“How long does that take?”
“We never know. Could be an hour. Could be two.”
I extract my pouch filled with syringes. “I’m going to put him out. Okay with you?”
“What is that?” Steve Harris demands.
“Something that will put him to sleep.” I lower my voice. “Look, I found Leslie Virgenes. But not soon enough. She’s dead.”
Lisa Harris gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Poor Leslie,” she whispers.
Steve grasps his son’s flailing arms and walks him over to me. “Do what you need to.”
I insert the syringe into the boy’s neck and depress the plunger. His blue eyes widen momentarily and then he crumples into his father’s waiting arms.
I look up to see Jake staring at me with an expression I can’t quite figure. Is that judgment in his eyes? I don’t have time for this.
Jake escorts Lisa Harris in one elevator. I take Steve and his little boy down in another. We meet up in the parking lot. Bundle the family into a minivan with tinted windows. I’ll be driving them. I take a final scan of the lot. Clear.
“You did well with them. Ready for part two?”
I take Jake’s bearded jaw in my hand and tilt his head so I can look into his eyes. The facial hair is new (it belongs to John Bernake) and it suits him, gives him gravitas.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“Try to inspire a little confidence, will you?”
At that he cracks a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m good.”
“That I already knew.” I smile back at him. My version of a pep talk.
Time to hit the road.
INSTIGATION
Eva Lombard,
London, England
TO: Jenny Fitzgerald Mooney
FROM: Eva Fitzgerald Lombard
RE: Paris!
Hey Jen! Just a quick note to let you know Pete and I are going to Paris to celebrate our anniversary! He sprung it on me last night, Mr. Romantic! I’m sure we’ll have Wi-Fi in the hotel, but I’m going to try to take advantage of the time with Pete—you know how hard he’s been working—so don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me. Love to Bill and the kids. À bientôt, ma petite soeur, and try not to be too jelly! xo E
Eva hits SEND and drops her cellphone next to the overflowing suitcase sitting open on Peter’s and her bed. She zips the suitcase shut, metal teeth snagging on a tender corner of her thumb. Her thumb goes into her mouth and she sucks away the pain.
But why do I feel like I have to lie to Jen that this trip is just one more part of “Eva’s Fabulous European Adventures”? God! What if I wrote what I really think to Jen?
Hey sis, Just a quick note to let you know Pete and I are going to Paris for our anniversary! Mr. Romantic sprung it on me last night. Can you believe it? Months of pecks instead of real kisses, of cold sheets, of “sorry, I’ve got to work late, work this weekend, work late again,” of sex only by appointment, and now suddenly this? What if he’s having an affair? What if he’s taking me to Paris to end it? I’m not blameless, I know; I’ve been off my game here, unhappy, resentful. I came to London to have a baby, and all I’ve gotten is fucked, although unfortunately not literally. We did finally do it last night after a long drought, but it was like fucking a stranger. What the hell has happened to my marriage? I hope this doesn’t ruin Paris for me forever.
Shit.
She and Pete loved each other once. Eva’s certain of that. Her eyes catch on a copy of their wedding photo on top of their dresser, imprisoned behind glass in its heavy silver frame. In the image, Pete stands behind her with a cocky, crooked grin and his thick dark hair mussed and sexy, his arms circling her from behind. She leans against him, elegant neck twisted, laughing a radiant smile right into his smitten eyes.
She can’t remember the last time they made each other laugh.
Eva sinks down on the edge of the bed. She feels a shell of the woman she once was, bright on the outside, but empty and rotting on the inside like a Halloween pumpkin left too long on the stoop.
Peter calls from the hallway. The car to take them to the airport is here.
At least a week in Paris will be a change of pace. And it will be good to be away from this townhouse after last night’s excitement. Eva shivers. Put it behind you, she admonishes herself. Try to have a good time.
After all, Pete is so pleased with all his secret planning for the four-star hotel and reservations at top restaurants, all of which he had explained with delight over dinner last night. Never mind that he’s the one with a taste for gourmet; Eva far prefers simpler food. But at least he had remembered to book the right kennel for Baxter.
Try. It appears Pete’s trying, I have to give him that.
Baxter trots in and snuffles his wet nose into her palm, his way of asking for a head rub. Eva complies.
“There you go, boy. You’re going to have a little vacation yourself, yes, you are. With other doggie friends. At that nice place with the massages.”
Eva takes one last look around the bedroom. It’s a bright white and airy space, with flowing sheers idling in the breeze. But like the rest of the house, the modern updates supplanting the traditional architecture have left the room feeling spare and a little cold. She closes and locks the window, stilling the curtains.
“Okay, Bax,” she croons. “Time to go.”
Peter comes in and lifts her bag from the bed. “Got everything?”
“I think so.”
“Good. But I can always take you shopping in Paris. In fact, we’ll have to plan on it!”
Eva knows he’s trying to be expansive, generous, kind, but his words grate on her. He’s going to take her shopping? If she wants to shop, she can, she doesn’t need Peter to take her, for fuck’s sake.
With a shiver of shame she recognizes the lie in her own thoughts. They’re living off Pete’s money now. She stopped being a contributor to this family when they moved to London. Her pitiful little pre-marriage savings account back in a Long Island branch of Chase Bank is the only money that is technically still hers and hers alone. Eva sticks a smile on her face.
“Sure! Shopping sounds like fun.” She busies herself corralling Bax, grabbing his favorite toy, settling his bulk in the limo, coaxing him out of the car and into the kennel.
She and Peter are finally alone. The driver sets course for the airport.
Silence sits between them like a third passenger.
Eva eyes the liquor offerings arrayed inside the limo. Individual bottles of wine with twist-off caps. Airplane-sized samples of gin, scotch, vodka, tequila. Her fingers itch to grab the small bottle of white wine, condensation streaking its green glass and pearl-colored label. Will Pete judge her if she goes for it? Probably. She saw the way he looked at her last night at dinner. Screw it. I’m on vacation.
Defiantly, she reaches for the bottle and twists it open, fills a crystal tumbler.
“Want some?” she asks.
“A little early for me.”
Eva shrugs.
“I have another surprise for you,” Peter continues.
Fuck. What now?
“We’re not going to Paris!” Peter crows triumphantly.
Oh shit.
“Why not?”
“We’re going to Hong Kong!”
“What about all those reservations you made?”
“I have comparable ones in Hong Kong. Michelin stars all the way, baby!”
“Why did you lie to me?” The question bursts from her, angry and harsh.
Peter stares at her, stunned. “Lie? I’d hardly characterize it as a lie; I planned a treat for you. You’ve been talking about wanting to go back to Hong Kong since we met. I can’t believe you. All you do lately is look for things to be upset about.”
The wine in Eva’s mouth sudd
enly tastes sour. There is so much about this that just feels wrong. The flip way in which he sprung first one trip on her and then another, like her desires about where to go and what to do when they arrived were meaningless. The shame she feels burning through her as she recognizes her hastily purchased cooking class is money down the drain (not to mention the fact that this change in plans leaves her gift-less). His very thoughtfulness about Hong Kong feels like a slap.
And while she’s thrilled to be going back, as Hong Kong’s a city she’s loved since she lived there the summer after she graduated from college, part of her desire had been based in her wanting to show Peter a city that she knew and loved, rather than being dragged along on a trip of his planning.
These thoughts rumble through her like a freight train. She feels monstrous with the weight of her anger. Guilty about the pettiness of it.
“Fuck you, Pete.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Fuck you. I’m not your child, I’m your wife, your partner supposedly, but we don’t have a life together anymore, not since we got to London. And then we can’t even plan a vacation together? For our fucking anniversary?”
Eva gulps the rest of the wine; sour or not, she doesn’t give a damn. She’s trembling with rage. “And how could you be so deceptive? You’ve been lying and lying to me.”
“Eva, why are you doing this? I know it’s been hard, but, babe, I’m working for us, you know that. This job is an investment in our future. Our family.”
“That’s rich! We’re never even going to have a family if you can’t ever find the time to sleep with me.”
“We made love last night.”
“Is that what you call it? Felt more like a pump and dump to me.”
The hurt crosses his face, and Eva feels both victorious and shitty at the same time.
Peter drums nervous fingers against his thigh. “Do you want me to tell the driver to turn around?”
“Back to the house where we almost got robbed last night? I don’t think so.”
“Then just tell me. What is it you want to do, Eva?” Peter barks at her, exasperated.
What she wants to do is to pick a fight. She’s frayed from lack of sleep, hungover, and cranky. She feels nihilistic, like she’d blow it all up if she could.
What she does is douse the flames. A lifelong adherence to convention, a muted sense of hope in her marriage, and a true pull to Hong Kong conspire to make her hold back the poison she aches to expel. Instead she says, “I’m sorry, Pete. I am. I’m just tired. And on edge, you know, from last night. We’ll go. We’ll have a wonderful time.”
Her words sound empty to her own ears; she knows how insincere they must sound to Peter. Nonetheless, he aims a smile at her. “It’ll be good, babe, I promise.”
Eva gives him the best smile she can muster. They don’t exchange another word until they arrive at Heathrow.
Once there, the formality of travel sustains them. They’re good together on the road and they click into routine, checking baggage, enduring security, stopping for treats and magazines for the flight.
They settle into the waiting area by their gate. Eva chugs down half a bottle of water. Puts her hand on Peter’s thigh.
“Pete, I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning.”
He jerks his leg away from her touch. “Yeah, me too.” He drums his fingers briefly then abruptly stands. “I’m getting a coffee.”
Fuck me for trying. Eva crosses her arms and legs and stares after Peter with injured defiance. Didn’t even ask me if I wanted anything.
Peter strides across the terminal, his irritation with her evident in every stomp. He collides with a man, Eva notes, and barely pauses to offer his apologies. The stranger ducks away and continues on his path toward where Eva sits. Her eyes drink him in, caught by a tantalizing hint of something familiar.
Who is he? Why does the mere sight of him cause a tingle of apprehension to run down her spine?
Eva lifts a copy of OK! magazine to cover her face and peers out, feeling intrigued and a little silly all at the same time. But a flush of hot blood sweeps through her system: She has recognized the man, his square shoulders and sharp eyes. He’d been at the café yesterday when she was there with Baxter, outside their house later that afternoon. Apprehension threatens to blossom into something more severe, paranoia perhaps, but the man sweeps past Eva without a second glance. She exhales. She must be mistaken. Stupid twat.
JET LAG
Eva Lombard,
Hong Kong Island
She wakes as the pilot announces their descent into Hong Kong International Airport. Beside her Pete naps, his complimentary-in-first-class eyeshade and earplugs firmly installed. As much to shut me out as anything else, Eva fumes. They’d scarcely exchanged a word on the flight. A listless conversation about the (actually quite good) meal served and then they’d burrowed, Eva into her magazines and Peter into work crap on his laptop.
So much for leaving work behind to focus on our relationship.
Eva had pulled on her own eyeshade, snuggled into her pale blue cashmere travel wrap, and turned a cold shoulder to Pete.
They’ve been in the air for over eleven hours. She’s slept on and off for most of it. As she rubs the sleep from her eyes and stretches, she examines what she can see of Peter’s face in repose. He’s grinding his teeth, a slow, steady circle that gives Eva an ache in her own jaw just watching him.
“Pete,” she murmurs as she touches him lightly on the arm. “We’re landing.”
Peter tugs his eyeshade free and plucks the plugs from his ears. His eyes meet hers for a moment as he focuses on where he is, and in that blissful instant their tensions dissolve. He looks at her like he loves her.
Eva gestures that he should look outside the window. The city sprawls beneath them, partially obscured by swaths of misty clouds. Soaring lumps of mountainous green are crowded with gleaming skyscrapers, and all is surrounded by the enormous glistening spill of aqua-blue water. The airport itself, an island unto its own, looms in the distance.
Eva can’t contain the prickle of excitement she feels about returning to Hong Kong.
“Let’s make it good, Pete, okay? I’m sorry.”
Still looking out the window, Peter reaches for her hand, and Eva exhales a sigh of relief.
“What’s that temple you like so much? With the incense spirals?” he asks, finally turning to face her.
“Man Mo,” Eva replies. “In honor of the gods of war and literature. Don’t you love that combination?”
“We’ll have to go.”
“I can’t wait to show it to you. It’s right next to the antiques district too. The shops on Cat Street are high end, but the alley below is great for fun junk.”
“We can afford the high-end junk now, babe,” Peter says as he gives her hand another squeeze.
Eva departs the plane feeling considerably more upbeat. Once again they kick into gear as successful, competent travel companions, sorting their carry-on belongings and navigating their way through vast white terminal hallways glittering with a seemingly infinite number of tempting offerings from designer boutiques, over through passport control, and then into baggage claim.
* * *
—
As they wait for the luggage carousel to start, Peter stares at his phone, flicking through emails. “I’m going to confiscate that soon,” she teases him.
“One small fire I gotta put out. Then I’m all yours.”
The overhead warning lights blink, a buzzer sounds, and the luggage carousel begins its grind. Suitcases tumble onto the belt, belched through plastic flaps. Eva sees her suitcase almost immediately, the polka-dot ribbon tied to its handle a dead giveaway.
She points out her bag to Peter. He tucks his phone away and lifts her bag clear from the belt. They wait until the very last suitcase
has been claimed before they accept the harsh fact that Pete’s bag hasn’t arrived.
Eva feels Peter’s irritation mounting as they report the bag missing to the smiling, cheerful, and utterly unhelpful young woman manning the lost luggage office.
“Not a very auspicious start to our trip,” he remarks, grumpy, as he folds away his copy of the lost baggage report.
“I guess we’ll have to take you shopping,” Eva offers, hoping to lighten his mood. “You know Hong Kong’s a shopper’s paradise. Capitalism squared and squared again. Perfect for Peter Peacock.”
This comment is rewarded with a smile. A man who grew up wearing hand-me-downs from both of his older brothers, Peter luxuriates in owning beautiful clothes. Eva sometimes teases him about it, affectionately labeling him “Peter Peacock,” but delivering the appellation in a seductive tone intended to arouse.
Eva feels the mood lighten as they finally exit the terminal to find a car and driver waiting for them as organized by the concierge at their Hong Kong hotel.
Climbing into the car, Eva spots a flash of pale blue on the ground next to the oversized revolving door that had spit them from the terminal just moments before: her cashmere wrap.
“Pete,” she calls. “I dropped my scarf. Be right back.”
His eyes follow the line of hers and settle on the lump of blue. “Stay here, babe. I’ll get it for you.”
Now, this is more like it. Eva smiles, pleased by his solicitude. Maybe this will be good, after all.
Her smile disappears when the man, the predatory man, the man who was at the café, then outside their house, then at Heathrow, that improbable man himself, spills out of the revolving door and lands right next to Peter.
The man claps her husband on the shoulder just as Peter rises from his crouch, Eva’s scarf in his fist. The two men have a brief exchange that Eva can’t hear.
What the hell?
Peter hurries back over to her, the cashmere extended in an outstretched hand.
The Empty Bed Page 4
