Night Film(131)

Unfortunately, they’d all been listening to this interaction, Nora and Hopper apprehensively, Hugo Villarde with what I took to be a faint smile on his face. But as I moved toward him he immediately lowered his head, as if he didn’t like anyone staring directly at him.

I stepped between him and Sam so he wouldn’t have a view of her. Just a few more minutes and then I’ll get her the hell out of here.

“Let’s start with Ashley Cordova,” Hopper said. “How do you know her?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why was she looking for you?” pressed Hopper.

“Looking for me?” the man repeated. “You mean hunting me.”

“Why?”

He took a few cautious steps away from the door, reaching down to grab a metal stool hidden beneath a table. He dragged it slowly toward him across the concrete floor—it made a loud grating, rasping sound, which he seemed to enjoy—then he slipped around it and perched on the very edge, facing us. He hooked the heel of his shoe—a black cowboy boot with elaborate white stitching—on the top rung.

He sat there like that, staring at us like a muscular old swan, once majestic, now barely alive, so unnervingly graceful for such a towering presence. He was in a bit more light now, and I could see his face was deeply wrinkled, though on the right side, from his eye down into his neck, the skin was blistered and scarred. Marlowe Hughes must have been telling the truth. Because that scarring had to be from the night she’d told us about, when Ashley had allegedly burned the Spider alive.

“What were you doing on the thirtieth floor of the Waldorf Towers?” I asked.

He looked surprised.

“I—I was meeting somebody,” he said.

“Who?” demanded Hopper.

“My Deformed Unreal.” He smiled. “That’s what he called himself. We met on the Internet.”

“Who was paying who?” Hopper demanded rudely.

Villarde inclined his head in acceptance. “I was paying him.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I followed his very specific directions. I obtained the room. Put it under my real name. I stripped down to nothing but a bathrobe. And when I heard the knock, three times, I opened the door. I expected a beautiful boy to be standing there.” He paused, swallowing. “Certainly not that thing.”

“You mean Ashley?” I asked.

His eyes met mine. He seemed to find the simple mention of her name repellant.

“She set you up,” I said.

He nodded. “I’ve never been so horrified. I shoved her aside. Ran screaming down the hall into the elevator, shaking, convulsing from the shock. I ran through the lobby out onto the street wearing nothing but a bathrobe. No keys. No wallet. I’d left thousands of dollars in the room. But I had to get out of there. My life depended on it.”

From his breathy, saccharine voice you’d have thought he was a nervous fifteen-year-old girl sitting there—not a hulking man in his late sixties. I couldn’t get used to this disconnect between his lilting voice and his physical self. In fact, the more he talked the more unnerving it became.

Something else about the man was off.

For one thing, I hadn’t expected him to pull up a chair, sitting down to chat without any evident discomfort or resistance. Marlowe Hughes—I understood her desire to talk, an isolated and neglected fallen star, so eager to bathe in the attention of a captive audience. But this gnarled human bird? Why tell us the truth so easily? There had to be something he wanted from us.

Uneasy, I looked back at Sam. She’d put the horse down on the table and was closely inspecting him.

“Where did you see Ashley again?” I asked, turning back. “Oubliette?”

Villarde was visibly astonished by the mention of the club. He shifted on the stool, hunching his shoulders and back before going still.

“My, my. You have done your homework. That’s right.”

“How did she know you’d be there?” Hopper asked him.

“I assume she found my member’s card in my wallet, which I’d left back in the Waldorf hotel room when I’d fled. On the back there’s a private number to call in order to arrange for your captivity. I found out later that Ashley had called and made arrangements to come as my guest.”

He paused, heavily breathing in and out, a sensuous, nauseating sound.

“I—I was with my defeater in my cell when she stepped out of the dark. As if from the stone walls themselves. I screamed. I ran away. Alerted security. They went right after her, chasing her down along the beach by the cliffs, a whole fleet of guards. But they came back empty-handed. They said her footprints simply cut out, as if she’d flown away like a bird. Or she’d walked right into the waves and drowned.” He lowered his head, gazing at his lap. “The following day, there was no sign of her. But I knew it was just a matter of time. She was coming.”

“And did she?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Most definitely.”

“Where?”

“Right here.” He held out his arm, indicating his own shop. “I was doing inventory in the back, when suddenly I was aware that all light had retreated from the store, as if the sun had fled, cowering behind a cloud. Alarmed, I glanced up. And she was right there.”

He pointed toward the front of the store, where light from the street streamed in through the stained-glass windows and the cracked door.