"Terry Dowling - Clownette" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dowling Terry)

Another thought struck me then. Gordon had been standing to the side of the door, hadn't wanted to
look in and see the Motley. What had he told me down at the front desk when I suggested he take 516?
"Never again, Mr. Jackson!" That word! Again! Had he recently spent a night in the room? Had 516
done something to his memory, his way of looking at things? His personality?

Ludicrous, ridiculous, but the craziest things made sense in the small hours. And such late-night thoughts
always seemed to drag their own wacky logic along with them. It worried me. Too much fear could
triggerтАФwhat were the terms?тАФa behavioral shutdown or a post-traumatic adjustment of affect, a way
of dealing with severe personal crisis. I'd read about that somewhere. Maybe this was something like
that.

I smiled at myself in the darkness. I was haunting myself, using 516 and the Motley to do it.

Still, at 1:53 in the small hours, with newly limbered night at the windows, it did make sense. Provoking
the Motley no longer seemed such a good idea.

I was half-asleep, being irrational, but enough was enough. I switched on the bedside light, got out of
bed, crossed to the painting, hefted it, and prepared to set it on the floor. Before I could do that I
dropped it in astonishment.

The Motley wasn't there!

I stood staring at where it had been, should have been, had to be! Then I broke free, stumbled across
the room, switched on the main lights, and rushed back to the wall.

Not a trace. Not a sign.

It was gone!

Which wasn't possible. Not like that. Not after so little time.

It was 2:09, but I did the only sensible thing. I took a shower, turned it to cold at the end so I was
completely awake. Then I made coffee, strong and black, and sat on the edge of the bed sipping it,
relearning the room and trying to eliminate the things that almost make sense at that hour, can make too
much sense if you're not careful.

"Serves you right, Jackson," I said, as much to hear a voice as anything. "Now you either call it quits and
find another hotel or you work through this like an adult!"

I set my cup on the bedside table, went over to the television stand, and pulled it out from the wall.

Nothing. Not a smudge, not a hint that I could see. The tan was unblemished.

Which was impossible.

Maybe it was me. A vision thing. But after ten minutes of sightings from various points in the room, I was
back sitting on the bed staring at the blank wall.

What to do? I could phone Rhonda or Bruce or Katie half a continent away, have friends talk me
through this. Better yet, phone down to Carmen at the front desk, get her up here, let her be a witness to