The Fading (40 page)

Noel changed course and continued through the lobby, into another hall decorated as a temporary art gallery whose theme might
have been The Wild West and Sleepy Cowboys Who Lived There. There had to be more exits, plenty of them. But, then again, this
was a casino and they practiced a school of feng shui that funneled you away from the exits for the same reason they didn’t
want you to see a clock.

Soft carpet, high ceilings, the quiet calm pregnant with imminent crisis. He passed a throng of Japanese teens who looked
like an ad for energy drinks and portable musical devices, then was winding around a
Harley-Davidson store (closed), and came to a four-way intersection. A hall leading toward what he guessed were conference
rooms on the right, to his left a grand staircase with marble banisters that rose one story and split two ways, and straight
ahead more unknown. He continued straight for another hundred feet or so and now his ankle was warning him not to push it
if he ever wanted to walk right again.

Doors, doors everywhere, but none were exits. The signs overhead directed him toward restrooms, the athletic center, more
shops, and of course there was always a new route to get back to the casino. Noel knew he was only wading deeper into the
resort and he doubted he would find another exit all the way on the backside. But the Forum Shops’ east entrance was coming
up, and he knew there was a way to exit onto the street from there. Or some kind of passage into the next resort …

He picked up his pace, angling right as the next curve approached. When he turned that corner, the mall’s first leg came into
view. The fashion boutiques were closed but the mall’s main center lane was open. Huge potted plants that were really small
trees were positioned beside quaint park benches for resting, and it was on the third of these benches that he spotted Theodore
Dalton, seated with his legs crossed, right hand bandaged thick as a boxing glove, sucking on the straw of a rather large
paper cup with a Mrs Field’s Cookies logo. He was eight or ten retail storefronts away, but there was no mistaking him.

‘Piece of shit,’ Noel whispered.

The cameras are going to nail us both
.

This little mind-wipe trick of ours might work on human beings, but if what you told me was true, we can’t fool the cameras.
They’ve been recording us all along. How are you not in jail right now, fat slug?

Noel took two steps back and Dalton turned his head slowly, casually, until the two men were once again staring at each other.
Dalton had changed yet again, from the blue warm-ups into a pair of white drawstring pants and a loose-fitting, almost flowing
dress shirt of navy linen. Seeing Noel, he lobbed his drink to the floor, slapped his healthy palm on his thigh and heaved
himself up. He stretched theatrically, his entire body rippling with shimmering light, going chameleon with the backdrop of
mall and store signs before slowly, teasingly, filling in again. The bastard was showing off. He went solid again, yawned,
and took up a stroll in Noel’s direction.

He was in no hurry, but the sight of his flat eyes and swinging thick arms and that tireless pot belly were enough to turn
Noel around and send him back toward the front entrance at a fast jog. Just before Noel turned the corner, he glanced over
his shoulder.

Dalton had vanished, and Noel had never wished so badly for the power to follow him into the void. This simply wasn’t fair.

It was going to end here, he realized. In Caesars’ arena they would wage their final battle, until one man was showered in
roses, the other walking in the fields of Elysium.

Noel chose the grand staircase. It was a kind of torture that went against the Geneva Conventions on self-abuse, but, short
of running into the arms of the police out front, it was the only choice. There probably weren’t more than twenty-five stairs
on the first riser but they felt like three hundred. At the landing he made a U-turn to the right and climbed another twenty
or more, cresting into a hall that pointed him to the spa and fitness center.

As for the invisible Mr Dalton, there were no shouts or cries this time, no wagging knives. Here on the second floor, away
from the sparse morning foot traffic and far from the casino, there was only a hushed silence. He could not hear the predator’s
footsteps and he had no plan for where to go, what to do. But soon enough he was gimping his way through the unattended and
open-walled spa shop, where one could purchase all manner of soaps, powders, lotions, swimsuits and fancy robes for the upcoming
steam and whirlpool experience. He knew he was headed toward another dead end of some sort, but there was no one around at
this hour and if they
were going to have it out, better here than in view of the solids.

The hall to the spa itself stretched on for another hundred feet, at least. He came upon a barbershop where he might have
found a pair of scissors or a straight razor, but the door was locked and the sign said that JOEY G., BARBER TO THE STARS
would not be in until ten. The air grew humid and scented with chlorine and other stimulating aromatics as he reached the
end of the hall and spa entrance. The small door was open and as Noel approached the front counter, a young man in a light
green polo and black slacks appeared with a stack of folded towels in one arm. The soft brown eyes beneath their delicate
brows were slow to register Noel’s shaggy appearance, the disappointment in them translating as
oh no, not another one, it’s too early for vagrants.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but the spa doesn’t open until seven.’

‘I have to use the bathroom,’ Noel said without slowing. ‘It’s an emergency.’

‘Unfortunately, you’ll have to use the ones back that way—’

‘There’s no time.’

The young man stepped around the counter and tried to block the way in. Noel put his hands up and smiled, noting the nametag.

‘Relax, Hector, I’m an employee. I’ve been on the maintenance team for two years and this won’t take but a few minutes, I
promise.’

Hector smiled crookedly, maybe buying it, probably not. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Noel Shaker. Call Tilly at the front desk. She’ll vouch for me.’

Hector sighed. ‘Make it quick, man. And don’t use anything other than the toilets.’

Noel carried on, then paused. This wasn’t right. He came back. ‘Hector?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I lied. I used to work here but now I’m just running from a very sick man with a knife. He’s following me right now and if
you get in the way I guarantee he’s going to kill you.’

‘Say what? The hell you talking about, man?’

Noel opened his shirt for Hector, revealing the cut from yesterday. ‘He did this. The man following me is the man who killed
the maintenance guy on the sixth floor yesterday afternoon.’

‘Yo what? Somebody got killed?’

‘The tall bald guy with the tattoos, wears those green Docs? You remember him?’

Hector’s eyes widened.

‘Well, he’s dead. Got his throat and belly filleted yesterday afternoon. You need to hide now, in a closet, an office, or
better yet find a way out that doesn’t involve that hall right there. Now, Hector. I am not fucking with you.’

Hector glanced down the hall. ‘You want me to call the police?’

‘Sure, but get the hell out of here first.’

Hector grabbed a set of keys from under the counter and disappeared behind a door to the side. There was a
locking sound and Noel hoped it would be enough. He didn’t need anyone else getting hurt in this.

He shut the door to the main entrance but the knob was a dummy and the lock was a key-deadbolt only. He didn’t have time to
bring Hector back out with the keys.

He turned back to the counter to search for a weapon. Oh, if he only had thought to carry his gun when he left home two days
ago. But he’d only been heading out to steal a stupid toy set for Julie. He hadn’t planned on meeting a serial killer with
superior blinding skills and becoming mortal enemies with same in less than twenty-four hours. There were no weapons here
unless a ballpoint pen was a weapon. And with nothing else at hand, why not? Noel took the pen and shambled into the spa.

It would have been nice if at some point in the past two years Noel had bothered to become familiar with this charming hotel
feature, but this entire wing of the resort and the spa were foreign territory. A confusing maze of small rooms and tiled
corridors. He passed a lounge with padded armchairs and ottomans, the day’s ironed newspapers laid out for guests, along with
a selection of fresh fruits, coffee urns, bagels, carafes of fresh orange and pineapple juice sitting in a tub of ice, and
a flatscreen television mounted to one wall, turned to
SportsCenter
, the volume down very low.

The backside of the lounge opened into the locker room, with a carpeted floor, wooden lockers and benches, a pyramid of clean
white towels stacked inside
a huge wicker hamper. Towels everywhere he looked, in shelves along the walls, in every room. He moved through the next section,
a rectangular space with sinks and shaving creams and lotions set out. Q-tips. On the other side of the wall to his left were
the urinals and toilets. Beyond those, a bay of shower stalls, their glass doors open and waiting, white robes everywhere.
More clean towels, and another wicker hamper for spent ones.

Exiting the bathrooms he came to an elevated platform which held the largest whirlpool, steaming but not yet bubbling, and
a little ways past that, in a right-turn alcove, were three steam rooms – herbal, regular and a cold room blowing artificial
snow. Everything was on, running, ready for the early birds. More towels. A large tub of ice with dozens of short bottled
waters. Tightly rolled washrags in ice, for cooling down after the steam. Noel took one and rubbed his face, threw it in the
hamper.

How was he going to defend himself in here? There were no exits – only the front hall and whatever else lay behind the room
Hector had locked himself into. Hector’d be calling someone right now. Front desk, the police, security. That was probably
for the best. Noel would have a lot of explaining to do, might get in some serious shit if Dalton told them about the muggings,
the six million they’d found in the desert, but he would rather go to prison than be murdered. How long could prison hold
him anyway? Eventually he would blind his way out.

There was one more room, separate from the others, which he found at the end of a longer cement corridor. Larger and darker,
with a rainforest feel to it, a thundering downpour sound emanating as he approached. Elevated from the main floor, on a platform
of tile, were three pools – very hot tub, warm tub, cold tub. A hard running deluge shower in the middle, televisions on the
walls, and heated S-shaped lounge chairs on the left perimeter. More bottled water, more towels, a bowl of miniature oranges.

But in all of this there was no place to hide. Only walls and water. What could he do with water? Nothing while he was solid.
He might be able to make something of the deluge or the pools if he were in Dalton’s state. At least then they would be on
something of a level playing field. He could—

Wait a minute. Water. Steam. Showers. Pools.

Noel couldn’t hide in any of these elements, but neither could Dalton.

The water would give him away, even while he was faded. He would register in outline, in the water he disturbed, the way the
snow had given Noel away in Boulder. It wasn’t much but it was his only chance, to level the playing field somewhat. But what
was the best way to inch himself closer to Dalton’s state? What could he use to blend in? The water, the towels? Everywhere
Noel looked there were towels. Thick white towels and white walls and light colored tile. Anything, every little bit, would
help.

Noel stripped off his clothes and threw them in the
nearest hamper, thought better of it, and pulled them back out. He spread them on the floor, as if hastily shucked, near the
entrance to this main room with the three pools and deluge, right where Dalton would see them and, if Noel were lucky, assume
he had gone into hiding here. The truth would be easy enough to discover, but the clothes might buy him an extra minute or
two.

Dick and balls naked, holding only the ballpoint pen, Noel doubled back toward the steam rooms, teeth clenching every time
he turned the corner in anticipation of whatever cute weapon Dalton had brought to the show this time around. Passing the
bathrooms, he looped around the corner and risked checking the door near Hector’s front counter. It was still closed, but
unless Dalton had fallen far behind on the stairs or taken a wrong turn outside the spa, he would be close.

Or was already inside.

Thank you, Hector
, Noel thought when he noted for the second time the steam rooms were already cooking, even warmer than just a few minutes
ago. Noel wrapped himself in a towel and carried the bucket of water bottles to the herbal room. The tub was heavy. Maybe
twenty small bottles of water sitting in two or three gallons of melting ice. He propped the glass door open and lugged the
tub in, placing it on the top seating level at the back of the white tiled room, in the corner where from the door visibility
would be at its poorest. He sat down beside the tub, took in the view.

He could see the door.

This wasn’t going to work. The room wasn’t hot enough. The steam hadn’t been on long enough, was too thin. Noel would be exposed.
All he needed was a five-second advantage, the delay between Dalton entering the steam room and then making him out on the
other side. That would give Noel enough time to come down on him, but only if the steam was thunderstorm thick. Otherwise
Dalton would spot him in the second he opened the door, or even looked through it. And what was he going to do with the water
bottles? Throw them at the slug?

Noel got up, exited the steam room carrying the tub, but left two bottles on the highest tile bench seat. He realized he was
no longer holding the pen. No idea where he’d dropped it. Excellent. What else was there?