by Wendy Devore
A dramatic golden chandelier sparkled above, casting a warm glow on the marble floor and ebony pillars of the imposing space. The fine antique table standing in the center of the room supported a three-foot high floral arrangement. Enormous potted palms and other tropical greenery were clustered throughout the expanse.
I kept my eyes trained on the door, certain the officer would follow us in. A minute passed but no law enforcement appeared.
I realized I was still clutching Andrew’s arm, and I quickly released my grip, staring strategically at my shoes.
Andrew cleared his throat. “We need a place to stay the night, and a meal would be stellar.”
“Can we afford this?” I asked nervously, eyes flicking upward to the chandelier.
“We’ll be fine.”
“Sleeping in an actual bed does sound pretty appealing,” I conceded. “How much money did you…borrow?”
“I cleaned out the earthquake survival kit. Our hosts are great planners. They were very well prepared.”
“Not anymore,” I mumbled.
I waited in an uncomfortably high-backed black leather chair tucked behind the flora while Andrew approached the front desk. He talked to the receptionist for a long time. I noticed that she gave Andrew a sly smile, and she lingered rather longer than necessary as she carefully placed a room key in his hand.
“Only one room left at the inn,” he announced, dangling a large brass key. He must have noticed my pained expression. “Don’t worry. Two beds.”
“Can we just get out of here?” I asked, scanning the lobby for the umpteenth time. “What if the authorities show up?”
“Worrywart,” he chided as he advanced toward the elevators.
We rode to the fifth floor and trudged down an empty hallway for what seemed like a mile. Apparently our room was in Timbuktu.
The room was easily three times the size of my bedroom in our dinky apartment and contained the promised two double beds, each topped with a smooth, white cotton coverlet, aligned with geometric precision. The stack of luxurious plush pillows was a welcome sight. Two leather-upholstered chairs with curved backs finished in the same glossy mahogany wood as the headboards flanked a small mahogany table. A large painting of calla lilies, almost luminous in its vibrant use of colors, graced the wall. A cursory glance revealed no television and no telephone anywhere in the room.
It felt immensely strange to have nothing to set down or put away. I sat in one of the curved leather chairs and picked at the cuticle on my thumb. Somehow sharing this room with Andrew felt even more intimate than the close quarters of the tent. Despite my almost visceral longing to lay my head on the cloud of pillows, I was dreading bedtime.
“Do you think it’s safe to go home yet?”
Andrew shook his head. “We should stay the duration. We’ll exit tomorrow evening.” Twenty-four hours left. Then I’d have to… I forced myself not to think about that.
“What do we do for the next twenty-four hours?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and digging my toes into the high loft of the cream-and-coffee patterned rug.
“Room service is on its way. I asked for something quick; she promised sandwiches.” Andrew kicked off his loafers and settled back on the bed nearest to me, leaving me perched awkwardly on my chair. “But we’re only here until morning. After tonight, we’re cleaned out of cash.”
“So, we do…what? More breaking and entering? For all we know, we’re wanted fugitives.”
Andrew rubbed his eyes, the first sign of fatigue I’d noticed. His response was terse. “Don’t worry, Kathryn, I’ll take care of it.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, shrinking into my chair.
He opened his eyes and turned to me, silent for a long minute. I felt myself shrivel even farther under his intense gaze.
“No, I’m sorry,” he sighed, sitting up on the edge of the bed facing me. “I didn’t mean to be short with you.”
I shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I’m exhausted, too.”
He sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his hands, which brought him still closer to me.
“I asked the receptionist to locate my mother. Unfortunately, just like in every other reality, she’s still…gone.”
He looked so defeated—and vulnerable. “I’m really sorry,” I offered, knowing that this tired phrase never offered any consolation. I was racking my brain to come up with a sensitive reply—how does one conversationally ask the boss about his deceased mother while traipsing about in alternate realities? The etiquette was far from clear. I looked away and tried to think of a useful segue to a less awkward topic.
The knock on the door saved me, but it also caused an instant transformation, like a switch had been thrown in his head. Andrew sprang from the bed and shed his melancholy as if it were a worn sweater. He exchanged light and pleasant banter with the staff, received the tray, and tipped generously.
Andrew uncovered the plates. “Ham and Gruyère panini or prosciutto and artichoke?”
“Gruyère? Sounds fancy.”
Andrew looked at me like I was a total cretin. “Swiss cheese.”
I reached for the plate. “Hook me up.”
Our exile inside the hotel had one upside—it left me plenty of time to meditate. I settled myself onto the thick plush carpet and stretched my stiff legs into a half-lotus, modestly tucking my skirt over my knees.
“Why don’t you teach me?” Andrew suggested, dropping to the floor.
“What? How to sit in half-lotus?”
His attempt to draw his feet into his lap was tragically comical.
“No, Kathryn, teach me how to meditate.”
I shot him a keen stare; was he mocking my practice? He seemed to sense my reluctance.
“No, really, I mean it. Enlighten me.”
“You know that’s not how it works, right?”
He cringed as he yanked his foot in a desperate attempt to contort his body into the shape I found so comforting.
“Just stop it right now. Watching you do that is hurting me.” I laughed. “Sit comfortably. Take a deep breath.”
He rearranged himself and inhaled—held his breath—exhaled.
“Now just breathe normally. And instead of thinking, let your monkey brain settle. Focus all of your concentration on the sensation of your breath—at your nostrils. In your chest. Feel your belly as it rises and falls. And then when you get distracted, do it all over again.”
“That’s it?” he scoffed.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” I warned him, closing my eyes and relaxing, sinking, feeling my connection to the carpet, to the earth.
“Piece of cake,” he mumbled.
I shook my head. Piece of cake, indeed.
Chapter 24
Kate
September 30
I kneel on the edge of a wooden platform, splinters digging into my bare knees. Six feet below the platform looms a steel cargo bin, its walls rusted and pockmarked. The pit is easily eight feet wide and fifteen feet long, and it’s filled with a jumble of old clothes. As my eyes adjust in the dim light thrown by a nearby flaming torch, I gasp. Among the discarded clothing is a foot. A human foot. Then I see a hand. A forearm. This is not a pile of clothing. It’s a pile of bodies.
I gasp and try to stand; my wrists are bound behind me, and the instant I begin to rise, rough hands force me back to the ground. My head pitches forward; I’m in danger of falling into the pit. I regain my balance just in time.
I am at the end of a row of six women, in torn clothing, their hair ragged. The woman beside me weeps silently; I see the stream of tears carving a pathway through the grime on her cheeks. Her face may once have been pretty, but now it is dangerously thin; deep hollows carved below her cheekbones. Her brown eyes are lifeless and sunken. She shivers in the darkness, and I do, too. All of the women are underdressed. It’s cold out here, in the night.
I swivel my head, and for the first time, I see them: men in olive-drab trench coa
ts with matching insignia are holding guns. The soldier at the end of the row raises a rifle and aims it at the woman farthest from me. There is a sharp click as he chambers his round, and he takes aim, though there is no chance he will miss at this range. A moment later, the firearm discharges, a deafening roar that echoes through the night. The reverberation of that shot seems like it might never end. My ears begin to ring, a sharp note that permeates my brain. The smell of the gunpowder is acrid and sour. The woman hovers for a moment, then pitches forward onto the top of the heap.
My shoulders clench and I begin to tremble. The guard behind me senses my terror and shoves his foot against my back to hold me in place. My stomach contracts and I swallow hard to keep from retching.
The soldier with the gun moves efficiently down the line, executing each woman with clockwork precision. Click. Pause. Fire. Click. Pause. Fire. When he reaches the woman beside me, she releases an animal keen and, with more speed than I expect, rises to her feet. Before she can turn to face her executioner, she is dead. She falls to the heap below with a thud, and a rank and pungent smell rises from the pile—putrid and with a tinge of sickening sweetness.
I am hyperventilating now, knowing that the soldier stands behind me. I hear the click as the round is chambered, and my psyche cracks wide open. My vision narrows to a tiny point of light. I hear myself release a shrill and earsplitting scream.
“Kathryn, wake up!” he insisted. He held me as I doubled over, my throat raw. I took a ragged, gasping breath; the stink of death still filled my lungs. And then suddenly I was hit full-force with the comforting scent of fresh laundered linen, and of him. My body trembled and my stomach lurched dangerously. The room was completely dark, and for a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was.
The room’s heating unit clicked, and I flinched and began to tremble. I could feel the press of the rifle at the back of my head. That smell coming off the gun—sulfur with a hint of ammonia—burned my nostrils and my throat constricted.
“Please don’t shoot me,” I whimpered, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t want to die.”
Strong arms wrapped around my quaking shoulders, and the sensation of cold metal on flesh evaporated.
“Andrew?” I whispered hoarsely.
“You were screaming,” he murmured, smoothing my hair. “And you’re hyperventilating. Breathe slowly, from your diaphragm.” He cradled my head against his shoulder. I could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest and feel the warmth of his skin. “What happened?”
In a moment, I was instantly jolted to full awareness. I had gone to bed in my underwear to preserve my single wearable set of clothing, and apparently, he had made the same choice. I pulled away, forcing my breath to calm.
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered, wiping tears from my cheeks. “It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s just a nightmare. For me, at least. Someone else’s atrocious reality. It’s over now.”
“My God, Kathryn,” he whispered, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “I had no idea.”
“The meditation should have prevented this. It must be the stress…” My body had gone cold under a thin sheen of sweat, but the skin beneath his hand was on fire. I said a silent prayer of thanks for the darkness. At least he couldn’t see the mad flush of my cheeks.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, rubbing my temples.
“You’re not fine. I think you’re suffering from PTSD.”
I shifted a hand to the base of my skull and pushed, hard. Despite the darkness, the aura was already faintly visible in my peripheral vision.
“You’re about to get an enormous migraine, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be fine,” I reiterated.
His voice was low and measured. “We don’t have access to any meds, but there is evidence that therapeutic massage can prevent migraines.”
“No, thanks,” I replied miserably, pulling the sheets tighter around my shivering body.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, moving closer. “Don’t be a baby. I’m a physician, remember?”
I could feel his warm hand as it pressed on my left shoulder. He began kneading the muscle. It was excruciating.
“Ouch!” I whined.
“Sorry,” he muttered, decreasing the pressure. He worked the muscle slowly, gently increasing the pressure, until I felt the tension begin to release. Incredibly, the aura began to fade.
“I’m moving to your right shoulder,” he announced. He ran his hands lightly over my shoulders, then I felt a distinct pop as my bra was unfastened.
“Hey!” I objected as he brushed the straps from my shoulders. I instinctively clutched the garment to my chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Haven’t you ever had a massage before? It doesn’t work through elastic.”
He rested his hands on my shoulders and began to dig in. The pain was nearly unbearable. But then I was faced with a new distraction—I was exquisitely aware that for all practical purposes, I was nearly naked in bed with a man who was also nearly naked. Massaging me. I struggled to banish the thought from my mind.
“Relax!” he demanded.
“Be nice,” I winced.
“Nice won’t prevent your migraine.”
I tried to soften my shoulders as he pressed his forearm along the muscle covering my shoulder blade. I hung my head forward, closed my eyes, and took deep, calming breaths. Then he hit a knot near the edge of my right shoulder blade that caused an audible crunch in my muscle and an explosion of white stars behind my eyelids. For a moment, the pain was piercing, but then it passed. Inexplicably, I found new tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Kathryn, are you okay?” he asked, continuing to probe the spot.
I felt the tension in my shoulder dissipate, only to find my body racked with unexplainable spasms of emotion.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I blubbered.
“Just relax. You’re under incredible pressure, and you’re traumatized. It’s not uncommon to experience an emotional catharsis during massage,” he suggested, sounding precisely like a doctor calming his hysterical patient.
“This is so embarrassing,” I sobbed, trying unsuccessfully to pull away. “There is nothing about me that you don’t know, and now you’re watching me have a nervous breakdown.”
Instead of releasing me, Andrew wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me close in a kind of reverse embrace.
“It’s because I know everything about you that I’m here,” he whispered.
This only made the waterworks worse.
“Kathryn, you can’t fall apart right now, or we’re in danger of exiting this slice. Lives still depend on us. Concentrate on my words,” he instructed calmly, holding me so closely I could feel the vibration of his voice as it rumbled in his chest. “And breathe.”
My heart beat fiercely as I struggled to inhale while I wept.
“Trapezius. Subclavius. Subcapularis coracobrachialis.”
“Are you reciting anatomy?” I sniffed, trying to rub away the tears. My hand came away wet with salt and snot.
“Shhh. Breathe. I’m a doctor, remember? We go with what we know. Try to concentrate. Brachioradialis. Iliopsoas. Latissimus dorsi.”
As I listened to nonsensical medical jargon, cradled securely in the arms of a man I’d met just a week before and who was technically my boss, the absurdity of the situation finally overwhelmed me. I let go of everything, and listened, and sobbed, and let this insane situation be whatever it wanted to be. I relinquished any notion that I was in control of anything and allowed myself to be held until I finally fell into an exhausted slumber.
I could sense the first light of day through my stubbornly closed eyelids, my groggy brain struggling toward consciousness through layers of weighty cotton. I desperately wanted more sleep, but I was intensely irritated by the firm, lumpy pillow.
My eyes snapped open when I realized that the lumpy pillow was Andrew.
He lifted a lock of hair that ha
d fallen across my face and tucked it behind my ear.
“Hi,” he murmured, his sleepy voice deep and languid.
“What…” I began. “No, wait. Why am I—in bed with you?”
“Relax, Kathryn, nothing happened.”
I peered up through my eyelashes and caught his captivating smile. It all came rushing back to me—the nightmare, the screaming…the massage.
I leaped out of bed as if I’d been stabbed with a red-hot poker.
“Bathroom!” I cried, snatching up my skirt and blouse and doing my best to cover up as I stumbled to the safety of the en suite. I turned on the shower, left the water cold, and climbed in. I’ll admit it was not one of my shorter showers. But in the end, I felt much more composed.
I emerged to find Andrew already dressed. He gestured to a cart stacked with covered plates.
“Breakfast is here, but be quick. We don’t have much time.”
“Oh?”
I lifted the lid from a plate of rapidly congealing eggs. My stomach rumbled as the aroma hit me full force.
“I had the front desk locate me.”
It took a moment for that statement to sink in.
“Oh, you mean the you that belongs to this slice. Wait, wasn’t that weird, asking a clerk to look you up?” I asked as I eagerly shoveled a forkful of eggs into my mouth.
There it was again—that piercing stare that always made me feel daft.
“I’m not an idiot—I didn’t register with my real name. I registered with the Norwegian driver’s license. This hotel knows us as Mr. and Mrs. Lars Jørgensen.”
“Mr. and Mrs.?” I choked on my eggs.
Andrew smirked and handed me a napkin.
“The desk clerk was very, very sorry she could not offer me a room with a king bed. Especially in light of the fact that we are newlyweds.”
I felt no need to further explore this topic. “So, you exist,” I prompted. “And?”