ith the memory of his nightmare experience at La Souvenance still vivid in his mind, Steve looked at his watch. Half an hour had passed since Tom Driscoll's departure from his room. It was now 3:30 A.M.
Troubled by the older doctor's visit, he went to a window and stood there frowning out at the night.
Could there be some connection between La Souvenance and what was happening here at the Azagon? It seemed unlikely, yet this was the first time he and Tom Driscoll and Nadine Palmer had been together since then. And the village of Dame Marie was said to be a hotbed of voodoo, wasn't it?
In St. Joe, the impossible was merely improbable. And the improbable happened all the time.
Be careful, Spence. You still don't know what the hell happened while you were out of it back there at the Brightman. Be very, very careful here.
The night was dark, as his caller had mentioned. It was not altogether lightless, however. There seemed to be rather more stars in evidence than usual. He could still make out the sloping front lawn, the road, and the hotel beach beyond.
What the devil was Paul Henninger doing on his mysterious nighttime excursions? Was he up to something a bit shady, as Driscoll obviously suspected and perhaps young Mendoza did, too?
Was there maybe a house in town to which such a man might be drawn for the usual reason?
I'll have a talk with him tomorrow, Steve promised himself, then turned from his contemplation of the night sky to go to bed. But in mid-turn he stopped and swung back to the window, aware that he had seen something remarkable at the foot of the hotel driveway.
Paul Henninger had come back, stark naked and apparently ill.
Steve strode from the room with his dressing gown flapping behind him and his moccasins barely touching the floor. With one hand on the banister he descended the stairs like swift water flowing, then sped along the lower hall at the same no-nonsense gait. He was out the front door and striding briskly down the driveway before Henninger had managed to travel a third of the drive's length.
"All right, Paul. All right. Just hang on to me now, and we'll get you to your room."
The manager's only response was a shuddering moan as Steve got an arm around him. Though the night was warm, his naked body was cold and clammy despite its layers of fat, and he seemed unable to stop his violent shivering.
With Steve's help he did stop stumbling, however, and together they made it up the driveway, up the steps, and along the downstairs hall to Henninger's untidy room. There Steve eased him onto a chair, covered him with a sheet from the unmade bed, and stepped back to look at him.
"Do you want to tell me where you've been?" Steve had no trouble keeping his voice gentle.
"Oh, my God," Henninger moaned.
"Try to get hold of yourself, Paul. You haven't been drinking, have you?" The question was pointless. No one at the Azagon used alcohol. Some on the staff were rehabilitated alcoholics themselves.
"No, no, Doctor... I don't drink."
"Then let's try again, shall we?" Steve said. "When you left here about midnight, where were you going?"
"I don't know. I don't remember leaving."
"You were walking in your sleep, you mean?" Henninger lifted his head long enough to look at his questioner for a few seconds, then let it fall.
"I don't—I don't remember going out, Doctor."
"You were sleepwalking, then?"
"I just don't know. All I know is that I ended up swimming naked in the sea, and everything around me was dark. I couldn't see the shore, any lights on shore. I was all alone in the sea, naked and terrified."
Looking terrified even now, Henninger began to tremble violently but recovered and went on in a voice slightly more under control. "Oh, my God, Doctor, you can't know the feeling! I had been here in my room, safe in bed, reading. I almost always read at night. I don't remember putting the light out. Then all at once I found myself there in that dark sea with no shore, no lights, swimming as if
Troubled by the older doctor's visit, he went to a window and stood there frowning out at the night.
Could there be some connection between La Souvenance and what was happening here at the Azagon? It seemed unlikely, yet this was the first time he and Tom Driscoll and Nadine Palmer had been together since then. And the village of Dame Marie was said to be a hotbed of voodoo, wasn't it?
In St. Joe, the impossible was merely improbable. And the improbable happened all the time.
Be careful, Spence. You still don't know what the hell happened while you were out of it back there at the Brightman. Be very, very careful here.
The night was dark, as his caller had mentioned. It was not altogether lightless, however. There seemed to be rather more stars in evidence than usual. He could still make out the sloping front lawn, the road, and the hotel beach beyond.
What the devil was Paul Henninger doing on his mysterious nighttime excursions? Was he up to something a bit shady, as Driscoll obviously suspected and perhaps young Mendoza did, too?
Was there maybe a house in town to which such a man might be drawn for the usual reason?
I'll have a talk with him tomorrow, Steve promised himself, then turned from his contemplation of the night sky to go to bed. But in mid-turn he stopped and swung back to the window, aware that he had seen something remarkable at the foot of the hotel driveway.
Paul Henninger had come back, stark naked and apparently ill.
Steve strode from the room with his dressing gown flapping behind him and his moccasins barely touching the floor. With one hand on the banister he descended the stairs like swift water flowing, then sped along the lower hall at the same no-nonsense gait. He was out the front door and striding briskly down the driveway before Henninger had managed to travel a third of the drive's length.
"All right, Paul. All right. Just hang on to me now, and we'll get you to your room."
The manager's only response was a shuddering moan as Steve got an arm around him. Though the night was warm, his naked body was cold and clammy despite its layers of fat, and he seemed unable to stop his violent shivering.
With Steve's help he did stop stumbling, however, and together they made it up the driveway, up the steps, and along the downstairs hall to Henninger's untidy room. There Steve eased him onto a chair, covered him with a sheet from the unmade bed, and stepped back to look at him.
"Do you want to tell me where you've been?" Steve had no trouble keeping his voice gentle.
"Oh, my God," Henninger moaned.
"Try to get hold of yourself, Paul. You haven't been drinking, have you?" The question was pointless. No one at the Azagon used alcohol. Some on the staff were rehabilitated alcoholics themselves.
"No, no, Doctor... I don't drink."
"Then let's try again, shall we?" Steve said. "When you left here about midnight, where were you going?"
"I don't know. I don't remember leaving."
"You were walking in your sleep, you mean?" Henninger lifted his head long enough to look at his questioner for a few seconds, then let it fall.
"I don't—I don't remember going out, Doctor."
"You were sleepwalking, then?"
"I just don't know. All I know is that I ended up swimming naked in the sea, and everything around me was dark. I couldn't see the shore, any lights on shore. I was all alone in the sea, naked and terrified."
Looking terrified even now, Henninger began to tremble violently but recovered and went on in a voice slightly more under control. "Oh, my God, Doctor, you can't know the feeling! I had been here in my room, safe in bed, reading. I almost always read at night. I don't remember putting the light out. Then all at once I found myself there in that dark sea with no shore, no lights, swimming as if
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