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So much for that. The end of the adventure. I felt better, far betterthan when I'd spoken with David. Going back, looking at thatmonstrous granite thing, it had been the perfect thing to do.
Only problem was that Roger's stench clung to me. Roger. He'dbeen "the Victim" until when? Now I was calling him Roger. Wasthat emblematic of love? Dora called him Roger and Daddy andRoge and Dad. "Darling, this is Roge," he'd say to her from Istanbul.
"Can you meet me in Florida, just for a few days. I have to talk toyou...."I pulled out the phony identification. The wind was harsh andcold, but no more snow, and the snow that was on the ground washardening. No mortal would have sat here like this, in this shallowhigh broken arch of a church door, but I liked it.
I looked at this fake passport. Actually it was a complete set offalse papers, some of which I didn't understand. There was a visa forEgypt. Smuggling from there, no doubt! And the name Wynkenmade me smile again because it is one of those names that makes evenchildren laugh when they hear it. Wynken, Blinken, and Nod.
Wasn't that the poem?
It was a simple matter to tear all this into tiny fragments, and let itblow away into the night, over the tiny upright stones of the smallgraveyard. What a gust. It went like ashes, as if his identity had beencremated and the final tribute was being paid.
I felt weary, full of blood, satisfied, and foolish now for havingbeen so afraid when I talked to David. David no doubt thought I wasa fool. But what had I really ascertained? Only that the Thingstalking me wasn't particularly protective of Roger, the Victim, or hadnothing to do with Roger. Hadn't I already known this? It didn'tmean the Stalker was gone.
It just meant the Stalker chose his own moments and maybe theyhad nothing to do with what I did.
I admired the little church. How priceless and ornate andincongruous among the other buildings of lower Manhattan, except thatnothing in this strange city is exactly incongruous anymore becausethe mix of Gothic and ancient and modern is so very thick. Thenearby street sign said Wall Street.
Was I at the very foot of Wall Street? I rested back against thestones, closed my eyes. David and I would confer tomorrow night.
And what of Dora? Did Dora sleep like an angel in her bed in thehotel opposite the cathedral? Would I forgive myself if I took one lastsecret, safe, forlorn peek at Dora in her bed before letting go of thewhole adventure? Over.
Best to get the idea of the little girl out of my mind; forget thefigure moving through the huge dark corridors of that empty NewOrleans convent with the electric torch in hand, brave Dora. Not atall like the last mortal woman I'd loved. No, forget about it. Forgetabout it, Lestat, you hear me?
The world was full of potential victims, when you began to thinkin terms of an entire life pattern, an ambience to an existence, acomplete personality, so to speak. Maybe I'd go back down to Miami if Icould get David to go with me. Tomorrow night David and I couldtalk.
Of course he might be thoroughly annoyed that I'd sent him toseek refuge in the Olympic Tower and was now ready to move south.
But then maybe we wouldn't move south.
I became acutely aware that if I heard those footsteps now, if Isensed the Stalker, I'd be trembling tomorrow night in David's arms.
The Stalker didn't care where I went. And the Stalker was real.
Black wings, the sense of something dark accumulating, thicksmoke, and the light. Don't dwell on it. You have done enoughgruesome thinking for one night, haven't you?
When would I spot another mortal like Roger? When would I seeanother light shining that bright? And the son of a bitch talking tome through it all, talking through the swoon! Talking to me! Andmanaging to make that statue look alive somehow with some feebletelepathic impulse, damn him. I shook my head. Had I brought thaton? Had I done something different?
By tracking Roger for months had I come to love him so muchthat I was talking to him as I killed him, in some soundless sonnet ofdevotion? No. I was just drinking and loving him, and taking himinto myself. Roger in me.
A car came slowly through the darkness, stopping beside me.
Mortals who wanted to know if I needed shelter. I gave a wave of myhead, turned, crossed the little graveyard, stepping on grave aftergrave as I made my way through the headstones, and was off towardsthe Village, moving so fast probably they could not have even seenme go.
Imagine it. They see this blond young man in a double-breastednavy-blue blazer, with a flaming scarf around his neck, sitting in thecold on the steps of the quaint little church. And then the figurevanishes. I laughed out loud, loving the sound of it as it went up thebrick walls. Now I was near music, people walking arm in arm,human voices, the smell of cooking. There were young people about,healthy enough to think that bitter winter could be fun.
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