More Bitter Than Death (27 page)

“Emma! Haven’t seen you all weekend!” He gave me a big kiss on the cheek. “Every time I see you, your hair gets shorter. You look completely different, really great.”

I didn’t ask if that meant he thought I didn’t look great before; I knew what he meant. “Oh, it’s not so big a change.”

“Sure it is. Short, jazzy hair. All buffed out.”

“It’s
not
that different.”

“See? Even standing up for yourself more.”

“I did before,” I said, a little more forcefully. I guess I was tired, no surprise.

“What did I tell you?”

“Huh. I still don’t think I’m all that different. Maybe it’s tenure. Maybe all the racing around has made me a little tougher.”

Mickey shook his head. “Don’t think so. This is more recent.”

“Whatever.” Just let it go, man.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s damn sexy, when you think about it.”

I looked at him sideways. “Jeez, tell me that wasn’t a pass.”

He cocked his head. “Well, it could be. Would that be so bad?”

“We’re friends. I like that a lot. I don’t go in for the other stuff.”

“Wouldn’t friendly sex be better than the alternative?”

“It’s just not an option. You’re a friend, and so I’m going to forget this conversation ever took place.”

“See what I mean?” He nodded, satisfied he was right. “Year or two ago, you would have stammered, then run away.”

“Whatever. My answer still would have been no, thank you.”

As I turned to walk away, he called after me, “Just like I said. Different. No more bullshit.”

“What the hell is going on here?” I muttered.

“The world is going crazy, of course,” Laurel said, appearing at my side. She had a glass of wine in her hand and was brushing the crumbs off her black turtleneck. “You didn’t miss much of a meal.”

“You noticed I wasn’t here?”

“Everyone did. Walk and talk with me, Em. I need to get up to my room, for a moment.”

Laurel’s room was nicer than mine, of course, a corner room with a great view out onto the forested area around the lake. Her heat worked. She had a work area with an extra desk. And that wasn’t all that she had. As soon as she walked into the room, she hit a switch on a small, technical-looking cube in black matte and silver plastic; clear music came out. It was jazz; not one of my favorite genres, but it changed the whole feel of the space.

She plugged in her phone and PDA. “First things first,” she said. “Ever notice that where once it was animals you had to feed and bed down at the end of the day, now it’s the electronics you have to attend to?”

Laurel then brought a small leather travel case, just smaller than a shoebox, into the bathroom with her. Candles were on the nightstand, and I thought about the pretty light they would have cast lit, in the dark with the snow outside. She also had a small refrigerator; she pulled a bottle from it and returned to the bathroom.

“Okay, now I know you didn’t get that into carryon,” I said.

“Pardon?” she called back to me.

“How come you got a fridge?”

“I asked for it. You can usually rent them cheap. Makes life easier.”

Life? At a conference? “The music and candles too?”

“Oh. You never know who you’re going to run into.”

She was teasing—she and Emily had been together for ages—but it struck me that Laurel worked hard at maintaining her quality of life. “So how come you didn’t go to Chicago last year? For the nationals?”

“Didn’t feel like it.” She returned with a martini glass.

“No, really. And where’d you get the glass?”

“I brought it with me, nice little travel kit. I’d offer you one, but I didn’t think you liked vodka. I could do you up a cosmo, if you like. There’s cranberry in the fridge.”

“No thanks. I already had some wine with dinner, and I’m beat.”

“Suit yourself. I happen to believe that martinis are the new tea parties. Rather than balancing hot tea in fragile porcelain cups to show how poised and knowledgeable you are about social rituals, now you have to be able to stand, talk, and not slosh your drink. You have to show you can hold your liquor, literally and figuratively.”

“Interesting,” I said, and I thought of Jay spilling her drink. I was still waiting for her answer.

She shrugged. “And as for Chicago, there’s no point in running up your Visa bill and risking athlete’s foot at a second-rate hotel, if you’re not also going to get a kick out of it. I’d just been to Chicago for another gig, and since I wasn’t giving a paper, and there was no one I wanted to meet, I blew it off. I personally am in it for the intellectual thrills, and it makes it tough if you are the most interesting person there.”

I made a snooty face at her, and she shrugged. “I’m getting too old for posturing, Emma. I can’t be bothered and it wastes my time. I fix up my room the way I like because I see no harm in traveling comfortably.”

She mixed up her drink, and as she did so, she said, “Those cuts on your hand and face look nasty. You clean them up good?”

“Yep.”

“You should be caught up on your tetanus shots anyway, working in the field like you do.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She sat back on the bed with her drink, no trace of anger on her face. “You can be pissy if you want, Em, be my guest. But the sooner you get used to me helping you, the better company you’ll be for me too.”

“Sorry. I’m just fed up. Everyone is strange, what with the thing with Garrison and everything.”

“Everyone is strange.” It could have been agreement on a question.

“Either they’re exactly the same as they’ve always been or they’re totally different. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m irritated with everyone.”

“Your own experiences are probably coloring that.”

“Whatever. The thing with Garrison, I don’t know. I’m worried. I’m worried about who might have been out there today. Shooting at me.” I explained the day’s events to her; she took it all in without a word.

Laurel looked thoughtful. “Huh. Who didn’t you see, when you came into the banquet?”

“I didn’t see Sue. I didn’t see Brad. I didn’t see Scott. I didn’t see you, at first.”

“And yet here you are, telling me all about it.” Laurel was looking out the window now, her face momentarily obscured by her glass. “Why is that?”

“Uh.” I thought about it. “You were in dry clothes; your face wasn’t red or anything, from exertion and cold. And people would have missed you, if you hadn’t been at the center of the party.”

“Interesting.” She set her glass down. “The thing you need
to worry about now, Emma, telling the wrong things to the wrong people. I don’t know if you realize that you won’t necessarily be able to speak to people the same way again, if indeed, they’ll feel comfortable with you at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I say. People might find your choices ghoulish. They might decide that they trust you as a friend, but as a cop—”

I shook my head violently. “I’m not going to be a cop. Far from it—”

“They’ll see you as right next door and they might decide that they have things they don’t want that close to the law. Or they might just think you’ve flipped your wig.” She picked up her glass, sipped her drink, and made an approving face.

“It’s not as bad as that.”

“People don’t like change. You’re leaving the fold—in their eyes, even if not in fact—you’re throwing their decisions to stay in their faces. You’ve got the brass ring, what with tenure and all, and you seem to be saying it’s not enough. It’s not appreciated.”

“It has nothing to do with anyone else.”

“And yet, see how you bridled when I told you I didn’t bother with conferences that didn’t interest me. Same thing.”

“Laurel?”

“Yes, Emma?”

“I’d like that drink now, if you don’t mind.”

A
N HOUR LATER
, I
WAS DRAGGING MYSELF TO MY
room, worn to a frazzle. The hallway was deserted, and as I fit my key into the door, I felt as though I couldn’t get into bed fast enough. The thought that the cops were still bustling down in the lobby made me very happy indeed. The knob turned readily enough, and I stepped just inside, stooping to pick up the fallen room-service request. Then I felt a tremendous blow on my back, and it sent me sprawling forward.

As I hit the floor, the light from the hallway went out. The door to my room swung shut on its security hinge, and I was engulfed in darkness.

I wasn’t alone. I could hear heavy breathing behind me, and I shook off my denial that I’d been attacked: No, it wasn’t an accident, no, I wasn’t dreaming, no, it wasn’t Nolan at the gym. I’d been attacked, and whoever it was had followed me into my room. This was for real, and if I didn’t move fast…

I rolled over as soon as I hit the carpet, bringing my foot up to kick whatever got near me. My head was right at the
foot of the bed, so I’d have to shift before I could get to my feet. I couldn’t see anything but blurred shadows—the snow stuck to the window helped block out some of the light from the outside—but I could follow motion pretty well. My attacker moved toward me, lunged, and I kicked out, catching a leg, just above the knee, by the feel of it. I was rewarded with a muffled exclamation inspired by pain and surprise. My shoe got snagged in the trouser fabric and was pulled off as he—it was a man, from the size of him—backed away. I kicked off the other shoe, scootched over, and got up—nice, clean, and technical, swinging my leg around my hand, which was firmly planted on the floor—just in time to realize that my opponent was swinging at the left side of my head.

I muffed the block—I didn’t bring my arm up fast enough—and got caught on the cheekbone with his fist.

Several things happened then.

The blow hurt like hell, but not as badly as I’d feared. I’d had my head tucked behind my shoulder, too. My assailant was wearing gloves.

I took the punch and kept going, loading up my counter. I launched a sweet right cross and caught him square on the side of the head. I felt skin give. If I could have seen better, I might have landed it right on the nose, but was pleased as, well, punch, to land anything at all. I heard another curse, and he backed off a step.

At the same time, I realized that not only was I not hurt so much as I was mad—and I was truly pissed—but also that the guy wasn’t expecting me to fight back. And I was fighting, I understood, with a shock. I had actually blocked a punch, against someone who meant to hurt me. He wasn’t even very good at this, and if I could keep my act together for a few minutes—

He was still between me and the doorway, and with the back of my legs brushing the bedspread, I had no choice but to follow up, bring the fight to him.

He threw another wild roundhouse, and I slipped it. I tried a quick jab, but he was out of range, so I hauled back and let loose with a front kick that connected solidly with his stomach.

With nothing but nylon stockings on my feet, I lost my purchase on the carpeting as I connected with him, and I hit the ground. He went back, hard, slamming into the door, making a sick wheezing sound.

The noise of him hitting the door brought an angry protest and knocking on the wall from the occupant of the room next to mine. This reminded me that there were other people nearby, and as I was getting up again, I did what I should have done in the first place.

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 maybe.”

“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 indica
tion 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—”