Security(55)

It would appear Destin didn’t bankroll this hell after all.

Brian rockets forward, pulling Tessa toward the back exit, but the Killer moves to block them, and so Brian and Tessa of one mind divert to the stairway door again, and climb.

“Where’s f*cking security?” says Tessa, her voice like a choir in the stairwell.

“This floor, c’mon!” Brian says, stepping up to four, letting Tessa precede him into the hallway. The carpet is white, the walls white, the doors white with gold numbers on them, and card key locks of gold--plated steel. Brian puts his back to the stairway door and whispers, “We’ll hear him pass us.”

Tessa shakes her head, takes his hand, and leads him to a bend in the hallway. They somehow avoided the quarts and quarts of blood that have spilled in the lobby, so Brian’s boots and Tessa’s bare feet leave no prints. Brian puts an arm around her. He lays a finger to his lips. They listen.

The Killer is sitting on the arm of a reception sofa, pulling up his pant leg to check his wounds. His shin is bleeding, but not badly. It isn’t that serious, but it’s an annoyance.

The Thinker is pulling up a seat at the security counter. Right beside me. He deposits a playing card facedown in front of my open eyes. Then a card in front of him. Then another card in front of me, until both of us have five cards. The Thinker picks up the five cards he dealt this seeming--dead man and studies them. It’s a hand of poker.

The Killer rolls down his pant leg and stands. He skirts the sofa, bends, and stands again with Delores’s head in his right hand. In his left hand is the knife that he pulled, laboriously, from Destin’s neck. The Killer places Delores’s head back on the mantel and goes to Destin, who is not dead but dying. Destin has crawled so that only his feet are visible around the check--in desk, with the angle of Camera 4. There are other angles available, but they are higher in the bank of monitors, and I can’t look because the Thinker is studying my poker hand. It’s a good hand, one card from a full house. The Thinker makes a sound of displeasure and deals two new hands.

The Killer walks toward Charles Destin, and Destin’s feet become frantic. The Killer bends to him, and his feet become still more frantic. The Killer’s elbow appears periodically, in a sawing motion.

The fourth--floor hallway is high in the bank of monitors. But if one cannot look, one can at least listen.

Brian’s voice (in a whisper): “What’s taking him so long?”

Tessa’s: “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Je—”

Brian’s: “Maybe he took the elevator.”

Tessa’s: “Christ, Jesus—”

Brian’s: “How’s your head?”

Tessa’s: “He killed Jules. God. God, he—”

Brian’s: “Stay calm. We need to stay calm.”

Tessa’s (hissing): “You be calm!”

Brian’s: “That’s the spirit.”

Tessa’s (laughing, sort of): “We’re gonna die.”

Brian’s (serious): “No. No we’re not.”

Tessa’s (crying and trying not to): “No. We’re not. We’re not gonna die.”

Brian’s: “Again.”

Tessa’s: “We’re not gonna die.”

Brian’s: “One more time.”

Tessa’s (voice like a diamond’s edge): “We’re gonna live. We’re gonna live.”

Brian’s: “We live. That’s how this goes. Both of us.”

Tessa’s: “Right. Why’s—what’s—”

Brian’s: “Doesn’t matter. It’s happening. This is what’s happening now. So say it again.”

Tessa’s: “Both of us live.”

Brian’s (a kissing noise): “Where’s he bleeding? I didn’t notice.”

Tessa’s: “Left shin. And I think I broke his nose.”

She did. The Killer is taking tissues from a box on the check--in desk and rolling tubes to stick up his nostrils, under his mask. He bends and rises with Destin’s head in his right hand, knife in his left. He goes to the mantel and puts Destin’s head beside Delores’s.

Brian’s: “Fire alarms?”

Tessa’s (sounding regretful): “If the phone lines are—wait.”

(long pause)

The Killer looks in the direction of the stairway door. He sags. He takes out his phone, taps, and types.

The Thinker’s phone vibrates on the security counter. He puts down two pairs, jacks high, and taps. The Killer’s message reads, “Leg hurts help with these 2.”

The Thinker types, “I’ll help when necessary. Division of labor.” He sends, stands, and walks to the east windows.

The Killer’s phone lights up; he reads. He roars and kicks the check--in counter. Then he grabs his shin and stabs the check--in counter. Then he crosses the foyer, kicking Delores’s severed foot every few steps like a crabby kid with a tin can.

Tessa and Brian are hunkered low in the hallway. He’s holding her with his whole body, trying to look in all directions. Tessa’s telling him, “That phone. The one I took from the sous--chef earlier.”

“Yes!” Brian’s saying, shaking her. “Where is it?”

“By the damn dishwasher, on the f*cking nineteenth floor. Jesus, shit, it takes at least ten minutes for the cops to get here.”