Cemetery Dance

A horrible sense of déjà vu began to steal over her. She listened and could just hear the breathing, a faint, ragged sighing. She looked around again. The whole room looked strange, the angles wrong, the dark television above her bed crooked as the lines of a German Expressionist film.

I must still be sleeping, she thought. This is just a dream.

The torpor of dreamscape seemed to surround her, swaddling her in its gauzy embrace.

The outline stirred; a sigh came. A faint gurgle of phlegm. Then an arm reached up slowly, its silhouette imprinted against the curtain. With a shudder of dread Nora gripped her sheets, trying to shrink away. But she felt so weak…

The curtain slid back with a slow, terrible deliberation, making a faint eeeee as the metal loops ran along the cold steel rail. She watched, paralyzed with terror, as the dark outline of a person emerged, first in shadow — then into moonlight.

Bill.

The same bloated face, matted hair, blackened, sagging eyes, gray lips. The same dried blood, dirt, foulness. She couldn't move. She couldn't cry out. She could only lie and stare as the nightmare to end all nightmares unfolded.

The figure got out of bed and stood up, staring down at her. Bill… and yet not Bill, living and yet dead. He took a step forward. His mouth opened and there were worms. The claw — like hand reached out, its nails long and cracked, while the head slowly bent down toward her — to kiss …

She sat up in bed with a cry.

For a moment she just sat there, shaking with terror, until relief flooded through her as she realized it had, in fact, been a dream. A dream like the last one — only worse.

She lay back in bed, bathed in sweat, her heart slowing, feeling the nightmare recede like a tide. Her IV bottle wasn't swaying; the television looked normal. The room was dark: there was no bright moonlight. The modesty curtain was drawn around the next bed, but there was no sound of breathing. The bed was empty.

Or was it?

She stared at the curtain. It was swaying just slightly. The curtain was opaque and she could not see inside.

She willed herself to relax. Of course there was no one in there. It was just a dream. And on top of that, D'Agosta had told her the room would remain private. She closed her eyes but sleep didn't come — nor did she really want it to come. The dream had been so dreadful that she feared falling asleep.

That was silly. Despite her enforced time in the hospital, sleep had been hard to find. She desperately needed rest.

She closed her eyes, yet felt so awake she almost couldn't make her eyelids shut. One minute passed. Two.

With an irritated sigh she opened her eyes again. Against her will, she found her gaze sliding once more toward the adjacent bed. The curtains were moving again, ever so slightly.

She sighed. It was stupid, her overactive imagination. No wonder, really, after a nightmare like that.

But when she'd gone to sleep, had those curtains been drawn?

She couldn't be sure. The longer she pondered it, though, the more convinced she became that the curtains had been open. Yet she'd been in a fog, still concussed — how could she rely on her memory? She turned away, stared resolutely at the far wall, tried to close her eyes again.

And once more, against her will, her eyes were drawn back to the closed curtains, still gently swaying. It was just air currents, the forced — air system: a breeze too faint for her to feel but enough to stir those curtains.

Why were the curtains shut? Had they been shut while she was asleep?

She sat up abruptly, her head throbbing in protest. It was silly to be worrying about this when a simple action would solve the problem once and for all. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, careful not to tangle her IV line. Two quick steps, then she reached out, grasped the modesty curtain — and hesitated. Her heart was suddenly pounding in fear.

"Oh, Nora," she said out loud, "don't be such a coward."

She yanked the curtain back.

A man lay on the bed, utterly still. He was dressed in the starched white of an orderly's uniform, his arms crossed on his chest, his ankles crossed, laid out almost like an Egyptian mummy — except his eyes were wide open, gleaming in the light. Staring directly at her.Toying with her.

In that moment of frozen fear, the figure leapt up like a cat, slapped a hand over her mouth, forced her back on her bed, and pi

She struggled, kicking, trying to make a sound, but he was very strong, and she was trapped. He forced her head to the side and she saw, in his free hand, a glass syringe with a steel hypodermic needle attached, long and cruel looking, a drop of liquid trembling at its tip. A swift motion and she felt it sting deep into her thigh.

How hard she tried to struggle, to move, to scream — but paralysis enrobed her like a succubus, no dream this time but horribly and undeniably real, wrapping her in an irresistible embrace, and then it was as if she were falling, falling, falling down a bottomless well that shrank to a terminal point — and then blinked out.

Chapter 49

Marty Wartek folded his sweaty hands over the edges of the podium and looked out over the crowd assembled in the plaza before the New York City Housing Authority's Batchelder Building. It was his first press conference and it was an experience both daunting and, if truth be known, rather thrilling. To his left and right stood a few subordinates — whom he had hastily corralled for appearance's sake — and a couple of uniformed cops. The podium had been set up on the lower steps, wires duct — taped up its rear edge.

His eye slid over to the small group of protesters huddled in one corner of the plaza, held at bay by a scattering of cops. Their chanting had a diffident air that encouraged him to think they would stop as soon as he began to speak.

He cleared his throat, heard the reassuring amplification over the PA system. He looked around as the crowd quieted. "Good afternoon," he began. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I will read from a prepared statement."

He began to read, and as he did so even the protesters fell silent. The legal process, he explained, was in motion. Action would be taken if warranted against the Ville. Everyone's rights would be respected. Due process would be observed. Patience and calm were the order of the day.

His voice droned on, the platitudes having a soporific effect on the gaggle of press. It was a short statement, not more than a page, which had been written by committee and vetted by half a dozen lawyers. It had the virtue of saying nothing, conveying no information, making no promises, while at the same time giving the impression that everyone's agenda was being dealt with. At least, that was the idea.

Halfway through the page he heard a vulgar noise, conveyed by bullhorn, from the knot of protesters. He ploughed on, without hesitation, not even looking up. Another noise.

"What a load of crap!"

He raised his voice, riding over the shouting.

"What about the animals?"

"What about the killing of Smithback?"

"Stop the murderers!"

He continued in a slightly louder monotone, eyes on the page, his bald head bowed over the podium. "Talk, all talk! We want action!"

He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the boomed mikes and cameras swinging away from him toward the protesters. There were a few more shouts, arguing, a waving sign pushed aside by a cop. And that was it. The disturbance was contained; the protesters intimidated. There weren't enough of them to trigger mob mentality.

Wartek finished, folded the paper in half, and at last glanced up. "And now I will take questions."