Sleepeasy

by Wright, T. M.

  "You mean God?"

  A car sped past, horn blaring. "Hey," Harry declared, smiling, "I think he actually saw us."

  "Some people can," Sam told him.

  "But not everyone?"

  "And it works the other way around too. We can't see all of the living."

  "Why would that be?"

  "I have no idea. You ask questions as if you expect me to give you answers. I don't have any answers, my friend. I'm like you. I just have questions."

  "I've got an idea," Harry said. "Why don't we hitchhike." And he turned around, walked backward and stuck his thumb out.

  "I think," Sam said, "that this is the way that great urban myths get started."

  "Urban myths?"

  "Sure. Remember the phantom hitchhiker? That's you now."

  "Phantom, yeah." Harry smiled. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Being a spook in the real world was all right.

  "Watch your feet there," Sam warned.

  Harry looked at his feet. "Good Lord," he whispered. They were an inch into the pavement. "I'm sinking."

  "No, just forgetting," Sam corrected.

  A car sped past, then another, and another. "Forgetting what?"

  "That you're in a world you have no real business being in. You've got to think about things, Harry. Like where your feet should be."

  "On top of the pavement, yeah, I know," Harry whispered, and his feet rose a bit, so he was again walking on the road and not in it. He glanced at Sam. "You mean I've got to think about this all the time?"

  Sam nodded glumly. "Some part of you does, yes. And you've got to think about your clothes too, and your face and your muscles, your hair color, your eye color, whether your voice is coming out right—"

  "Give me a break, Sam. Why do I have to do all that?"

  "So the living who actually see you won't see something that makes them pee in their pants."

  "You mean, without all this. . . physicalness we're really that frightening?"

  "Trust me, Harry. We are."

  An ancient Cadillac, bouncing on its springs and belching blue smoke, pulled over and stopped fifty yards ahead. The driver stuck his head out the driver's window and looked back. "Well, c'mon, before a cop sees us!" he called, and Harry and Sam ran to the car and climbed into the front seat.

  Sydney had checked in at the Biltmore Hotel, on Second Avenue, and he was sleeping. He loved to sleep because his dreams were so entertaining and so delicious.

  Ten stories below, Kennedy Whelan, his partner, Ian, another detective named Spears and two uniformed cops had gotten Sydney's room number from the desk clerk and were on their way up. The uniformed cops were taking the stairs, the detectives the elevator. Two other cops were on the street in front of the hotel and two more were in the alley behind, watching the fire escapes.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  "I saw it," Jack South whispered.

  "Saw what?" Amelia asked.

  "The car." With effort, he lifted his arm and pointed tremblingly at a narrow place between two low, bare hills several hundred yards ahead.

  They'd stopped running. It was too hot and the air, foul with the smell of sulfur, was nearly too dense to breathe.

  "Yes," Amelia said, "I think I saw it too." She wasn't sure of that. Perhaps it was simply wishful thinking. Who knew if they had even been heading in the right direction?

  "Octopus," Jack said, thinking that if its tentacles were reaching, they would probably retract, and then he and Amelia would be free of this place.

  "Yes," Amelia whispered. "Octopus."

  They walked. Around them, the bleak landscape seemed to droop from the incredible heat. Branches of the bare, stunted trees drooped. The sky drooped with dollops of gray cloud. The spiky grasses that clumped on little hills drooped. The ground itself became soft and squishy underfoot.

  "What good…" Jack wheezed, "is it . . . going to do us anyway?"

  "You mean the car?"

  He nodded.

  Amelia said, "I don't know." She took a long breath. "We'll have to see."

  The man driving the Cadillac was very talkative and very animated. He glanced at his two passengers often as he talked—which made Sam uneasy—and he also gesticulated wildly.

  "So what's wrong with your friend there?" the man asked. "Does he always act like that?"

  Sam glanced at Harry, who was staring straight ahead and sitting very stiffly. "What's wrong, pal?" Sam asked.

  Harry shook his head quickly. "Just . . . concentrating," he answered.

  "You don't have to concentrate that hard."

  "What's he concentrating on?" the driver asked. "He looks like he's going to split a gut or something!"

  "Harry, you don't really have to focus all of your energy like that."

  "But . . . if I . . . don't—"

  "Eventually, it'll become second nature."

  "Jesus, look at him," the driver said. "He looks really spooky."

  Sam smiled. So that's where the living got some of their ideas about the dead.

  Sam whispered in Harry's ear, "You're a little stiff, my friend. Loosen up."

  Harry whispered back, "What if I ... float away or something?"

  "I don't think that's going to happen."

  "Is he sick?" the driver asked. "I got a bad bag there in the glove compartment if he's sick. Hell, I get sick all the time driving this thing. Bad exhaust. Leaks into the backseat, so I don't put no one there. But when I'm in traffic and I ain't movin', hell ... Your friend need a bad bag?"

  "No, I don't think so," Sam answered.

  "One of these days, this damned car's going to kill me, I'm sure of it," the driver rattled on. "Am I driving too fast? I have to drive fast in order to keep the fumes behind me, you know. If I don't drive fast, then the fumes creep up here and make me sick. But if I'm driving too fast, you let me know. Some people don't like to drive fast. Me, I don't mind. I like it."

  "No, it's all right," Sam said.

  "Actually, it isn't—" Harry began.

  "It's all right," Sam whispered to him. "It doesn't matter. We're going where we need to go."

  "So you live in Chappaqua, huh?" the driver said. "Nice place. Real nice place. I lived in a place like that once. I lived in Chautauqua. That's downstate, near Erie, south of Buffalo. Nice place. Big houses. I like big houses. I guess I've always liked big houses. Big cars too. Well, that's obvious, ain't it? Nothing much bigger than this tank, huh? Yes, sir, big old Cadillac. Can't beat 'em. They stick to the road like tar. Barrel through the snow too."

  Sam nodded to indicate the toll booths for the George Washington Bridge, several hundred yards ahead. The Cadillac was traveling over seventy miles an hour. "Aren't you going to stop?" he said.

  "What? To pay a damned toll? Who stops to pay a damned toll?"

  Sam dug in his pockets. "If you need a couple of quarters…" There were two kinds of toll booths, one manned by toll takers who made change and the other with a basket hung out for drivers to throw their quarters in.

  The driver of the Cadillac waved his hand in the air. "Put your money away. You know what it is"—they were within fifty yards of the toll booths now and he hadn't slowed down—"it's, a matter of principle." They roared past the toll booths, suspension creaking, exhaust belching. Within seconds, sirens sounded and multicolored lights flashed behind them.

  The driver laughed. "God, that's quite a show, ain't it! They spend more fucking money on electricity to run that alarm system than the damned toll is worth."

  Sam looked back. A cop car pulled out of a parking area near the toll booths and came after them. "There's a cop after us."

  Harry muttered, "Shit!"

  The driver said, "It's not the first time. It won't be the last. Hell, I've had cops after me in twenty-five states. You run, they chase. It's a game. They like it. Everyone likes it. Gets put on one of those goddamned real-life crime shows and everyone thinks, Good, good, the police are doing their jobs! When everyone, fuck, everyone would love to run from
the cops just once."

  The police car was gaining on them fast.

  "Maybe you should pull over," Sam suggested.

  "My sentiments . . . exactly," Harry whispered.

  "What'sa matter? You nervous?" the driver said, and laughed.

  "Hey, it's all right. They never catch me. This damned thing ain't like the wussy cars they're making today. It's got an engine in it!" He tromped the accelerator to the floor. The Cadillac took off like a rocket, leaving the cop car far behind.

  Kennedy Whelan knocked on the door to room 8E at the Biltmore. A woman in her seventies opened the door after a few moments, saw Whelan with his gun drawn and shrieked.

  "Goddammit!" Whelan muttered, and shouldered into the woman's room, pushing her in before him. He closed the door gently.

  The woman shrieked again. Whelan took her hard by the shoulders, bent over, so he could look her in the eye, and said tightly, "I'm a cop!"

  "No, you aren't!" she cried. "Prove it!"

  Whelan withdrew his badge from his suit jacket pocket for her. She looked at it a moment, said, "Okay," and shrieked again.

  "Goddammit!" Whelan repeated. Why hadn't Ian phoned all the other rooms first, as he'd been ordered? "Didn't you get a call?" Whelan asked.

  "A call, a call?" she stammered. "What call? My phone's unplugged. I unplugged it."

  "You unplugged it. Why?"

  "So I could sleep, dammit!"

  Whelan sighed. "Listen, all I want you to do is stay in your room and lock the door, okay?"

  "Why? What's going on? Are you after someone? Is there going to be shooting?"

  "Just, please, stay here and lock the door. Don't even go near the door, okay?"

  "Why? Is someone going to shoot through it? Is that what's going to happen?"

  "Just do as I ask. Please." He went to the door and stepped out into the hallway.

  "Get back!" Ian barked.

  Whelan snapped his head around and saw Ian at the end of the hall. He was gesturing frantically. "Ken, get back in that room!"

  Whelan glanced in the opposite direction, toward room 8F, Sydney's room. He saw nothing.

  He looked at Ian again, got another frantic gesture and tried the knob to room 8E. It was locked. He knocked on the door. "Open up!"

  "No!"

  He looked back at Ian and shrugged as if to ask what was happening.

  "He's there!" Ian barked.

  Whelan looked down the corridor but saw nothing.

  "There!" Ian called. "Move!"

  But as faras Whelan was concerned, the hallway was empty. He rapped on the door to room 8E once more.

  "No!" the woman shrieked.

  "Open the goddamned door!"

  "Ken, watch out!" Ian called, and Whelan heard the quick, sharp snap of a .38 being fired—once, twice, again—followed by the loud, muffled thump of a .45 automatic from the other side of the hallway.

  "What are you shooting at?" Whelan screamed. "What the fuck are you shooting at?"

  He felt pressure on the back of his neck, instinctively fell to the floor and scrambled toward Ian, who, with Spears, was continuing to fire. "What the hell is going on?" Whelan yelled as he moved.

  Ian fired again. His gun was empty. Whelan looked at him, saw him frantically begin to reload.

  Spears continued firing.

  "There's nothing there, god-dammit, there's nothing there!" He was close to Ian now. "Stop shooting, there's nothing there!" he repeated.

  Spears glanced at him wide-eyed and shook his head stiffly, as if in great confusion. He looked away and fired again.

  Whelan saw a whisper of movement down the hall, as if the air were hot, but saw nothing else.

  Spears coughed. Whelan swung around. Spears had his hands to his throat. His eyes were bulging, his mouth was halfway open and his tongue was sticking straight out. His skin had turned blue. He looked exactly as if he were choking himself.

  Ian, within a few feet of Whelan, fired in Spears's direction.

  "What in the hell are you doing?" Whelan barked, and leaped toward him, knocking him to the floor. The gun flew from Ian's hand. "Don't, don't," Ian stammered, and tried to wiggle out from beneath Whelan and retrieve his .38.

  Spears crumpled to the floor with a great Thud! Thump!

  The door to room 8E opened. The old woman stuck her head out into the hallway and shrieked.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  "Didn't I tell you?" the Cadillac driver bragged. "There's an engine in this thing. Didn't I tell you?"

  Harry, still sitting stiffly, whispered, "He's a crazy man."

  "What'd your friend say?" the driver growled.

  "Maybe we should just get out of the car now," Sam suggested.

  "What? You want to get out here?" the driver asked. They were in an abandoned area of the West Village and the Cadillac was moving very slowly through the darkness. The driver had turned the headlights out. "I do this all the time," he explained. "It makes me feel ... covert."

  "Sure, covert," Sam said.

  "I'll take you wherever you want to go," the driver said. "You want to go uptown?"

  "I think we'd like to make our own way from here," Sam told him.

  "Make your own way where?"

  "Wherever we're going," Sam answered.

  The driver smiled coyly at him. "I know what you guys are up to," he announced.

  "You do?" Sam asked.

  "I'm so tired," Harry groaned.

  "And I ain't scared," the driver said. "Maybe I should be. But I ain't. Like I said, I've run from cops in twenty-five states. I seen it all. Now I seen you." He grinned.

  "Not everyone can," Sam told him.

  "Not everyone can what?" the driver asked.

  "See us."

  "I'll bet," the driver said. "I'll bet. How about some music." He turned on the radio. Nothing happened. He scowled, muttered, "Goddamned thing" and hit the bottom of the dashboard with the palm of his hand. "Antenna connection's messed up. I should fix it, but who's got the time, right?" He hit the bottom of the dashboard again. Still nothing.

  "It's all right," Sam said.

  "I think we should get out," Harry whispered. "I'm not feeling well."

  Sam looked quizzically at him.

  "It's my head," Harry explained. "I feel lightheaded."

  "Of course you do," Sam said, smiling.

  "It's not a joke," Harry said. "I feel like I'm about to faint."

  "If he wants to puke," the driver said, "like I said, I got barf bags in the glove compartment." He came to a stop at a stop sign, looked dutifully right and left—which surprised the hell out of Sam—and pulled directly into the path of an oncoming street sweeper.

  "Jesus Christ!" Sam breathed.

  "What?" Harry whispered, gaze still riveted straight ahead.

  The driver muttered, "Oh, shit!" at the same moment, and gunned the accelerator. But it was too late. With a sickening, metallic thud, the street sweeper slammed broadside into the Cadillac.

  "It feels like we've been walking . . . for months," Jack South wheezed.

  "Don't talk," Amelia told him. "Conserve your energy. I think we're making . . . progress."

  The heat was incredible. Trees had become little green and brown puddles, like crayons left on a radiator. Spiky clumps of dark grasses looked like wet hair. The ground itself bore the consistency of pancake batter and made obscene oozing and sucking sounds as they pulled their feet through it.

  "And you know what bugs me . . . most?" Jack said. "It don't bug me that I'm dead. What bugs me is, I didn't gain nothin' at all by dying."

  "Please, Jack—"

  "Like, I thought . . . well, I'm dead, it's a whole new . . . ball game, you know, a new . . . thing, a new start—"

  "Conserve your strength, Jack."

  "Shit, conserve my strength! Why? For what? So I can run the fucking ... Boston Marathon?"

  A flash of blue and green as quick and as startling as a light bulb exploding brought them to a halt.

&nbs
p; "Christ, what was that?" Jack said.

  "He's losing it," Amelia said, smiling. "That was sky. We're almost where we want to be."

  Jack said nothing.

  "We've beaten him," Amelia gloated.

  Another startling flash of sky.

  "Maybe we've beaten him and maybe not," Jack whispered.

  Another flash of blue and green. Then another, another and another, until the flashes were like strobe lights—startling, dizzying, disorienting.

  Jack put his hand to his head, closed his eyes, sank to one knee on the hot earth.

  Amelia squinted. She felt weakened by the light. Where was its source? Ahead? Behind? Above? Suddenly, those concepts meant nothing. The light was everywhere. And it was everything.

  "He's trying to make us lose our way!" she shouted, as if, in the silence, the light itself were competing with her voice.

  Jack lowered his head and stiff-armed the air, as if to push the light away.

  "And we can't let him do it!" Amelia shouted. Her eyes were closed, but the light still insinuated itself, like the images in a fever dream.

  She reached out and found Jack's chunky hand, yanking on it to coax him to his feet. "Please, Jack, don't give up now!" she pleaded. But her bravado, she knew, was senseless. She was blind because of the light. There were no drooping trees, no clumps of hairy grasses, no greedy, dark earth, no weeping sky. There was only the light. His light!

  No, she realized. Not his light. His darkness fighting the light! And unless she and Jack found their way through that struggle and into the light itself, they would probably be lost in this place forever.

  She yanked harder on his hand. "Jack, please!" But it was useless. He didn't want to move. She couldn't move him.

  And it came to her that she had no choice. She had to let him be. She had to leave him to fend for himself. Just as she had had to leave Morgan and Freely. For God's sake, Jack wasn't stupid! What right did she have to assume that he needed her more than she needed him? That was ... elitist bullshit!

  Rationalization! she realized. She wanted to leave him behind now, because she wanted to save herself. If he wasn't up to aiding in his own rescue, then he wasn't worth rescuing.