Part 26 (1/2)

Fiona put down her chopsticks, having picked a last shrimp from her noodles. ”And where will I be taking Mr. Milgrim?”

”Holiday Inn, Camden Lock,” said Bigend. ”Everyone seems to know about Covent Garden.”

”I saw one of the Dottirs, in Paris, at the restaurant,” said Milgrim, ”and Rausch.”

”I know,” said Bigend. ”You told Fiona, last night.”

”But was it an accident that we were there? When they were?”

”It appears to have been,” said Bigend, cheerfully, wiping his fingers with a paper napkin. ”But you know what they say.”

”What?”

”Even the delusionally paranoid have enemies.”

”He's put you in the Holiday Inn,” said Fiona as they walked back to the repair yard along what she'd said, when he'd asked, was lower Marsh Street.

”Yes?”

”Certainly not as posh,” she said, ”but where you were has a lot of inherent security, simply in the ground plan. Stars have ridden out serious press-sieges there. Nothing wrong with the Camden Holiday Inn, but it's not that tight.”

”He thinks too many people know where I've been staying,” Milgrim said.

”I don't know what he thinks,” said Fiona, ”but you'd better watch yourself.”

I do, thought Milgrim. Or rather, he had. Pathologically, his therapist had said. ”You were going to explain what I need to do in order to be a better pa.s.senger,” he said.

”Was I?”

”You said I needed a pa.s.senger lesson.”

”You need to sit closer to me, and hold on tight. Our ma.s.s needs to be as one.”

”It does?”

”Yes. And you need to stay with me, lean with me, on the turns. But not too much. It's like dancing.”

Milgrim coughed. ”I'll try,” he said.

39. THE NUMBER

Heidi perched on the edge of the Piblokto Madness bed, like an expensively coiffed gargoyle, pale knees protruding through the holes in her jeans, long pale black-nailed toes extended over the scrimshawed trim. ”Number's in your phone?”

”No,” said Hollis, standing in the middle of the room, feeling trapped. The insectoid wallpaper seemed to have closed in. All the various busts and masks and two-eyed representations staring.

”Bad sign,” said Heidi. ”Where is it?”

”In my wallet.”

”You never memorized it.”

”No.”

”It was for emergencies.”

”I never really expected to need it.”

”You just wanted to carry it around. Because he wrote it.”

Hollis looked away, through the open door to the vast bathroom, where fresh towels were hung, warming, on the horizontal pipes of the Time Machine shower.

”Let's see it,” said Heidi.

Hollis got her wallet out of her purse, her iPhone with it. The little strip of paper, which he'd neatly torn from the bottom of a sheet of Tribeca Grand notepaper, was still there, behind the Amex card she only used for emergencies. She drew it out, unfolded it, and pa.s.sed it to Heidi.

”American area code?”

”It'll be a cell. It could be anywhere.”

Heidi dug in a back jeans pocket with her other hand, came up with her own iPhone.

”What are you doing?”

”I'm putting it in my phone.” When she'd finished, she handed the strip of paper back to Hollis. ”Have you thought about what you'll say?”

”No,” said Hollis. ”I can't think about it.”

”That's good,” said Heidi. ”Now do it. But put your phone on speaker.”

”Why?”

”Because I need to hear it. Because you may not remember what you say. I will.”

”s.h.i.+t,” said Hollis, sitting down on the bed, nearer its foot, and switching on the speaker.

”No s.h.i.+t,” agreed Heidi. ”Call him.”

Hollis blankly entered the number.

”Put his name on it,” Heidi said. ”Add it to your numbers.”