The Fading Page 31

  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.

  37

  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 oran
ge 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?

  Towels. Enough towels to dry off a small nation. Rolled. Stacked.

  Stackable.

  If he could arrange enough of them to look like a body … in the steam room … and the steam room continued heating up, filling up, then maybe …

  Noel limped to the nearest wall and took two armfuls of rolled towels, carried them into the herbal room, eucalyptus cleaning out his sinuses as he worked. Hurried back into the row of shower stalls and grabbed another dozen towels, carrying them like cord wood. After three such trips he had enough and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and soak his ankle in the ice tub. Instead he built a crude humanoid shape on the top tier, in the corner beside the bottles of water, and shut the glass door, noting that the glass walls around it had been drilled and outfitted with steel plates at the bottom.

  The glass door could only be opened outward, not into the steam room.

  Running now, to hell with the pain, still naked and having no idea if Dalton was watching him put on this charade, he cut back into the locker bays. He threw a dozen or so towels into the huge wicker basket for spent towels, messed them up and climbed in. He buried himself, crouching until his knees touched his chin. He needed to stay on his feet, in case he needed to leap. His ankle throbbed and he forced himself to ignore the pain, put it away somewhere in the trap of his mind, talked to his ankle and told it to be patient, this would all be over one way or another very soon. Hang with me for another fifteen minutes, dear ankle, and I promise I will ice you for a month.

  Now he closed his eyes, asking his ears to reach out, stay vigilant for any noise. No, not noise, any change in the noise that was already here. Very faintly, from behind at least three walls, came the dull drone of the deluge shower thundering the tile in the elevated room. The deluge was a constant benchmark, just enough to give a background to the otherwise silent spa. What he wanted now was to listen ever so closely for an interruption in the pattern. Would he be able to hear a difference, a change in the acoustics, if someone walked down the hall, between the source of that noise and Noel’s basket?

  Probably not, but it was his last hope.

  He waited. His knees were cramping and he’d only been crouched this way for a couple of minutes. Dalton had to be in the spa by now. He might have wasted a few minutes checking the other halls, looking behind the counter in the spa store, peeking through the barbershop’s glass door. But he would be drawn here, as Noel had been, lulled by the hidden location and relative calm. More, Dalton would know Noel had chosen this space for the privacy and opportunities to hide, or fight. Knowing Noel was not able to drop out at will, Dalton would guess that he would choose the next best thing, the steam room. At least, that was the prayer.

  Five minutes passed. Probably not even that, because hiding and waiting in a situation like this, from a murderer no les
s, dragged the minutes out like hours. Noel’s knees ached and his left foot, the good one, began to tingle from lack of circulation. He shuffled side to side, but refrained from too much movement that might stir the towels piled over his head and shoulders.

  Where were the police? Security? Someone should have crashed the spa by now.

  Either Hector hadn’t called them or Hector was dead.

  Noel decided not to think about that. He had to stay sharp, not count on help. He was going to have to do this alone.

  How long now? Ten minutes? He hadn’t heard anything new.

  He kept his eyes closed and tried to think of nothing except himself as a sponge for sound. I am a blind man, I can hear anything, he told himself. Listen, listen for the faintest change in the droning water.

  His back was stiffening. His thighs burned. He couldn’t do this much longer.

  A memory came back, with the sharpness of a vision granted by his heightened senses and scorched raw nerves. He was two or three years old, playing hide and seek with his mother. Rebecca had fed him waffles, he remembered the smell of syrup on his fingers, on his nose. She’d flicked soap bubbles at him and turned back to the sink, and he’d disappeared. He remembered it now as if it had happened yesterday, his first true jump where he’d been conscious of the opportunities it afforded. He hadn’t known then what it was, that he was doing it to her. That he hadn’t disappeared at all, only erased his presence from some part of her mind. Taking his body and clothes right out of the junction where the eyes meet the brain, blotting himself from the nexus of her perceptions and the organs, melting a few synapses, tricking her beautiful loving mother eyes. How cruel, what an awful thing for a boy to do to his mother. No wonder she’d gone insane. He’d done it to her hundreds of times in the years that followed.