Man in the Empty Suit Read Free Page B

so on. By the fifth floor, I was flying down the steps in the dark, counting out loud to myself as I went. My heart raced, even though I knew I would find nothing at the bottom. This convention had dozens of my selves in attendance. The one who’d deserted me would disappear into the crowd. In the dark, all I had were phosphene trails of elevator lights that dropped away from me toward a single, brilliant point.
    At the second floor, excited voices vibrated through the door. I tried the knob and found it locked. I hammered a fist against the gray metal. It opened, and bright hallway lights blinded me. Three silhouettes moved around me, spoke in my voice.
    The one nearest me said, “Here you are. I don’t remember it taking you so long to get down those stairs.”
    I shielded my eyes. “Takes a while in the dark. Had to memorize the step count.”
    “Twelve-landing-twelve.”
    This one was older than me, but not by much. Shaved head, plain white dress shirt.
    “We’re wasting time reminiscing.” One in a canary yellow sweater glared at me. “Is the elevator here?”
    “Yes, it’s here.” This voice was far older. I was able to see now, not well, but enough to know that ahead of me, holding on to the wall for support, was a seventy-year-old man. His hair was white and cut short. He wore a simple black suit and looked like a minister. He was, of course, me. “I’m afraid it’s not good.”
    The other three moved away from me and looked through the elevator grate.
    “Oh, God,” said the one in the yellow sweater. The other two remained silent. I stayed where I was, unable to think of anything other than what I would say when Sober exited the elevator. He was taking a long time about it.
    “Are you all right?” the one in the white shirt asked me.
    “I need a drink,” I said. I pulled out my flask and tipped it back. When I lowered it, they were all staring at me. I held it up, almost like an offering, but none of them took it.
    I asked, “What the hell is everyone staring at?”
    Yellow, a whiff of that same pity that Sober had around him, said, “You haven’t seen this yet.”
    I didn’t want to see. I walked toward him.
    On the elevator floor lay Sober. His eyes were open, legscrumpled beneath him and his arms awkwardly twisted. A gash ran across his right temple.
    I covered my mouth and felt a jolt run up my spine. I needed to sit down. More important, I needed more drink. Murmurs from the others:
    “Oh, God.”
    “Open the grate.”
    “It’s stuck.”
    The one in the white shirt, head shaved and irregular stubble across his chin, pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and worked at the gate’s latch. His eyes looked dulled, as if he could take in only so much and that limit had been reached long ago.
    Seventy held out a hand. “He’s dead. We all remember too well.”
    “That’s not possible.”
    The old man’s rheumy eyes watered at me. “Welcome to the secret club of the convention, boy. Now you know. This is where you die.”
    The hall shrank to a circle of light only as big as a watch face, and I went deaf for a moment. The others waited.
    “How can he be dead?”
    Seventy cleared his throat, shifted his cane from hand to hand. “That’s the problem. How. We don’t—”
    “Don’t say you don’t know. I’ll just come back early and watch the corners, the penthouse. We were in the penthouse.”
    Screwdriver finally popped the latch. “We know where you were. We’ve watched it. He gets in the elevator, alone and alive.”
    Yellow, still leaning on the wall, eyes ricocheting back andforth, barely withheld a laugh. “You watched it? When? I never watched anything.”
    “Since past you, obviously.” Seventy studied my face. “We’ve tried watching the elevator, the penthouse. Each time he just climbs in, no problems. It’s down here we find him dead. Short of getting into the elevator with him, we don’t know what to do, and if we do that.…”
    I nodded. I’d learned the