Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [74]
Placing one suitcase on the bed and the other beside the dresser, Jane went to the windows and opened one of them. The rain had slowed and now steam was rising from the cobblestones below. The smell of earth and rot was stronger now, but not unpleasant. It’s as if the whole city is decomposing, Jane thought.
She had not been in New Orleans in almost a century. She’d once known several of her kind who lived there, but she’d ceased corresponding with them long ago. At first their obsession with the past had appealed to her, particularly as things in the world were changing so quickly at that time, making her feel as if the world she knew was disappearing. But eventually she’d tired of their mannered speech and morbid fascination with sleeping in coffins and holding masquerade balls, and had bid them adieu. She was certain that they lived here still, but she had no intention of looking for them. They would only depress her.
She returned to the bed and opened the suitcase. Another shopping excursion in Chicago prior to leaving had provided her with more clothes and other necessities. Removing several items of clothing, she hung them in the narrow closet. She was just carrying her toiletry bag into the bathroom when the chirping of her cell phone interrupted the quiet. Jane retrieved it from where she’d laid it on the dresser.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Fairfax,” said a woman’s voice, “this is Farrah Rubenstein. From Entertainment Weekly,” she added when Jane didn’t reply.
“Yes,” said Jane, startled. She knew who Farrah was. She just hadn’t expected to hear her voice. You’re supposed to be dead, she thought. “It’s good to hear from you,” she told the waiting reporter.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Farrah said, apparently oblivious to any surprise in Jane’s voice. “I just have a couple of follow-up questions about the book.”
Jane sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course,” she said. She very badly wanted to ask the young woman if she was okay. Like, have you had any urges to bite people in the neck? she thought. But she couldn’t say anything without admitting that something peculiar had occurred, and part of her didn’t want Farrah to know that she had left her stowed beneath the bed while she went shopping. She noticed that she was holding in her hand the red blouse she’d purchased, and she shoved it beneath one of the pillows on the bed lest Farrah somehow know she had it.
“Okay,” said Farrah. “I forgot to ask you if the names of your characters are meant to symbolize anything.”
Jane answered the question, not listening to a word she was saying. Farrah had several more questions, all of which Jane replied to in the same way. She couldn’t get the image of the girl lying on the hotel room bed, her eyes staring up lifelessly at the ceiling, out of her mind. What had happened to her?
“Farrah,” she said when she could stand it no longer, “are you feeling all right?”
“Me?” said Farrah. “Yes. Why?”
“Just asking,” Jane said, thinking quickly. “I seem to have caught a little bug while I was in Chicago. I think it was the air in the hotel. I wondered if you had experienced any … symptoms after our meeting.”
“No,” said Farrah. “In fact, I feel great. Maybe you’re sensitive,” she added helpfully.
“Maybe,” Jane agreed.
Farrah started to ask Jane a question about the plot of her novel. “You’re sure you don’t feel at all unusual?” Jane interrupted. “Forgetful, maybe? Or tired? Maybe you find yourself craving rare meat?”
Farrah laughed. “Eww,” she said. “I’m a vegetarian. No, I feel great. Now, if I could just ask you a few more questions …”
They talked for another ten minutes before Farrah thanked Jane for her time and told her when to expect the issue of the magazine to be on the stands. She hung up and Jane turned her phone off. Jane continued to sit on the bed, looking at the phone in her hands and wondering what was going on. I saw her, she thought. That girl was dead.
But clearly she wasn’t. Somehow she had left