He shouted with all the air he could expel, “Where? Where is she?”
“On the top floor,” one of them replied, a finger extended upwards.
He ran to the elevator and slammed the call button. When it didn’t open immediately, he looked for the stairway. It had to be quicker. He would make it quicker. He took the stairs three at a time, and big numbers on the doors at each floor kept track of his progress. Three … four … five. His lungs heaved inward, swallowing every wisp of air. Progress was slower now, wobbly as his body demanded he break the pace. He ignored it. So close. Eight. The muscles in his legs quivered spasmodically, not wanting to take him any higher. Nine. How many more could there be? His head and heart were pounding, harder with each step. Ten … eleven. Faster! And then the stairs ended at a final door. He burst through and fell sprawling to the hard floor. The room seemed incredibly bright and he squinted, trying desperately to see down the long corridor ahead. He leaned against a wall and managed to claw his way upright. Just a few more steps.
More people in white. They looked at him knowingly and pointed to the end of a brilliant tunnel ahead. He got up a head of steam and stumbled forward with all that was left in him. At the end of the corridor was a single doorway. It was open, and a diminutive old woman stood at the threshold. She faced him, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Let me by! I have to see her!”
She shook her head and he stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice practiced in soothing, in caring. “You’re too late. It happened only moments ago.”
“No!” he shouted. “No!” He moved forward and tried to squeeze by the old woman but she wouldn’t budge. He noticed for the first time that the room behind her was darker than the rest of the place. He couldn’t see anything inside. “I’ve come so far,” he pleaded. “I have to see her!” He tried to push the frail woman aside, but again she wouldn’t move. He wedged himself against her with all his strength and tried to break through her blockade, but somehow he was thrown back into the hall. The diminutive woman simply stood there, the nurse’s hat on her head cocked compassionately to one side. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
He was overcome by pain. It sliced into every fiber of his flesh, and he fell to his knees and looked skyward.
David Slaton screamed, and then woke.
He got out of bed quickly, forcing away the familiar demons. As usual, the sleep had eased his physical fatigue, but nothing more. It was noon.
Slaton went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet at the sink, and splashed cold water onto his face. He was particularly thirsty and, not seeing any drinking glasses, he twisted his head down into the basin to drink from the tap. Standing straight, he stretched, noting a few new sore spots from his trials of the last few days. He took the bandages off the wounds on his arm — one from a gunshot, one from a knife. They were still painful, but seemed to be healing. Next, Slaton turned on the shower, letting it run a full ten minutes before succumbing to the fact that there was little, if any, hot water at the Benton Hill Inn. For the second time in as many days he braced himself for a frigid immersion. The icy shards hit like a shot of electricity, and the last numb tendrils of sleep disappeared. This time having a bar of soap as an associate, he scrubbed to remove the dirt and scents that had escaped yesterday’s dip into a tributary of the Avon River. Once finished, he was at least grateful to find a clean, dry towel. It was time to get to work.
Slaton stood in front of the mirror over the washbasin, made a mental picture of what he saw, then went to his backpack and brought it to the bathroom. The first thing he tackled was the two-week-old beard, which no longer served any purpose. Chatham had seen him this way, and if the inspector circulated composites there would certainly be versions that included facial hair. He shaved it all off, leaving conservative sideburns. Next came the hair dye. It was a simple process, ending with a dark brown hue. Anything more severe might have turned an unnatural appearance, but as it was, the hair held a legitimate color, many shades removed from its beginning. He kept a portion of dye in reserve, calculating that one touch-up might eventually be required.
The color change complete, he went to work using a pair of scissors and a hand mirror, cutting away the bulk of his hair to roughly an inch in length all around. Next, he used a set of electric clippers, giving an even shorter, uniform cut. He then took a copy of Men’s Fitness magazine from his pack, turned to a page near the end and propped it against the wall at the back of the washbasin. He studied the picture in the advertisement carefully, wanting to match it as closely as possible. With a good quality razor he began shaving the hair just above his forehead. He worked from the center, then outward slightly and back, all the time referring to the picture. At times he had to use the hand mirror along with the wall mirror to track his progress.
The process slowed as he neared the end, but after a careful thirty minutes it was done. Slaton stepped back to get a good look, using the mirror to see different angles, and comparing the appearance to that of the man in the magazine. It was good, but there was more to be done. He’d anticipated a conspicuous difference in skin tone, the top of his head having seen less sun than the forehead. Fortunately, the exposure from his days floating in the Atlantic had caused his face to blister and peel. Now healed, this new skin was relatively light in complexion, a state not undone by the sunless British winter. With another recent purchase, a small jar of make-up, he judiciously touched up the tan lines, masking and blending until there were no remnants of the natural demarcation. Satisfied, Slaton pulled a pair of thick-framed reading glasses from his bag and applied them to his face. Finally, he compared the image in the mirror to the one he’d seen when he started.
Slaton was pleasantly surprised at the magnitude of the change. He now had a severely receding hairline and was quite bald on top. Short, dark hair on the sides further distinguished this new image, and the glasses served to interrupt his facial features. He wondered for a moment if even Christine would recognize him, but then Slaton quashed the thought. Of course she would. And it didn’t matter anyway.
His new appearance would take some upkeep. He’d have to shave the top each morning, keep the make-up properly toned, and perhaps refresh the tint once during the weekend to be on the safe side. But overall, Slaton was assured. Confident that his new image would grant the freedom he required.
The kidon strolled casually through Greenwich Park. The business suit was an expensive make, but rather ill-fitting, since he’d purchased it at a second-hand store. The proprietor had offered to make alterations, however the process would have taken three days. Slaton had graciously declined before paying the man in cash.