The Empty Bed

by Nina Sadowsky

  No Eva.

  Peter heads back up to their room.

  The first sweeping wave of real panic hits. Peter checks the time. Eva’s been missing almost twenty-four hours. At least that’s how long it’s been since she ran a bath and locked him out.

  Where the hell can she be? What if she was right about that guy in the airport?

  Guilt explodes on top of worry. But Peter reassures himself: She’s an unemployed former lifestyle journalist; why would she possibly be in danger from that guy in the airport? Or anyone else for that matter?

  But as he dismisses one concern, another rises with a vengeance. What if she’s injured, the victim of an accident? Or worse, a crime, a mugging or a rape? What if I’ve been shopping and fantasizing about shopgirls while Eva has been lying in a ditch somewhere?

  Peter’s stomach flips. He realizes with a start that he forgot to eat today. On autopilot, he lifts the hotel phone and calls down to room service, ordering a burger with all the extras: cheese, avocado, grilled onions, and arugula. An order of fries and a coffee with milk on the side. He politely acknowledges the estimate on the food: twenty minutes.

  He sinks down onto the edge of the bed and stares at nothing.

  Where is she? Where is she? Where is she? The refrain runs through his brain on a fevered loop.

  He jolts from his tortured reverie when he hears the knock at the door. He rises to answer it, crossing into the sitting room and skirting the jumbled pile of shopping bags. He opens the door to see a young man whose nameplate reads NELSON smiling at him from behind a cloth-draped cart.

  “Mr. Lombard? I have your food. May I set it up for you?”

  Peter stares at him for a long minute. Nelson shifts uncomfortably.

  “Mr. Lombard? Do you want me to bring your meal in?”

  When Peter speaks, his voice sounds unnatural to his own ears. It’s the voice of a stranger, a man stripped of confidence or purpose or opinion.

  “I think my wife is missing,” he blurts. To his horror, once he starts he can’t stop. “We arrived yesterday. She took a bath. I took a pill and went to sleep. When I woke up in the middle of the night she was gone. And she hasn’t been back since.”

  Nelson maintains his composure. “Perhaps I should get the manager, sir.”

  “Good idea. Get the manager. Thank you.”

  “And your food?”

  Peter can smell the tantalizing scent of grilled meat and fried potatoes, the heady aroma of coffee.

  “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

  He signs the proffered check. Hands it back. “What’s the manager’s name?”

  “Mr. Ho.”

  “You’ll send him right up?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peter pulls the room service cart into his room. His stomach unleashes a greedy grumble. No point in letting good food go to waste. And a man needs to eat in order to think, doesn’t he?

  He demolishes the meal, leaving a plate smeared only with ketchup and crumbs. Another pang of guilt hits as he contemplates his careless consumption of a hundred-dollar meal while Eva could be hurt (or worse), but he pushes these dreadful thoughts away. She’s fine. She has to be fine.

  A knock and he’s on his feet, swiping his greasy hands on a napkin and lunging toward the door.

  “Eva?” he asks as he opens it.

  No. Nelson again. The bellman smiles apologetically and gestures to the suitcase he’s toting on a brass luggage cart. “Mr. Ho will be right up. But good news! The airline delivered your suitcase.”

  “Thank you,” Peter says automatically, reaching in his pocket for a tip. The appearance of his luggage gives him a lurch of hope, as if perhaps the world is settling back correctly on its axis, with Eva’s arrival certain to follow.

  Before departing, Nelson repeats that the hotel manager will be right up. Peter rolls the bag inside and heaves it up on the bed. Unzips it.

  The contents are a total mess, clothes jumbled together, toiletries open and leaking, even the lining split. He feels a little nauseous from the violation and a mounting sense of dread.

  This time the knock at the door makes Peter flinch. He puts the bolt on and opens the door the inch the bolt allows. Peers outside.

  The hotel manager, Liam Ho, introduces himself and presents an embossed card with his name and title.

  Peter closes the door and releases the latch in order to admit Ho, then gestures him inside and toward a seat. Peter describes the timeline of his and Eva’s arrival at the hotel, his last sighting of his wife.

  Mr. Ho eyes the shopping bags scattered across the plush carpet and Peter leaps in defensively. “I thought she’d be back. I wasn’t worried yet. It was…” He trails off. I don’t need to explain myself to this man.

  Mr. Ho looks at Peter, expressionless. “Is this your wife’s first visit to Hong Kong, Mr. Lombard?”

  “No. She was here for two months after she graduated college.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Almost ten years.”

  “Does your wife have friends in the city?”

  “A few. Nobody that I’ve ever met, but I know she keeps up with a couple of people. Facebook mostly.”

  “Is it possible she went to see one of them?”

  “In theory. But she didn’t take a change of clothes or anything. Her toiletries are still here.”

  “Then she probably will be back later today.”

  “But why hasn’t she answered any of my calls or texts?”

  Mr. Ho steeples his hands together and places them on top of his crossed legs. Shrugs his narrow shoulders. “You tell me.”

  Peter meets his hooded, judging eyes and instantly knows that Mr. Ho is well informed about his argument with Eva at the check-in desk yesterday. He decides to take it head-on. “I see you’ve heard about our little squabble at the front desk yesterday. Look, we had a long flight, and we were tired…are you married? Surely you understand?”

  “Of course, Mr. Lombard.”

  Somewhat relieved, Peter continues. “Can you at least see if your security footage can pinpoint what time she left the hotel?” He stands and consciously adjusts his tone to one with more authority as he looms over the much smaller man. “I’d also like to speak with the local police. And I’ll contact the embassy myself.”

  He shows the manager the screen saver on his phone: Eva smiling and radiant, her brown hair a little longer than she’s wearing it now, the love and delight in her eyes unmistakable.

  “That’s my wife, Eva Lombard. We’re here celebrating our seventh anniversary, Mr. Ho….” Peter coughs to cover the wobble in his voice. “And I don’t think this is about the argument Eva and I had yesterday.” He continues, “She told me someone was following her. I dismissed it. But someone did try to break into our house in London right before we left for Hong Kong. And my luggage was taken and gone through. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m worried. Genuinely scared. I need your help, sir.”

  Mr. Ho stands. “I’ll call an inspector I know at Central, Mr. Lombard.” He extends a hand for Peter to shake. “But I’m quite certain your wife is fine. Hong Kong is an extremely safe city.” His words are firm and Peter is sure Ho believes them even though he can’t.

  “Thank you for your reassurances. Please let me know what your policeman friend says.”

  But as the hotel manager offers to roll away the room service cart and promises he will get right on the phone to the police, Peter feels anything but reassured.

  WHILE PETER WAS SLEEPING…

  Eva Lombard,

  Hong Kong Island

  The hotel bath is glorious, deep and wide, and Eva soaks comfortably in the hot water, her head tilted back to rest on a rolled washcloth. There’s a sliver of window over the tub from which she can see a slice of Hong Kong skyline. She stabs at
some bubbles with her big toe, enjoying their satisfying pops. The water is fragrant with the hotel’s bath gel, a heady mixture of sandalwood, lemongrass, and vanilla.

  As soon as she’s out of the tub, she’ll slip in next to Peter in bed. Cuddle up to him from behind the way he always likes and get them back on the right foot. She pushes her body up slightly so her pink nipples peek above the soapsuds, hardening as they meet the cool air of the bathroom. Eva splashes warm water over them, then sinks back down into the heat, stroking her body, warming herself up for Pete.

  Rising from the soapy water, she wraps herself in a plush bath sheet, briskly drying her body, toweling her damp hair. She drops the towel to the floor and contemplates her naked body in the steamy mirror. It’s a strong body, sexy by most modern standards, a body that should be able to produce a baby with no difficulty. Eva takes a deep breath, then unlocks and opens the bathroom door.

  She sees Peter, lying on his side, his back to her, still in the clothes he wore to travel. Eva slips in behind him and curls her damp, warm, naked body around his. She nuzzles his neck, breathes softly into his ear. Peter snorts, shifts onto his back, and commences raucous snoring. She lies there for a few moments, watching his face, feeling the rise and fall of his breath underneath the palm she’s placed on his chest. She begins to feel chilly. She draws her hand down from his chest to his cock. Lets it linger there. Peter sleeps on.

  Eva rises and steps into the bedroom’s walk-in closet. She quickly pulls on some clothes: a bra and panties, a pair of black jeans, and a long-sleeved, poppy-colored T-shirt, all topped by a black leather jacket. She laces on a pair of high-top sneakers and winds a rose-colored scarf around her neck. Checks her shoulder bag: wallet, sunglasses, cellphone, lip balm, sunscreen. She pulls the bag on cross-body style and strings her Leica around her neck.

  She steps out of the closet and pauses a moment to look at Pete again. He’s on his back, mouth open, snoring, dead to the world.

  Ambien. I recognize the snore. He’ll be out for hours.

  Eva pads softly into the suite’s sitting room. The plastic key cards sit in their cardboard sleeve next to the champagne and truffles. The ice has melted in the bucket; the champagne bottle looks sweaty and forlorn. It appears Pete got to the chocolate, though; there’s only one left.

  Definitely Ambien. He doesn’t even really like chocolate.

  Eva pops the last cocoa-dusted morsel in her mouth and extracts one of the two key cards. There’s a map of the city on the desk and she tucks it into her bag.

  I’ll take a walk. He’ll take a nap. Maybe later we’ll make a baby.

  She plants a light kiss on Peter’s forehead and steals out of the suite, careful to close the door softly behind her. She exits the hotel and orients herself. Pleased to discover she’s within walking distance of Hong Kong Park, Eva tucks the map in the back pocket of her jeans and sets out.

  It feels good to stretch her limbs after their long flight. And it’s intoxicating to be back in Hong Kong. She wonders if she dare call Alex while they’re there. Would it be awkward? It shouldn’t be. Water under the proverbial bridge, right? Their thing had been years ago; she’s married now, Alex’s been married and divorced. They’d been just kids back then. It would be weirder not to call him. She’s trying to remember how much she’s told Peter about her relationship with Alex when something primal clicks: a warning signal, screaming for her attention.

  She stops as if to fix a shoelace and peers back behind her. THAT MAN. The one from the Sly Fox, outside her house, in both airports. Now here. Again.

  It’s definitely not coincidence. Or paranoia. Or even if I am paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me. Isn’t that the old joke?

  Except this does not appear to be a joke. There is something about the man….

  Her heart quickens, a pulse flutters in her throat. She’s conscious of simultaneously feeling afraid, and curious, and also curiously vindicated. Annoyed at Pete for dismissing her so thoroughly. How can I be thinking all of these things at once?

  Not to mention the part of her mind that is tactically spinning wheels: Which way should I go? Who can I ask for help?

  Eva bolts into motion; her body overrules her paralyzed mind. She swiftly weaves through the crowded afternoon streets, fueled by fear but also by a cold, furious resentment at this stranger for making her afraid.

  Where will I be safe?

  She enters the familiar terrain of Hong Kong Park. She knows it well, the koi pond and the aviary, the playground and the Tai Chi Garden, the market stalls and the teaware museum. As well as many lesser known byways and hideaways that Alex had shown her. It may be years since Eva’s been here, but even so she feels like Hong Kong Park is home turf, an oasis of greenery and peace surrounded by congested steel and glass.

  She darts into the park, fear driving her swift steps down one pathway and onto another. Belatedly, she realizes this second path is nearly deserted; a sole couple wanders hand in hand off in the distance. It dawns on Eva that breaking off into the park was a mistake. I need to go back to where there are crowds.

  The thought is no sooner in her head than she feels a fierce tug on the strap of her Leica that yanks her back into a broad chest. Eva tilts her shocked face up to confront her assailant. “Get the fuck off me!” she spits, clutching at her belongings.

  In reply he merely grimaces. Then he tightens his grip on Eva’s camera strap with one hand and slices at it with the switchblade that suddenly appears in his other hand. Eva instinctively swats at the knife and the blade finds the soft pad of her palm. She yelps in pain as blood streams.

  He jabs at the straps of her camera and her purse. Cold fury grips Eva. Fuck you, asshole! Not today!

  She locks her arms around her possessions and jams an elbow up into her attacker’s nose. As he recoils, she pivots and slams a knee up into his groin. He releases her as he howls and dances in pain. Eva gives him one last kick that sends him sprawling facedown onto the pavement.

  “Asshole,” Eva snaps with a force she doesn’t really feel. On the inside she feels soupy, as if she might puddle away like the Wicked Witch of the West. Turning on her heel, she runs as fast as she can, grateful for the self-defense class she and Jenny had taken together last year back in New York.

  “I’ll catch you later!” her attacker yells after her with a snigger.

  Eva finds the jeer more chilling than a threat.

  She pounds her way past the koi pond with its wide, bench-lined, manicured walkways, out past the market stalls selling kites and flutes and lanterns, and into the flow of pedestrian traffic on crowded Cotton Tree Drive.

  It’s only then that she finally stops, gasping for breath, still clutching her camera and purse to her chest. She turns and scans the crowd behind her. No sign of him. Her palm is slick with blood. She sets her belongings down and winds her scarf around her hand, applying pressure to stop the flow.

  Shit. Now what?

  Twenty minutes later, Eva’s sipping a steaming cup of green tea and nibbling on a custard bun in a dimly lit tea shop. What was he after?

  Propelled by instinct, she scrolls backward through the photographs stored on the digital card of her Leica. The shot she took of the view from their hotel room. A couple of snaps in the Hong Kong airport. That bitch with the Pomeranian at the Sly Fox.

  And, fuck. There he is. In the background of the shot of the woman and her dog is the man Eva just left bleeding in Hong Kong Park.

  Heart pounding, Eva zooms in on him and his companion, both in gray suits, rep ties. The camera has captured their shared look of outraged surprise, as if her taking the pictures was a personal affront to them as well as to the angry blonde and her dandelion of a dog.

  Maybe it was an affront. Maybe these are two men who shouldn’t be seen together. Is that why he tried to grab her camera? Frowning, Eva zooms in closer on the se
cond guy’s face. It’s vaguely familiar to her; not like someone she knows, but like someone she ought to know. His identification dances tantalizingly on the edges of her consciousness. Still, she can’t quite place him.

  But the other man in the picture has been following her; of that much she’s certain. She adds up the pieces: He trailed her to her home after she inadvertently took his photograph at the Sly Fox. Possibly tried to break into their house later that night. Followed her to Hong Kong. Attacked her with a knife. Why?

  And is Pete involved? Why did he deny knowing her attacker, especially since she saw them interact twice? Is this why he was so condescending and dismissive?

  Eva looks down at her bloody hand tightly wound in the soft cotton of her scarf. She peels away the fabric. Blood bubbles up, still fresh and urgent. Fighting nausea, she reapplies pressure.

  Why did Peter leave the burglar alarm off last night? Was that Plan A, foiled by Baxter? Is Plan B Hong Kong? Is it easier to dispose of a body here? Because right about now, it looks like her husband might be trying to have her killed.

  Eva checks herself. Is she being overly dramatic? Maybe she should just go back to the hotel, wake up Pete, file a police report? Or even better yet, just forget about the whole encounter?

  No. There’s no way she’s returning to the hotel until she has a better idea of what the hell is going on. And how Peter’s involved, if he is.

  Why the surprise trip? And then the Paris/Hong Kong fake out? It’s all plain weird.

  Eva realizes there’s not a living soul who knows where on earth she is and she feels lonelier than ever. As well as ashamed of the false front she’s been putting up for her sister and her friends back home. Not to mention disgusted with herself for day drinking and self-pity.

  Eva tucks those unpleasant feelings away in favor of the more delicious tingle that quickens her. Because there’s no denying it. She feels energized as she finishes her tea and contemplates her next steps. Yes, she’s scared. Yes, she’s full of questions and doubts. But there is a feeling of rightness about this too, as if life had finally handed over the perfect lead she always somehow knew was coming to her as a part of her destiny in investigative journalism. She just never suspected the story she’d write would be her own.