One of Us (1998) by Michael Marshall Smith

Author:Michael Marshall Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Recovered memory, Memory transfer
Publisher: New York : Bantam Books
Published: 1998-10-25T04:00:00+00:00

I BLINKED, discovered Deck's gun was already in my hand, and pointed it at the man. The gun didn't make me feel better, or seem to worry him much. I kept pointing it anyway.

The man held up a small electronic notebook. "Are you looking for this?"

"I've no idea," I said petulantly. "What is it? And who the fuck are you?"

Then I recognized him, and answered the question myself. It was the guy from the diner, the one who'd been sitting at the table down at the end, apparently deep in post-alcohol stress. The one who'd spoken to me after my phone conversation with the man at Laura's house, who'd looked a little out of place, and yet who had been sitting there, opposite Laura's hotel—almost as if he were waiting for someone.

"My name," said the man, screwing up his eyes for a moment, "is Hap."

"No, it's not," I said steadily. "That's my name. Try again."

The man frowned. "You're absolutely right, of course. Sorry. My name is Travis."

"Stop being an asshole," I suggested, "and tell me who the hell you are. And turn off the light, for Christ's sake."

"What light?"

The light switch, in keeping with common practice, was on the wall behind me, next to the door. He couldn't have reached it from where he was sitting. The light had an unusual quality, almost tangible, as it might appear if I were swimming in clear water at night and someone turned on a powerful searchlight overhead. It didn't seem to reach into the corners of the room, or to display objects in the usual manner, as if its role wasn't actually visual.

Keeping Deck's gun trained firmly on the man in the chair, I reached behind and flicked the switch. The overhead light came on, and the room suddenly looked more normal, full of edges and a little dusty. Though not any brighter.

The man winked. "And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day" he said, "for there shall be no night there."

"I really am running out of patience," I said.

The man rolled his eyes, reached into his pocket, and brought out a small torchlike object. "Ambient light projector," he told me. "You can get them at Radio Shack."

"Great. I'll look out for one. Now, for the last time: What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," he said, standing. "You're later than I expected, and I've got to go. Things to do. Anyway—it's here." He placed the notebook on the chair, winked at me again. "You'd never have found it on your own. It was taped under the corner of the desk."

"Which is the first place I would have looked," I said irritably. "For whatever it is."

The man smiled and walked toward me. He stopped about a yard away, with my gun almost touching his chest, and waited patiently. I didn't know what to do. Shooting him seemed excessive, but I didn't know whether I should just let him go. In the end I let the gun drop. I was panting slightly, tired and strung out and empty.

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