by Merry Jones
“I’m calling the clinic,” Susan eyed the mess of gauze on Jen’s chest as she picked up her cell. “Someone needs to come wrap you up again.”
Jen picked up a length of gauze, looked at me. “Elle, if that ghost wasn’t real, then I must have done this myself. How could I do this? In my sleep? I’d have had to pick up my nightgown and pull off my own fricking bandages. That makes sense to you?”
It didn’t, no. But I was pretty sure that the ghost hadn’t been a ghost, that she had been very real. “Jen, listen. I believe you.”
“Maybe I’m a sleepwalker.” She stared at the strips of gauze on the bed. Bruised purplish flesh bulged over the top of the layers still wrapped around her. “I’ve heard that sleepwalkers do crazy stuff in their sleep. Some of them get up and eat their entire refrigerator full of food. Or they drive cars. I read about a guy who murdered his mother-in-law and they let him off because he did it in his sleep.”
“You’re not a sleepwalker, Jen. Listen to me, will you? What you saw was real.” But she wasn’t listening, didn’t even hear me. She was yammering, hysterical.
“Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s being here in this strange place so far from Norm. The climate. Those damned pelicans. Maybe they carry germs that make people hallucinate. Or it’s this damned fever. Maybe my medicine is causing a reaction. Or my infection—maybe it’s causing delusions. Shit. What if I’m worse off than Dr. Du Bois is letting on? Oh damn, Elle.” She looked at me, as if remembering that I was there. “Do you think I’m seriously fucking sick? Am I going to frickin’ die here?”
“No, Jen. You’re not going to die.” I squeezed her arm, hoping none of us would.
“How the hell can you say that? You don’t know. Oh, fuck, what ever made me decide to get this fucking work done?” She clutched her stomach, groaned. “What was I thinking? For the sake of a double-D cup and a tight tummy, I risked my whole goddamn life? If I die, Elle, tell Norm—” Her eyebrows puckered. “What should you tell him?”
“Nothing. Tell him yourself. You’re going to be fine.”
Susan was in the living room, talking to the on-call doctor, explaining that Jen had had a nightmare and demolished her bandages.
Jen’s eyes drifted, stared at air. “The thing is, she seemed so fucking real.” She turned to me. “Maybe I was ripping at myself. But I’d swear to God, I was being attacked by an intruder.”
I nodded. “And she looked like a ghost.”
“Yes. I swear. She was slashing at my chest. I didn’t rip off my bandages. I was fighting her off.”
“I believe you. I saw her, too.”
Jen still didn’t seem to hear. She kept talking, recalling the attack. “Oh, and she talked to me. In Spanish. That’s fucking weird. How could I have a nightmare in Spanish? I barely even speak it.”
“It’s your subconscious.” Susan was off the phone. “Your mind knows more than you think it does.”
“What did she say?” I bit my lip, waiting.
“What difference does it make?” Susan frowned. “It was a nightmare.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I told you I saw her, too.”
“You did?” Jen finally heard me, but instead of feeling validated, she turned to Susan, pointing at me. “See? It’s Elle’s bad juju, like I said.”
“Stop it, both of you. There are no ghosts, and that stuff about juju is nonsense. No one was here. The door was locked. Nothing in the suite is disturbed except Jen’s bandages. And I was right here in the room. I didn’t hear anything except Jen screaming.”
“No fucking surprise,” Jen said. “You were snoring so loud I’m surprised you even heard that.”
“Susan, someone was here. In my room, too.”
Susan bristled. “There is absolutely no evidence to back that up, Elle. You both had bad dreams. I’d have known if someone came into my bedroom. I’m a mother. I sleep with one eye and both ears open. No one was here.”
Why was she refusing to believe us? “Susan,” I began, but she put a hand up, shaking her head.
“Don’t push it, Elle. Jen’s scared enough. Don’t make it worse. Anyway, someone’s coming to repair the bandage damage. Meantime, I think we all could use a drink.” She went to the kitchenette.
I turned to Jen. She was fingering her frayed bandages. “What did the woman say?” I kept my voice low so Susan wouldn’t hear.
She tilted her head. “You really saw her?”
I nodded. “I did. Tell me.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure. Something about revenge.”
“Revenge?”
Jen nodded. “La venganza.”
Oh. So that’s what it had meant. My skin erupted in gooseflesh.
Susan came back with three glasses and lime sections. “I wish we had scotch,” she sighed. “Tequila will have to do.”
Jen reached for a glass. She looked battered, and her hand was shaking even more than mine.
The doctor who stitched my leg was the one who came to rewrap Jen. He was impressed.
“You did this yourself, señora?” he asked. “In your sleep?”
Jen looked at me. “I guess I had a nightmare. I thought I was fighting someone.”
He regarded the torn gauze strips. “Well, señora, you would make a formidable opponent. Remind me never to get into combat with you.”
Susan and I stepped out to give Jen privacy. I took the tequila along, refilled our glasses, took another shot. And looked at Susan.
“What.” Susan took a seat at the table, drank. “Go on. Say it.”
I sat opposite her, deciding how to phrase it.
Susan poured more tequila.
“I started to before, but you didn’t want to hear it.”
She sighed, pushed hair out of her eyes. “Okay, Elle. You think someone was here. That someone came into the suite, tiptoed around your room, came into ours, stole nothing. Hurt nobody. Just unwrapped Jen’s bandages? Really?”
I leaned forward, met her eyes. “Yes. Exactly.”
Susan sat back, shook her head. “That’s nuts.”
“Susan. Jen and I both saw the woman. She was in my room first—”
“Someone was in your room and you just lay there? You didn’t scream? Or chase her? You didn’t call out to us? You simply chilled and waited until she attacked Jen?” She crossed her arms, not believing me.
“I was asleep. At first, I thought I was dreaming. Or that my mind was playing tricks on me, like after Charlie died. I was trying to figure out what was happening when Jen screamed.”
“You know what, Elle? Maybe nothing happened except you both had nightmares. It’s no surprise, what with everything that’s been—”
“You really believe that both of us had nightmares at the same time.”
“It’s possible.”
“About the same person?”
“A similar person.”
“Saying the same words?”
She stopped nodding. “What words?”
“La venganza.”
Susan blinked at me. Took her third shot.
“I don’t know how she got in or who she was or what she wanted,” I said, “but someone was here.”
My glass was empty. I looked at Susan, then at the bottle. It seemed to sway as I poured. After another tequila shot—or was it two? I went back to bed. The doctor had gone and given Jen a shot to calm her down. Susan and I hadn’t figured out what had happened, but we’d had enough tequila that we had trouble discussing it and it didn’t seem to matter much anymore.
Alain had called before I woke up; my cell showed two missed calls from him. Not that I could read his name very easily with the letters blurred.
The rest of the world was also off. The sunlight fried my eyeballs. My skull was filled with sand. No—with rocks. Sharp, jagged ones. How much had Susan and I had to drink? When had I gone to bed? What time was it?
So many questions. Too many.
I closed my eyes, letting the walls steady themsel
ves. When I felt that the floor would hold still and support me, I got out of bed carefully. Slowly went into the bathroom, saw a hag in the mirror. Hair disheveled, eyes red, shoulders and forehead covered with dead peeling skin.
“Elle,” Susan knocked on the door before cracking it open, “Dr. Du Bois is here.”
“What?”
“He checked on Jen and he wants to see you.”
“What?” It seemed to be my only word. I turned to face her.
“Wow.” She gaped at me. “You look horrific.”
I nodded, agreeing.
“I’ll give him coffee.”
“I can’t see him—”
“Fix yourself.”
“How? I can’t—”
The door closed, and I heard Susan declare that Elle would be a couple of minutes. I turned back to the mirror. Oh God. No one would want to see a face like that. But Alain was sitting outside, waiting. I filled the sink with cold water, sunk my face into it, held my breath, felt a wave of panic as I remembered almost drowning. Kept my face in the water anyway, hoping my eyelids would unswell.
Finally, I picked my head up and patted my face dry, assessing myself. Nothing had really changed. My eyelids were still massive, my eyes bloodshot. My lips were cracked from sunburn. On good days, I wasn’t a knockout. And this wasn’t a good day.
But Alain Du Bois, who treated—no—who created some of the most symmetrically exquisitely captivatingly beautiful women in the world, was waiting to see me. Me.
I met my eyes in the mirror. Why would Dr. Alain Du Bois, who had habitually pursued stunning women, whose hands had molded perfect female chins and noses and breasts and butts and God knew what other parts, who was a master in the aesthetics of feminine form and who had devoted his life and career to enhancing beauty—why would that same Dr. Alain Du Bois be waiting in the living room to see me?
What did he want?
I thought of our dinner. Had it been only the night before? It seemed long ago, indistinct. Had it even happened? Had Alain really asked me to spend the night? Had I wanted to? Something welled up below my ribs, answering that, yes, I had. And probably still did. I pictured Alain’s hands, fingers. The strong angle of his jaw. The soft curve of his lips. The chest I’d almost exposed—good God. I told myself to stop swooning. To get in the shower.
Water streamed over me, rinsing away my hangover, but thoughts began to surface. I remembered Jen’s bandages. The woman who’d somehow gotten into our suite. The feeling of paralysis I’d had when her veil had tickled my face. Uneasiness washed over me with shampoo suds.
And ten minutes later when I hastily threw on Capris and a t-shirt and came into the living room with my hair wet and hanging loose, I was still uneasy. I greeted Alain with a friendly hug as if he’d never helped me slip out of my dress. I smiled confidently as if I had lush full lips and a perkily perfect nose. I took a seat as if we were two regular people on a regular morning. But, all the time I was hearing sirens of red alert. When Alain asked if I would join him for dinner and I accepted, I was still seeing warning lights, wondering why the man was inviting me. What he could possibly, really want.
Sergeant Perez arrived just as Alain was leaving.
Jen came out of her room. Alain had removed her splint, replacing it with a small strip that molded to her nose so she no longer resembled a heron. “Oh, shit,” she looked at Perez. “Who died now?”
“No one.” Susan kept her voice low. “We had an intruder. So I called the police.”
Jen’s eyes widened. “But you didn’t believe me. You said it was just a dream.”
“We talked,” I explained. But I’d had no idea that Susan had called anyone.
“Señoras,” Sergeant Perez nodded to us one at a time. “Can we sit?”
We sat. I heard myself describe the figure I’d seen in my room, aware that I sounded incredible. After all, who would awaken to see a fist-waving stranger leaning over them and do nothing? Not utter a peep. Not get into a brawl. Not run screaming out of the room. Nothing. It wouldn’t help to explain that I’d been told by a professional that my aura attracted spirits of the dead, so that, when I’d first seen the figure, I’d assumed it was simply one of those. No, I couldn’t say that. Nor could I reveal that I’d seen my dead husband with a possibly dead woman on the beach and that I’d suspected the woman of being our intruder. I held back all this information and stuck to the most basic of facts.
I watched Sergeant Perez and he watched me, and I was sure he had concluded that something about me was off. After all, I’d been clinging to the balcony when Claudia fell. I’d found Greta’s carved-up corpse. I’d half drowned and my leg had been sliced. I’d probably had more police contact in three days than most people have in their lifetimes. And now I sounded as if, when I’d been awakened by a raving stranger leaning over me, I’d simply turned over and gone back to sleep.
When I finished, he waited a moment before speaking. “Señora,” his tone was surprisingly gentle, “you have been through a lot this week. So I ask you to think carefully: Did you recognize this person? The voice? The mannerisms?”
I shook my head, no.
“How tall was she? Was she heavy? Thin?”
Not tall. Not short. Not heavy or thin. “Her clothes were loose. It was hard to tell.”
He stroked his mustache, sighing.
“And you?” He turned to Jen. “You saw the same figure?”
Jen gave her account, described the attack and the woman crying out in Spanish, calling for vengeance.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Un poco.”
“But you understand la venganza? It’s not a common term.”
Jen shrugged. She looked better without the splint even though her nose was swollen and not quite her own.
“What’s your point, Sergeant?” Susan asked.
“Why would someone break in here, seeking vengeance?” he asked. “What have either of you done to arouse that kind of passion?”
The three of us sat bug-eyed, silent. Perplexed.
“Nothing,” Susan’s voice was flat. “We’ve only been here a few days, and we don’t know anyone here. It makes no sense.”
“And yet someone attacked one of you in the ocean and another of you in the dark of night, calling for vengeance.”
Silence. My hands were cold. And my shoulders. And the rest of me.
“Do you think it’s connected to the deaths next door?” Susan suggested. “Those women—”
“More importantly, señora, do you think it is?”
More silence.
Sergeant Perez stood, asked to be shown where the figure had been. We walked him around the suite, and he examined doors, carpet, remnants of ripped gauze.
“The door was locked?” he asked.
“I locked it myself,” Susan insisted.
“Bolted?”
Susan’s face reddened. “No. Our other roommate was out. I didn’t bolt it in case she wanted to come in.”
“And where is this roommate now?”
Jen, Susan, and I exchanged glances.
“She spent the night out.”
“Where?”
“With a friend—”
“But you said you have no friends here. You told me you know no one.”
Aha! He had us. He stood tall and thrust his chest out, as if he’d proved something significant.
Susan straightened and crossed her arms. “She just met him, Sergeant. He’s Chichi, one of the activities directors.”
Perez pursed his lips, nodding slowly.
“Wait, you think our intruder is connected to Chichi?” I didn’t understand. “Why would someone want revenge against us because Chichi is seeing Becky?”
Susan flashed a scowl at me. As a lawyer, she wanted all communication with the police to go through her.
Perez didn’t answer. He went to the front door. Studied the lock. “Were the doors to the balcony open?”
I thought of the slats slapping in the br
eeze.
“You think she climbed in from the balcony?” Jen asked.
“No, her clothes were loose and long.” I reminded him. “They’d have gotten tangled on the railing—”
“Sí, señora.” Perez’s eyes drilled into me. “You would know about such things.”
My face blazed.
He folded his hands, thumped his thumbs together. “Okay. The intruder wouldn’t have been able to climb in through the balcony. But the lock on the front door is intact. It shows no sign of tampering.”
So? What did that mean? Did he doubt that there had been an intruder?
“But Jen and I both saw her—” I began; Susan fired another scowl.
“I need to speak with your other roommate and find out who had access to her key.”
Of course. The intruder must have had a key.
“And I want to take another look at the hotel staff. We never identified the maid you stated that you’d seen next door. But a maid or anyone on the room service staff—even front desk personnel—these people have easy access to the rooms.”
In other words, our intruder might have been anyone who worked at the hotel.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” Jen asked.
“Señoras,” Sergeant Perez stepped beside the sofa, “before I came here today, I inquired as to the availability of another suite. I thought it would be wise to take a precaution and move you to another location. Unfortunately, the only comparable suite available is the one next door.”
“So that was a ‘yes’?”
“It was a maybe. I don’t know. But I think you would be wise to bolt your door at night. And to stay together or with large groups until we have this figured out. It seems that, for whatever reason, you are surrounded by el peligro.” He turned to Jen. “You understand, señora?”
Jen bit her lip, didn’t answer.
I didn’t speak Spanish, didn’t know his meaning, but I pictured Madam Therese cross herself and heard her warn that danger was around us, and that my aura was a beacon, drawing harmful spirits close.
Not that I believed in spirits.
After Sergeant Perez left, Susan got on the phone with Becky, explaining what had happened and arranging for her to speak with the police.
