The Empty Bed

by Nina Sadowsky

  “Not if I can help it,” I interject. “Look, that gave us all a scare but it was a false alarm. We’re safe here. You’ll testify. And then it’ll all be over.”

  Anxiety clouds both of their faces despite my reassurances. I can’t blame them. Our nerves are shot.

  “You two should try to get some sleep.”

  “The door. It might have been Finny,” Lisa responds. “He likes locks. He plays with them. I should have told you. It’s impossible to watch him every second.” The tired anguish in her voice is painful to hear.

  “Don’t worry about it. That door’s on me either way and it won’t happen again.”

  The Harrises head upstairs. Gabi opens her mouth to speak but I shut her down with a look. She drifts upstairs as well.

  I’ll never get back to sleep so I check all my devices: three laptops, a dozen phones. I take on the task of downloading reports from operatives in the field. With Holly stirring my dreams, I start with Hong Kong.

  As software decrypts Jake’s latest, I sort through the tangle of images that haunted my sleep tonight. My mother. Holly. I know what links them. For me they were both the epitome of safe. Safe is something I haven’t had much of.

  Self-pity. Screw this. I hate it.

  But Holly did make me feel safe for a time, and at a point in my life when I needed it badly. He’s never once asked me for anything after I turned down his offer of marriage, and he’s unquestionably offered resources when I’ve needed them along the way. I’m anxious to see what Jake and Stephanie have to report. I can’t let Holly down. I won’t let him down.

  SHANGHAI STREET

  Jake Burrows, aka John Bernake,

  Kowloon

  “It’s so humid. And the pollution. How can this city be so clean and so gross at the same time? Where are you taking me, anyway? And why are you the one in charge? No one’s given me a good answer to that question yet.”

  Stevie’s grievances and whiny questions set Jake’s teeth on edge. He’s had just about enough of her buzzing around him like an irritating fly. He catches a glimpse of her shaggy hair and querulous eyes in the reflection of a store window as they pass. He snakes even faster through the chaos of Kowloon’s Shanghai Street, half-hoping he’ll lose her.

  Goods spill from open shop fronts like seeds burst from pods: kitchenware including woks, steamers, skewers, rice cookers, knife blocks, cutting boards, and cauldrons; sinks, faucets, showerheads, and porcelain toilets; rolled bolts of fabric; brightly colored boxes of cleaning products; exotic fruits, Chinese herbs.

  The air is heavy, ripe with moisture. A dark green garbage truck with a powder blue cab rumbles past, drowning out Stevie’s incessant whine. Thank god for small favors.

  Jake checks the address he has scribbled on a piece of scrap paper shoved into his front pants pocket. He directs Stevie to enter a particularly unappetizing-looking entryway. Paint peels from a battered wooden doorframe. A smell like boiling cabbage fouls the air.

  “The fuck?” she mutters. “What the hell is this?”

  Wordlessly, Jake presses the elevator button. The cab descends with a grotesque squeal. He pulls back the hand-operated gate and gestures that Stevie should enter. She does, but not without glaring at him.

  “You could talk to a person, you know,” she volleys. “That’s how a partnership works.”

  “You could shut your mouth for one goddamn second too, you know. That’s how this partnership will work.”

  “At least tell me why you dragged me all the way over here.”

  Jake clams up. He doesn’t know what to expect when these elevator doors slide open. But he can’t tell Stevie that. She’s challenged his authority every step of the way. He’s following Catherine’s instructions and that has to be enough. They ride up to the fifth floor of the building in silence, an acrid scent of burnt grease assaulting his nostrils.

  The elevator grinds to a stop. The doors open. Jake blinks. The grungy street and creaky elevator fade away as his eyes rake over a large, modern open space, with shiny white floors. The entire footprint of the building is subdivided into a series of red lacquer–framed mini-offices, each equipped with a desk, a chair, and a state-of-the-art computer terminal. Each module’s hung with gold curtains. Some are drawn, but most of the units seem to be unoccupied. The pulsing blue of countless screens gives the room an underwater glow. Incense burns on a small altar to their right.

  Cedar? Sandalwood.

  A tiny Chinese woman comes forward to greet them, her small frame overwhelmed by an oversized flowered blouse layered over a pair of checked trousers. She moves like a young girl, fluid and confident, but as she gets closer, Jake sees she’s ancient; her face webbed by thousands of fine lines, her eyes a bottomless, impenetrable black.

  “I was told to ask for Gracey,” Jake informs the old woman. “Rhonda Daly from Manitoba is a mutual friend.”

  The old woman snaps her fingers. Two teenage boys materialize to flank Jake and Stevie. They’re both slender; one wears dorky glasses. They hardly seem threatening, but Stevie backs away. “Whoa, whoa, what’s this?” she protests.

  “Just come on,” Jake hisses. The teens lead them down an aisle separating one of the rows of “offices” from another and into a module of their own.

  Jake settles in front of the computer and goes to work, fingers racing over the keyboard. Stevie leans against the red partition and crosses her arms over her chest. “We came all the way over here to use a computer?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jake keeps his attention on the screen.

  “And you couldn’t tell me that, why?”

  “Because you annoy me.”

  That finally shuts her up. Jake continues on silently as the teenage boys re-enter, bearing a tray with two cups of hot tea and a bowl of fresh orange slices. They place the tray on the desk and depart.

  “That’s a nice touch,” Stephanie opines as she helps herself to an orange slice.

  Jake ignores her. He’s found what he’s looking for: Eva Lombard’s Facebook account. The profile picture features Eva and a huge furry dog with an eager expression. The animal is also prominently featured in her posts. “Baxter at Buckingham Palace,” “Baxter at Kensington Gardens,” “Baxter at Trafalgar Square.” Jake briefly admires Eva’s eye for composition before getting down to business.

  The woman has no privacy settings, lucky for Jake, potentially foolish for Eva. No one’s life should be an open book; Jake’s always believed that. His very lack of a social media presence had been a determining factor in his joining the Society; Catherine had told him so. Facial recognition software is getting increasingly sophisticated and more easily obtainable; it’s harder and harder to be a ghost. It’s one reason Jake now rocks a beard.

  In a matter of minutes, he’s narrowed down the list of Eva’s friends to find those currently living in Hong Kong. There are seven in total, but only four have relatively frequent interface with Eva: Alexander Blake, forty years old; Heather Haas, thirty-one; Daniel Haas, Heather’s husband, thirty-three; Yuan Dai, twenty-nine.

  The Haas couple’s posts reveal a six-year marriage and an even longer relationship. Yuan’s revealed as a woman by her profile photograph, in which she sports impish hot pink pigtails. Jake tries to recall if Francesca Leigh referred to an ex-boyfriend or just an ex?

  Boyfriend. Alexander Blake seems like their best option.

  “I have a name for the ex-boyfriend. Alexander Blake.”

  “Wonderful. But it’s not like we couldn’t have used any computer to find that out.” Stevie stuffs an orange slice in her mouth and gives Jake a goofy orange peel smile.

  What the hell is Catherine thinking putting the two of us together?

  Jake averts his eyes from Stevie as the old woman who’d greeted them at the elevator enters. She’s trailed by the two teenage boys, who tote a large cushion with a fanciful
pattern of birds and flowers embroidered across the fabric. The boys set the pillow down on the floor and back out of the space, drawing the curtains.

  In one smooth motion, the old lady drops into lotus position atop the pillow, coming to rest with her upturned hands loosely held on her knees. She raises her right palm upward and gestures to Stevie.

  “Give it to me,” the old woman commands in a chilly voice.

  Jake shoots a glance at Stevie. Does she know what the hell this woman’s talking about?

  She must, as a sheepish expression crosses her face. She fishes in her jacket pocket and extracts a notebook. Hands it over as she’s been instructed.

  “What the hell is that?” Jake barks.

  Stevie shrugs. “Notebook I lifted off Inspector Tsang.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention it to me?”

  “Catherine told me to make the play. Not you. Pot calling kettle anyway, asshole.”

  Jake burns. If Eva Lombard is in real danger, this partnership may implode before they can ever get to her.

  Stevie gives him a punch on his shoulder. “Lighten up.” She gestures to the old woman, who is poring intently through the detective’s notebook. “At least now we know why we’re really here.”

  TROUBLES

  Peter Lombard,

  Hong Kong Island

  He’s starting to feel a bit better, hovering above the pain instead of tightly held in its steely grip. He attributes this, correctly, to the pills the nurse handed him about forty minutes ago. He holds an ice pack in place over his right eye. Lifts it to gingerly test the swelling underneath. Winces.

  The pink curtain surrounding his hospital bed draws to the side, revealing Inspector Tsang. He raises an eyebrow as his eyes assess Peter’s battered state.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Been better.”

  Tsang asks a series of questions and Peter answers them to the best of his ability.

  “I was going stir-crazy. I needed to get out of the hotel. I went for a walk with no destination in mind. I was just walking along when I was jumped.”

  “No, I never got a good look at my attackers. I was distracted, and then it all happened so fast. Then I was trying to protect my head. Although I did a shit job, obviously.” Peter punctuates the last comment with a wry laugh and a wave of the ice pack.

  “Yes, only one man spoke, although I’m sure there were at least two, maybe three?”

  “Yes, the man spoke English.”

  Tsang asks if Peter can remember what the man said and Peter hesitates. Repeating the threat seems a betrayal of Eva somehow, as well as an admission of a chasm between him and his wife that he’s uneasy exposing to Tsang’s inquiring stare.

  “ ‘Get your bitch under control,’ ” Peter finally allows. The harsh commandment hangs starkly in the disinfectant-flavored air. Tsang’s eyebrow flickers upward yet again. He leans in close to Peter.

  “Do you know what he was referring to?”

  “No idea. But don’t you see? He must be talking about Eva. This proves something’s happened to her.”

  “What trouble have you brought with you to Hong Kong, Mr. Lombard?” Tsang asks in a tone so low and mild Peter has to strain forward to hear him.

  Peter jerks back as Tsang’s softly spoken words land like a punch. “What? I’ve just been attacked. My wife is missing! And you want to make me the bad guy here? I don’t think so.”

  “Why are you so defensive? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing. I swear. Now please go. I have a headache and want to rest.”

  Tsang doesn’t move. “It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Lombard.”

  Peter fumbles for his phone. Finds the contact number for Francesca Leigh and presses CALL. Defiantly raises his one good eye to meet Tsang’s impassive stare as he hears the ring on the other end.

  Peter’s defiance sputters as his call switches over to voicemail. After the beep that follows Francesca’s recorded Southern lilt, Peter leaves a message: “Mrs. Leigh, this is Peter Lombard. I need you to call me as soon as possible.

  “Okay,” Peter says to Tsang. “We’re done. I’m an American. A victim of a crime. I’ve cooperated with you every step of the way and now you come at me with accusations? Get the hell out of here. I’ve left word at the consulate. My next call will be a journalist.”

  Peter realizes he’s shaking. Also, that he’s not entirely sure what his rights are as an American in Hong Kong. But his bluff works. Tsang backs off. Asks a couple of questions confirming details of Peter’s attack, just to show he’s still the authority figure, Peter suspects. He plays along and answers. No sense in antagonizing the cop any further.

  Tsang wraps it up and informs Peter that he’ll be in touch, a tinge of warning in his tone. Peter exhales as the cop disappears behind the pink curtain. Realizes he hadn’t even been aware he was holding his breath.

  Peter knows he’ll go completely insane if he stays in the hospital another second. He hates them as a general rule, heavily associated as they are with the loss of his mother to breast cancer when he was twenty-four. Why are the curtains in this ER the exact pink linked to American breast cancer research? They feel like another kick in the teeth, summoning loss and grief and anger that Peter would rather keep buried.

  Minutes after Tsang departs, Peter signs out of the hospital over the attending physician’s objections. They might want to monitor him overnight “just in case” because of his head injuries, but Peter needs action. He has a plan. Of sorts.

  First things first, he’s going to fill the prescription for pain pills the doctor provided. Then back to the hotel for a shower and a change of clothes. If the Hong Kong police and Forrest’s fancy undercover operatives can’t track Eva down, maybe he can. Enough of waiting on other people. The more he thinks about it, the more excited he gets. He’s going to do something. Finally.

  Because at first he believed Eva had left him. That she’d decided his grand romantic gesture was too little too late. He’s been ashamed, as he knew on a gut level that the blame for the fissures in their marriage lay more on his shoulders than hers. It wasn’t his schedule and commitment to his job; those he knew Eva respected and accepted. It was his patronizing attitude toward her loneliness, her hobbies, and her coping mechanisms, including and especially drinking, that had widened the gulf between them.

  A small flare of hope rises. Maybe she did leave me. Peter shudders. God, that I should even consider that the better possibility.

  Hard to buy now, though, not after my own attack.

  He’s able to fill the prescription in the pharmacy adjacent to the hospital lobby and he swallows two more pills down dry right away. He’s “lucky,” they told him back at the ER. Bruised ribs, multiple contusions, two broken fingers, one lost tooth, and a possible concussion, but it could have been “way worse.” Slim comfort.

  By the time a taxi drops him at his hotel, Peter’s floating on a cloud concocted from drugs, pain, exhaustion, and disbelief. He shoves a wad of bills at his driver and enters the lobby conscious of the muted but appalled reactions to his appearance that greet him. A toddler with two blond braids catches sight of him from the safety of her stroller and bursts into tears. Her distracted mother turns to see what’s causing the alarm and snatches her little girl away from Peter’s path.

  Great. Now I scare kids.

  He’s grateful that he rides up to his floor in an elevator that’s otherwise empty. He feels certain that all he needs is a shave and a hair wash, a crisp shirt, and a fresh eye. He’s going to figure out what the hell is going on. Find Eva. Make things right.

  He strides down the hallway. Waves his key card in front of the door and watches the sensor click from red to green. He pushes open the door.

  At first he can’t make sense of what he sees. Stuffing spills from the savaged guts
of the sofa and two armchairs in the suite’s sitting room. The coffee table has been upended, one leg snapped off. The contents of the shopping bags from his ill-advised spree are dumped on the floor, the expensive items sliced to ribbons.

  Peter freezes in the doorway. He knows he should get the hell out of there. But he puts one foot forward. And then another. Who is doing this to us? What the fuck is going on?

  He stands in the middle of the room. The curtains are open, the ever-changing and always-spectacular view of Victoria Harbour on display. I should leave, he thinks, as he stays motionless.

  What’s that reflected in the glass? Is someone here? He turns, Eva’s name on his lips, praying he’ll see her behind him, back safe, with an easy explanation for everything. For any of it.

  His head shatters in pain.

  I didn’t think I could hurt again so much so soon is Peter’s last, but not very useful, thought as everything goes black.

  WHILE PETER WAS STILL SLEEPING…

  Eva Lombard,

  Hong Kong Island, the Day of Arrival

  They’re laughing about it now, of course, she and Alex. How after he grabbed her shoulder she froze like a deer in headlights. How she’d struggled to make sense of the towering “giant” behind her before it was revealed to be the father with his son perched on his shoulders, their weird shadow even further distorted by the angle of the light. How they gaped at each other soundlessly for a few moments as Eva’s eyes traveled up above Alex’s head to the little boy’s face (an adorable kid with the exact same smile as his father), and then back to meet Alex’s astonished eyes. How he’d finally sputtered, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” before swinging his child down off his shoulders and enfolding her in a crushing hug.

  Upstairs in his apartment, over tea and a plate of ginger cookies, while little Ian plays nearby, Eva shares her account of Peter’s surprise trip. She knows Alex’s sharp; he’s clearly noticed her injured palm and disheveled appearance, but hasn’t said anything about it. Yet.