The Chosen

by Edward Lee

  She touched it, slid it out…

  A gun.

  Vera frowned. All right, it was legitimate for a general manager to have a gun, but that didn’t mean she approved. The gun itself, a revolver, looked big, clunky, and old, like an antique. Perhaps Feldspar owned it as a collector, but if so this whole thing made even less sense. Anybody could walk right in here and take all of this stuff, she thought. It was good to know that Feldspar trusted his people, but this was just plain stupid. She locked the door behind her when she left.

  Around the bend came another office. Unlike Feldspar’s, it was locked. Vera frowned hard at its doorplate. room service manager. A third door read, simply, accounting. This addled her. Where’s my office? she complained to herself. Fucking Kyle gets an office but I don’t? Where do I do my work? The goddamn coffee station? A petty complaint, she realized, but it still pissed her off.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Vera turned, almost startled at the voice. “Hello, Kyle,” she said when she recognized him. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  His grin flashed white, even teeth. “You’re wondering where your office is, right?”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “It’s right here.” Immediately he produced a Philips’-head screwdriver and removed the accounting plate. Then he replaced it with a brand-new one. restaurant MANAGER, V. ABBOT.

  That’s better, she thought. “Where are you moving the accounting office?”

  “You and me, baby,” he jested. “We’re it. But you won’t have to worry about any of the auxiliary bills, like housekeeping and utilities. I’ll be doing all that myself, since I’m more experienced.”

  You dick, Vera thought. “What makes you think you’re more experienced at accounting than I am? I’ve got a degree in restaurant and hotel management.”

  Kyle shrugged. “A degree means nothing. I’ve been working for Mr. Feldspar for ten years. I know the ropes. Don’t get hot about it.”

  Ten years, my ass. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five. What, he’d been in the business since he was fifteen?

  Kyle stood with his hip cocked and arms crossed, smiling derisively. “Best way to learn is to just jump in there and do it, you know? I started at the bottom and I worked my way up, learned everything. When Mr. Feldspar first took me on, I was peeling potatoes and emptying garbage cans. Now I do the quarterly taxes and all the deduction schedules with my eyes closed.”

  Big man, Vera thought. This was not worth going on with. “It’s getting late,” she changed the subject. “How about showing me the rest of the place before I turn in.”

  “Sure.”

  They left the front offices and recrossed the atrium. Firelight jittered about the carpets and paneled walls, prismed through the great chandelier. A coved door to the left of the reception desk took them down a long wide corridor appointed in dark hues and deep-green carpet. “Banquet room,” Kyle pointed through a set of double doors. Vera gaped at its size. “It’ll seat five hundred easy,” Kyle bragged on. “Got a couple smaller banquet rooms upstairs, on the third floor.”

  “Mr. Feldspar anticipates a lot of banquet receipts?”

  Kyle laughed. “You kidding? Most of our other inns haul in forty percent of gross receipts from banquets. You’ll see.”

  “And I suppose you’re the banquet manager too, copping the two-percent commission?” Vera couldn’t resist asking.

  Kyle chuckled. “Of course.”

  Asshole asshole asshole! she thought, following him on down the wide hallway. He cockily muttered a designation, pointing to each door they passed: “Weight rooms.” “Saunas.” “Jacuzzis.” “Racquetball courts.” “Locker rooms.”

  Vera was beginning to wonder if there was anything Feldspar hadn’t considered. They even had mineral baths, rooms for mudpacks, and, though it wouldn’t be completed till spring, a stable for horseback riding.

  “Pool’s in here,” came Kyle’s next revelation. Another set of high double doors led to the long, dark echoing room. “Nice set up, huh?” Kyle bid. “Quarter of a million gallons.”

  It was the biggest indoor pool Vera had ever seen. Heat seemed to float before her at once. Underwater lamps set into the sidewalls pulsed odd dark hues—blue, red, green—which melded under the lapping surface. It was an interesting effect; it seemed almost romantic. The pool itself had been built in a long tile-aproned T-shape, yet the dark underwater lights only illumined the straightaway; the extensions at the top of the T, in other words, were completely unlit. Vera could barely see the room’s end.

  “We keep it heated to eighty-six degrees,” Kyle informed her. “You got any idea how much it costs to heat a pool this size?”

  As she had probably a hundred times already today, Vera found herself considering costs. “A fortune,” she slowly answered Kyle’s question. And it must have cost several more fortunes to build.

  “Let’s go for a swim,” Kyle said.

  “What?”

  “Come on.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “We’re upper management—we can do what we want.”

  I should’ve known, Vera thought. Look at this guy. He was taking off his shirt right in front of her! Eventually, she made the excuse, “Sorry, Kyle. I don’t have a swim-suit.”

  He chuckled abruptly. “Wear your birthday suit, that’s what I always wear. Or if you’re bashful, wear your underwear.”

  Some tour this turned out to be. She would have liked to have seen the other facilities more closely, but Kyle had deliberately rushed by them to bring her here.

  “You’re not a very smooth operator, Kyle. You’ve got to be out of your mind if you think I’m going to go skinny dipping with a guy I just met.’’

  “Hey, sorry.” He passed it off with a shrug. “We’re both adults. I just thought you might want to—”

  “Well, I don’t. I’m tired, and we’ve both got a big few weeks ahead of us.”

  “All the more reason for us to relax, have a good time, right?”

  “Wrong, Kyle.” Did he actually believe she would strip right in front of him? Good-looking men had a tendency to expect women to slaver at their feet. Nice try, pal, she thought. She couldn’t help but notice, though, Kyle’s attractive build. He was trim yet well muscled, with sturdy arms and a developed chest. Some sort of thin silver chain glittered about his neck.

  “No biggie.” He flung his shirt over his shoulder. Then he cast her a last, snide smile. “Maybe some other time…when you’ve got a swimsuit.”

  “Yeah, Kyle. Maybe.” Then again, maybe not.

  “See you in the morning.” He walked out and turned down the hall. Vera frowned after him. Dan B.’s right.

  But just a second later, Kyle quickly reappeared in the door way, his chest flexed as he grinned in at her. “Oh, and I just wanted to let you know, Vera. Don’t let the stories get to you.”

  “Stories?”

  “Yeah. The Inn’s haunted.”

  Then he disappeared again. Vera wanted to laugh. Did he think he could freak her out? Perhaps he wanted to scare her for snubbing his skinny-dipping plans. What an idiot, she dismissed.

  She smiled at her amusement. The Inn’s haunted. Yet for some reason she remained standing there, looking down the long straight body of the pool. The merged light floated languidly atop the water. Then she heard—

  What was that?

  Her smile faded. She thinned her eyes toward the very end of the pool, the unlit area. She heard a quick rush, then an even quicker dripping sound, then—

  A door?

  No, it was ridiculous. It must be her imagination.

  Vera thought, for a moment, that she’d heard someone climbing out of the dark end of the pool.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  His visions churned. His mind felt caught on the grapnel of a convulsive tilting nightmare.

  He was watching himself…

  But it was a nightmare, wasn’t it? He lay awake on the bed, the sunlight like
a bar of white pain across his eyes.

  A nightmare, he thought. Yeah. Hastily as it seemed, the conclusion helped him feel safe again.

  It was a nightmare.

  “Jesus Christ,” Paul Kirby muttered. The clock’s digital dial read 5:23 p.m. He’d slept the entire day away, which wasn’t like him at all. He was a writer, sure, and generally writers slept late. But… Five in the evening? he questioned himself. Must have picked up the flu or something.

  Vera wasn’t here—of course not, she worked at two. Paul attempted to get out of bed, and an abrupt pressure in his head sent him right back down. Hangover, he realized, wincing. This was no flu. He’d been out drinking last night, hadn’t he? And—Holy shit!—was he hungover.

  Slower this time, he got up. A glance in the mirror made him groan: naked, pale, dark circles like charcoal under his eyes. He curiously raised a hand to his face, and noted an excess of stubble. It felt like more than a day’s growth.

  He stared into the mirror, bloodshot eyes going wide…

  Vera, he thought. The thought turned to ice.

  Nightmare.

  He was watching himself…in the…nightmare…

  He mouth tasted like a cat had pissed in it. Some nameless crust seemed flaked around his mouth and across his stomach. Suddenly he sneezed. Pain quaked in his skull, and into his hand he’d sneezed…blood.

  “What the hell?” he slowly asked himself.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Paul nearly shrieked at the hard thuds. Someone was knocking on the door. Correction—they weren’t knocking, they were pounding.

  BAM! BAM BAM!

  “Open up, Kirby!” hollered a sharp, muffled voice. “Your car’s in the lot, I know you’re in there!”

  BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!

  “All right, already.” The thuds made his head hurt worse. But who could it be? I don’t owe anybody money, do 1? He pulled on his robe—the blue monogrammed one Vera had given him last Christmas—and straggled to the door.

  “Open this fucking door, Kirby, before I kick it down!”

  It was Tate, his editor at the City Sun. Paul opened the door and was almost bulled over by the big, beefy man.

  “Where is it?” Tate demanded. Some mysterious rage pinked his face. His fists opened and closed at his sides.

  “What are you so pissed off about?” Paul asked. “Take off your coat, have a seat—”

  “I ain’t got time to have a fucking seat. I got a newspaper to put out, remember? So hand it over!’’

  “Hand what over?”

  “The first installment on the singles bar series. It was your bright idea, wonderboy, so where is it?”

  “You’ll get it. It’s due Thursday noon.”

  “Yeah, and that was five and a half fucking hours ago!” Tate bellowed. “Don’t tell me you don’t have it, Kirby. I got the whole weekend section set to go, and a big blank fifteen-hundred-word block sitting there waiting for your shit! Do you have it or not?”

  Paul’s memory felt like a clogged artery. This was impossible. “It’s…Thursday?”

  “Yes, you moron, it’s Thursday—that’s Thursday as in the day we send The Weekender to fucking press.” He thrust up his stout forearm—for a second, Paul thought he was going to hit him—and pointed to the date squares on his watch. thurs it displayed.

  “And who the hell do you think you are hanging up on my men?” Tate continued with his wrath. “And hanging up on me? Let me tell you something, wonder-boy. No writer, and I mean no fucking writer in this city hangs up on me!”

  “I didn’t…” Paul faltered. Had he? Suddenly he recalled distant bells, distant voices. But they were part of the nightmare. They had to be. “I…hung up on you?”

  “You’re goddamn right you hung up on me! What the fuck’s wrong with you, Kirby? You on drugs? You lose half your orbital lobe the last time you took a shit?”

  Paul could only look back in unblinking turmoil. Blurred images began to sift through his memory, pieces of colors, slabs of sounds, and distantly unpleasant sensations. For one frightened second, he didn’t even feel real.

  “I—I’ve been sick, I guess,” he stumbled. “The flu or something.” His memory struggled to disbirth the rest, but nothing came. He fitted together the few facts he had on hand. I’m a metropolitan journalist. The very pissed off man standing in front of me is the editor in chief of the biggest paper in the city. I owe him a story, and the story was due over five hours ago. And I don’t have it.

  “I don’t have it,” Paul said.

  “I didn’t think so,” Tate replied. At once his voice tremored down, the prickling rage supplanted by low disgust. “I should’ve known you were a fuck up, Kirby. You’re out. You’re never getting published in my paper again. Period. And that advance I gave you? I want it back. If you don’t give it back, I will sue you, and if I have to go to the trouble of suing you, hear this. I will devote my life to seeing that you never get published, anywhere, ever again.”

  Paul felt ablaze in shame. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Worst part was, he had no idea how any of it had come about. What’s wrong with me? he pleaded with himself. I don’t even know what day it is.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he could say. “I’ll give you back your check. Give me a couple of hours, I’ll have the piece for you. I’ll even write the rest of the series for free. Give me a chance to make it up to you.”

  Tate’s expression turned astonished. “I was born at night, Kirby, but not last night. What do you think I am, a fucking idiot? You think I’m stupid. I used to like you, you know that? I used to think you were one squared-away kick-ass journalist. But all I gotta do is take one look at you now to know what you really are. You’re a fuckin’ cokehead, Kirby, and if you ask me, there’s nothing more disgusting in the fucking world. Drugs are for losers, Kirby, for assholes who don’t give a shit about anything but their own cheap thrills. Don’t you realize that the people you buy that shit from are the same evil motherfuckers who hook nine-year-olds on crack? Don’t you understand that every single penny you give them only makes them stronger? You’ve let yourself become part of the same machine that’s tearing this country up. Your talent, your career, all the great things you could’ve been you’ve thrown out the fucking window, and for what? For cheap thrills. And why? Because you don’t give enough of a shit about yourself or anyone else to be strong enough to live right. So go on and feed your head, Kirby. I could care less. You make me sick.”

  Tate’s entire monolog left Paul standing rigid as a granite statue. What was he talking about? Paul had never used drugs in his life. “I’m not a cokehead,” he eventually said, after the shock wore off. “I’ve never even used it once, and—”

  “Don’t hand me a load of shit,” Tate cut him off. “You’re making an ass of yourself. Take a good look in the mirror, sport. You say you got the flu? Don’t insult me. You’re sweating, and your eyes are all fucked up. You’re shaking like you’re standing on a live wire. You’ve got blood leaking out of your fucking nose, for God’s sake.” Tate paused to rein some of his disgust. “I’m leaving now, Kirby, and I’m gonna try real hard to pretend that I never knew you. In fact, I’m ashamed that I ever published you in my paper. It makes me want to puke knowing that the money I’ve paid you for your stories was used to buy drugs. It makes me sick to my fucking stomach that I used to think you were a good writer. You’re not a writer, Kirby. You’re just another shuck and jive, don’t-give-a-shit, cocaine-snorting loser…”

  Tate walked out of the apartment and slammed the door. Paul felt riddled in shock. He wiped his upper lip, and his hand came away red. And he was shaking, he was sweating. But there was one thing he knew without doubt. He was not a drug user. The entire confrontation was too impossible to even contemplate.

  But his memory still hung before him like a black hole. He couldn’t remember the last four days. I better call Vera, he realized. Find out what the hell’s going on.

  His joints ached when he went to
the phone. He couldn’t even remember The Emerald Room’s number; he had to look it up.

  “Vera Abbot, please,” he said when the hostess picked up.

  A long pause, “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s…gone.”

  Paul frowned. “What do you mean gone?”

  “She quit a few days ago, for some job in north county.”

  Quit her job? “That’s impossible,” Paul countered. “I—”

  “Apparently,” the hostess persisted in the rumor, “she caught her fiancé cheating on her, so she took another job the next day and left town. And she took three of our best people with her…”

  Listening further would’ve been useless. Paul’s senses blanked out. Something in his psyche snapped, like a bone cracking, and his eyes blurred. He dropped the phone.

  Strange—and awful—visions showed him things. He stared ahead, at nothing. The small glass panes of the dining room cabinet reflected back his pallid, unshaven, and bloody-lipped face—

  And in that face he saw the nightmare. Its whorls seemed to congeal above him.

  “Oh my God,” the reflection whispered.

  Then the memory crashed down.

  ««—»»

  Lemi’s blade gleamed like molten silver. He used it with a calm and lavish finesse. Organs slid wetly from the cadaver’s sliced abdominal cavity; they landed on the floor in a sloppy, sort of crinkly sound. The corpse’s blood had long since gone dark.