The nightmarish energy of the scene before her reminds Lana of one of those grotesque medieval cartoons: the goat-man lunging, the predator having his way. His hair, silver-gray and too long, is a bag of rats’ tails shaken free in the frenzy of his assault as the girl flails, desperate to escape.
There is the impulse to reel away in revulsion and there is the impulse to leap forward and wrestle the beast from his victim. Lana does neither. She cannot move, not even to look away. The young woman sees her now and opens her mouth, but no sound comes. Her expression no longer has any trace of the cool indifference of her demeanor in the bar. She frees one arm and stretches a hand toward Lana. It is clutching her purse. The goat-man’s hand flays at it, too, and Lana sees he is determined to wrest it from her. Suddenly she becomes aware of something clutched in her own hand, gripping so hard it hurts: the cell phone. It is a struggle even to lift it up and beyond imagining to turn on the camera. Now the goat-man notices her. The last thing she registers as the elevator doors close again are his eyes, a chill of blue, and the pucker of lips as they form an expletive that would have been comprehensible in any language. Somehow, though unable to keep her hands steady, Lana manages to lift the cell phone and click-click-click-click as the doors close.
IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN TEN SECONDS. THE ELEVATOR SHAKES and plunges in uncomfortable imitation of that stomach-churning moment when the roller coaster begins the dizzying descent from its highest point. Lana can’t stop the elevator, but even if she could what would she do? Return and rescue the young woman? Whatever was happening up there couldn’t end well. But right now Lana just wants to retch, although there’s every chance that if she does she’ll only heave up her hopping heart.
When the elevator door opens back at ground level, Weak Chin is there to meet it. Lana abandons any thought of going back up. The way his expression changes from that of an unattractively bored teenager to “Jesus! There’s zombies coming at me!” would, in other circumstances, have been cartoon-funny. His reflexes are impressively quick all the same. He manages to slap a hand against the side of the elevator and step forward to prevent Lana exiting. But he can’t guard against her hysteria-fueled foot stamp. Her heel grinds into his instep with all the force of survival panic. His mouth opens with a yelp, his eyes pop, and the hand barring her way drops.
Lana decides her room is the safest place to be and power-walks through the lobby, staring straight ahead, praying that her elevator will be waiting on the ground floor and her hands won’t shake too much when she tries to use the keycard.
The elevator is there. She lunges in and glances back. No sign of Weak Chin in pursuit. Probably not walking too well. Her pleasurable thrill as she recalls the foot stamp disappears when the keycard doesn’t register. Lana swats it hopelessly and, glancing up, sees Weak Chin standing in the crowded lobby, eyeing her directly, but not moving closer. He looks away at something else, then turns back to her again. Why isn’t he coming for her? The absence of immediate threat steadies her hand holding the keycard. At last the green light flashes. As the doors close, Weak Chin still stands in the throng, staring at her, then away, then at her, then away again.
BLOND, THIRTY MAYBE. WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS HAD OPENED FERDIE had been totally thrown. Even the shock and agony of her vicious attack had been less excruciating than the realization that this could be the same woman Vallette had been ranting about. If so it meant . . . what the fuck did it mean? Whatever was going on, Ferdie sensed he had tumbled headfirst into the kneading trough. What was this woman doing in the elevator? What had happened upstairs?
Something had told him the seventh floor was not where he wanted to be just now, so he’d pursued the blonde instead, although with what felt like some part of his instep smashed there was little chance of catching her now. He limped as fast as the pain allowed, but she was out of sight. Vallette and Oscar and Marcel were watching outside. If she left the hotel surely Oscar would recognize her. And if they caught her would that make things any better for Ferdie? Somehow he didn’t think so. Maybe he should go up to the Suite Imperial and face the music.
As he turned he had the feeling that the blonde had flashed by somewhere in his field of vision, but before he could check again, something else caught his eye: the bellhop, his young pimp, was crossing the foyer toward some guy wearing a porkpie hat, who then gripped the bellhop’s arm and whispered urgently to him.
Anyone in a porkpie had to be a prick, was Ferdie’s opinion. His attention split between this pair and the blonde. He glanced over his shoulder and now he spotted her in the other elevator, desperately swiping her keycard. So she was a hotel guest. Ferdie looked again to Bellhop and Porkpie. They clearly knew one another, heads close together, a hand on a shoulder, as they headed for the smoking terrace. Ferdie swiveled back to the blonde. She’d stopped swiping the keycard because she was staring at him. Now she knew he knew. What to do? What to do? Too much going on at the same time.
And there was more. Vallette marched in through the main entrance, Oscar and Marcel scuttling behind. They were coming straight toward him. The only thing Ferdie was certain about was that none of this could be good for him. A last stare at the blonde. The elevator doors were closing. Ferdie didn’t have to concern himself with her for now. She had just trapped herself. Vallette approached and passed without a glance, but clicked his fingers and pointed for him to follow. Oscar’s and Marcel’s smirks as they passed were not reassuring.
Ferdie was obviously in deep shit, but had no idea why. What was going on? What had happened up in the suite? It had something to do with that blonde, for sure. His knowledge that she was a guest—information no one else had—might help him wriggle off whatever hook he was on. Getting her room number would be easy enough—not for him, of course, a mere chauffeur, but for Monsieur Fournier or, more likely, Vallette.
Ferdie had followed too slowly. The doors of the private elevator were closing as he arrived, and the others didn’t bother to hold it for him. While he waited for it to return, he thought about Bellhop and his pal. Whatever they were whispering about, it seemed urgent. Could it have something to do with his problem?
When the elevator arrived back in the foyer, it was not empty. Three middle-aged men in two-thousand-euro suits scampered out. He wanted to advise them that if they were trying to look like they were leaving some business meeting, they should lose the scared-rabbit faces and not move like there was an angry bear in pursuit, but though the party regulars knew Ferdie well, none of them acknowledged him.
It was even more clear now. Trouble awaited upstairs.
More party gentlemen were hovering when he arrived to the seventh floor and entered the foyer of the suite. No one made eye contact with him, and the place stank of nervous embarrassment. Oscar, who seemed to be managing the evacuation, gestured and three nervous ex-bacchants raced to the elevator. He offered Ferdie a quick pitying look, but said nothing. The interior of the suite itself felt like the aftermath of some flood or natural disaster with the female survivors taking refuge in a safe house. The girls had dressed and were sprawled on the couches, whispering and sniggering.
Caramel Girl was not among them. Where was she?
He was peppered with moany questions.
“Ferdie, at last. What’s happening?”
“Ferdie, you gonna sort this out? When can we go?”
“Ferdie, we’re still getting paid, right?”
The attitude was friendly, which was a relief. He didn’t need a coven of party girls baring their teeth right now. He made appropriate reassuring noises and managed a big smile, but his attention was elsewhere. No sign of Monsieur Fournier, no sign of Vallette, and no sign of Caramel Girl. This was not good.
The master bedroom was the only part of the suite he had not checked. Ferdie stared at the closed door, not sure he wanted to find out what was on the other side. But he had to. He tapped. In just one word, “Yes?,” Vallette’s growl was recognizable. “Ferdinand, sir.” Silence, then the r
elief of Monsieur Fournier’s mellow “Come in, Ferdinand.”
Monsieur Fournier was sitting on the bed fully clothed, bending forward to stare down at his dangling feet; they didn’t quite reach the floor. His hair looked like he’d been scratching his scalp in a frenzy. Vallette stood at the end of the bed, looking at Caramel Girl, who was tied to a chair, gagged with tape. Ferdie wasn’t sure what to feel. It didn’t look like she’d been harmed, at least not in the way he had begun to fear. Nor was there anything like fear in her eyes. They flamed, an emotional cocktail composed of equal parts rage, bile, and contempt.
“You know this girl.” It was not a question. “Monsieur Fournier tells me you brought her here and introduced her. But she did not feature in the dossier. I never saw this face.”
Ferdie knew that if he opened his mouth now he would just tell some stupid lie. So he stayed silent, staring at Vallette, aware that if Vallette bothered to return his gaze, how obvious the terror in his eyes would be.
“I will want to know everything about this girl. You may need a little time to think about this. Take Monsieur Fournier home. Then return immediately.”
Return? To what? Nothing good, for sure. He might have a better chance of survival if he made some sort of plea to both of them. Monsieur Fournier had always been an ally. If he could shift the conversation away from Caramel Girl. The information about the blond American: now was the time to lay that mouse proudly at his master’s feet.
“Yes. Of course. But the other woman. The blond American. You were right about her—”
“I said, take Monsieur Fournier home now—”
“I was at the elevator when she came down. She stamped on me.”
Even as he pointed Ferdie knew it was ludicrous to think that in the circumstances either of these men would have the slightest interest in his foot injury.
“Go. Now!”
Vallette clearly wanted to be left alone with Caramel Girl. Ferdie didn’t have time right now to be too concerned about her. His words came tumbling fast.
“But wait, listen. I followed her. When you passed me in the foyer, I had just seen her use the other elevator. She had a keycard, so she’s a guest. We can find out her room number.”
Ferdie wished he hadn’t said we, that was a mistake, but still, Monsieur Fournier now turned to him, suddenly interested. Even Vallette seemed to be considering. He and Monsieur Fournier eyed each other briefly. Then Monsieur Fournier stood and offered his quiet, sad smile.
“Thank you Ferdinand. Very good.”
Ferdie thought, prayed, that his information had saved him for now.
“So, take me home and return, as Arnaud suggests.”
It hadn’t.
HEART DRUMMING, LANA DOUBLE-LOCKS HER ROOM DOOR AND LEANS against it. She slides to the floor, terrified and laughing. Or at least it’s a spluttering sound that might be laughter. What had just happened was terrifying and . . . thrilling. She breathes deeply, slowly through her nose, trying to get a grip. Could she be in trouble, in danger even? Whatever she’d witnessed in those few seconds on the seventh floor, it was something ugly and secret, for sure. Jesus, what had she just done? The photos—how had she had the presence of mind to grab those shots? Presence of mind? No way. Mad, blind instinct. The elation driving her on. Scary, but intoxicating. She fumbles for the cell phone. Its camera is one of those that takes shots in quick succession and Lana has managed to fire off four. The first shows a section of wall and what might be a bob of silver hair in the bottom of the frame. Annoyed, she clicks to the next: the elevator doors closing and, in the gap between, an outstretched hand. Damn! The third and fourth are just shots of elevator doors almost, then fully, closed.
Useless. The young woman’s panic and distress; the naked man’s aggression; the photos captured nothing of what she saw. Lana recognizes that if she reports the incident she will have to do so without any evidence to back it up. Her brain is a jumble, total gridlock, a tangle of wires. What to do? What time is it? Really hungry now, but isn’t she somehow . . . doesn’t she have to report this thing? Who should she report to? Hotel management? There’s no chance they’ll do anything. Whoever is paying for that suite has to be one of their most valuable clients. What about the police, then? Will they just think she’s a nut job? What about the language difficulty? What would she even say? Once again Lana remembers the whole weird playlet she’d witnessed. Would it be out of order to use the word rape? Was that what it was? Assault for sure. A further doubt now enters her head. If she describes it moment by moment, would she be describing a crime at all? Her instinct says yes, absolutely, in the United States, but is French law the same? The incident was beyond question horrible, ugly, distasteful, and violent, or certainly potentially violent. Is “potentially” enough to bring the police here? It’s probably already too late. The naked man saw her, and his little minion knows how feral her survival instinct is. He’d have limped back to report to his boss, so surely they haven’t just carried on doing . . . whatever? If Lana calls the police, assuming she can even get through to the appropriate person and make herself understood, by the time they could get to the hotel and go up to the suite, there would be nothing to find. Whatever had been going on between the young woman and the naked old guy is surely over by now.
Lana is aware of just how frantically her head is spinning and tries again to control it. She forces herself to stand still for as long as she can—about three seconds—and breathes slowly and deeply. At the heart of this mess, she asks herself, what is the one thing, the only really important thing? She had witnessed, however briefly, what seemed, on the face of it, to have been an act of violence against a young woman. It might also be true that she fervently wishes she hadn’t stepped into that elevator and seen anything, but now she has some kind of duty, responsibility to the young woman, even though Lana had been iced by her earlier at the bar, even though she can’t be certain that the girl is a completely innocent party. Had she known she was going to an orgy, or had she been invited up there on false pretenses, gotten a shock, and tried to leave? Is there some other angle? What was in that purse the naked man seemed so anxious to get a hold of? Had she stolen something? What precisely did those few seconds Lana had witnessed actually mean?
At least by calling the police she’ll have done something. If the young woman makes a complaint, then Lana’s testimony could be important corroboration. What about an anonymous call? Say something dramatic, so the police will have to respond immediately: “A young woman’s life is in danger in the Suite Imperial at the Hotel Le Chevalier. Come quickly.” Could she manage that much in French? Could they trace the call to her room? Is her cell the better option? Lana picks it up several times and throws it down again on the bed. Just make the call, she tells herself, anything is better than pacing around trapped and hungry and stressed out. She forces herself to sit and, as calmly as possible, checks the hotel information book for the emergency number for the police. When the moment comes, the hotel phone seems safer to use for some reason. She gets an outside line and dials. As soon as the French voice comes at her, too fast, too peremptory, she feels panic.
“Ah, gendarmes s’il vous plait.”
Another burst of quick-fire French. Lana doesn’t know exactly what’s being said, but guesses that she is already talking to the police.
“Ah . . . d’accord. Il y a un urgence . . .”
What, what is it she wants to say? The voice at the other end sounds impatient. A woman in danger at Le Chevalier. Suite Imperial. Jesus, just get it out.
“Pardon, je suis dans L’Hotel Chevalier, je suis une étrangère—”
No, already too much information. She’s interrupted again. Would the guy not let her even try to explain? She catches one word, ville. Is he asking her what town?
“Hotel Le Chevalier à Paris. Le premier arrondissement. Une situation terrible . . . violente. Allez vite, vite.”
She sounds like a babbling idiot. This is utterly hopeless. Once again the questions
come at high speed and that’s when Lana hears a loud ring and everything stops in her head. She slams down the phone. Another ring. It’s her cell, of course. The relief when she sees it is only Brian makes her sink to her knees. But of course it’s Brian: who did she think it would be? She’s surprised to realize that she wouldn’t mind hearing his voice right now, but knows it would be crazy to talk to him. Not now. Not until she has achieved some kind of calm.
The call goes to voicemail. She waits a beat, then checks the screen. Three texts: the first, two hours ago, is casual: Me home where U?
The second had followed right after with proper spelling and punctuation, always a definite impatience indicator for Brian: Will you be home soon? Should I go ahead and eat?
Nearly an hour had passed before the third, the tone of which performs a little uneasy dance between annoyance and concern: L hon are you picking up your msgs? what’s happening?
What’s happening? There’s no way she can tell Brian. He’d totally lose it. Which is why a conversation has too many dangers right now. Lana decides on a simple cheerful text. She types rapidly: Hi. Srry, phn off. Ovnite Paris for Hopper Exhibit. See you tmrw.
Lana had barely hauled herself from the floor when the reply comes: WTF!
If that’s his reaction to the fun part, imagine telling him what else has been going on. Another text pops up: You serious?
She answers quickly: Dont worry. All cool. Exhib was transcendent!
Lana knows this won’t be the end of it. Moments later the phone rings, and once again she lets it go to voicemail. It rings again. Then another text arrives.
Where you staying? Did you bring meds? Call me.
The comfort of a familiar voice is so tempting. But she knows any conversation would become a sinkhole because no way would Brian leave it at, “Enjoy yourself, honey, see you tomorrow!” He’d keep pushing and pushing and they’d argue and inevitably she’d let something slip and make things worse. But another voice keeps prodding: isn’t it only fair to reassure him, at least tell him she’s brought her meds? Okay, so she hasn’t taken her dose yet, but she has them, by her side, waiting. So Brian can relax. She taps out another message: Have meds. Hopper sooo great. It’s all good, honeybabe. Relax.
What She Saw Page 4
