The Dark Door by Kate Wilhelm

down one hallway after another, feeling doors, watching doorknobs glow red, burst into flames, watching walls start to smoke, char, burst into flames. He ran until he dropped in exhaustion, and the fire raced toward him from different directions. He buried his head in his arms and waited for it, and woke up, sweating, shaking, through with sleep for that night. The reports came in, the lists arrived, microfiches, Xeroxes of Xeroxes of newspaper accounts, photocopies of insurance claims, police statements, statements from fire department heads. Thoreson called daily, demanding action; Charlie stopped returning his calls. Phil sent funny postcards but did not call.
    Charlie was staring moodily at a photograph of John Loesser, who had left his last apartment without leaving a forwarding address. Outside, a guard dog padded quietly on her patrol of the yard. The cats were in a panic because of the dog, who simply ignored them all. He knew so much, Charlie thought bitterly, and not the important thing: why. Loesser had survived an attack, had quit his job with one of the biggest, most prestigious insurance companies in the world in order to become an independent adjuster who apparently never adjusted anything. Two weeks after his release from the hospital, the first hotel had burned, the one in which he had been attacked. He had access to computer data, knew how to use it, how to interpret it. People began to go mad here and there; Sir Galahad arrived and burned down a hotel; people stopped going mad. Probably he had enough now to make an arrest, Charlie thought; a formal investigation would cinch it, and yet… He had no intention of turning over a damn thing until he had a clue about the why. He scowled at the photograph, cursing John Loesser under his breath. You son of a bitch, he thought, why?
    Constance entered his study and touched his shoulder. “Charlie, Byron Weston is on the phone. You should talk to him.”
    Her voice was strange, remote, her face set in the expression she had when she was controlling herself perhaps too much. Charlie moved the photograph of Loesser away from the telephone on his desk, and put it face down. He lifted the extension. “Yeah,” he said.
    “Charlie, when you were in Orick, you were asking questions about the old hotel. Why? What did that have to do with the epidemic of madness?”
    “I don’t know,” Charlie said softly. “Why do you ask?”
    There was a pause; Charlie could hear other voices, then the slamming of a door. Byron returned. “Sorry,” he said. “Charlie, did you watch the news tonight, national news?”
    “No.”
    “Okay. There was a story. It’ll be a bigger story tomorrow. We have a repeat of the Orick madness, and this time I didn’t predetermine the boundaries. I’ve just been listening.”
    “Is there a hotel involved?”
    “Two of them,” Byron said harshly. “No fire, though. Look, you brought up the feet that people in Orick had been infected, affected, something—people I excluded in my study there. Well, this morning a sniper held a trainload of people hostage in a tourist attraction here. Nine people were killed before it ended. My office was called and I flew out and arrived within an hour of the end of the siege. I began to listen to people real early this time, and I let them direct the conversations. They say incidents began over a month ago in the town of Grayling in California, and they link the old hotel to the madness. What can you tell me about it, Charlie? I need help with this!”
    “Why will it be a bigger story tomorrow?” Charlie asked easily. Constance, listening, shivered at the sound of his voice now.
    “Because some of the survivors are telling reporters that a dead man got up and walked. The press will have a field day with this one.”
    Charlie talked with Byron for another fifteen minutes; when he was finished, Constance took the phone to make airline reservations for the following morning. She used her name, Constance