Draw One In The Dark(103)

"Mr. Ormson?" Kyrie said.



"Kyrie." The name came out with force, as though it would be more effort to keep it in. "Tom. Is Tom all right? Anything wrong with—"



"No. Tom is right here. He's fine. We were wondering if we could camp in your hotel room for a few hours."



"Beg your pardon?"



"Tom and I, and a couple of friends. We're . . . in danger from . . . your friends and . . . other people. We wondered if we could hide there till we find a plan of action."



There was a silence from the other side. And then a voice that sounded as if he didn't quite know what he was saying. "Sure, of course. Sure." A small pause. "And Tom is with you?"



"Yes."



"Oh." A deep breath, the sound of it audible even through the phone. "Sure. Of course. Anything you need."



"Thank you," Kyrie said and hung up the phone. She handed the phone to Tom and said, "Call Rafiel."



"Daddy Dearest is even now calling the triad bosses," Tom said. His mouth set in an expression of petulant disdain. "They'll be there when we get there."



"I doubt it," Kyrie said.



"And if they are, we fight them," Keith said, leaning forward.

* * *



Okay, so being "scared" didn't even begin to describe the state of Tom's emotions as they pulled into the parking lot of the Spurs and Lace.



The problem wasn't being scared. He was used to being scared at this point. In the last three days, he'd been scared so often that he thought he wouldn't actually know what to do if he weren't in fear of someone or something. But this time he didn't even know what he was scared of.



Okay—so, if the triad members were there, Keith was right. They fought. And if Tom had to sacrifice himself so Kyrie and Keith got out of this unscathed, he would do so. He'd been prepared to do it before, in the abandoned gas station. So, why not now?



So . . . that wasn't the big source of his fear. The big source of his fear was that his father would be there, without the triad, and that all would be seemingly nice between them. He couldn't imagine talking to his father as if nothing had happened, as if . . . Worse, he couldn't imagine his father talking to him like that. But he'd been worried about Tom. Tom couldn't understand that either.



He settled for thinking that his father had been exchanged by aliens. It didn't make much sense and it wasn't very likely, but heck, what around here was likely? He'd just think that this was pod-father, and with pod-father, he had no history.



He got out of the car, and followed Kyrie and Keith up to the elevator and up in the elevator to the room, only slightly gratified by the puzzled looks the staff gave him. Up at the fifth floor, they walked along the cool, carpeted hallway toward room 550.



Tom took in the trays with used dishes at the door to the rooms, and the general atmosphere of quiet. There were no detectable odors in the air. Down the hallway, an ice machine hummed and clunked.



The classiest place he'd been in before this was Motel Six. Oh, he supposed he'd been in hotels as a child. In fact, he had vague memories of a trip to Rome with mother and father and, of course, his nanny, when he was ten. But most of the stuff before he'd left home now seemed to him like scenes from someone else's life.



And perhaps that was the best way to think about it. The Tom who'd been ordered at gunpoint from his childhood home was dead and gone. This new Tom was a stranger to the man in the room.



But when Kyrie knocked, the door was open by a man who looked far too much like the father Tom remembered for Tom not to take a step back, shocked—even as his father's gaze scanned him indifferently once, before returning, and then his eyes opened wider, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again in silence and, instead, stepped aside to let them in.



He was wearing the pants and a shirt for the type of suit that Tom remembered his father wearing—fabric good enough to look expensive without looking ostentatious. But this one looked like hell—or like he'd been sleeping in it. His hair too, was piled up in a way that suggested a total disregard for combs.



But the strangest thing was that, as he stepped aside, so they could enter the room, Tom's father stared intently at Tom.



Tom let his gaze wonder around the room, instead. It was . . . dark red. And opulent. There was a dark red bedspread on the bed and from its sheen it might have been real silk. Someone had pulled it up hastily and a bit crookedly, so Tom's father had probably been in bed when they called, and had tried to make the bed in a hurry. Tom felt a strange satisfaction about this. To his knowledge, it was the first time his father had engaged in housekeeping for Tom's benefit.