‘Yeah,’ he breathed. ‘Say it again.’
‘I love you.’
‘Yeah.’
I looked back from the door just before I went out. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be breathing slowly, steadily. I locked the door behind me.
I bought three quarts of orange juice. I came speeding back. I wasn’t gone more than twenty minutes. The door to our motel room was wide open.
I knew then. Knew. But I went through the motions.
I went inside, put the juice in the refrigerator.
The note was on the drainboard of the sink. Written in a scrawled, wavery hand:
‘Babe, it’s no good. I’m filling up with blood. I can feel it. I think I’ll take a walk on the beach. Take everything. Do what you have to do. Get out. Keep moving. You got a chance. I’ll bet on it. I love you, Jan. Did I tell you? I love-’
The pencil line drooped, fell away.
I went outside. I walked down to the black sea. I thought I saw the dragging track he had made, but perhaps I was imagining it.
I waded into the pounding surf until the water was up to my knees. I stared into the darkness. But all I could make out were the rolling waves, the white crests, the milky foam. There was no moon. But I could see the stars twinkling between patches of cloud. An airliner droned overhead, lights flashing.
After a while I went back inside and started packing.
LETTER TO SOL FABER
Dear Sol,
I know you only read the first 50 and the last 50 pages of the books you peddle, but even you must have guessed that this is Project X, the manuscript I began a hundred years ago in another world.
You’ll also notice that this package is postmarked from New Orleans. If the Feds have a mail cover on you, as they probably do, they’ll have noted the same thing. It’s not important; by the time you receive this I’ll be a thousand miles from New Orleans.
Sol, please try to sell this. I’m not hurting for money; I’ve got plenty of cash plus the Brandenberg jewels. But I’d like to see this published, just so people will know my side of the story in case something happens to me. If you do sell it, hold the money. I’ll work out some way of getting it without the Feds knowing. If Jack Donohue taught me anything, it’s that the system can be fiddled, one way or another.
Please call my sister and tell her I’m alive and well. Call Aldo Binder and tell the old fart that he was right: I didn’t know what reality was all about.
Sol, I’m going to drop this off at the post office on my way to the airport. The reason I’m leaving New Orleans is that about an hour ago the room clerk tipped me that someone had come by asking for me. A squat, heavyset man wearing a vested suit, topcoat, and British bowler. A man with wide shoulders and a barrel chest.
The clerk kept his mouth shut (he says!), but it doesn’t make any difference; that guy will be back.
And he‘11 find me wherever I go; I know that. But the next time things will be different. Remember when you told me readers like a nice, tidy ending to a noveclass="underline"
I’m going to tidy this one up.
The next place I go to, I’m going to let Antonio Rossi find me.
And then I’m going to kill that son of a bitch. Love, Jan