“How did he get here?”
“I have no idea. Until you arrived my bike was the only thing in the parking lot. But you know Seth, he finds ways.”
“Right. He was probably chauffeured here in a stretch limo.” More from uneasiness than hunger, Art rummaged in his bag and came up with a loaf of Helen O’Donnell’s home-baked bread and a slab of smoked ham. He hacked off pieces of both and handed them to Dana. Despite her claim to want no food, she took them and began to eat.
“We have to be logical about this,” Art went on. “You may not like him much—”
“I don’t like him at all.”
“And I certainly don’t care for him. But if anybody in the world can find a way to keep the telomod treatments going, it’s Seth.”
Maybe it was the feeling that the old world was ended. Maybe it was closeness and candlelight. But Art knew that he and Dana were breaking two unwritten rules of the treatment group. You said nothing to anyone of what you thought or knew about other members; and you kept your emotional distance from all of them. He and Dana were closer today than they had ever been in the three years he had known her. There was a protective logic at work. When Art joined, the group had forty-two members. Five of those had died, horribly, when the treatment failed and cancers ran riot all through their bodies. You knew what might happen to you, but you didn’t want to be too near when it happened to someone else.
He tore off a piece of bread, bit savagely into it, and said, “So what makes you so down on Seth?”
“Nothing specific, just impressions.” She avoided Art’s eyes as she went on. “Look, I want to live, and so do you. We’ve fought hard for the right; but there are limits to what we’d do. I wouldn’t sacrifice you to save myself, and I hope you feel the same about me. Seth probably regards that as weak and wimpy. I believe he wants to live so bad, if it would help his treatment he’d kill his own mother and serve her up for breakfast.”
They went on eating and drinking in silence for a while. Art thought that Dana agreed with him, and he was surprised when she at last added, “I believe that Seth is much worse than you think. But he’s here, and he may be the only other one of our group who ever shows up. You have to be ready to work with him.”
“Oh, I’ll work with him, don’t you worry. In our situation we can’t afford to get into fights among ourselves. I’ll work with the devil if I have to. But if you don’t agree that he’s ruthless, why are you so negative about Seth?”
“Part of it’s personal. You’ll probably claim that it’s a woman thing, but I don’t like the way he looks at me and talks to me.”
“He comes on to you?”
“Not in the usual way. If it were just that, I could handle it. Guys have been hitting on me since I was twelve years old. I mean, most guys. I don’t mean you. You’ve never come on to me at all.”
Could that be a hint — at a most improbable time? But Art only said, “Of course not. I’d be afraid to. How does he look at you and talk to you?”
“Speculatively. Like I’m a piece of flesh. Like, if I could just get you alone, where no one was likely to come along and interrupt . . .” She held the empty measuring cup out to Art. “I don’t know what was in this, but I’m talking crazy. Forget what I just said. Pour me another.”
“Catoctin Mountain Park legal limit: one per person.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Trouble is, no one ever says what it’s one of.” It wasn’t really a joke. He was pleased out of all proportion when she laughed, put her hand on his arm, and said, “I don’t need to worry about Seth. I won’t be alone, will I? You’re here, too. I’ll be all right.”
“That’s true, ma’am.” Art filled the cups again. He tried to do it slowly and carefully, but his hand trembled. Mary hadn’t been alone, either. He had been there with her, and what good had that done? She had only wanted to make a video for her own use, she would have given up the camera willingly.
But he tried not to think too much about Mary. Usually, except alone and late at night, he succeeded.
“Are you feeling all right?” Dana was staring at him with a worried look on her face.
“Tired, I guess.” Art screwed the cap slowly back on the bottle and offered a cup to Dana. “It’s been a long day.”
“It sure has.” She took the cup and slid off her stool. “Come on. Bring your bag, and we can talk as much as you like tomorrow. I’ll drink this as a nightcap.”
“Where are you going?”
“To bed.” She picked up the lamp. “We don’t know when Seth will get back, but I’m not going to sit up waiting.”
“There are still beds here?”
“A few, in the upstairs rooms. I guess they were too much trouble to haul away and not worth smashing.”
She led the way out of the bar, through the ruin that had once been the hotel restaurant, and up the stairway. The banister had been broken off, but the carpet was intact. Art, climbing painfully to the top floor, heard the rattle of hail or heavy rain on the roof above the landing.
“Listen to that. I’m glad I’m here, and not out in it.”
“I’m glad you’re here, too.” She paused at one of the doors. “I’m in the next one along, so you may as well take this room. I checked it out earlier. The water’s off, but the toilet will work — once.”
“It will be fresh water in the tank. I don’t want to waste it.”
“That’s your option. I’m going to use mine in the usual way. I’m not ready to give up completely on civilization. You say you have candles and matches?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to light one before I go?”
“No. It’s all right. I’ll manage.”
“All right. Good night, then.”
She continued to the next door, entered, and closed it. Art stood hesitating in the dark corridor for a few seconds. Finally he went and knocked on her door. “Dana?”
“What?”
“Do you have a gun?”
The door opened. She raised the lamp and stared at him. “I do not. I never learned how to use one. I’d be more danger to myself than anyone else.”
“Well, I have one. Knock on the wall or come into my room if there’s any trouble.”
“I don’t think there will be. But thanks.” She closed the door again. Art headed into his own room, lit a candle, and stared around him. A bed with a mattress, but no pillow, sheets, or blankets.
He had real trouble sleeping without a pillow. If he took off his thick sweater, he could fold it up and put it under his head. But it was going to be a cold night, he’d need all the warm clothing he could get.
So he’d manage without a pillow. What did he expect, room service?
Art placed his gun carefully down by the side of the bed, where he could reach it in one movement. He blew out the candle, stretched himself on the bed, and pillowed his head on his hands. He was still trying to make himself comfortable when he heard a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
“Are you decent? I’m coming in.”
Dana entered. She was in a thin white slip, and with the oil lamp held high she was a vision from another century. She carried a pillow under her arm, which she held out to Art. “Here. I found three of these in the back of the closet.”
“Thanks.” Art admired her dancer’s legs and curved hips, wondered at the way she was dressed, and said, “Pillows. That’s just what I was wishing I had. Are you going to sleep in that outfit? You’ll freeze.”
“I brought flannel pajamas and a few sweaters.”
“Good.”
She stood for a moment as though waiting for him to do or say something more. At last she nodded and said, “Good night, then.”
She left. Art heard her door close, and the click as she locked it — something he hadn’t bothered to do to his. He got up again, made his way to the door, and turned the lock. As he fumbled his way back to the bed he realized what all this reminded him of: one of the old farces, set in a hotel or a country house, knocking on bedroom doors, full of confusion and mistaken identities.