by Dana Cameron
I screamed. Long, loud, and unladylike.
My assailant was fumbling with the door at this point. I tripped over my shoes, landing against the bathroom door just as he slid out into the hallway. I regained my footing, screamed again, putting every bit of my outrage and pain into it, and scrambled to follow.
Maybe I wouldn’t actually attack him again, but I sure as hell wanted to see who it was, if I could.
“What the hell is going on out here?” A woman I recognized but couldn’t name immediately was clutching a parka over her pajamas. She stepped in my way.
“I was attacked!” It was all I could do to keep from shoving her aside. “I have to—”
She put her hand on my arm, restraining me. “Omigod, you mean it’s happened again!”
I shook her off, more vigorously than I meant. “I have to—”
I got past her and across the hall, to where the door to the stairs was. I stuck my head in and listened: nothing, not a sound except for the blood pounding in my own ears. Both the elevators were moving, too, and so I was out of luck there. I looked up and down the hall, but the doors that were opened framed other sleepy or drunken archaeologists, in various stages of undress. There were no parties on this floor, that I could hear, so I was pretty sure I’d lost my man.
I had to turn and, once again, saw the curious glances following me.
The woman didn’t seem to notice that I’d shaken her off so rudely, as she kept talking the whole time I was looking for my quarry. “…and now…were you broken into, too? Are you hurt?”
“What? No. No, I don’t think so.” But even as I spoke, I reached up and felt my sore cheek. It burned, and I knew from experience that there was an abrasion on top of what would be a pretty good bruise, if I didn’t ice it up in a hurry. “I’m fine.”
Her face froze as she realized…“But you…you’ve been hit! Omigod, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” I looked at the concern and fear in her face, creased and puffy with sleep, and realized that wasn’t the answer she was expecting. No normal person would make that answer. “I was hit, yes, but I get hit worse than this all the time when I’m working out. I box.” It seemed simpler than trying to explain Krav to her, and I didn’t want to be out here all night. “And he was wearing gloves, so it could have been a lot worse.”
Even as I said it, I knew it was a fact. My attacker was dressed for inside, except he was wearing thin gloves. They didn’t feel like leather, they weren’t knitted wool, they reminded me of the sort of gloves that some weight lifters use to keep a good grip. Driving gloves, maybe, I decided.
“I’m going to call the front desk and the police,” the woman finally said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll stop down there now and tell them what happened.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m going to call them myself.”
I could read it in her face: Maybe I was the one responsible for all this. Maybe I had brought this all on myself. Maybe I was the dangerous one.
I nodded. “You’re right, maybe they’ll be able to catch him if you call. But they’ll find me down at the desk. Thanks for your help.”
She paused at her doorway, still viewing me with suspicion.
I stepped forward, very calmly. “I mean it. Thank you for coming out and seeing what was wrong when I screamed. Not everyone would do that.”
She blushed, and her face softened a little. “It’s okay. I’m sure other people called the desk too. I just happened to be closest, that’s all.”
“I’m Emma.” I stuck out my hand. It might be a little late for a formal introduction, but it was never too late to convince someone that I wasn’t a mental case.
“Becky Goldschmidt.” She shook my hand and then suddenly turned shy. “Well, I’d better…” She gestured to the inside of her room.
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
I looked down the hallway. People were moving back into their rooms, some were looking at me oddly, some were too drunk or sleepy to care. One person down the hall didn’t move, just stood there and stared at me.
Duncan.
He was shirtless and barefoot, and it looked like he was wearing—jeans? Blue pajama bottoms? He never wore the tops to his pajamas, I remembered suddenly. Why do I remember something like that, after all these years? Why that, and not more important things, like bibliographies and phone numbers, things I truly cared about?
I’d worn the tops a number of times, when we were together. Who’s wearing your pajama tops these days, Duncan?
Why on earth did that pop into my head?
Almost as if my question had called him, he started walking down the hallway toward me. I couldn’t very well flee back into my room, and besides, there was no need to, I told myself sternly. I’m on my way down to the desk to report the attack.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His concern looked genuine. More than that, he didn’t look as though he’d just attacked me. He was a little flushed, but that looked more like the color that follows eating and drinking than hard physical exertion. There were no marks on his face. And he’d been in the ballroom, when I got in there. I didn’t think he could have been one of the shooters in the woods, if that was the case.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t have killed Garrison.
“I’m fine.” I finally registered jeans. And chest hair. Familiar and yet a million miles away. I was having a hard time keeping my thoughts on track.
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “Someone followed me into my room. I guess he came from the stairwell. He rushed me. I have no idea what it was about.”
“And you don’t think it has anything to do with Garrison, or you talking to the cops, or anything?” He crossed his arms across his chest, one eyebrow raised.
I was annoyed that he should think that I was taking this lightly. “I’m sure it does. I just don’t know why.”
“I see.” His eyes widened when he saw the graze and swelling on my face. I pulled away from his hand as he reached out to touch me.
“You should put something on that. Do you have any alcohol or bacitracin or something?”
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it in a minute.”
“Of course you do. Semper paratus, that’s our Emma.”
I looked at him sharply, but again, there was no trace of sarcasm. Maybe just a few molecules of fondness, on his part.
I started trembling, and I thought, oh no, not now. But it’s what happens after a fight, it’s inevitable. All that adrenaline, all that energy; once it’s no longer needed, it has to leave your system somehow, and this was the second time today. My stomach roiled, and I swallowed, trying to keep my mind off how sick I suddenly felt. I tried to keep my hands from shaking too noticeably, but Duncan saw, damn his eyes. He always saw everything.
“Emma, I know you probably haven’t got anything to drink in your room. That’s not your style, not at conferences anyway. Or it wasn’t. I’ve got some good whiskey, come have a drink. You’ve been attacked.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing, it’s just a reaction. Happens all the time.”
He shrugged, maybe it did happen all the time. “Okay, but you’ve been shaken up, you could use something to calm you down.”
“I’m fine, Duncan. I don’t want to bother you.” I don’t want to interrupt you, was what I was about to say, but that would have smacked of too much cattiness or, worse, interest. It was just an easy assumption.
“It’s no bother, I was just reading. I find I need to settle down a little before I sleep, these days. Remember when we didn’t need sleep? Times change. Come on.”
He turned, assuming I would follow him. I was tempted, even, to see if I could do it, have a drink with him. Be better than him, find out what was going on with him. I almost said yes.
“I can’t, Duncan. I have to go down to the desk, call the cops, that sort of thing.” Then the words slipped out before I could stop them. “Another time ma
ybe.”
“Another time, then. I’ll hold you to that. Good night, Emma.”
“Night.”
I had turned to the elevators when I heard him say, “Call me. If you need anything,” and it wasn’t arch and it wasn’t a pass and it wasn’t anything but human concern. I began to wonder if it was possible, and if so, why now?
I went downstairs and discovered that my neighbor Becky had done as she’d promised, or threatened. The night manager was waiting there as if he expected me. He came around from the desk immediately.
“I’ve called the police. Someone will be here right away.”
“Thanks.”
He put his hand to my elbow and led me to one of the conversation areas, insisting I sit. “Can I get you anything? Are you okay?”
I realized, I wasn’t really, but shoved it aside for the moment. “No, thanks. I’m just a little shaken up. I’ll be fine in a minute.” I sat down, a little heavier than I meant; my legs still felt like they’d buckle under me if I asked much more of them. So much for being safer inside the hotel, I thought bitterly.
He frowned. This wasn’t the response he was looking for.
“A little freaked out, too, if you want to know the truth,” I added, but I didn’t want to know the truth myself, not until I had a moment to sit and think about what it really meant to me, by myself. I couldn’t afford to think of it now, or I’d lose it. My stomach was still not entirely convinced it was going to stay put, and it lurched ominously.
He nodded. “How did it happen?”
“This guy came out of nowhere,” I said. “I should have been more alert when I opened my door. I usually know better.”
The night manager said ruefully, “While we always recommend caution, we don’t usually expect our guests will have to be alert.” His jaw tightened, and then he shook himself. “This is not something for you to blame yourself about. We consider this to be a very fine establishment, and the thought that one of our guests has been attacked is an indication that something is profoundly wrong. It’s not as though you’re in a war zone and have to be aware of what’s behind every door. We’re doing everything in our power to make it right, and I hope that you’ll come back someday, as our guest, when this has all been cleared up.”
“Uh, of course. I appreciate that.” He’s right, Em, I told myself. No matter what you might think of how you handled things, this isn’t about scoring yourself in some game you’ve challenged yourself to. You were attacked, and it doesn’t matter whether you were capable of fighting back. Don’t forget that: None of this is your fault, your doing. You were attacked.
“Thank you,” he said. “What happened?”
“Right. He shoved me into my room—”
“He shoved you in?” He looked at me sharply. “He wasn’t already inside?”
“What do you mean?”
“There have been several other…incidents. Rooms have been broken into, and there have been some thefts—”
I recalled suddenly that my down-the-hall neighbor Becky had said, “It’s happened again!” It’s as if I had too much information at the moment and had shut down some reactions, just to deal with the trauma of being attacked.
“—but no one was ever attacked or hurt. People were either asleep or out of their rooms. And you say that he shoved you in?”
“Yes. Definitely. So I don’t think this is related.”
“I know it isn’t. We arrested the thieves who’ve been breaking in during the banquet.”
I looked at him. “What?”
“Nightcrawlers. One of every hotelier’s nightmares. Thieves who come in and try the rooms until they find one that isn’t locked—you’d be surprised at how easy it can be for them. Anyway, they were caught during the banquet, emptying someone’s room.”
I thought about the odd phone message I’d had, about “crawling,” and that made a lot more sense now. But it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the graduate students’ room being vandalized. “And they were responsible for the book room theft too, right?”
“Yes.”
I finished, “Because they stole the things that looked valuable—the replicas—and left the things we would think of as valuable, the actual broken artifacts.”
“I think that’s right,” he said, nodding.
“So my attacker wasn’t one of them.” He didn’t have a gun either, so perhaps the people who shot at Widmark—and me—weren’t the same as whoever murdered Garrison? I didn’t think there could be two significant, unrelated crimes at the conference, though.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” At least there was a wry grin on his face this time.
“I guess not. Anyway, he wasn’t that good, and I managed to chase him off pretty quick. That’s when the racket—”
“Your screams.” He wasn’t about to let me get away with anything; I didn’t like it, I wasn’t sure I liked him, but he was right. And I did appreciate where he was coming from.
“—woke up my neighbors. And they called you.”
“Yes. The police said that they’d get their man down here to talk to you, just as soon as they finish checking out your room and the floor. My assistant is with them with the keys.”
I blinked. “They’re already here?”
“Yes, there’s been someone here since this afternoon. Although they weren’t too happy about sparing someone during the snow emergency, they admitted it was probably necessary.”
“Ah.”
He looked past me. “Here we go.”
The officer came over, told me there’d been nothing to see upstairs, that I was probably right to assume that someone had come out of the stairwell, though the possibility of someone coming in from another room couldn’t be ruled out. I told my story and mentioned that maybe someone had peeked out, and seen where he’d gone.
There wasn’t much else to do, but the officer did walk me back up to my room and looked through it with me, and then even walked me down to the ice machine to fill my bucket, before I let him out. I promised to file a report in the morning.
By the time my door was shut, locked, and dead-bolted, most of my shaking had stopped. The nausea persisted, though, and I became acutely aware of it as I shoved a chair in front of my door. I set the two thick glass water tumblers on top of it, right next to each other, so that they would clink together if anyone tried to open the door.
I sighed and went into the bathroom with my bucket of ice. I washed my face, noticing a couple of reddish rug burns on my hands. When I examined my face, I saw that on my left cheek there was the merest graze on top of a far more interesting lump in addition to the earlier scratch and the scrape on my chin. I put a little antiseptic on it, wincing, then found the little cardboard envelope with the plastic shower cap. I filled the cap with ice, twisting the elasticized opening as closely shut as I could to keep the melting ice inside, and sat down on the lowered toilet seat. I fiddled with the ice and a facecloth, and was finally able to rest the pack gingerly on my cheek. Glancing over in the mirror, I could see that on my left side, I looked, well, not exactly okay, but not as bad as I thought I might. The thorn scratch, of course. I had bags and lines under my eyes. The skin of my face was drawn and a little grayish under the unflattering lights and around my eyes was puffy and reddish: just about normal for the Saturday night, the fourth day of a five-day conference. The things that were really worrying me were all on the inside.
This had nothing to do with the other break-ins, I told myself. You know that. The M.O. was completely different and the cops already caught them.
This was because you’ve been talking to people. You’ve brought this on yourself. The manager is correct; you shouldn’t have to be worried about being attacked in the hotel under normal circumstances. But you are changing your circumstances, doing it willingly. And that invites trouble, no matter how undeserved.
I know.
And are you prepared to continue with this, just as willingly? How much does this mean t
o you? What does it mean to you?
I’m changing. I think this is all part of it. Tonight was bad, but not impossible. I was as ready for it as anyone might be.
Anyone who isn’t a professional, perhaps. You could cause more trouble by helping, you know.
I know. That’s part of what I need to think about.
Yes, you need to think about it, the tired face in the mirror reprimanded me. And you need to think about it hard, and soon.
Later, when I’ve had some sleep. I promise.
After another five minutes, I dumped the ice out into the sink and carefully dried off the shower cap and set it aside on the sink. The swelling had gone down a bit, but I didn’t want to take any aspirin on top of the drinks I’d had. I had taken a couple of antacids, but my stomach was already calming down, though I didn’t feel I could sleep yet.
There was a knock at the door. Warily, I looked through the peephole.
It was Duncan.
I sagged, but curiosity got the better of me. What mood would he be in now? I took a deep breath, moved the chair away, and opened the door a crack. “What’s up?”
“Got time for that drink now?” he said. “I was keeping an eye out for you.”
“Uh, sure.”
Feeling a little like I was going to a firing squad, but determined to make the most of any effort I could to finally put this all behind me, I let him in. I wondered what he’d say to me, whether he’d mention Josiah Miller or Garrison.
Besides, he had a bottle of single malt and two glasses of ice. Not that I was willing to drink with him.
“At least you brought the good stuff,” I said.
“Need something to end a day right,” he answered automatically.
“You used to say just the same thing in college,” I said. It was the first time I’d made any reference to our shared past that wasn’t couched in accusations, and I felt like I was sidling onto a pond that had only looked frozen.
