The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Ninety-Three
How Much Longer?
Roux
stood at the table, staring at the neatly stacked bills. He picked
one of the stacks up, turning it over in his hand, the strip of paper
holding the money together.
With a sigh he gathered the other
four stacks and carried them to the constable.
“Constable
Crane?” He caught Ichabod’s attention. As the man turned to face
Roux, the gypsy held out the money he had found.
“This was
Raphael’s. I fear…” Roux paused, not believing the fate of his
friend. “I fear he is gone too.”
Ichabod nodded as he
took the money. He was amazed that he now held so much currency in
his hands, then quickly set it down inside the box Roux had found in
the basement. The memory boxes were slowly being emptied of their
contents as each man in The Room disappeared.
Crane was not
sure if the unexplained disappearances were a good thing or a bad
thing. He only knew his own time was limited. If his calculations
were correct, he would be gone himself in the next 24 hours.
“Damn
it all to hell!” Mort’s curse crossed the Room and caught
Ichabod’s attention. He excused himself from Roux and went to the
writer who was pounding away at his computer.
‘Mr. Rainey?
A moment, if you please?” Ichabod asked. They had been interrupted
the day before and now Crane tried to find the words, to explain what
he wanted the New York writer to do for him.
Mort glanced up,
a cigarette burning between his fingers, the ash threatening to drop
any second. Without answering Crane, Mort took a draw, blowing the
smoke up and out while his eyes narrowed on the peace officer.
Ichabod waved the smoke away, a slight cough protesting the
intrusion on his lungs. He quickly found a handkerchief and held it
to his nose.
“I really must request that you not smoke in
my presence,” he told Mort. Defiantly Mort sucked in another
lungful of cigarette smoke, blowing it out long and slow.
“Don’t
like the smoke? Move back to your corner.” He told Crane.
Crane
persevered. “It is not a healthy habit you know, Mr. Rainey.”
Mort huffed at Crane’s comment. “This whole f--king
Room’s not health, Crane. Besides, I’m not the only one who
smokes in here. Why not “Bible-thump” over there on Duke?” Mort
waved towards the far table. “Man smokes worse than I do. It’s a
wonder anyone knows what his damn face looks like through all the
cigarette smoke that hangs around him.”
Crane turned in the
direction Mort had waved. His brow furrowed as he saw the abandoned
accordion on the chair where Duke always sat.
Cautiously,
Ichabod crossed The Room to the chair. He touched the instrument and
then looked about the Room in hopes he was wrong. Maybe the gonzo
journalist was only in the bathroom. He let his eyes focus over to
the one bathroom, but saw the door was wide open, showing him the
room was not in use.
Crane swallowed hard as he concluded
that like the others the boisterous man who smoked endlessly, drank
even more, and made gross attempts to play songs was now among the
missing.
He leaned over, grasping the large accordion and
found it much too clumsy for his delicate hands.
“I can do
that for you.”
Ichabod straightened to find the gypsy at
his side. Without hesitation, Roux lifted the heavy musical
instrument and carried it to the Constable’s table.
“Thank
you, Roux. Greatly appreciate the help.”
“Not a problem.”
Roux gave a sigh as he surveyed the men around him. “So, Constable.
No clues yet as to…” Roux’s hesitation made Crane look to the
Irishman to find him looking across the Room.
He followed
Roux’s gaze. There across from them sat another empty table; an
ashtray with a lit cigarette, its smoke curling upwards towards the
ceiling and an open book waiting for a reader.
Together they
made their way to the table. Roux stubbed the burning cigarette out
as Ichabod closed the book and read the title.
“Shantaram.”
One of the last books brought into the Room by Noodlemantra, now
became the last book that Dean Corso had been reading.
“Dean’s
gone now, too?” Roux asked, knowing the answer.
Ichabod
nodded as he placed the book back to the shelf, letting his fingers
caress the spine. He looked about him at all the books that lined the
walls.
How many times had Corso read each book in his attempt
to find a way out of the Room? Always searching for clues between the
pages, but never quite finding them.
“Well Mr. Corso.”
Crane whispered. “You’re out of the Room now, and we are still
here.”
“But for how much longer?” Roux asked. “How
much longer until the Room is empty?”