The Phoenix Egg

by Richard Bamberg

  Flipping the key over, she pressed and held it down. An LED began to flash. She sat with her back propped against the door. Safe. In a minute, two at the most, help would arrive.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Hell no, I don’t want to lie down.”

  Caitlin wasn’t sure what frustrated her more, this cold bitch’s inability to believe her story or her own inability to keep from imagining her hands around the throat of Captain Patricia Ferguson.

  More than an hour had passed since two of the hotel’s security personnel had found her crouching in the stairwell. No, that wasn’t right. She hadn’t been crouching; she’d been cowering. The guards were courteous and exemplary in their behavior and apparent concern, even after escorting her back to her suite where two more guards waited.

  She had entered the room slowly; despite assurances they had already searched her rooms and pronounced them clear. Her bedroom was shockingly immaculate. Her suitcase was back in its corner, her clothes were in the dresser, and the bed was neatly made. Things went downhill from there.

  The muscular woman sitting across the desk from her was chief of security for the Pacific Rim Suites. Captain Ferguson had tried for more than an hour to convince Caitlin that she shouldn’t file a police report. Finally, Ferguson relented and called the police.

  A buzzer sounded, and Ferguson glanced down at her desk.

  “Yes, I’ll be right there.” Ferguson stood and walked toward the door. “There are some other matters I have to see to. I’ll be back before the police arrive. Will you be all right here or should I send someone in?”

  “I’ll be fine. Could someone get me some ibuprofen and water?”

  “Certainly.”

  Ferguson opened the door and stepped into the outer office. Before the heavy door closed, Caitlin heard her relaying her requests to the receptionist.

  Caitlin sat still for a few minutes feeling the pulse of her blood, listening to the echo of her heart, and then she stood and paced the room. Outlandishly colorful fish swam in a salt-water aquarium mounted in the wall behind Ferguson’s desk. A monitor wall on her right displayed different areas of the hotel. The fish would normally have interested her more, but she found herself drawn to the monitors.

  Hotel guests moved across several of the monitors, through the lobby, in one of the two restaurants, and in the each of the three lounges. A crowd still occupied the rooftop lounge. The sun had set, and now artificial torches along the railing provided the only light.

  The door opened, and the male receptionist came in with a bottle of Evian and a small container. “Your water and ibuprofen.”

  “Thank you.” Caitlin took them and noticed each was still sealed.

  The receptionist nodded, smiled, and left, closing the door behind him.

  Caitlin broke open the bottle, took a small drink, and then set it down while she opened the pill container. Caitlin shook three of the pills into her hand, popped them into the back of her mouth, and then drank heavily from the water bottle.

  The door opened again, and Ferguson came in followed by a man Caitlin hadn’t seen before. He was about her height, but maybe a bit younger. His hair was trimmed short above his ears, and he wore a neat but unimpressive suit.

  “Ms. Maxwell, this is Detective Mark Romax,” Ferguson said.

  Romax offered his hand. “Good evening, Ma’am. I understand you’ve had a problem.”

  The man’s accent didn’t sound like a native Californian; it was from somewhere back east.

  “A problem?” Caitlin couldn’t keep her voice from breaking. She held out her left hand, palm toward the detective. He stopped.

  She closed the water bottle, took a breath, and let it out slowly. “Yes, I have a problem Detective Romax. Would you like to hear about my problem?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He fished a notepad from an inside pocket of his jacket.

  Ferguson pulled one of the chairs from the front of her desk and slid it to him. “Thank you,” he said.

  He sat down and motioned for Caitlin to sit on the sofa. After a moment, she did.

  “Now I understand you’re reporting a prowler who attempted to assault you in your room. Is that basically correct?”

  She nodded. “As far as it goes.”

  Romax took out a pen and started jotting notes. “Okay, let’s take it from when you entered your room. What did you notice?”

  “Well, nothing really. The lights were off. I turned them on and went into the bedroom.”

  “Did you notice anything out of place?”

  “No, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very observant. I’d been crying. I guess I was preoccupied.”

  His hand rose in a disaffecting manner, and his head shook briefly. “That’s okay. It’s not important. Do you mind telling me why you were crying?”

  “I believed my husband was just killed in a car accident.”

  Romax stopped writing and stared at her. “Come again?”

  “I was talking to him on the phone. He was in the mountains outside Los Alamos, and there was a crash and his phone went dead.”

  “Have you tried to contact him since then?”

  “Yes, his phone doesn’t respond. The recording says it’s out of range. I did contact the local police, and they said they’d send out a car to investigate.”

  “I’m very sorry, but you can’t be sure he’s dead. Even if he was in an accident, it might have been minor.”

  “No, it couldn’t have...”

  How to describe to him the horrible silence that preceded the crash and Scott almost calmly telling her goodbye? She blinked back tears and shook her head.

  Romax waited for her to regain her composure before speaking. “I’m sure everything will turn out all right Ms. Maxwell. Now if you can continue?”

  She nodded and picked up where she had left off.

  When Caitlin finished, Romax closed his notebook and sat back. He watched her for a few moments before speaking.

  “Ms. Maxwell, let me be frank with you. While I’m not dismissing your story, Capt. Ferguson tells me there’s no evidence to support your claim of an intruder in your room. And, since nothing was taken, there’s no real proof that anyone was there. Now, it’s probably just a matter of you having been confused by the shock of your husband’s accident. You got off the wrong floor, went into what you thought was your room, and had a scuffle with someone who thought you were an intruder.”

  “Someone who chased and then shot at me?”

  “The imagination does strange things. You being in shock and all, I’m not surprised that you think this person shot at you.”

  “You sonofabitch.” She looked between him and Ferguson, who sat calmly watching the proceedings from behind her desk. “The two of you discussed this before you even listened to me. That’s why you had to leave the room. You had to make sure he was agreeable to your side of the story before I saw him.”

  Ferguson leaned forward across her desk. “Look Ms. Maxwell. We’ve reassigned you to a room on the concierge floor. There’s around-the-clock surveillance there. If anyone leaves or enters a room, it’s recorded, and there’s a video record of the hallways. I can assure you that you won’t be bothered.”

  Caitlin looked away from Ferguson, met Romax’s eyes, and stared into them. There was something there, something that didn’t fit. An instant later, it was gone, and his face had the rehearsed calmness of a disbelieving policeman again.

  “Oh? Well, assure me that I just happened into someone else’s room by mistake and that they couldn’t really have fired at me with a silenced pistol.”

  Ferguson’s eyes had the tired look of someone dealing with a troublesome child.

  “Never mind, just give me the damn key. I’ll be out of here in the morning.”

  Ferguson slid another of the slender electronic keys across her desk. “Ms. Maxwell, the management wants you to know that we don’t doubt your sincerity even if there isn’t any evidence to support your claim. Pacific Rim Suite’s guarantees its
guests’ satisfaction and your stay here will be at no charge.”

  “I would rather have your support.”

  For once Ferguson appeared embarrassed. “Well, umm –”

  “Then fuck you and your guests’ satisfaction, Captain Ferguson.” Caitlin stood and picked up the key. There were no markings on it to indicate her new room number.

  “Thirty-four thirty-four. Your things have already been transferred.”

  “Thank you.” She paused to eye Romax again. “I’m sorry to have taken up your valuable time, Detective.”

  Romax’s voice stopped her before she reached the door. “Your purse.”

  She turned. He held her purse at arm’s length toward her. Caitlin went back and took it with a muttered, “Thank you.”

  Opening the door, Caitlin walked quickly past the receptionist in the outer office. Her heels clicked loudly against the tile floor of the gleaming white corridor. She reached the pair of elevator doors, pressed the only button there, and a few seconds later the nearer door opened.

  The trip from the subbasement was long and uninterrupted. The doors opened silently, and Caitlin stepped hesitantly into the hallway.

  A burly man in a dark blue suit bearing a hotel nametag greeted her. “Good evening, Ms. Maxwell.”

  She nodded at him and then eyed him carefully. She didn’t remember seeing him before, but he recognized her. He was about six feet tall and looked like a Secret Service agent on a protection detail. His hair was neatly trimmed and his suit tailored for a comfortable fit. Caitlin noticed a slight bulge beneath his left arm as he moved.

  She looked for the normal markers on the wall. There were none.

  “Your room is this way, Ms. Maxwell.” The guard motioned to her right.

  Caitlin nodded and took a couple of steps past him. Pausing, she turned and looked at the nearest door. There were no numbers on it.

  “How–”

  “Your key will indicate your room when you get in front of the door. It’s about eight doors down on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked slowly down the hall. Although the hall was brightly lit, Caitlin found herself nervously eyeing each door she passed as if one of them would suddenly open and her attacker would step out.

  Twice she stopped and turned back to face the guard. Each time she saw him standing in the same position, watching her.

  At the seventh door, one end of her key began to glow. The closer she got to the door, the brighter it got. Caitlin slipped the key into its slot. Taking a deep breath, Caitlin pushed the door open to reveal a dark room. She fumbled for the light switch, missed it, and said, “Lights.”

  The lights went on immediately. Standing in the doorway, she swept the room with her gaze before stepping inside. She left the door open went in and made a quick search of the suite, looking in the closet, under the bed, on the balcony, and even in the spacious shower before she hurried back to shut the door. She threw the privacy bolt and then leaned against the door. A nervous shudder went through her.

  Dear God, Scott.

  In the excitement of the attack, she’d almost forgotten about Scott. She took out her cell phone and recalled the number for the Los Alamos police department.

  The 911 operator answered, and Caitlin identified herself.

  “Yes, Ms. Maxwell, please hold on the line.” The line went silent for a few moments, and then another voice came on. “Ms. Maxwell?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Sergeant Ortiz of the Los Alamos police department.”

  “Did you find my husband?”

  A brief pause ensued, then, “We think so. There was an accident on the road about five miles south of town. It was called in shortly after your call. We dispatched a helicopter ambulance to the scene.”

  “And my husband is he alive?”

  “I’m sorry ma’am, we haven’t identified the body, but the vehicle was registered to you and Mr. Scott Corning.”

  Caitlin choked back a sob. “All right. Thank you, I ... I’ll call back tomorrow. I can’t talk right now.”

  “I understand ma’am. Can you give me a number where you can be reached?”

  Caitlin quickly gave her cell phone number, thanked him again, and disconnected.

  She should call someone, but whom? Connie Dryer, her personal secretary, would probably be home by now. She ought to let her know; maybe they should close the office for a couple of days, hang a big black wreath on the door, and stay home.

  What about Scott’s family?

  Caitlin hadn’t seen any of them except his father in more than three years. She’d never gotten along with Big Scott, as he liked to be called. The man was nearly a Neanderthal. Still, it wasn’t right to let him wait until the police notified him of his son’s death.

  Caitlin sat down on the couch and picked up the telephone.

  She stared at it for a few seconds. She didn’t remember his telephone number, and it wasn’t stored on her computer.

  Caitlin punched in information. While waiting for the operator to come on, Caitlin picked up a pen and pad from beside the hotel’s telephone. She gave the electronic operator the town and Big Scott’s name, a moment later the electronic voice recited the number. Caitlin auto-dialed it and waited.

  The telephone rang five times before someone picked up. “Yeah, who is it?”

  “It’s Caitlin.”

  “Yeah? Whatta you want?”

  “Scott ... I–”

  “I already know about my son. If that’s what you’re trying to say?” His voice was slurred.

  “I’m sorry. How did you hear?”

  “Some state cop from New Mexico called me a half hour ago.”

  “Already? Why would Ortiz call you first?”

  “Ortiz? Who the hell is Ortiz? Nah, this guy was Anglo.”

  Then who had called him?

  “I ... Scott, I’m so sorry,” Caitlin said.

  “Yeah? Well, shit happens, don’t it? Now if you ain’t got nothin’ else to say, I got some grieving to do.”

  “I–”

  The line went dead. Caitlin stared at it, wanting to throw it against the wall and scream. She wanted to stomp on the telephone until it was nothing but fragments of plastic and wiring.

  Why had he heard already? The police weren’t even positive the body was Scott and how had they located his father so soon? She closed the telephone and put it back in her case. It was too much to worry about just now.

  Caitlin went to the window, wrapped her arms around herself, and stared out at the distant lights. Her sobs were faint but uncontrolled.

  It was nearly twenty minutes later when Caitlin turned away from the night and went into the bath. Her eyes burned after so much crying. Her waterproof mascara hadn’t lived up to the name and what hadn’t come off on the back of her hand, had found its way into her eyes. She splashed cold water onto her face until the stinging died, then stared at her reflection. God, she looked ghastly. Her eyes were puffy and red, and streaks of makeup marred her face. Normally she used so little that nothing disturbed it, but today she had dressed for the clients.

  The hotel staff had dutifully set out her toiletries in the same order she’d left them in her other room. Caitlin picked up the brush and made a few passes through her nape length black hair. Then she shook her head from side to side. Her hair floated out and then fell back into place.

  Caitlin dampened a washcloth and carefully removed the remains of her makeup. She eyed herself in the mirror. Better, but her eyes were still puffy.

  A soft sound came from the den and her heart lurched. Her pulse pounding in her temples, she eased the door open and stepped out into the room.

  Nothing, it must have come from somewhere else. Then her eyes fell on the dark opening to the bedroom. Had it come from there?

  Suddenly unable to bear another moment in the room, she jerked her purse off the sofa, unlatched the door, and left. The concierge stood near the elevators, watching her.
She walked toward him, grew self-conscious about her puffy red eyes, and took her sunglasses from her purse and slipped them on. She nodded to him and punched the elevator call button. He smiled and returned her nod.

  The doors opened, and she stepped in. He was still smiling at her when the doors closed.

  Caitlin stepped out on the ground floor and made her way through the crowded lobby to the revolving doors.

  Entering the night air, Caitlin felt the cool dampness of a sea breeze.

  One of the uniformed doormen eyed her expectantly. She shook her head and turned away from the taxi stand. She felt a need to walk. The fresh air would clear her head. Taxis were always going to and from the hotel. She could flag one down when she got tired of walking.

  The sun had long since set, and the street was dark except for the small oasis of light beneath regularly spaced lamps. Once she got out of sight of the people around the hotel, Caitlin removed her sunglasses.

  The ocean breeze tossed the crests of the trees, and they swayed dimly against the yellow-gray bellies of scattered clouds. This area of Presidio had been set aside for development when the rest of the old Army post had been converted to a national park. Caitlin didn’t know whose pockets had been lined by that exclusion, but it was obvious that someone’s had. The view from the top of the hill was just too spectacular not to develop.

  The developed area ended abruptly, and Caitlin found herself in the park. She walked slowly, paying little attention to where she was going, but she kept to the sidewalk. Trails ran throughout the park, but she was neither dressed for hiking nor in the mood to explore the darker paths that wound between the oleander and beneath the eucalyptus and firs.

  Twelve years. Twelve years she and Scott had been married, and for two years before that, they’d been lovers. They had shared common interests, common goals, and ... much love. She had never expected their love to fade, but it had. The love had gone, vanished somewhere in time, but they were still friends. Good friends. This was the loss that bothered her so. Good friends were even harder to find than mates. And they had been such friends. Scott was a great listener. When she was troubled, he would sit with rapt attention until she had unburdened her soul and he understood. Unlike most men, he didn’t automatically offer fixes for what bothered her; rather he empathized and allowed her the space to determine her own solutions.