What She Doesn't Know (31 page)

CHAPTER 19

Christopher knew he’d hurt Rita by not including her in on his errands. He needed some time alone to sort through everything.
 

He maneuvered through French Quarter traffic and people, Metallica’s booming bass pounding into his head. Walking into the LaPorte this time seemed strange. It wasn’t Brian’s hotel anymore, wasn’t his father’s hotel. For the first time, he appreciated the building’s charm and beauty, with its ornate railing and fancy detailing around the windows. Inside, it was too stuffy for his tastes, too formal. The employees nodded at him, obviously at a loss as to what to say. He knew the feeling.

He walked back to the offices to find Tammy, but she wasn’t there. He wanted to see her reaction to Brian’s death. When he looked in Brian’s office, he found Millie, Tammy’s assistant, sitting at the computer.
 

“Where’s Tammy?” he asked without preamble, making her start. He walked to the desk to see if she’d switch screens or close down whatever she was working on.

She didn’t try to hide whatever she was doing. “Home. She dragged herself in and looked like hell. Trent took her home a little while ago. He said he’d be back in a bit. They’re both taking it pretty hard. We all are.” Millie’s eyes were red-rimmed, too.

“Yeah.” As he headed back out through the lobby, his gaze trailed over the colorful flower arrangements in the vases—and stopped on the last one. Black roses. As black as his mood, black as death.

All these years he’d lived his life answering only to himself, having only himself to take responsibility for. Now he had Brian’s funeral to arrange, Rita to take care of, and the hotel to deal with. They all weighed down on him, pushing him into the plush seat at the funeral home as he waited for Mr. Royce to return with the paperwork forty minutes later.
 

The music was probably standard funeral home fare, soft and light, with an upbeat touch to soothe the tortured souls ready to bid loved ones goodbye. And open their checkbooks. He snapped his grape gum and sank lower in his chair. Brian’s death left him empty. Not sad or angry, but the same emptiness he’d felt his whole life. A long time ago something had been shut off inside him. He didn’t know how to turn it on again, or if it could be turned on.

He used to relish that emptiness. It had kept him together, especially through the mindless days after Sherry’s death. Now he caught himself searching for a nugget of emotion, something to prove to himself that he was human. Rita had done that to him. She made him want to feel, made him want…more.
 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. LaPorte,” the man said, returning to the paneled office. “If you’ll just look these papers over and sign here. We take care of everything so you can grieve in peace.”

Great, funeral slogans.

He ran his fingers down his face and focused on the words in front of him. A simple ceremony, internment in the family crypt, some people would cry, some would wonder why he wasn’t crying or wonder why he’d come back at all.

No one wants you here.
Had Brian regretted those words?
 

He signed the papers and tried to shake off the thoughts. He finished his business with Mr. Royce, then walked out into the dingy, cool day. He got into his car but didn’t start it yet. What would
he
leave behind? Some cats, an old house, and a successful business, with no one around to take any of it. Like Brian. Neither of them had ever thought beyond their own life. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
 

The king of nothing.
 

He picked up the car phone. After a few rings, Emmagee answered.

“Hey, it’s Christopher. Rita around?”

“She is, but she wasn’t feeling too good. She went upstairs to lay down.”

“She okay?”

“Said she got dizzy sometimes since her accident. I’m sure she’s all snuggled into bed. Want me to get her?”

For a moment, he did. He wanted to ask her if she’d like to talk to Dumas with him. “No, don’t bother her. How much longer you got?”

“Oh, a couple of ten minutes. I’m going to sweep up in the courtyard when I’m done with the floors. I won’t vacuum upstairs, so’s I don’t bother her.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could hang around until I get back, all right? See you in a bit.”

Next he called information and got security guard’s address. As he drove toward the Quarter, mindful of the parade routes, he had the urge to turn back to the house. He chided himself and kept going. The last thing Rita needed was to have him wake her up if she wasn’t feeling well. And the last thing he needed was to need Rita.

Dumas didn’t live in the greatest of areas. Christopher approached the three-story apartment complex with the rusted galleries surprised at the pity he felt. Not for the man’s living condition, but for the mess he’d been thrown into.

Dumas’s expression went from down in the dumps to downright regretful when he saw Christopher at his door. “You’re probably here to fire me. Well, you’re too late. The agency’s already done it. I didn’t do no drugs. I told the police, the agency, and I’m telling you, too.”

“I know. Can we talk?”

Dumas absorbed Christopher’s exoneration and then stepped back to let him inside.
 

“Tell me what happened.”

“You really want to hear it? ‘Cause no one else bothered to hear my side of things.”

Christopher sat on a faded armchair. “I’m listening.”

Dumas lowered himself onto the couch and took a cup of coffee in trembling hands. “Everything was going along jus’ fine, you know, like always. I was talking to Brian about my wife who died last year, bless her soul. This maintenance guy came in with two cups of coffee, said he figured I could use a cup. Thought that was mighty nice of him. I drank part of it, wasn’t real hot.”

A guy.
“What’d he look like?”

Dumas squinted his bloodshot eyes. “Average. Brown hair, brown eyes, maybe. Nice-looking,
 
but nothing special.”

“Small guy?”

“Yeah, I s’pose so. He wasn’t no Rock, that’s for sure.”

“But definitely a man? Not a woman dressed up like a man?”

“Well, course not. He was a guy.”

It sounded like the guy who’d been lingering outside Brian’s room when the doctor had told them he might be coming out of the coma. Christopher thought about the man who’d tried to force his help on Rita and got a sick feeling in his stomach. So there were two of them, then. A man and a woman.
 

“He started talking ‘bout these monkeys,” Dumas continued, “describing their yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and black hair, how he thought he’d seen some in the hospital. Now that doesn’t make sense thinking back on it, but at the time, he had me looking for the things under Brian’s bed. Then I got dizzy. Everything in the room got weird, wavy kind of. I could see all these squares and triangles floating around. I done pot as a youngster, but this was different. This was wild.
 

“I told the guy, who was all wavy too, that I wasn’t feeling right. He pointed and said there was one of the killer monkeys right there in the corner. They were in the air, on the floor, everywhere. I freaked out. Never did like monkeys, man. Swear, if my hair wasn’t already white, it would be now. The police figured I’d dropped angel dust, locked me up for the night.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “How am I going to get another job with that on my record? I didn’t do nothing, honest.” He looked at Christopher, as if gauging whether he believed the story.

“You think the guy slipped acid in your coffee?”

“Was the only thing I could think of. But why? Why would he do that?”

Christopher stood, jamming his hands in his front pockets. “We’ll get this all straightened out, get the charges dropped and your job back. Give me a few days.”

Dumas’s eyes widened in hope before dimming again. “Brian died, didn’t he? While I was”—he made crazy motions with his arms—”freakin’ out.”

“Yeah, he died. But it wasn’t your fault.”

He left before Dumas could do more than thank Christopher for believing him. When he got back to the house, he was going to find out who belonged to the Sira ID. He had one more stop to make, but as he pulled away from the curb, it was Rita who haunted his thoughts.

CHAPTER 20

Fear became a living thing inside Rita. She imagined it as a snake, writhing inside her, making her stomach churn. She had to be hearing things. No one seemed to be in the room, at least as much as she could see. Everything was still so small. There was another sound, a humming that went on for a second, then stopped, then started again. She could
see
the humming, a vibrating silver streak floating through the air.
 

“Whazz happening?” she said, or at least that’s what she tried to say. Her words sounded all garbled. Her lips felt numb. “Whadd jugive me?”

She had the sensation of floating out of her body, like she was watching, and the room wasn’t really the room at all. Maybe it was another gray place.

No, not gray. Salmon. The salmon walls were undulating, like a school of fish. The color kept getting brighter and dimmer, brighter and dimmer. And it was making noise. She could
hear
the color, like a tiny instrument wailing, making the texture throb. She saw it, heard it, but none of it seemed real. She stared at it, felt as though she were moving to the beat. But it wasn’t there. There, but not there.

“Poishon,” Rita said.

“Only a dose of ketamine, baby. Just enough to make you pliable. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”

Hands squeezed her shoulders, pulling her toward the wiggling squares of light. The French door, she thought. Then someone crouched over her. A monster! Rita pushed the monster away and stumbled to where she thought the door out of the room was. Hands grasped her arms and jerked her back. She tried to fight, tried everything within her power, but her body would not cooperate. Her blood had turned to Jell-O, her limbs to rubber. Was she melting?

“Rita, are you listening to me?” a voice hissed from the monster face.
 

She couldn’t see eyes in the face of gold and black, only ghastly black holes. She had seen that face before. Her mind could not get around the thought, though. Where?
 

Fingers pressed into her cheeks. Her flesh felt like clay. Finger marks would stay in her face forever.
 

“Rita!”

She nodded in response.

“We don’t have much time.” Words floated at her, those silver waves again. “Listen to me, you little witch. I don’t know who you think you are, but you are not the queen of Xanadu. You will never be the queen. I am the only ruler, not Alta, not Christopher LaPorte, and certainly not you.”

Sira. That’s who this was. Rita tried to say something, but her words got lost before she could even attempt to open her mouth. She had lost control of her body, and this horrible
thing
was hovering over her. Call for help.
Run! Fight, dammit!
Her body would not cooperate.

“I will not let you contaminate our world,” the thing said, tugging Rita toward the small squares that had converged to form one big square. Over that triangles and circles danced. Rita let herself drop to the floor. If she couldn’t fight, she wouldn’t go, either. The floor felt wavy, shifting and moving beneath her.

“I want you to stand, Rita. Come on, stand.”

Her body now chose to cooperate, but only under Sira’s commands.
How could this be happening?

“Very good.” She helped Rita walk out onto the balcony. Not walk; float. If Sira hadn’t been holding onto Rita’s arm, she would have floated away. Dizziness assailed her, closing in the edges of her vision. More nausea. Not morning sickness. Rita wanted to laugh at that. She thought she made a noise. Not a laugh. A sob.
 

Sira kept walking her toward the far end of the balcony. It was miles away; Rita didn’t know if she had the strength to make it. When she looked at the railing to her right, she shoved away from it. It was melting, slithering toward her like snakes.

She hated snakes. Or was that Indiana Jones who hated snakes? No, she did, too.

Strange sounds converged around her, and then became the music she was so familiar with. Velda! Maybe she could help. Rita mustered all her strength and opened her mouth to scream. No sound. No feeling, either. Had Sira cut out her tongue? Fear became even bigger. No more intestines inside her, only snakes.
Run
, she told herself.
Get away!
 

“You’re going to take a fall head first. Go on, up the stairs. Go, Rita.”

The words swirled around her like a carousel, colorful and loud. And out of tune. She shrank back from the melting staircase and bumped into the monster behind her. She tried to push it away, but her hands were limp.

“Go up the stairs,” it said.

“Donn wan to.”

Why couldn’t she fight back? Sira pushed her up the stairs from behind, and Rita sprawled to the deck at the top. Pain! She felt pain in her knees. She managed to shake her head as the dripping railing loomed closer. Crying. Tears, burning her face. More tracks in the clay. Maybe her tongue was clay, too.
 

Sira’s arms clamped around Rita’s waist. Guiding her closer. Pretty courtyard down below. Concrete squares. Octagons, triangles. The moss in the cracks became green snakes. The trees groaned, shuddered, then cracked apart.

“I won’t let you spoil the Gathering. You first, then your boyfriend.”

“Rita!”

She closed her eyes at the sound of Christopher’s voice. Her imagination, like everything else.
 

“Dive, Rita. Go, now!”

Sira’s voice after all. Rita doubled over the railing, her arms in front of her. Dive. Swan dive. Cold metal beneath her stomach.
 

“Dive!”

The voice moved away. Rita didn’t want to dive. Diving was a bad thing. But her body wanted to listen to that evil voice. She had no will to resist. She leaned farther over, until the ground was no longer beneath her feet.