Ex-Purgatory: A Novel (15 page)

Something sank inside him. “You don’t remember me?”

Her dark brows shifted. “Remember you from what?”

“From … I don’t know, remembering me.”

She smiled. The smile was even more formal and polite than the desk clerk’s downstairs. “I generally do not associate with janitors.”

His heart lurched back up in his chest. “You know I was a janitor,” he said.

Karen pointed at his hand. “There are seven round spots on your right sleeve,” she said, “each discolored to a different degree. They are from drops which splashed up when you were soaking a mop, and do not appear on your left arm because it would be held higher from the bucket. The discoloration was caused by a diluted industrial cleaner, meaning you were most likely not mopping at home. The varying degrees of discoloration mean it happened multiple times with different ratios of water to cleaner. Mopping is a regular action you perform when not at home, thus, a janitor.”

He smiled. “You’re like Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“Except I am not fictional,” she said with a slight bow of her head. The motion made a few strands of hair slide across her forehead and cheek. “What do you do now?”

“Sorry?”

“You said you
were
a janitor. What do you do now?”

He rewound his words in his head. “I … I don’t know why I said that,” he admitted. “Nervous, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you nervous?”

He juggled a few possible answers. “Because it’s important you know me.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You are lying,” she said, “and you are not good at it.”

His mind raced and he realized just how unprepared for this conversation he was.

Karen slid a bottle of water from an ice bucket on the table. She made no move to open it. There were three left in the bucket, and he thought about taking one to give himself a few moments. He wasn’t sure how stepping toward her would go over, though, and it seemed rude to take one if she didn’t offer it.

His eyes drifted across the table to her face and stopped at
the elaborate hotel phone. The call with Barry flitted across his mind. “Can I ask you a question?”

She ran one finger around the bottle cap and wiped off the excess water. “Very well.”

“Do you know who George Romero is?”

“He is an American film director who began his career making commercials and short films in the Pittsburgh area, most notably doing a feature for the children’s show
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
. He is best known as the creator of the
Night of the Living Dead
horror series.”

“Yes!” said George. “What are those about?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Please,” he said, “it’s important.”

She stared at him for a moment. “An unknown force causes the dead to become animate and attack the living. In most of the films in the series, the plot revolves around a small and isolated group of characters dealing with the dead.”

“But what are they called?”

“The characters?”

“The dead.”

“Romero has said in several interviews that he and his fellow filmmakers did not give the creatures a name, although he was inspired by the legend of the ghoul.”

George shook his head. “No, not ghouls. They’re called something else.”

The dark-skinned woman opened her mouth to reply and her expression shifted. Her eyes softened. Then she straightened up. Her shoulders squared off. “Despite my status as a celebrity,” she said, “I am not a student of popular culture. It is not uncommon for me to miss references to motion pictures.”

“This isn’t a reference,” he said. “It’s just a name. A word.” He met her gaze and her eyes softened again, just for a moment. “And you don’t know what it is, do you?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes hardened. The corners of her mouth twitched. George had the distinct impression he’d just insulted her somehow.

“Is there a point to this meeting, Mr. Bailey?” she asked.

“Look,” he said, “I know this is going to sound insane, and I bet you hear crazy stuff like this all the time, but I think you and I … I think we’re supposed to be somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere … else.”

“That is not very informative,” she said.

“It’s hard to explain.”

Her mouth twitched again. Her eyes hardened a bit more.

“You have dreams about monsters,” said George. “Dead people who walk, like in the Romero movies. And I’m in the dreams, too, aren’t I?”

“No,” she said, “you are not.”

His heart dropped again. “I’m not?”

“I do not dream,” she said. She stared at his eyes. “Not since I was a child. I practice a form of polyphasic sleep.”

Another moment stretched out between them and became a full minute. She still held the water bottle, but didn’t drink from it. George felt pretty sure at this point she wasn’t going to offer him one.

He was pretty sure she didn’t blink, either.

“So,” he said, “none of this means anything to you.”

She shook her head once. Left. Right. Her eyes never left his.

“You don’t know me at all.”

Again, one time side to side.

“Then why did you invite me up?”

“She didn’t,” said the thin man from behind George. “I did.”

George looked at him. So did Karen. “Father?”

“Your name is George,” said the older man. “Like the saint?”

The comparison made his head throb. The air rushed out of his lungs. “Yes,” he coughed. “Yes it is.”

Karen’s father looked at her. “You call his name in your sleep.”

Any last hints of softness left her face. Her expression would’ve fit well on a grim teacher or soldier. “Nonsense.”

His chin went up and down once. It was an economical, efficient motion, like Karen’s. “For three weeks now,” he said. “When the clerk said there was a man with this name asking to meet with you, I said to send him up.”

She glared at him. “You gave access to a complete stranger? What if he was dangerous?”

The thin man glanced at George. He made a dry sound that might’ve been a chuckle. “What if he was?”

Something clicked in George’s mind. He remembered who—
what
—Karen Quilt’s father was. He remembered the links he’d found while browsing the Internet and the articles those links had brought up. Some of the pictures in those articles were worse than the things he dreamed about.

The man in the John Lennon glasses, he realized, was far closer to Nazi officer than hipster assistant.

The thin man met his daughter’s gaze. “If there is nothing else,” he said, “I believe Mr. Bailey’s ten minutes are up.”

Karen stood up. It was a smooth, graceful motion, just what one would expect from a professional model. She held out her hand and he took it in his. Their fingers fit perfectly against one another. She had a very strong grip. “This has been interesting,” she said. “It has been a pleasure speaking with you, St. George.”

Another needle of pain stabbed George in the back of the eye and he winced. Her father raised an eyebrow. George let go of her hand.

“Forgive me,” said Karen. “It was a slip of the tongue after my father’s earlier reference. It was not intended as an insult.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s safe to say I deserved it if it was an insult. You’ve been very generous with your time.”

Her father put a hand on George’s arm and guided him back to the door. The suite flew by in a blur and George was in the hallway again. He met the thin man’s gaze again and then the door closed. There was a double click as the dead bolt locked and the safety bar hinged shut.

While he waited for the elevator he considered going back and knocking on the door. Then he thought about banging on the door and demanding another few minutes, but by that point he was already stepping into the elevator. He considered going back up and trying to force his way past the thin man, but some part of him understood this was the absolute worst possible plan to act on. And by then he was already walking out the front door.

The doorman watched him exit with chalky eyes above a mouthful of ruined teeth. George made a point of not looking at the man, but he heard the teeth gnash together like glass splinters. He got a few feet away when the dead man called out, “Have a good afternoon, sir.”

He walked back to his car and tried to figure out his next move. Something in the back of his mind was telling him to give up on the whole stupid idea, but he forced past it. He’d have to talk to Madelyn. Maybe he could call Barry Burke again, too. He should’ve called him already.

And then he got mugged.

The young man in the black hoodie appeared from nowhere in front of him. The way the oversized sweatshirt flapped around him, George guessed the teenager had leaped down from somewhere, although he didn’t think there was anything around to leap down from. He raised his fists and the mugger slapped them away before he even got them all the way up. And then he saw the cleavage and the satin skin and the blue eyes and he realized the slim figure wasn’t a young man.

“I would like to offer you another ten minutes to explain yourself,” Karen said.

GEORGE LOOKED OVER
his shoulder, then back at the woman in front of him. She was still wearing the sweats and tank top, but had pulled on the hoodie and a pair of what looked like combat boots. “How the hell did you get ahead of me?”

“You are wasting your ten minutes,” Karen said.

“Seriously,” said George. “I walked straight out here and you didn’t pass me. How’d you get down here so fast?”

“I went down the side of the building. It was the most direct route.”

He looked up at the pastel building and considered the columns of balconies. There were over a dozen of them, one on top of another. “No, really.”

The corners of her mouth went up. Just a bit. “Perhaps I chased you in the next available elevator, then.” She stepped to the side so they could walk next to each other. “You now have nine minutes, fifteen seconds.”

He fell in next to her and they walked down the street. “Why am I getting another ten minutes?”

An older couple approached them from the far end of the block. Karen tugged her hood down another inch. The shadows against her dark skin hid her face. George found himself thinking it was kind of a creepy look, but she pulled it off.

After the couple had passed, she raised her head. “Forgive
me,” she said. “It is sometimes difficult for me to have a private conversation. I would prefer if this one remained so.”

He looked around. “Paparazzi or something?”

She gave the front of the hood another tug. “There were two outside the hotel, and a third on the street. They did not see me leave, but I could still be recognized by regular citizens.”

“So,” he said, “why are you here?”

“The matter of George Romero’s monsters intrigues me,” she said. “As I told you, I am not well versed in matters of popular culture. However, I have studied several mythologies and folklores from across the world and have near-perfect recall. It is unlikely I could not come up with at least a comparative name for these cinematic creatures, yet I can think of no name for them.”

“If it makes you feel better,” George said. “you’re not the only one.”

“The dreams you spoke of with these monsters? You are having them?”

“Yeah. Me and a few other people.”

“Interesting,” she said. “Are you a fan of Romero’s work?”

He shook his head. “I’m more of an action-movie guy. Some comedies.”

“So you have not seen these films, or others like them?”

George thought about it. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t, but I seem to know a lot of them. Maybe I was at a party or something and they were on in the background.” He gave her a look.

“What?”

“I just think it’s kind of interesting that I blabbed on for ten minutes and the thing that got your attention was realizing you didn’t know something.”

“It was not the only thing,” she said.

“What else?”

She didn’t answer him. They walked on for a few more yards. Eight concrete slabs passed by under George’s feet.

“Is this counting toward my ten minutes?” he asked.

“In the past eight years,” she said, “I have received over one hundred marriage proposals of a semi-serious nature. I would estimate close to seventeen thousand men and women have professed
their love for me in e-mails or on various web pages. There have been substantially more declarations of a strictly sexual nature.”

“That sounds like more of a reason to avoid me than follow me,” George said.

“You did not make any such statement,” said Karen. “You stated that we were supposed to be somewhere else. Our togetherness was a secondary factor.” She took in a slight breath to continue speaking, then walked past three more sections of sidewalk.

“And?”

“When we said good-bye … your hand felt right.”

Something fluttered in George’s chest. He felt like a teenager asking the head cheerleader to the prom. “Sorry?”

“It felt right to hold your hand,” said Karen. “It bothered me when you let go.”

They walked for another half-dozen slabs. Part of him hoped she’d reach out and take his hand again, but her fingers stayed tucked away inside the pockets of her sweatshirt. They walked past his Hyundai and continued down the street.

“Why do you believe we know each other?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I noticed posters of you before I knew your name, but probably anyone could say that. To be honest, this girl I met told me you and I are in love and … well, she’s been right about a lot of stuff.”

“I see.”

“Does that sound like me professing my love for you?”

She looked at him. “Are you, George?”

He counted another three slabs of concrete in the sidewalk. “Your hand felt right, too,” he said.

They reached the end of the block before she spoke again. “This young woman is having similar dreams?”

He glanced both ways and they crossed the street. “Yeah, but she seems to remember a lot more than me. At least, she remembers it a lot clearer than I do.”

“Does she know the answer to your George Romero question?”