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60
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Mort trudged his way, soaked, back to town. He sat in a French diner, pants rolled up, shoes not on his feet, the usual cigarette in his mouth. He was certain that he was violating some sort of health code.
Prying through his soggy bookbag, he came upon the Baroness's postcard which portrayed the castle-like building. Mort picked it up and studied it once more.
The waitress came his way "Oui, Monsieur. Toute c'est seche," she said, placing his now dry clothing on the chair next to him.
"Merci, Madame," Mort thanked her. As she turned and began away, Mort spoke up, "Madame."
She turned around "Oui."
Mort pointed to the location on the post card and asked "C'est ou, ca?"
She took it from him and went to the front desk to ask a man that knew the location better than she did. After briefly looking at the postcard, the man came over to Mort with a book that was open to a certain page. He placed it on the table and pointed to a picture that had the caption 'Turret Chamber' underneath.
"Voila," The man said.
Mort nodded and left the diner. He went back to his hotel room and sat down on the couch. Sitting on the coffee table, was John Shooter's hat. Mort had no idea why he still hadn't chucked the thing already.
He looked down at the hat, swallowed, and picked it up. He turned it upside down and studied it. All of a sudden, for no apparent reason, he placed it on his head.
He flexed his jaw and stood up. He walked slowly over to the mirror and looked at himself, adjusted the hat.
"Why'd you put it on?" A voice much like his own asked.
Mort ran his finger along its smooth brim. "I dunno.." He replied.
"Maybe he wanted you to," The voice of the other suggested.
Mort immediately stopped touching the hat and looked up. "Why would he want me to put his hat on?"
"Maybe he wants you to..."
Mort turned around. "Maybe he wants me to what?"
The other appeared and moved his fingers about his head, indicating an insane disposition. "To get confused."
"Oh, I'm already confused, pilgrim," Mort said, removing the awful thing from his head. "Plenty confused. So don't talk to me about confusion." Mort walked across the room.
"Wait a minute, now." The other took off his glasses and began to polish them with his jacket. "Back up just a sec. What about that?"
Mort turned away and took off his coat. "What about what?" He asked, walking away.
"Well, pilgrim, Shooter's Bay, and a half a dozen other details you've chosen to ignore," The other said, appearing and leaning on the couch.
Mort put on his bathrobe. You know what? You're nuts." He walked away yet again. "I don't need to listen to this shit from you."
The other appeared in front of him. "Are all these things coincidences?" The other asked, putting his glasses back on.
"I'm wearing his bruises, aren't I? Aren't I?"
"Are you?" The other asked.
"Well..." Mort began. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal... nothing. He became confused. "This doesn't make any sense..," He said, walking away. He was sure that when he had gotten into that fight with Shooter that night before, he'd been beaten up badly. But now... there was not a scratch on him.
The other appeared in front of him again. "Would you like to hear something that does make sense? Call the police." Mort turned away, but the other appeared in front of him holding the phone receiver. "Call the police, tell them to get down here right this second and lock you up before you can do any more damage."
"I'm gonna get a knife and cut you out of me."
The other disappeared finally. "Before you kill anyone else."
Mort grabbed his head in frustration. "I didn't kill anybody." Mort began to have a flashback to the painful time when he had caught his wife in bed with another man. He had entered the room holding a gun.
"You had a gun," The voice of the other said to him.
"Wasn't loaded.."
"Really?" The other asked, re-appearing.
"No no no.."
The other walked in front of Mort. "You almost killed them. You wanted to."
"The gun was not loaded!" Mort yelled.
The other smiled. "You still want to."
"Shut up!" Mort yelled.
The other pulled Mort's hands away from his face so that he had no choice but to look directly at him. "Listen to me, because this is how it happens. This is happens to people."
"Shut up!" Mort yelled again.
"There is no John Shooter."
Mort turned away and looked up. "Ra? Ra?"
"There never has been. You invented him."
"Ra! Ra!" Mort was on the verge of exploding.
"Listen to me, not to him. Before it's too late."
"Leave me alone!" Mort yelled. He picked up an ashtray from a side table and hurled it at the wall. He stood for a moment, transfixed with what he had just done.
"You are alone.." Whispered the other. And with that, he was gone.
Mort advanced to the dent in the wall. The dent began to crack the wall, and the whole hotel building began to split down the middle. Mort followed the crack with his eyes.
All the voices inside his head began to whisper at once. It was driving him mad.
You're not handling this.. What you're doing is-- Everything you're doing is wrong --is wrong. You've been eating potato chips this way for 30 years.. Everything you're doing is wrong.. For 30 years.. For 30 years..
Mort caught a glance of himself in the mirror, but for some strange reason, the reflection was somehow portraying his back even though he was standing in front of it. Mort advanced slowly toward the mirror.
..Sister found out about the broken window. And the school had to be withdrawn from the competition... Sister found out about the broken windows.. out of the competition--competition.. Then she got up from the table. We didn't talk for the rest of the night.. rest of the night... Ted thought that a woman who would steal your love-- What does Ted have to do with it?.. Everything.. I'm starting to believe that Ted was right.. Everything that you're doing is wrong.
He turned away from the rear reflection, then turned back. It was normal again. "What is happening to me?" He asked.
"Oh, I think you know. I think you have a real good idea," The slow, southern drawl said.
Not turning his back, Mort swallowed hard and then spoke. "You don't exist."
Shooter advanced. "Me? I exist, Mr. Corso. I exist because.. you made me."
Mort suddenly had a flashback to a time when he and Amy had went to a garage sale. Mort had found the amish-style hat among the junk that was there and thought it was funny. He had stood in the mirror and placed it on his head as Amy stood by watching. "Check it out! I'm a dairy farmer from Mississippi." Mort had said in the southern accent.
"You thought me up," Shooter said, breaking Mort from his thoughts. Shooter approached him. "Gave me my name, told me everything you wanted me to do."
Various images of Mort killing Fargas and the Baroness fluttered through his mind. He gasped and an uneasy look came over his face.
"You didn't have the stomach to do it yourself, but you knew I did."
Images of Mort dragging Fargas outside and dunking him over and over again in the fountain passed though his head. Images of Mort strangling the Baroness and then setting the library on fire passed through his head.
"Are we done yet? We got things all cleaned up around here?" Shooter asked, coming right up behind Mort. "What's the real reason I come for?"
"Get the book." Mort replied, everything becoming clear now.
"That's right."
"Get the book. Gotta open The Ninth Gate," Mort said.
"And how do you suppose we ought ta do that?" Shooter asked. He placed the hat to Mort's chest.