The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,571

on the bathroom floor, against the door, vomiting so violently that a pain locked around his ribs each time he retched. Then there was nothing more to heave up, and the nausea just lay on him with no promise of relief.

The room was tilting. They had finally got the lock off the door, and they were picking him up. He wanted to say that he was sorry he’d locked it, reflex action, and he had been trying to get to the knob to open the door, but he couldn’t make the words come out.

Midnight. He saw the dial of the clock on the dresser. Midnight of Christmas Eve. And he struggled to say mere was a meaning to it, but it was impossible to do more than think of that thing standing behind the crib in the sanctuary. And he was sinking again, as his head hit the pillow.

When next he opened his eyes, the doctor was talking to him again, but he couldn’t recall just when he’d seen the doctor before. “Mr. Curry, do you have any idea what might have been in the injection?”

No. I thought she was killing me. I thought I was going to die. Just trying to move his lips made him sick. He only shook his head, and that too made him sick. He could see the blackness of night still beyond the frost on the windows.

“ … at least another eight hours,” said the doctor.

“Sleep, Michael. Don’t worry now. Sleep.”

“Everything else normal. Clear liquids if he should ask for something to drink. If there’s the slightest change … ”

Treacherous witch. Everything destroyed. The man smiling at him from above the crib. Of course it had been the time. The very time. He knew that he had lost her forever. Midnight Mass was over. His mother was crying because his father was dead. Nothing will ever be the same now.

“Just sleep it off. We’re here with you.”

I’ve failed. I didn’t stop him. I’ve lost her forever.

“How long have I been here?”

“Since yesterday evening.”

Christmas morning. He was staring out the window, afraid to move for fear of being sick again. “It’s not snowing anymore, is it?” he said. He barely heard the answer, that it had stopped some time before daybreak.

He forced himself to sit up. Nothing as bad as before. A headache yes, and a little blur to his vision. Nothing worse than a hangover.

“Wait, Mr. Curry. Please. Let me call Aaron. The doctor will want to see you.”

“Yeah, that would be fine, but I’m getting dressed.”

All his clothes were in the closet. Nice little traveler’s kit under plastic on the bathroom vanity. He showered, fighting an occasional bout of dizziness, shaved recklessly and fast with the little throwaway, and then came out of the bathroom. He wanted to sink down into the bed again, no doubt about it, but he said:

“I gotta go back there, find out what went down.”

“I’m begging you to wait,” said Aaron, “to take some food, see how you feel.”

“Doesn’t matter how I feel. Can you give me a car? I’ll hitch if you can’t.”

He looked out the window. Snow still on the ground. Roads would be dangerous. Had to go now.

“Look, I can’t thank you enough for taking care of me like this.”

“What do you mean to do? You don’t have any idea what you’ll find. Last night she told me that if I cared about you, to see that you didn’t come back.”

“Hell with what she said. I’m going.”

“Then I’m going too.”

“No, you stay here. This is between me and her. Get me a car, now, I’m leaving.”

It was a big bulky gray Lincoln Town Car, hardly his choice though the soft leather seat felt good, and the thing really cruised when he finally reached the interstate highway. Up until that point, Aaron had been following in the limo. But there was no sight of him now, as Michael passed one car after another.

The snow was dirty at the sides of the road. But the ice was gone. And the sky above was that faultless mocking blue which made everything look clean and wide open. The headache gripped him, throwing a curve of dizziness and nausea at him every fifteen minutes. He just shook it off, and kept his foot on the gas pedal.

He was going ninety when he cruised into New Orleans, going up past the cemeteries of Metairie and through the rooftops and then past the ludicrous surreal spectacle of the Superdome amphitheater, like a