Grist 01 - The Four Last Things (18 page)

“Now, you’re an extremely successful young man,” Mary Claire said. Clive gestured in a self-deprecatory fashion. “Gold records, fans all over the world, a promising movie career.” She consulted a small card in her hand. “Homes in Los Angeles, London, and the Bahamas. What kind of gains could the Church deliver to someone like you?”

“Meself,” Clive said promptly. “And that’s the important thing, in’t it?”

Depends, I thought.

“Of course it is,” Mary Claire said coaxingly. Clive nodded. Mary Claire smiled. Clive smiled back. “Um,” Mary Claire said. She wasn’t very good at this. “You told me, just before we went on the air, a very interesting story about how you found the Church. Would you share it with our viewers?”

“I was in the limo after a show,” Clive said with uncommon nasal resonance. His adenoids must have been bigger than Univac. “You know, everybody thinks that rock stars must feel great after a show, but for me that was always the lowest time. It was like my whole life was over, like I didn’t have any more reason for being alive. The better the show was, the lower I felt. You know what I mean?”

“Of course,” Mary Claire said, rapt. There was really something very unattractive in the looseness of her mouth. “With a triumph in the past, what can the present hold?”

“Yeah,” Clive said. “That’s it. I was low. So I told the driver to turn on the radio.”

“This was in New York,” Mary Claire said, “so that meant you were listening to our affiliate there, WHOP-FM. Good gain, WHOP.” She pronounced it “W-HOPE” rather than “WHOP” She clasped her hands over her head in praise of WHOP.

“I guess so,” Clive said a bit impatiently. He was a lot more interested in himself than he was in the good folks at WHOP. “And I heard this little angel’s voice.”

“Our little Angel,” Mary Claire said. She stroked her daughter’s hair, and Angel pulled away slightly. Her eyes wandered away beyond the cameras. I found myself wondering again about the two little girls who had Spoken before her. Had they gotten bored? Had they suddenly become problems?

Then I heard voices in the hall, a man and a woman.

I stood up and waited. The voices became louder, and I opted for discretion and went quickly into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, I stepped into the bathtub and drew the shower curtain.

The man and the woman came into the other room.

“… should be closed,” the man said.

“He probably went over to the studio to watch the broadcast,” the woman said. “You know how the new ones are.”

“That doesn’t make it right. Put him down for discipline. Doors are supposed to be closed when the rooms aren’t in use.”

“He just wanted to see Angel in person.”

“Well, it’ll be a while before he sees her again,” the man said. “Basement him.”

The man’s voice grew nearer.

“You can’t basement him,” the woman said. “He hasn’t been here long enough. You’ll lose him.”

“Then we lose him,” the man said. He was at the bathroom door. “We can handle him if he gets smart. There’s no room for carelessness.” He flicked on the bathroom light.

On the TV, Clive droned on. I bent my knees into a half-crouch and brought my hands up, ready to go for the eyes if the man opened the curtain.

“Let’s go,” the woman said. “I want to see the show.”

“See it on tape. We’ve got the rest of the floor to check.”

“Only because you were late,” the woman said. “We should be done by now. Sometimes I wonder about you. Sometimes I wonder why you’re in the Church.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“None of it seems to mean anything to you. Not even Angel.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, but there was an edge of wariness in his tone. “Of course she means something to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like she does,” the woman said calmly.

“What do I have to do, drop to my knees?”

“Then let’s go watch her. Come on, it’s the only show of the day.”

The man drew his breath in and let it out. Then he snapped off the light. “Okay,” he said, “but if they ask you, we checked the whole floor, right?”

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Come
on
.” After a moment the outer door closed behind them.

I stayed in the bathtub for a full three minutes, watching the second hand on my wristwatch. Only when the third minute was up did I step out and cross the room. I shut the door silently behind me and headed for the elevator.

There was no one in sight. It seemed likely that most of the faithful were glued to the tube, watching the testimonies of the rich and famous. Even the lad at the desk had deserted his post, although the rock star could be seen on the screen of a set hung above the elevators.

I reached the elevator and pushed the Down button before I saw the fire stairs. There they were, right where they were supposed to be, with the customary warning that they, rather than the elevator, were to be used in case of fire.

Everything had been labeled but the basement. The man and woman had used the word “basement” as a verb and had argued about it. The elevator wouldn’t take you to the basement if you didn’t have a key. On the whole, it seemed to me, I rather wanted to have a look at the basement.

So I took the stairs.

They were grimy, even for the Borzoi, and ill-lit. More important, though, they didn’t stop at the lobby. There was a rickety waist-high grate closing them off, the kind of thing people in two-story houses buy when they have a baby, with a sign across it that said no access. I accessed by stepping over it and continued down.

The stairs ended in a heavy metal fire door. I turned the knob slowly and inched it open just far enough to peek through. Nothing that I could see. I opened it quickly and stepped through.

The smell of damp was stronger down here than it had been in the lobby: the place smelled like it hadn’t been dry in years. A forty-watt economy bulb hung from a wire above my head. The wire, an electrician’s nightmare, was actually stripped bare in places. The Church obviously saved the high-wattage light bulbs for Revealings.

I was at the end of a concrete-walled corridor. By the time I’d realized I was in a cul-de-sac, the door had closed behind me with a soft, steely sound. Experimentally I tried the knob. From this side, the door was locked. I was going to need another exit.

Something dripped, and I looked down. The floor was covered evenly with a quarter of an inch of black water. Another drop plopped into it, sending out dull concentric ripples that pushed bits of suspect debris before them. Water had seeped through, or condensed on, the ceiling, and it dripped more or less continuously into the fluid on the floor. This was not the kind of place tourists bought maps to find.

Well, I couldn’t just stand there. Sooner or later someone was going to come through the door behind me or round the corner at the other end to check out my little hallway, and I didn’t think they’d be happy to see me. If they didn’t want to see me, I certainly didn’t want to see them.

So I sloshed through the water toward the open end of the corridor. Something entirely too large for my liking scuttled past me in the other direction: a rat. It was wet and black and sleek and it looked mean enough to eat snakes. I accelerated away from it and found myself standing in a wider corridor that crossed mine like the longer stroke of a T. My heart was going like a bass drum.

Neither left nor right was particularly appealing, but I had to go one way or the other, and the right seemed to be more brightly lighted. Figuring that the people were likely to be where the light was, I headed left.

I’d covered more than twenty yards before I found a door. It opened into a small service closet, even wetter and darker than the hallway, with nothing in it but a couple of buckets and some old rags. I closed it and went on, feeling like Jean Valjean in the sewers of Paris. At least he’d known that his enemies were behind him. I had no idea where mine were.

A second cul-de-sac, this one jutting off to the left, led to an enormous and apparently new air-conditioning system, probably installed right where the old gravity furnace had been. It roared along at full output, making me doubt my senses. Who could want air conditioning on a day like this one, fifty-five degrees and raining? And then I remembered the television studio and all those bright lights. Couldn’t have beads of sweat on little Angel’s upper lip.

Big ducts, almost three feet square, branched off from the business end of the air conditioner like the legs of a spider, except that most of them seemed to lead in one direction: toward what would have been the left side of the hotel if I’d been outside and facing it from the street, which I very much wished I were.

A square opening had been cut into one of the ducts with a blowtorch, and then the piece of metal had been removed, hinged, and replaced, perhaps for maintenance access. I thought about the man who would willingly crawl through those ducts in this rat’s nest and asked myself whether even Dexter Smif would do it. Probably not the career change he had in mind. I opened the little door and looked up the duct. It was blacker than the back door to hell and probably narrower.

The main corridor now swung to the right, and I paused at the corner to make sure I had my bearings straight. It wasn’t much fun being down there under the best of circumstances, but it would be a lot less fun if I were lost. I’d been counting not only turns but hanging light bulbs as well. When I was certain I could get back, I went on.

I found, first, a changing room, with hooks spaced on the wall at regular intervals for uniforms or street clothes, and then a bathroom with the most ungodly brown water I’d ever seen brimming over in the toilets. On the doors to the toilet stalls hung signs that said dipping pool. Each dipping pool was numbered. I wondered what got dipped in them.

I left the dipping pools behind and entered a large empty tiled room with no features at all. Every room has features, I thought, studying the walls by the light of what seemed to be a ten-watt bulb. I spotted something dark and round in the center of the floor and went over to it. A drain. When I looked up, I saw the shower heads.

The details of the morning’s nightmare came back to me more vividly than I liked. I had to force myself not to look up for the gray worms as I very slowly left the room, and I tried not to acknowledge the relief I felt when the door opened in front of me.

Two empty closets and one backtrack later, I found the kitchen of the Borzoi.

It was vast and cavernous and empty. What seemed like acres of filthy wet counter stretched in every direction, lighted by the standard-issue hanging bulbs. The old gas ranges were cold and rusty, their oven doors hanging open. I didn’t much think I wanted to look in the ovens.

In addition to the one I had entered through, there were four doors in the kitchen. Two opened into dish closets, still stacked high with authentic dinnerware of the twenties that Eleanor would have killed for. The third was as wide as it was high, and as heavy as it was wide. I had to use both hands to pull it open.

When I did, a wave of cold air broke over me. I had obviously found the refrigerator that had once served the kitchen, keeping the Barrymores’ caviar chilled. I was holding the door open with one hand and feeling around on the inside wall for a light switch with the other, when something in there moved. Then it moved again. Then it scuttled toward me. It had at least four legs.

The largest rat in the world swam into my imagination, and I yanked my arm out and backed away so fast that I cracked my hip on the edge of a counter. The refrigerator door slowly swung shut. Whatever it was, it was going to stay inside.

The fourth door was worse.

It was narrow but tall, and it opened to reveal a dumbwaiter that in the old days had carried hot food up into the chandeliered dining room. When I tugged it open, I saw nothing but a bundle of rags that had been wadded up and thrown inside. I reached in to test the ropes, wondering if I could somehow haul myself up to ground level, and the bundle of rags stirred. A bunch of darker rags slowly lifted itself and became hair, and I was looking into the face of a woman.

A girl really; she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her face was pasty and hollow. Her eyes were black and flat, as empty and lifeless as windows into a dark room. She looked first at my face and then down at my clothes. Then she sighed and started to lower her head again.

“Honey,” I said. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get out of here.” I put my hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t even shrug. She was barely breathing. I shook her and got no response. I left the door open and backed away, and she reached out a slender white arm and slowly pulled the door closed again.

Getting out had become an urgent priority. I left the kitchen and backtracked the way I had come. At the cul-de-sac leading to the fire stairs I paused. Then I went into the small hallway and, avoiding the lethal bare patches on the wire in an effort not to be electrocuted, reached up and unscrewed the light bulb. I needed time to think. Mentally bidding Mr. Rat to keep his distance, I leaned against the door and listened to the water drip.

At least I’d learned what people meant when they used “basement” as a verb. Now what I needed was to unbasement myself as quickly as possible.

In the class-conscious twenties, a hotel like the Borzoi wouldn’t have subjected its guests’ sensibilities to the sight of the help, people largely lacking in real style, coming and going. That meant there had to be a service entrance or two at street level, and also, since so many of the poor souls had slaved in the basement, there had to be a service elevator. And since I’d pretty much exhausted the territory to the left, it had to be to the right. Where the lights were.

I’d moved only a few steps when I heard voices. I was learning to back up very quickly, and I did it now, heading for what had become the friendly, rat-filled darkness of my cul-de-sac.

Huddled against the fire door, I watched three people pass from right to left. The first was a short, fat man dressed in drab, loose clothes. The other two were in quasi-military uniforms, faintly Italian in their spit-and-polish, and calf-high boots. As they passed, the man in the lead stared hopelessly at the floor but the man in the middle looked back, away from me, said something, and laughed. It wasn’t a contagious laugh. Virulent, maybe, but not contagious.