Now, that was an existential question and a half.
He took a leisurely loop around the property, stopping to tug at the Spanish moss and feel the bark on the oaks and smell the earth and the mist.
He was on his way back to the house when the light on the third floor came on . . . and a tall, dark shadow passed by one of the windows.
Gregg started to walk fast. Then broke out into a run.
He was flying as he leaped onto the front porch and hit the door, throwing it open and pounding up the stairs. He didn't give a shit about that whole don't-go-to-the-third-floor warning. And if he woke people, fine.
As he came to the second floor, he realized he didn't have a clue which door could take him to the attic. Walking fast down the hall, he figured the numbers on the jambs were dead giveaways that he was ripping past guest rooms.
Then he got to Storage. Housekeeping.
Thank you, Jesus: EXIT.
He broke through, hit the back staircase and took the steps up two at a time. When he got to the top, he found a locked door with a light glowing under the bottom.
He knocked loudly. And got a whole lot of nothing.
"Who's there?" he called out, yanking on the knob. "Hello?"
"Sir! Whatever are you doing?"
Gregg wheeled around and looked down the stairs at the butler--who was, even though it was after hours, still dressed in his tux.
Maybe he didn't sleep in a bed, but hung himself up in a closet so he didn't wrinkle overnight.
"Who's in there?" Gregg demanded, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, sir, but the third floor is private."
"Why?">
"That is none of your concern. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you to return to your room."
Gregg opened his mouth to keep arguing, but then slammed his gap shut. There was a better way to deal with this.
"Yeah. Okay. Fine."
He made a show of thumping down the stairs and brushing past the butler.
Then he went to his room like a good little guesty-poo and slipped inside.
"How was your walk?" Holly asked, yawning.
"Anything happen when I was gone?" Like, oh, say, a dead guy coming in here to bang you?
"Nope. Well, other than someone racing down the hall. Who was that?"
"No idea," Gregg muttered, going over and shutting off the camera. "Not a clue . . ."
THIRTY-EIGHT
John took form next to a streetlight that probably didn't have a lot of job satisfaction. The illumination pooling beneath its giraffe neck bathed the front of an apartment building that would have looked a hell of a lot better in total darkness: The bricks and mortar were not red and white, but brown and browner, and the cracks in various windows were fixed with zigzagged duct tape and cheap blankets. Even the shallow steps going up to the lobby were a pockmarked mess like they'd been hit with a jackhammer.
The place was just as it had been when he'd spent his last night inside except for one thing: the yellow Condemned notice that had been nailed to the front door.
File that under Well, duh.
As Xhex came out of the shadows and joined him, he did his best to project nothing but a calm dissociation . . . and knew he was failing. This grand tour of the shitscape of his earlier life was harder to go through than he'd thought, but it was like an amusement park ride. Once you got on and the cart got rolling, there was no reaching for the off/stop button.
Who knew that his existence should have come with a warning for pregnant ladies and epileptics.
Yeah, there was no stopping this; she'd totally tweak to him not finishing it. She seemed to know everything he was feeling--and that would include the sense of failure that would rip through him if he pulled out early.
"You ended up here?" she whispered.
Nodding, he led her past the front of the building and around the corner to the alley. As he came up to the emergency exit, he wondered if the latch would still be broken--
The punch bar let go with just a little force and they stepped in.
The carpet in the hallway was more like the raw dirt floor in some kind of cabin, all packed down and sealed with stains that had leached into the fibers and dried up hard. Empty booze bottles and twisted Twinkie wrappers and stunted cigarette butts littered the corridor, and the breeze in the air smelled like a bum's armpit.
Man . . . even a tanker of Febreze couldn't make a dent in this nose-mare.
Just as Qhuinn came in through the emergency exit, John hung a louie into the stairwell and started an ascent that made him want to scream. As they went up, rats squeaked and scampered out of the way and the eau de tenement got thicker and more pungent, like it was fermenting in the higher altitudes.
When they got to the second floor, he led the way down the hall and stopped in front of a starburst pattern on the wall. Jesus Christ . . . that wine stain was still there--although why the hell was he surprised? Like Merry Maids was going to show up here and bleach it out?