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“You wanted access to room service and a bar?”
“I can do without room service and a bar,” Ambrose said evenly. “What I’m paying for is a front desk that is staffed twenty-four hours a day. When I’m at home I can barricade the doors and double lockthe windows. I’ve got alarms set up in case I try to get out of the house, and I’ve put a couple of other security measures in place, but traveling complicates things.”
She stared at him, appalled. “You’re afraid you’ll sleepwalk out of the hotel?”
“This is going to be my first night in an unfamiliar environment since the sleep study,” Ambrose said. “What’s more, I’m back in the town where the nightmares and sleepwalking took a turn for the worse. I figure if I do end up going for a walk at two in the morning and if I manage not to break my neck on the stairs, the front desk staff will probably stop me in the lobby. At least that’s my backup plan.”
She took a deep breath. “And I thought I had problems.” She started to get to her feet again and found herself pausing. Again.
“What other security measures?” she asked.
Ambrose was on his feet, shrugging into the windbreaker. He frowned. “What?”
“You said you have a couple of other security measures in place to ensure you don’t walk out of the house. I wondered what they are.”
“Just a couple of alarms. Nothing fancy. Let’s go find dinner.”
She gave up, cradled the messenger bag in front of her as she always did when she was in an unfamiliar place, and headed toward the door. The big bag would not keep her from stumbling into a hot spot, but it had the potential to help cushion a fall if she went down hard.
She concentrated on forging a path through the crowd, but Ambrose was suddenly there beside her. He wrapped one hand lightly but firmly around her arm. She got the same intense frisson of awareness that his touch had given her earlier at the asylum. She glanced at him.
What aren’t you telling me, Ambrose Drake?she wondered.
“What did you find in the asylum that made you so sure someone was murdered on the staircase?” she asked.
“A used hypodermic needle.”
“That doesn’t seem unusual. Addicts frequently use abandoned buildings as injection sites.”
“In places that are routinely used as injection sites, there are always a lot of old needles lying around. I found only one.”
“Not much to go on,” she warned.
“I know,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was closeto midnight when Ambrose let himself into his hotel room. He was startled to realize that for absolutely no logical reason he was feeling calmer, more centered. Maybe it was just the result of eating a substantial meal in the company of a woman who understood what he was trying to tell her, a woman who showed no signs of wanting to see him locked up in a psych ward.
In a weird way the evening had given him what felt like a dose of normal, or at least a taste of a new normal. He had been greatly in need of a reminder that there was such a thing as normal, new or otherwise.
He opened his duffel bag and took out the hotel security devices he had brought with him—a motion detector, a door alarm, and portable door and window locks. The goal was not to keep intruders out—it was to keep himself a prisoner.
He moved methodically through the room, positioning the various pieces of hardware. When he was finished he looked around for a large item of furniture to block the door. He settled on the heavy reading chair. After shoving it into position he went into thebathroom to brush his teeth. On the way out he stripped off his shirt. He did not bother to undress. These days he always wore his pants to bed. If he found himself walking down a sidewalk at two in the morning, at least he would not be wearing only his underwear.
He sat down on the side of the bed, reached back into the duffel bag, and took out the length of coiled chain. He looped the chain around one of the bed legs and fastened the manacle on his ankle. He secured the manacle with a combination padlock. His theory was that he would have to be awake in order to spin the dials. It didn’t seem like a task he could accomplish while in a sleepwalking state. But who knew?
When he was finished he picked up his phone and checked his messages and email. These days he sorted his correspondence according to his personal triage guidelines. Desperate pleas and warnings from his agent and editor were filed underPotential Career Disasters. Anxious inquiries and not-so-veiled threats from members of his family were labeledPotential Involuntary Commitment. The third category,Things Can Always Get Worse, was reserved for bulletins from Iona Bryant, his virtual assistant.
He checked the subject headings in the emails underPotential Career Disastersfirst, even though he knew what to expect from his agent and his editor. As usual, there were no surprises.
Marketing needs first three chapters of the next Jake Crane novelwas from his editor. He recognized a plea for reassurance when he saw one and whipped off the traditional response from a writer who was late on a book.Doing final polish on first three chapters. Will send soon.
The chatty note from his agent was equally transparent:How’s it going out there in sunny California? Your editor called again today. She’s getting nervous about the next Jake Crane book. I know you’re still polishing but could you please sendher the first three chapters? We don’t want to delay the publication date of your third book. That would not be good at this stage of your career. Don’t forget, we’re up for contract renewal as soon as your next manuscript is accepted.
He copied the response he had used for the email from the editor. No sense wasting time reinventing the wheel.Doing final polish on first three chapters. Will send soon.
Most of the communications from his family came in the form of text messages. There were several of them.
