I got up and dragged myself into the kitchen to make a pot of hot tea. John followed. “I talked with Tom today,” he said. “He’s worked out an agreement with Jason. You’ll need to keep in touch with him while I’m gone.”
I pressed John for more details, but got none. I told myself I had to be satisfied that Jason would finally be honoring his commitment. In six months, with Jason’s payment and the government salary, we would be almost completely debt free, and that prospect made me ecstatic, but not any less tired. The tea was ready, and I poured two cups.
“Bring your tea and come upstairs,” John said. “I want you to show me how to use the computer.”
“What? We’ve had it over two years and you haven’t shown an interest before.”
“It won’t take long for you to show me the basics,” he pleaded.
“Why bother? You’re leaving for six months. I’ll show you when you come back.”
“I may need to use a computer in Egypt.”
I continued to protest. I was too tired and we still had too much to do before we left on Sunday. John was relentless. Reluctantly, I agreed to start teaching him, but only for an hour. I didn’t have any more spare time than that. After twenty minutes, I realized John was not a quick study. Even with the shortcut index cards I wrote out for him, he floundered. It was going to take more than this evening to show him the ropes. I was agitated at having been put upon at the last minute. He apologized and let his lessons drop.
“Come into the guest bedroom,” John said. “I’ve been working on the billings for Westinghouse. I figure they owe us about eighty thousand dollars, and I’ll have to take them to court to get it.” I trudged down the hall after him. I got a shock when I saw the bed; it was covered with piles and piles of papers. He walked over, picked one up, and handed it to me, explaining that each pile was a separate billing and would become a separate small claims court case.
“I want you to move on these while I’m gone,” he said.
“You’re crazy. I don’t know anything about them. Put them in a file box and proceed when you get back.” I turned and left the room, unable to take it anymore. I was at my wit’s end. It was too much to handle at this late date, and I couldn’t fathom why he was insisting on things that made no sense, like learning the computer and going to small claims court. I went downstairs and dialed my mother to let her know how the visit with Grandpa Jonas had gone.
My spirits needed a lift, and talking to someone about the Egyptian antiquities I was going to see excited me. My mother seemed surprised that the trip was still on. “I thought John’s health precluded him from going,” she said. “That’s what he told me when he stopped by here a couple of days ago.”
“You must be mistaken, Mom. We’re starting to pack tonight. Hold on, I’ll get John on the line.”
I used the intercom and asked John to pick up the phone. I listened as he told her she must not have understood him correctly. Despite her protests, John insisted the trip was definitely a go. Lift-off would be on Sunday morning.
The following Tuesday we should have been in Egypt, but we weren’t. We were still at the San Francisco Airport Hilton Hotel in a room we couldn’t afford, with six bags of luggage. Our discussion was heated.
“This is the third day, John. Where the hell is Berger?” I screamed. “I’m about to go mad. This is the most God-awful saga. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’ll call Berger,” John yelled back, his face fiery red. “I’m just as frustrated as you are.”
The adventure started on Saturday evening, when we checked into the Hilton so we could use the complimentary shuttle to the terminal for our early flight and leave the car at the hotel until I got back. It was John’s suggestion.
The first part of our plan worked out. The next part didn’t. On Sunday, we waited in the American Airlines terminal for Berger to appear with the tickets and passports. He never came, and we had missed our flight. We hung around for more than six hours, and still no Berger. I was confused, angry, and troubled.
Finally, John left me with the luggage and walked across the lobby to a pay phone to call Berger. When he returned he told me that Berger had apologized profusely. The documents were delayed in arriving. The plan had been changed; we were to fly out on Monday. John talked me into spending another night at the Hilton.
The Monday plan hadn’t worked either. Again, no appearance by Berger, and we missed our flight. I was appalled. This time John returned from his phone call and said there was something political going on. He had to go into the city to sort it out. I almost cried. We dragged our bags back onto the shuttle, and at the hotel had the bellhops put them in our car.
At the federal building in San Francisco, John told me to stay with the car in the nearby parking lot, because of the luggage. When he emerged he said everything had been fixed, but because of some last-minute paperwork, Berger would not be able to deliver the tickets and passports until the next morning at the airport.
To appease me, we played tourist at the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park. The serenity and quiet of the gardens relaxed me. John surprised me by asking how to use the new Sony movie camera. He wasn’t into taking pictures. Afterward, John talked me into staying at the Airport Hilton again.
When we returned from the airport and were allowed back in our room, I let John have it. He told me to shut up and reached for the phone. He turned his back to me and shielded the phone. I heard him dial, then carry on a rapid conversation. He slammed the receiver down and turned back toward me. “That bastard, Berger, is trying to nix me from the team. He wants to replace me with one of his cronies. He’s stalling until it will be too late for me to go.”
I collapsed onto the bed, distraught, and my eyes swollen with tears. Not now, Barbara, I thought. Pull yourself together. Think. What can we do? Then it came to me. “Why don’t you call Admiral Lee in Washington? He’s in charge. Tell him what’s going on.”
“Good idea,” John said. Soon he was engrossed in an animated conversation. I sat on the other bed. All I could see was John’s back; the phone was hidden from my view. John thanked the admiral and hung up.
“You were right,” he beamed. “Admiral Lee wants us to come to Washington, and he’ll take care of the whole thing. Berger’s ass is in big trouble. The admiral’s going to get us the tickets for Cairo, and he’ll pull rank to get us our passports.”
“Must be part of the good-old-boy network,” I said, elated that my plan had worked.
“But there’s one thing,” John said.
I felt my heart flutter and drop to the bottom of my rib cage. “What?”
“Don’t be sad. It’s not much. We have to buy our own tickets to Washington for tomorrow. The admiral will reimburse us.”
“Can’t. Our Citibank card is near the limit.”
“That’s okay. I got a new card in the mail before we left. It has a ten-thousand-dollar limit.” John pulled the American Airlines schedule from his briefcase and flipped through it. “There’s a plane today at two-oh-five this afternoon. I’ll call and get us on it.”
I went to the bathroom. When I returned, John seemed sad. “We can’t get out until tomorrow, but I have the flight booked and paid for.”
“Well, we can’t afford another night here,” I insisted.
We were drowning financially just to get out of town. What a helluva vacation this was turning out to be! We had two choices... return home and disturb the housesitter and cats, or go to Marie and Mark Passini’s and visit with the dogs for the night. We chose the latter. We were lucky when Marie graciously agreed.
The next morning, when we were ready to leave for the airport, I couldn’t find our car keys. Four frantic adults searched the house. I didn’t think I had put them in John’s briefcase, but when I saw it lying on the kitchen breakfast bar, I figured it was worth a peek. Time was definitely not on our side. I clicked the latches, opened the case, and found, not the keys, but the same amber bottle of ether I
had discovered in Indiana, still unmarked. I was furious.
“John, I told you not to bring a lethal substance on the airplane. You don’t need this in Egypt. A good cortisone cream will help you more.”
“But the doc said...”
“I don’t care what the doctor said. You don’t need it.”
“I won’t be able to get more in Egypt.”
I glared at him. “You don’t need it,” I said through clenched teeth.
I removed the amber bottle and set it on the kitchen counter. “Marie, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave this here and pick it up when I come to get the dogs.”
“No problem,” she said.
We continued looking for the keys. I decided to check my purse once more, and to my chagrin I found them nestled in the bottom. John and I pulled away from the curb, our six bags of luggage secure in the trunk. Marie and Mark stood in the driveway, the golden retrievers at their side, and waved. When they went back into the house, Marie decided to move the bottle of ether from the counter to the guest bathroom. She couldn’t find it. The bottle had disappeared. In the final flurry to find the car keys, John had secretly slipped the bottle back into his briefcase.
TWENTY
The Attack
Two days later I walked into the coffee shop of the Key Bridge Marriott in Arlington, Virginia, and joined John at his table. He had already ordered. The waitress gave me a menu, and I quickly chose the waffles and sausage. She left, and I glared at John. “If we don’t meet with the admiral this morning,” I said, “I’m getting on the next plane home. I don’t care what time it leaves. I don’t care what you do. I’ve had it.”
“We’ll meet with him. I promise. He said to be at his office promptly at nine, so we can’t dawdle.”
“Meet with him, huh? Like yesterday, on Valentine’s Day?”
“Look, it wasn’t...”
“Don’t bother. I’m sick of the excuses.”
We had chased around from Fort Meade to the Goddard Space Center to the Annapolis officers’ club, in the rain, and never caught up with Admiral Lee. The day was chaotic, confusion reigned, and I had tired of the harried itinerary. With each failed meeting John had apologized profusely. It was his fault. None of it appeased me, and we ended back in the bar at the top of the Marriott, where I cried my heart out.
“I’m frustrated, John,” I said in a low voice, “not only over the events of the past week, but also from the disorientation of the past two days. I’m in total anguish.”
The waitress approached and I stopped talking. She dropped off John’s ham and eggs, then came back and filled our coffee cups, regular for John, decaf for me. My heart didn’t need any extra stimulation this morning.
“Did you hear the TV news this morning?” John asked, stuffing a bite of yolk-soaked ham in his mouth. “The Gulf War may have ended and that might affect my assignment. Maybe that’s why the admiral ignored me . . . the project is canceled.”
“You said your mission had nothing to do with the Gulf War. Are you backpedaling?”
“Trying to figure out what’s happened, that’s all. We’ll see the admiral in an hour and be on our way to Egypt this afternoon.” He took a big swig of his coffee and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“At this point I don’t give a damn. I’m tired of running all over with six suitcases. I’ve used up a week of vacation for what? A wild-goose chase across the country! What the hell is going on?”
I took a sip of my coffee, stared out the window, and listened to the rhythm of the raindrops hitting the solarium glass. When the waitress delivered my breakfast, I came out of my trance and cut into my waffle. I needed something to squelch my uneasiness. John looked at his wristwatch. “I’m glad you talked me into wearing my old Timex,” he said. “It would have been foolish to take my Rolex.”
“Compliments aren’t going to appease me. Only meeting the admiral and leaving for Cairo will do that.”
John finished his breakfast, stood up, and said he would get the parking ticket validated at the front desk and meet me back at the room. I nodded. “Remember, John, if we don’t meet with Admiral Lee, I’m going home. I’m not wasting any more vacation on this nonsense.”
Five minutes later I pushed my plate away, paid the bill, and negotiated the labyrinth of hallways and sets of double doors to get to our room. I remembered what the night clerk had said when we checked in . . . he had arranged a quiet room for us on the ground floor back near the parking garage. Our room was definitely out of the way, all right. When the garage appeared, I turned to the left, pushed on one of two solid doors, and entered a small foyer with access to four rooms. I crossed over to our door and saw it was ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
My nose wrinkled and I coughed. The pungent fumes of ether assailed me. I followed the smell to the bathroom, where John stood near the toilet with a befuddled look on his face. I released the door. It shut, but didn’t latch. “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.
“I’m putting the ether on my abrasion, like the doc said.”
“Come out of there or you’re going to get sick.”
Even as acrid fumes hung in the air, my mind ignored the fact that we had left the bottle of ether on Marie’s counter in California. I was angry and confused and focused on the meeting with the admiral.
I continued on into the bedroom, grabbed my gray raincoat from the bed, and was on the last button when John dragged himself into the room. “What now?” I said grimly. “You’re not going to feel good so we can’t go the meeting?”
John bent and moaned, then shuffled closer to me. “Help me,” he pleaded. I shrugged, stepped over to the blaring television, and turned it off. “Help you? Like hell!” Angry words spewed out of my mouth. “The last time I helped you I went down twelve stairs. I’m not going to let you make me fall again. You’re acting sick just as you did when we were supposed to go to your seminar. Is this going to be today’s excuse for not meeting the admiral?”
“Help me.”
“This falls right in line with all the lame excuses this week and your secretive behavior, whispering into phones. I’ve had it, John. If we don’t meet with the admiral, I’m flying home today no matter what.”
John turned and limped around the divider to the dressing area and sink. I followed. He was now back in the bathroom and standing once more by the toilet. I stormed in after him.
“If you don’t come out of here right now, you’ll pass out on the tile floor.”
“Help me.”
“Go ahead, you son of a bitch. Fall. I’m not going to stop you, and I’m not going to call for help.” I turned to leave. Fingers dug into my left shoulder as John spun me around. “Help me,” John croaked.
His right arm flung around my shoulders and pushed me into his chest. My eyes widened. An ether-soaked washrag propelled toward my nose and mouth. I was scared. Adrenaline surged through my body, and my survival instinct kicked into full gear as I jerked my head back and forth. My thoughts raced. Make a moving target. Ether can kill. Think fast. Don’t open mouth. Don’t let rag stay on face. Don’t breathe or you won’t leave this room alive.
I wiggled and twisted, struggling to get out of his grip, but I couldn’t. Think, Barbara, think. Handicap bar on bathtub wall. Grab it! I held on to the bar with both hands and created enough leverage to partially extricate myself from his bear hug. My left shoe came off. Fingers tightened around my left wrist. I thrashed about as the rag neared my face once more.
Must get out. Get to door. Desperate, I grabbed at the doorjamb with my free hand and pulled myself into the dressing area, right along with John. Keep mouth shut. Move head back and forth, up and down. Don’t stop. Oh my God, I’m going to die in a hotel room in Virginia. My right ankle twisted, and that shoe came off. My free hand poked at his eyes but couldn’t quite make contact.
It was a silent attack. I didn’t scream. I didn’t dare open my mouth and inhale the fumes; the ether was too powerful. John didn’t say a
nything, either. He just kept wrestling with me and beating my face as he tried to cover my mouth and nose.
Suddenly, John snorted and his eyes widened. The washrag dropped. He grabbed the open ether bottle on the sink counter and doused my face with the liquid ether. I struggled harder. I had to survive! Move head faster and faster. Twist around. Move up. Move down. Keep face out of liquid. One earring fell to the floor and crunched under John’s foot. A disconnected thought flashed through my mind . . . this isn’t real, it’s like the movies.
The battle continued. I inched closer and closer to the partially open door, visualizing the headline MURDER AT THE MARRIOTT. I kicked survival up another notch. I was getting closer. Another burst of energy. Just a little more. Stretch. I had the doorknob. Pull. Pull. It opened and I ran into the small foyer, but not before John had my arm once again. “Help! Help!” I screamed, but there was no one to hear me. The solid double doors were closed. John yanked me back into the room and kicked the door shut.
“Bitch!” he uttered.
Bastard, I thought, as I tried to kick his crotch. He pushed me and I stumbled backward, falling on my back in the dressing area. My energy was sapped. My adrenaline slowed. I was getting weaker and weaker, no match for the six-footer he was.
John knelt down and straddled my chest. He grabbed my left hand and pinned it down with his right knee. I tried to go for his balls, but my right arm was too short. I tried to knee them from behind, but only hit his soft butt. His left hand grabbed my flailing right arm and pinned it to the ground.
I had nowhere to go. No more leverage or energy with which to struggle. John groped around behind him. He retrieved the amber bottle, lifted it above my face, and poured the remaining ether. At least I could still move my head. I shook it, wildly. My remaining earring flew across the rug. John had trouble hitting his darting target, but I could feel the cool liquid make contact more than once. I told myself not to breathe.
A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Page 22