Page 22 of Farkas: Gothika

Chapter Eleven

“Harker, you look like hell. I know you want to make partner, but don’t kill yourself over it.”

Lee wearily looked up from his desk to Stanley Cane, a junior partner who often worked with Lee. Cane was a small man who was always perfectly dressed, his dark hair carefully oiled, his speech patterns as precise as a Harvard professor’s when he wanted them to be. He probably hoped that nobody remembered him as Sol Cohen. That was something he and Lee had in common, shedding their original identities in order to gain acceptance. Although neither of them had ever mentioned it, that unspoken connection helped their professional relationship. They were almost friends.

“It’s fine,” Lee said. “The Bunker Hill project is—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what it is. A lot of that shit’s on my desk too. But look at yourself. You’ve lost weight. I could haul my groceries with those bags under your eyes. Take a break. Eat a good meal, have a few drinks, get laid. Let yourself live a little.”

With some difficulty, Lee suppressed a bitter laugh. “That’s good advice. Thanks. I’ll just finish this and then I’ll knock off early.” He gestured at the legal pad in front of him.

“It’s almost seven, Harker. You’ve missed the boat on leaving early.”

Lee made a sound as if he agreed and, when Cane waved from the doorway, Lee nodded back. He listened to the footsteps echo down the hallway and then returned to his work. His head ached, and he didn’t think he’d eaten that day, but at least he was managing to get things done. He’d accomplished quite a lot in the past two weeks, in fact, poring over books and documents and dictating memoranda until he couldn’t see straight and his voice rasped. Then he’d stagger home, shovel something tasteless into his mouth, and collapse into sleep. He dreamed of coyotes and falling, but never of the gray-shadowed lover.

Maybe this was what it was like to sink into insanity, although he didn’t feel insane. But when he walked the streets or passed through the hallways of his office building, he had to stop himself from yelling at the people he saw. How could they not understand that everything about their city, about their lives, was manufactured? It had no more authenticity or substance than a movie set. But there was a reality out there, and Lee had glimpsed it at the Farkas estate. Yes, he’d been terrified during much of his time there and confused almost always, but at least he’d felt true. For the first time, he’d been his genuine self.

Now he was hardly more than a shadow.

Tonight Lee remained at work until almost midnight. Even the cleaning crew had left by then, and when he ventured outside there were almost no cars and even fewer pedestrians. Maybe a few hopefuls still trolled Pershing Square, but he didn’t check. He also didn’t detour to a bar where he might have found company, or at least a cushion of conversation. Instead, he headed toward his apartment.

But after only a block, he felt as if someone was following him. He didn’t hear footsteps, and when he looked over his shoulder, the sidewalk was deserted. But still he couldn’t shake the sensation of being stalked. Maybe that wasn’t the right word, because there was no sense of danger. If anything, there was a playfulness in the air, an impression that he was a part of some silly game but hadn’t been told the rules.

Lee walked faster, then slower, and the presence remained unseen.

Once home, he found a steak in the refrigerator, although he didn’t remember buying it when he’d gone grocery shopping the previous day. It looked appetizing, and as soon as he stripped off his sport jacket, tie, and dress shirt, he slapped the meat into a frying pan. He didn’t cook often—he wasn’t that good at it—but he could handle the basics. In this case, he added only some salt and pepper, then put the steak onto a plate when it was still bloody and cool in the center.

It tasted goddamn delicious.

He’d just finished eating when the bell outside his apartment door rang. That was a rare thing. It was usually the buzzer from the lobby, and never at this time of night. He raced over, but when he flung open the door, nobody was there. A single bottle of wine, without a label, sat in the center of his doormat.

Not completely convinced he wasn’t dreaming, Lee brought the bottle into the kitchen, opened it, and poured a glass of the rich crimson liquid. His first sip flooded his mouth with a flavor almost as satisfying as an orgasm. In fact, he moaned out loud.

Heedless of wisdom or propriety, he drank the entire bottle. And didn’t feel even a bit drunk.

Although he wasn’t tired, he wandered into the bedroom with the vague idea of trying to get some sleep. It was a moderate-sized room with a minimum of ornament: white sheets, navy-blue blankets, a lamp and empty water glass on the nightstand, pale yellow walls without pictures. It didn’t matter that the view from the single window wasn’t great; he rarely looked through it. In fact, he usually kept the curtains closed.

As he began to unbuckle his belt, something thumped several times against the window glass, like a bird trying to get in. Lee hurriedly opened the curtains, but there was nothing there. Still, he slid the pane open, letting in faint sounds of the nighttime city.

“Are you there?” Lee called. He peered down at the smooth concrete of the exterior wall, but nothing was climbing up or down. “I wish you’d show yourself.”

Heaving a sigh of disappointment, he took a step back—and then another, as a small cloud of shimmering dust motes flew inside and whirled a few inches from his face. As he batted gently at them, he felt a mild tingle on his skin. “Are you there?” he whispered.

No response.

Caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, Lee strode to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he came back, Vincent Farkas was standing in his bedroom, smiling.

“That was close enough to an invitation,” Vincent said. “I am pleased you intended it as such.” He wore a perfectly ordinary suit and coat, but no hat.

“Thank you for the wine.” It was the only sensible thing Lee could think to say.

“You are quite welcome.”

“Is there something…. Is your blood in it? Because I haven’t been hungry, and my head hasn’t been the same since… since we met.”

Vincent gave one of his enigmatic smiles. “Would it matter to you if the wine did contain my blood?”

Lee looked into his own heart for a moment before shaking his head.