“Good to go now?”
“Sure. But who’s that man?”
“What man?”
“That guy! Just now by the revolving door.”
“I have no idea. Kind of an asshole, though, made an elaborate show of telling me to ‘watch my step’ when I wasn’t even in his way.”
Eva climbs into the limo and settles in for the ride to the hotel. But her momentary sense of ease has vanished.
Is that man following me? Should I say something to Pete? He’ll probably think I’m imagining things. Since they’ve been in London, he’s accused her more than once of being overly dramatic about her problems.
“Eva? Hello! I’m talking to you.” Peter’s voice penetrates Eva’s fog of introspection.
“Right. Sorry. Just tired.”
But she isn’t just tired. She feels afraid. For reasons she can’t pinpoint or name. She looks down and realizes her hands are trembling. Hastily, she folds them together in her lap.
“Pete. That guy? The jerk at the airport? It’s not the first time I’ve seen him.”
“What do you mean?” Peter stares at her blankly.
“He was at the Sly Fox. Then I saw him outside our house. And again at Heathrow. You bumped into him there. Don’t you remember?”
“Actually I don’t.”
“When you went to get coffee!”
“I don’t think it was the same guy. And even if it was, he was probably just on our flight.”
“And outside our house? What if he’s the guy who tried to break in last night?”
“Babe, we just got off a marathon flight. We’re both exhausted. You’ll see things more clearly after a nap.”
“Condescending much, Pete?”
“Eva, I’m trying to be nice.”
“Then why does it feel so shitty?”
Eva tugs her pale blue wrap tighter around her shoulders and turns her head to look out the window. The towering vertical landscape of high-rises that defines Hong Kong looms before her. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just need a nap.
But she knows she’s not wrong. She’s not safe; she feels the danger in her bones. And her husband doesn’t want to hear it.
FRUSTRATION
Peter Lombard,
Hong Kong Island
Peter’s working very hard not to be annoyed with Eva, despite the fact that she once again retreated into some kind of impenetrable shell shortly after they left the airport. But that nonsense about seeing some stranger? Doing what? Stalking her, was that the implication? What the hell was that about?
Lately they feel less like best friends and more like they’re forever fencing. Pete feels increasingly wary of saying the wrong thing.
Which it appears I’ve done again.
It never used to be difficult between them. It was one of the reasons they got together in the first place. Friends first, introduced by a mutual acquaintance, they’d eased seamlessly into a romantic relationship, followed quickly by living together and then marriage. He would have said he was a happy man in a happy relationship. Except for their time in London.
They pull into the circular driveway in front of the hotel and Peter’s pleased to see staff snap to in order to take their luggage and usher them into the lobby. His wealth is new and self-made. Outward manifestations of the powers it brings still thrill him.
The lobby is enormous and serene. Marble tile in shades of beige and cream forms a subtle herringbone pattern on the floor. A white-on-white mural dominates the space. Groupings of dark leather chairs set around glass-and-chrome tables nestle on circular area rugs creating intimate pools of seating amid the grand space. A curving staircase wraps around a massive marble center column backed by floor-to-ceiling windows. The overall atmosphere is one of lavish, welcoming opulence.
“Wow,” Eva breathes as she takes in the space.
“Glad something’s finally impressing you.” Even as the words escape his lips, Peter regrets the snarky tone with which he delivered them.
“For fuck’s sake,” Eva steams. “Will you give it a rest?”
“Why should I?” he snaps. “I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this, you know. Research. Reservations. Getting the time off at work. And what do you do? Get bent out of shape because I ‘lied to you’! It’s like you’re implying you can’t trust me when all I did was try to plan something nice. And then you go on about some random dude in the airport. Paranoid much? Or just looking for attention? Have you thought about me at all? I can’t even change my fucking clothes.”
Eva takes a step away from him, stunned hurt in her eyes.
Peter realizes the three women and one man standing poised at attention behind the check-in desk are all trying hard not to stare, their eyes resolutely fixed on the middle distance. He squares his shoulders then proffers his ID and credit card.
“Lombard. The reservation is under the name Peter Lombard.”
The corner suite on the thirty-second floor is magnificent, but Eva and Peter don’t say a word as the polite bellman shows them around. Two full bathrooms, one off the sitting room, one off the bedroom. Normally, they would have joked about it; Eva has often maintained that the key to a happy marriage is separate bathrooms. He waits for her comment and feels a stab as she stays silent.
The sitting room and adjacent bedroom both offer stunning views of a gray-shrouded Victoria Harbour and on the horizon, the towering skyline of Kowloon. Speedboats and ferries streak the steely water in between the two landmasses.
Explanations about the thermostat, spa reservations, television operation, and room service duly given and the complimentary bottle of anniversary champagne and chocolate truffles noticed and acknowledged, the bellman departs with a hefty tip.
Peter wants to start over but doesn’t know how. He watches as Eva unpacks, hanging her dresses in the walk-in closet, arranging an array of footwear across its floor.
She crosses into the larger of the two bathrooms, the one off the bedroom, and shuts the door. Peter glances at the champagne. Should he pop it? Should he try the chocolates? He doesn’t feel very festive.
He sits down on the cushy king-sized bed, zips open the front pocket of his briefcase, and pulls out a vial of Ambien. His sleep on the plane had been erratic at best. He’s exhausted from the flight, from fighting with Eva, from the cumulative pressure of the relentless grind of the past few months at work. He hears the sound of running taps.
She’s taking a bath.
The rush of water is followed by the distinct click of a door lock.
And I’m not welcome.
Peter kicks off his shoes. Dry swallows two Ambien. Screw her.
His head melts back into the down pillows mounded across the top of the comfortable bed. His eyes flutter. We should order this mattress.
Peter’s eyes close. He’s enfolded in a thick white cloud.
Then deep, blissful nothingness.
NEEDLES AND PINS
Catherine,
Wheeless, Oklahoma
The view outside the tattered vinyl window shade is of endless scrub with the occasional ramshackle structure dotted out into the distance, each of them weather-beaten and in various states of collapse. The shack in which we’re staying isn’t much better than the buildings on the horizon; it consists of three rooms, two narrow bedrooms and an open living/dining/cooking area. There’s one bathroom off the kitchen, with a shower that provides only the thinnest of trickles and a toilet that runs incessantly despite how often I jiggle the handle.
The furniture, a generous term at best for the leftovers that fill the dreary place, suits its housing. An ancient, lumpy sofa wheezes dust. It’s graced with a remarkably ugly crochet blanket in squares of avocado green and lemon yellow. A scratched block of raw wood serves as a coffee table. An ancient Formica-topped dining table is crowded with six mismatched
chairs. The single beds in their cramped rooms are stiff and unyielding, the closets dusty and home to spiders. The power is turned off and I’m keeping it that way. We rely on minimal candles and flashlights at night. There’s no luxury here, but it’s safe.
We’re outside the tiny town of Wheeless, Oklahoma, in the midst of a desolate expanse of the Cimarron Panhandle, one of the least populated areas of the state. We’ve been able to hole up here with no one the wiser. In every direction there is sheer…nothing. I’d filled the joint up with supplies long before we ever arrived here, “just in case”; we’ve been subsisting on canned food and bottled water for two days.
We’re waiting. I’m as edgy and impatient as the people I’m protecting.
I turn away from the window. Stephen and Lisa Harris sit next to each other on the lumpy sofa, shoulders touching, hands clasped. On the floor, Finn nestles against his mother’s legs and hums softly as he plays with a Nintendo Game Boy, peaceful for the time being.
The yearning of these parents to be reunited with their daughter is a palpable miasma filling the room.
One of my burner phones trills. Steve and Lisa start anxiously in unison, as if their nervous systems are hardwired together.
I answer. It’s Stephanie. She confirms our plane is on its way to our predetermined rendezvous point. She also brings word that the relocated wife who brought us the information on Knox is safely out of the country. This is all fine news. But it’s not the news for which the Harrises are hungry.
I ring off. “No word yet,” I tell them. “Don’t worry. They’re on their way.”
Disappointment slingshots through both of them; their bodies droop. Lisa strokes Finn’s hair, her eyes wet.
I’ve known fear. I understand loss and have suffered more of it in my life than most. Still, I’ve never been a parent praying my child is alive. What can I understand about their anxiety?
THE EMPTY BED
Peter Lombard,
Hong Kong Island
His mouth is horribly, horribly dry. Christ, I need some water.
Peter’s gluey eyes peel open. The hotel room is dark and full of hulking shadows. Through the expanse of window across from the bed, he can see the glittering nighttime lights of the Kowloon skyline. The gray shrouds of mist that hugged the shoreline earlier in the day have lifted and the night is sharp and clear. A chunky slice of orange moon hangs boldly in the sky. Stars wink faintly, no competition for the assault of man-made neon lacing the soaring skyscrapers.
The bathroom door is open; the lights are off. Peter stumbles from the bed to the minibar. He winces as the light from the refrigerator hits his eyes. Grabs a bottle of water and chugs it.
Eva’s not in the bedroom, that’s evident. Nor is she in the bathroom, although damp towels are heaped on the floor and a smear of iridescent bubble bath still rims the edge of the deep tub. Peter crosses to the sitting room. Flips on a light. Empty. The front bathroom? Empty.
Dazed with Ambien and jet lag, he struggles to focus.
The illuminated clock in the sitting room reads 4:18. He checks that against his phone. The same. It’s dark outside; logic demands it must be night—4:18 A.M. then. He slept for almost twelve hours. But if it’s the middle of the night, where the hell is Eva? He scrolls through his phone, no texts, no calls, no emails.
Peter flips on every light in the suite. He discovers the clothes she wore to travel neatly tucked into a hotel laundry bag. It looks like the clothes she brought for the trip are mostly present, not that he had monitored her packing. Her phone is gone. So are her camera, shoulder bag, and a favorite pair of sneakers. He doesn’t see a note anywhere, even though he checks carefully: the desk in the bedroom, the coffee table in the sitting room, the night tables on either side of the bed. He even opens and closes the front door of the suite just in case she had slipped something under the door.
Peter hits her name on the “favorites” list on his phone. The call bounces immediately to voicemail. “Uh, Eva, it’s after four in the morning and I…anyway, I’m sorry. And, uh, a little worried? Let’s start over. Call me back. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He doesn’t know whether to be anxious or angry with her. He’s pissed at himself too. How did this fight get so stupid?
He calls five more times, his messages getting increasingly angry as his worry grows. He knows this isn’t going to help matters, but he can’t stop himself.
The last message is a doozy and he wishes he could take it back even as the words come out of his mouth: “You stupid bitch, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Call me, Eva! Call me now!”
Peter throws his phone down on the bed. Only his side is rumpled; on what should be Eva’s side the comforter is smooth, the pillows attractively plumped. He looks out the window as he sinks into the cozy red armchair in the room’s corner. He stays there staring blankly as dawn creeps over the water and the lights of nighttime Kowloon glimmer and fade.
When he finally stands, he’s stiff; he realizes he’s barely moved for hours. He picks up his too-silent phone. It’s going on nine A.M. and still nothing from Eva. With a mounting sense of dread, he splashes some cold water on his face and runs a cursory toothbrush over his teeth. He pulls on his clothes and tugs Eva’s brush through his unruly hair.
He stares at his reflection in the mirror hanging over the bathroom vanity. His face is haggard, his brown eyes bloodshot. Should he should try to reach Jenny? Morning here meant what? Late evening yesterday there in New York. Or so he thinks. He pulls up the world clock function on his phone and confirms his guess. But why alarm Jenny? Eva is trying to make some kind of a point. That has to be it. And he’ll just feel like a fool if Jenny knows all about their fight and the two of them are laughing at him. He sometimes feels like he and his brother-in-law, Billy, are the unwitting recipients of the sisters’ attitude that women are just somehow simply superior, long suffering of their idiot men.
The more he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. This is bullshit. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of worry. He’s in Hong Kong. He’s going to have a good time, with or without his ungrateful wife.
For an instant, Peter’s thoughts turn to Eva’s claims about the man at the airport, but he dismisses them just as quickly. A plea for attention. Just like her drinking. Just like this stupid stunt.
Peter tucks his wallet into his jeans pocket. Minutes later, he’s defiantly striding from the hotel in search of adventure.
The hotel leads out into a series of elevated walkways. He picks one at random and starts to explore. He’s startled by what he sees: scores of women setting up meals on top of flattened cardboard boxes unloaded from hand trolleys with an almost rhythmic precision. The clack, clack, clack of their language sounds like chirping birds. He thinks it shocking that such a huge homeless camp exists right outside one of Hong Kong’s most luxurious hotels and it’s only through eavesdropping on a British couple that he learns these women are not homeless at all. Residential living space is at a premium in pricey Hong Kong, and Peter learns these women are Filipina immigrants mostly working as cleaning or kitchen staff in the hotels and office buildings that dominate the city. Their tiny homes are too small to gather in. Instead, every Sunday becomes an impromptu public picnic arranged on the perimeter of the luxury buildings they service. It’s half party, half protest.
Peter pushes any thoughts of societal injustice from his mind. He’s on vacation, damn it. He can worry about saving the world next week. The humid air is oppressive; breathing is like gulping cotton. He passes an entrance to a massive mall and is lured inside by the blast of chilled air escaping from behind the plate glass sliding door. Prada, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Michael Kors, Chloé, Celine, Burberry, Dolce & Gabbana. And oh wait, Prada again. Has he gone in a circle? No. It’s a second Prada store in this same complex. Eva wasn’t lying when she called Hong Kong the city of capitalism squared and squared a
gain.
The thought of his wife irritates him and he strides into the second Prada. Just under six thousand dollars later, he is the proud possessor of a three-quarter-length black coat, a pair of black slim-cut jeans, a lightweight navy cashmere sweater, and two cotton poplin shirts. I’ll peacock all I damn want, Peter decides as he signs the receipt with a flourish. I earned it. And who knows when my damn luggage will show up.
He hits Tumi and picks up a new wallet. Next, he treats himself to a Burberry scarf in the brand’s iconic plaid. The salesgirl there is a stunner, waist-length black hair, pale skin, and blood-red lips. Peter engages her in conversation, asking for restaurant recommendations and other insider tips. She’s sweet and helpful, and for a brief moment Peter indulges in fantasy: I’ll ask her to go for a drink after her shift. Take her to one of the restaurants she touted.
Instead he thanks her for her help and exits the store. He’s so laden with packages he decides to head back to their hotel. Surely Eva will be back by now.
But when he gets to their room and dumps his shopping bags, Eva is still nowhere to be seen. The maids have been in; the bed is made, new towels neatly hung, and the tub scrubbed. A fresh assortment of miniature toiletries graces the vanity. Peter checks the contents of the walk-in closet, but everything seems as he had left it. There are no signs that Eva has been here.
Anger morphs dizzily to worry. Peter heads back down to the lobby. Showing a picture of Eva on his phone, he inquires of the concierge, the desk clerks, the hostesses at both lobby-level restaurants. He takes the elevator up to the sixth floor and asks the two pretty girls working at the desk of the opulent spa. Both shake their heads. Next he steps outside to scan the pool area. The deck chairs are sparsely populated today, as many attendants on duty as there are hotel guests. The two pools look inviting, though, the slate that runs between them striated with rivulets of water. A large bubbling hot tub nestles in a corner of the deck, affording a spectacular view of Kowloon.
The Empty Bed Page 5
