring, anyway.”
“If we close the motel a week early, Sandy and Ned will lose out on some money over at the Grille.”
“Ned will still get the truckers off the interstate. And if he doesn’t do as well as usual, we’ll make it up to him.”
Ernie shook his head and smiled. “You’ve got it all worked out. You’re something, Faye. You sure are. You’re an absolute wonder.”
“Well, I will admit I can be dazzling sometimes.”
“I thank God every day that I found you,” he said.
“I don’t have any regrets either, Ernie, and I know I never will.”
“You know, I feel a thousand percent better than when we first
sat down here. Why’d it take me so damn long to ask you for help?”
“Why? Because you’re a Block,” she said.
He grinned and finished the old joke: “Which is only one step removed from a blockhead.”
They laughed. He grabbed her hand again and kissed it. “That’s the first real laugh I’ve had in weeks. We’re a terrific team, Faye. We can face anything together, can’t we?”
“Anything,” she agreed.
It was Saturday, December 14, near dawn, and Faye Block was sure they would come out on top of their current problem, just as they had always come out on top before when they worked together, side by side.
She, like Ernie, had already forgotten the unidentified Polaroid photograph that they had received in a plain envelope last Tuesday.
11. Boston, Massachusetts
On an intricately crocheted doily, on the highly polished maple dresser, lay black gloves and a stainless-steel ophthalmoscope.
Ginger Weiss stood at a window to the left of the dresser, looking out at the bay, where the gray water seemed to be a mirror image of the ashen mid-December sky. Farther shores were hidden by a lingering morning mist that shimmered with a pearly luminosity. At the end of the Hannaby property, at the bottom of a rocky slope, a private dock thrust out into the choppy bay. The dock was covered with snow, as was the long expanse of lawn leading back to the house.
It was a big house, built in the 1850s, with new rooms added in 1892, in 1905, and again in 1950. The brick driveway curved beneath an enormous front portico, and broad thick steps led up to massive doors. Pillars, pilasters, carved granite lintels above doors and windows, a multitude of gables and circular dormers, bay-facing second-story balconies at the back, and a large widow’s walk on the roof contributed to an impression of majesty.
Even for a surgeon as successful as George, the house might have been too expensive, but he had not needed to buy it. He had inherited the place from his father, and his father had inherited it from George’s grandfather, and his father had bought it in 1884. The house even had a name—Baywatch—like ancestral homes in British novels, and more than anything else, that inspired awe in Ginger. Houses in Brooklyn, where she came from, did not have their own names.
At Memorial, Ginger never felt uncomfortable around George. There, he was a figure of authority and respect, but he seemed to have his roots in common stock like everyone else. At Baywatch, however, Ginger was aware of the patrician heritage, and that made George different from her. He never invoked a claim to privilege. That would not be like him. But the ghost of the New England patriciate haunted the rooms and corridors of Baywatch, often making her feel out of place.
The corner guest suite—bedroom, reading alcove, and bath—in which Ginger had been settled for the past ten days, was simpler than many chambers in Baywatch, and there she was almost as comfortable as in her own apartment. Most of the pegged-oak floor was covered by a figured Serapi carpet in shades of blue and peach. The walls were peach, the ceiling white. The maple furniture, which consisted of various kinds of chests used as nightstands and tables and dressers, had all come off 19th-century sailing ships owned by George’s great-grandfather. There were two upholstered armchairs covered in peach-colored silk from Brunschwig & Fils. On the nightstands, the bases of the lamps were actually Baccarat candle-sticks, a reminder that the apparent simplicity of the room was built upon an elegant foundation.
Ginger went to the dresser and stared down at the black gloves that lay upon the doily. As she had done countless times during the past ten days, she put the gloves on, flexed her hands, waiting for a rush of fear. But they were only ordinary gloves that she had bought the day she had been discharged from the hospital, and they did not have the power to bring her to the trembling edge of a fugue. She took them off.
A knock sounded at the door, and Rita Hannaby said, “Ginger, dear, are you ready?”
“Coming,” she said, snatching her purse from the bed and taking one last quick glance at herself in the dresser mirror.
She was wearing a lime-green knit suit with a creamy white blouse that had a simple lime-green bow at the throat. Her ensemble included a pair of green pumps that matched the suit, an eelskin purse that matched the pumps, a gold and malachite bracelet. The outfit perfectly complemented her complexion and golden hair. She thought she looked chic. Well, perhaps not chic, but at least stylish.
However, when she stepped into the hall and got a look at Rita Hannaby, Ginger felt at a disadvantage, a mere pretender to class.
Rita was as slim as Ginger, but at five-eight she was six inches taller, and everything about her was queenly. Her chestnut-brown hair swept back from her face in a perfectly feathered cut. If her facial bones had been more exquisitely chiseled, she would have looked severe. However, beauty and warmth were assured by her luminous gray eyes, translucent skin, and generous mouth. Rita was wearing a gray St. John’s suit, pearls, pearl earrings, and a broad-brimmed black hat.
To Ginger, the amazing thing was that Rita’s fashionable appearance did not seem planned. One had no sense that she had spent hours getting ready. Instead, she seemed to have been born with impeccable grooming and a fashionably tailored wardrobe; elegance was her natural condition.
“You look smashing!” Rita said.
“Next to you, I feel like a frump in blue jeans and a sweat-shirt.”
“Nonsense. Even if I were twenty years younger, I’d be no match for you, dear. Wait and see who the waiters pamper the most at lunch.”