As she wrestled against the constricting bands, she caught another glimpse of Death in the mirror, and let herself sink into the familiar contours of the mattress, let the pillow cradle her head, and watched as the spirit drew closer.

The afternoon light faded as the spirit emerged from the glass, and Cora felt the comforting presence of Death so close by that had it not been for the straps restraining her arms, she might have reached out and drawn it to her.

Darkness closed around her. She thought she heard the spirit's voice, whispering that it was time for her to go.

Cora's lips worked, struggling to form words she hadn't spoken for years. "Ted," she whispered at last. "I want… please… Ted."

Drained by the effort it took to speak, a great sigh escaped Cora Conway's lungs, and she lay still.

For a moment the nurse thought Cora Conway had died, but then she saw that the old woman was still breathing, though shallowly. She seemed to have lapsed once more into the semicoma in which she'd lain for months; the nurse loosened the restraints. She would look in on her later, before her shift was over, to see how she was doing. Only then, if the patient seemed to be weakening, would she call the old woman's only relative.

Her nephew, Ted Conway, who hadn't visited his aunt in years. No reason to call, the nurse thought, unless some further change indicated that his aunt was dying.

Then, perhaps, he would come, if only to say goodbye.

Ted Conway glanced up as the five o'clock news came on the television behind the bar, and signaled Tony for one last vodka tonic before calling it a day. He was tired-despite what Janet had said, he hadn't just been "drinking up his paycheck" in the bar all afternoon. He'd been working, reviewing the file that lay open in front of him, but mostly keeping an eye on the bartender, whom he was all but certain was ripping off the Majestic. Ted still wasn't sure how Tony was doing it-he'd kept a careful eye on the way Tony poured the drinks, and even asked for a couple of straight shots, just to make sure the liquor wasn't being watered. Nor had he been able to catch Tony palming money, though he hadn't been able to rule it out, either. One thing he'd discovered in his twenty years in the hotel business was that bartenders learned lots of tricks, and sleight of hand wasn't the rarest of them. The trouble was, Frank Gilman, the general manager, wouldn't spring for the equipment they needed to keep their bartenders honest. All it required was a liquor meter, and a computerized cash register that wouldn't let the meter pour any booze that wasn't on a bill.

"We're not the Sheraton," Gilman had groused when Ted brought up the problem the previous week. "We can't afford that kind of stuff, and even if we could, I wouldn't put it in. A bartender should have the right to buy a customer a drink now and then. It keeps them coming back."

Well, at least Gilman was right about one thing: the Majestic was no Sheraton. Ted had worked in a Sheraton for a while, and it was a hell of a lot nicer than this dump. In fact, he thought, he'd still be there if the general manager hadn't been such an asshole. He still didn't understand what the big deal had been about his keeping a bottle of Smirnoff in his desk. After all, wasn't the hotel business based on hospitality? So he had a few drinks with the vendors who came in trying to sell him everything from linens to bar snacks. What was the big deal? That's how business worked. At least Frank Gilman understood that.

Tony put the fresh drink in front of him, and Ted was about to pick it up when he stiffened, knowing, even before he glanced up into the mirror behind the bar, that Frank Gilman was standing behind him. In the brief moment before he put on his best assistant manager's smile-the one that rarely failed to disarm even the angriest of hotel guests-he wondered why he could always sense the general manager's presence. And it wasn't just Gilman-it was every damn manager he'd ever worked for. It wasn't anything tangible; just a sixth sense he'd always had. But what was Gilman doing here? It was Friday-Gilman's golf day-and he'd left right after lunch, just like he always did. So what brought him back? If there'd been a problem in the hotel, someone would have called him. But the afternoon had been dead quiet, except for Janet coming in and hassling him about the credit card. Other than that, nothing had been going on. Nada. Then, as Gilman slid into the space next to him, he understood: his boss was finally taking his concerns about Tony seriously, and had dropped in to check up on him.

"I still don't get it, Frank," Ted said, keeping his voice low enough so Tony wouldn't be able to hear him. "I know he's doing it, but I don't know how."

Gilman's eyes narrowed. "Maybe we should talk in my office," he suggested.

Draining the vodka tonic Tony had set in front of him less than five minutes earlier, Ted stood up, steadied himself against the bat, then started after Gilman, who was already pushing through the door to the lobby.

"Don't forget your file, Ted," Tony said.

Turning back, Ted swept the file off the bar, swearing under his breath as half the papers fluttered to the floor. He knelt quickly, stuffed them back in the folder, then hurried after Gilman.

The bartender watched him go. As the door swung shut behind Conway, he turned back to his halfhearted polishing of the bar glasses, and the conversation he'd been having with the hooker perched two stools away from Ted all afternoon. "Don't think we'll be seeing him around much longer," he observed.

The hooker shrugged. "Too bad. At least he never hassled me like the last one."

Tony chuckled. "Think he was ever sober enough to notice you?"

The prostitute's laugh was just enough to carry through the door into the lobby, where Ted was about to step into Frank Gilman's office. Maybe when he was done with Frank, Ted thought, he'd go back to the bar and run the hooker out of the place. People like her could give the hotel a worse name than it already had. He moved through the door to the general manager's office, closing it behind him to shut out the whore's laughter. It wasn't until he was about to lower himself into the deep comfort of the worn leather easy chair in front of Gilman's desk that he realized that Gilman was still on his feet, leaning against his desk, his arms folded over his chest. Ted, his reflexes too slow to recover his feet, dropped gracelessly into the chair.

"You're drunk again, Ted."

Though Gilman hadn't stated it as a question, Ted shook his head vigorously. "I had a couple of drinks, sure," he admitted. "But how else am I going to nail that son of a-"

"Don't bother," Gilman cut in. "You've been sitting at the bar all afternoon, and by the last count, you'd had ten drinks."

Ted rose to his feet, his face reddening as his temper pounded at his temples. "Who said that? I had two drinks, and even those hardly had anything in them!"

Gilman's lips tightened and he shook his head. "It's too late, Ted. Tony doesn't short the drinks, and he isn't stealing from us."

Ted's eyes squinted into angry slits. "I can prove he is."

"You can't, because he isn't. Anyway, not what I call stealing. But looking at your expenses, I can't say the same for you."

Caught off guard, Ted hesitated. "Expenses?"

Gilman picked up a thin sheaf of papers from his desk. "You turned in a three-hundred-dollar bar tab last month, Ted. Three hundred dollars. I'd ask you how you did it, but I'm not sure I really want to know." As Ted started to speak, Gilman held up a hand to silence him. "I really don't want to know, Ted." Now he picked up an envelope and handed it to Ted. "This is your last paycheck. I put in a month's severance, and you can keep your medical for three months. Pretty generous, I'd say." His brows arched. "Frankly, if I were you, I'd use it to get some help with your drinking problem."