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marmalade, so he took one of the places and waited patiently. There were bowls of cereal and fruit set out on a table to one side, but he thought it best to wait. Mr. Carradine had booked them all into one of the more anonymous hotels in Montauk, and the others should be down soon.
    His thumb made a circling movement of its own accord.
    Michael watched it happen and felt a sudden chill. The silence in the breakfast room grew louder, and beyond it he could hear intrusive traffic noises from the street outside. He could hear his own breathing. He could hear the steady pulse of blood within his veins. He became aware of the smell of raw sausages, drifting from the refrigerator in some distant kitchen. He could smell tomatoes and the musty scent of mushrooms and bacon and milk in an open carton and a farmyard hint of eggs.
    He needed to get back to his room.
    Time slowed as Michael began to push his chair away from the table—it made a hideous scraping noise on the wooden floor—so that he watched the waitress bustle over in a series of strobelike jumps. “Hi, honey,” she said cheerfully, her voice reverberating through his head. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She handed him a laminated menu, and his nerveless fingers dropped it on the table with the sound of a felled tree.
    â€œHave to get something from my room,” Michael muttered. He tried to push past her.
    She gave him a big smile. “Your friends are on their way down,” she told him.
    In fact his friends were in the corridor outside. He could smell Mr. Carradine’s aftershave. He could hear a conversation about jazz between Opal and Danny. They were coming through the door in a tight little group with Mr. Carradine in the lead. Time was distorting like mad now, and when he looked at Opal he could hear her heartbeat. It grew faster when she saw him. Michael pushed the waitress rudely aside and strode across the room. The floor felt spongy underneath his feet.
    â€œMichael,” Opal called out brightly, “we’re not going home today. Mr. Carradine has arranged for us to stay on so we can watch the chamber being opened.” She sounded pleased.
    Michael said, “Getting something from my room.” He tried to smile.
    Mr. Carradine said, “Are you okay, Michael?”
    â€œFine,” Michael told him. It came out something close to a gasp. He kept moving with a purposeful stride, and to his relief they parted to let him through.
    â€œHave you had breakfast?” Opal called after him, but he ignored her.
    He thought there might be a problem with the stairs, but he almost floated up them. By the time he reached the corridor that led to his room, he was running, with the walls pulsating in time to each step. He reached his door and fumbled for the key card. The room next door was empty, but he could hear what was going on in a room along the corridor: a bitter argument between a husband and wife over some item of jewelry she’d bought. From another room he could hear snoring. In another he could smell the lavatory cleaner as a maid prepared a bathroom. His hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t insert the card. He closed his eyes to a maelstrom of whirling colors, opened them, and tried again.
    The card slid into the slot. He pulled it out, carefully, and listened to an electronic symphony as the little red light turned to green. He pressed the handle and pushed the door.
    His consciousness expanded to take in part of the town. There was a heavy-metal beat coming from a building down the road.
    Michael’s eyes rolled back as he slid to the floor, then closed as he reached it. His body began to twitch, then shake, then convulse violently. A moan escaped his lips, but Michael did not hear it. His head began to pound against the carpet with dull, sickly thuds, in perfect time to the rock music playing in the distant building.

Chapter 10
Fuchsia, Underground at Montauk
    I t was almost impossible to