“You were drawn here by me. Had you gone to the third floor without certain knowledge that you must have, you would by now be stone dead.”
He had my attention. “What knowledge?”
“The people here tonight have come from four states in the West. Most of them know one another, but to some of them, there are new faces.”
“I already figured that out by how the guy reacted to me in the hallway.”
“Good for you. One likes to have a leading man who is credibly clever.”
With some embarrassment, I said, “I don’t think of myself as a leading man, sir.”
“Frankly, Mr. Thomas, neither do I. Now, chances are, if you holster your guns and go to the third floor openly, as though you belong in this place, you will be met with no suspicion.”
“Except for the cowboy guy.”
“Yes. Except for him.”
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“I’m sure that he does.”
“What if I run into him?”
“Don’t.”
“Was I dead in Shower 5, sir?”
“That is not for me to say.”
“Did you … bring me back from … from the dead?”
Instead of answering, he winked. “Pay attention, Mr. Thomas. Now if someone greets you with a raised fist and the word contumax—”
“Even though I feel like an idiot, I raise my fist back at them and say potestas. But what does that mean?”
“The first is Latin for ‘defiant’ or ‘disobedient.’ The second is Latin for ‘power.’ They are a predictable bunch.”
“Except I would have predicted more security.”
Mr. Hitchcock shrugged. “They believe themselves to be charmed, given protection by the prince of this world, and untouchable.”
“Why do they believe that?”
“Because they are.”
“Oh.”
“They have nothing to fear from most people. But because of their worldview, they are incapable of imagining or preparing for someone as different as you, Mr. Thomas.”
“You mean my gift.”
“That is the last thing I mean.”
“Then what’s different about me?”
“Everything.”
“I’m just a fry-cook.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled, and I had the strangest feeling that, like Mrs. Fischer, he was going to pinch my cheek. He didn’t. And he didn’t tell me what amused him.
Instead, he said, “Because you’re so intriguingly geared-up, people will think you’re one of the evening’s murderers of children. If they ask who’s your patron, say Zebulun, and they will especially respect you.”
“Who’s Zebulun?”
“One of the more powerful demons.”
“I almost want to laugh, sir.”
“Did you want to laugh when you saw the collection of heads?”
“No, sir. All right. My patron is Zebulun.”
“Just try not to say the name too often.”
“Why not?”
“It is never wise.”
“Okay, all right. Whatever you say.”
He pointed at me, which for him seemed to be as forceful a gesture as he might ever employ. In a confrontational business known for temperamental personalities, he had been famous for never losing his temper and for walking away rather than participate in an argument. “You must avoid the senoculus.”
“What’s the senoculus?”
“A lesser demon. Its usual form is a bull’s head on a man’s body, and it has six eyes, a cluster of three on each side of its face.”
“I’m sure I’ll recognize it.”
“The last time you met the senoculus, it didn’t look that way.”
A chill quivered along my spine. “The thing on that roof in all the blackness?”
“When you cross into what you call Elsewhere, you are known at once by those in the wasteland, Mr. Thomas. Known and hated. Hated because you are the antithesis of what they are. And because they can enter Elsewhere, one of them will always come for you. The senoculus chooses to look like you now. It will try to suck your life and your soul out of you.”
“?‘Give me your breath … and the sweet fruit at the end of it.’?”
“Avoid the senoculus at all costs.”
“If it shows up, how do I avoid it?”
“Run, Mr. Thomas. Run.”
Doubting my ability to handle this, I said, “Maybe I should just call the police, tell them the missing kids are all here. Maybe I can convince them. Maybe they’ll think they have to come take a look.”
He regarded me with sadness, as if I were pitiably naive. “Mr. Thomas, the county sheriff is among the guests downstairs.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
The director began to rise off the floor, as though he would leave through the ceiling, as he had done in the elevator at Star Truck.
I said, “Wait, wait, wait.”
He drifted back to the floor. “Time is short, Mr. Thomas.”
I said, “Why can’t you just take the kids under your wing and get them safely out of here?”
“This world isn’t run by miracles. This world is run by free will, and I can’t interfere with yours or the children’s.”
“But you stepped in to give me all this advice.”
“I was a film director, Mr. Thomas. I don’t give advice. I give instructions. And you have the free will to ignore them.”
When he started to rise again, like a Macy’s-parade balloon, I grabbed his arm to hold him down. “Why didn’t you talk to me right from the start, why all the pantomime until now?”
He smiled and shook his head as if to say that I had much to learn regarding the construction of a drama. “One does not reveal such a twist a moment sooner than the end of the second act.” His expression grew serious, and he searched my eyes as if taking the measure of my mettle. “Children, Mr. Thomas. Innocent children.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Do better than your best.”
His usual droll demeanor gave way to more emotion than he had allowed himself in public, during his days of fame. “This world can be hard on children.”
Later, I would learn that he and his wife, Alma, had had one child, a daughter named Patricia, on whom he doted. There are many charming pictures of portly Mr. Hitchcock and tiny Pat on vacation with Alma in exotic places like Paris and Africa and Switzerland. His smile, though ironic when calculated for publicity, could be sweet, and never sweeter than in photographs with Pat or with her children. At play with the grandchildren, he had been like a child himself, Hitchcockian dignity discarded in favor of participating fully in the game of the moment.
Perhaps his regard for children and their happiness had its roots in his own lonely childhood. At the age of nine, he was sent off to a Catholic boarding school. Until he was fourteen, he was raised by Jesuits who believed most strongly in severe corporal punishment, and before he was fifteen, he quit school and took his first job. He was remembered by others as a sensitive and retiring boy, and he called himself “a particularly unattractive youth,” though rare photos from those days don’t really support such a harsh self-assessment. One of his earliest vivid memories was of waking late on Christmas Eve, when he was only five, to discover his mother sneaking two toys from his Christmas stocking, putting them in the stockings of his older siblings, and replacing them with a couple of oranges.
“This world can be hard on children,” he repeated. “Now, these seventeen think they’re being held for ransom. They don’t know what’s going to be done to them, although a few might suspect something. The cultists want to surprise them, the better to savor their terror as the full horror of their fate dawns on them.”
“I’ll remember everything you told me, sir. I feel better now that you’re on my side. Everything’s sure to be all right now.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Is it sure to be, Mr. Thomas? Are you really certain
that you’ve seen my films?”
I thought of the end of Vertigo, and wished I hadn’t.
Again he rose off the floor.
This time I didn’t try to stop him, though I did say, “Please call me Odd, sir.”
Halfway to the ceiling, he said, “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Thomas. Please call me Hitch.”
“Yes, sir. Will I see you again, Mr. Hitchcock?”
“I would count on it, Mr. Thomas, whether or not you survive the next half hour.”
He disappeared through the ceiling.
The time had come to kill or die. Or both.