Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  She was a mess. Her skirt was wrinkled and twisted, exposing a fair expanse of bare thigh. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone. With trembling fingers, she tugged her skirt down and straightened her top. She ran a hand through her long hair.

  Peter handed her a glass, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Not sure. A while. How are you feeling?”

  “Groggy,” she said before taking a gulp of water to wet her parched throat. As she set the tumbler on the table, she noticed that the wineglass was gone. How odd was that?

  “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

  Jill stared blankly up into Peter’s face for a long second as she processed his words. The need to get back to a safe place was pressing in on her, and she rose awkwardly to her feet.

  “No, I’ll be okay.”

  “Cool. I’m going to take a shower. You can let yourself out.”

  Shocked, she watched him disappear into the bathroom. The sound of the shower’s spray blended with the buzzing in her head. She bent to slip on her shoes. It took longer to find her purse.

  Her mind still stuck in slow motion, she groped for the name of her hotel. She had to get back to her room and sleep. From the corner of her eye, she spied the card key, and crammed it into her purse. The door clicked loudly behind her as she maneuvered her way down the hall.

  What’s wrong with this damned door? For the third time, Jill inserted the card key into the lock of her hotel-room door. The light blinked red. Feeling hot and exasperated, she tried again. To no avail. The door remained locked. Caught up in the mechanics of trying to get in her room, she did not hear the man approach until he was at her elbow.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  Jill visibly started at the interruption.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It looks like you’re having problems with your door. Can I help?”

  His smile was disarming, and the soft, lined features of his face gave him a paternal look that reminded her of Santa Claus with twinkling blue eyes. Without a word, she handed him the card and stepped out of his way.

  “I think I see your problem.”

  “What?”

  “This card is for the Hilton. We’re at the Fairmont, dear.”

  Jill’s mind raced as she took the card from him. Depositing it in her purse, she fished around for another card key and found it tucked into the folds of her wallet.

  “Oh,” she said, her cheeks flushing red. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem.” The Good Samaritan took the new card from her and slid it into the lock. With a dull clicking noise, the lock disengaged. He twisted the door handle and propped the heavy door open for her to pass through. She took the card key from his hand and put it back into her purse.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” His wrinkled brow echoed the concern in his voice, and she forced a smile.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She let the door close behind her. But the truth was, she felt anything but fine.

  32

  Jill awoke, disoriented. Shifting her eyes around the dark room, she tried to get a fix on what time of day it was. The heavy drapes pulled across the bank of hotel windows made it difficult for any light to penetrate. Glancing over at the clock, she saw it was late. Ten in the morning. How long had she been out? Why hadn’t she heard the alarm?

  Head pounding like a bass drum, she shoved herself off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. She needed some water, and, grabbing a glass off the countertop, she filled it twice before setting it down beside the sink.

  The cold marble tile felt good on her feet as she crossed the bathroom to start the shower. Steam coated the glass stall with a thick film, and Jill shed her bra and panties before stepping inside.

  The hot spray from the shower streamed over her, and she tried to clear her head. What the hell had happened last night? She remembered going to Peter’s hotel room. She remembered the interview. She remembered drinking half a glass of wine and feeling a little woozy. But beyond a vague recollection of the cab ride home and fighting with the door, she remembered little else.

  The bath towel felt like sandpaper against her sensitive skin. As the steam cleared from the mirror, she caught sight of her naked form. Leaning in, she saw what looked like small bruises on her breasts. What the hell?

  Had something happened while she was passed out on Peter’s couch? Random snatches of memory flashed through her head. Peter’s unconcerned face hovering above hers. Her heavy limbs as she sank into the sofa. Waking up in her disheveled state. Peter heading toward the shower in different clothes than what he’d been wearing before.

  Had Peter put something in her drink? Had he done something worse than that? Certainly that might explain some of what she was feeling this morning. Her head throbbed like the worst kind of migraine. She was sore in places she shouldn’t be. A lightning strike of realization flashed through her.

  Jill gagged, and, swaying back on her heels, she leaned over the sink. Dry heaves rocked her body. There was nothing in her stomach to bring up. After a moment or two, the nausea passed. She splashed some cold water on her face.

  Was Peter capable of rape? If he had spiked the wine, it would explain the wooziness, the memory loss. And… And…

  Oh, God.

  Sinking to the bathroom floor, Jill covered her face with both hands. Memories rushed back in like a tidal flood. She remembered the stifling dark of her tiny bedroom, the sound of his feet on the bare hardwood floors, and the boozy stench of her stepfather’s breath. His calloused hands digging painfully into her shoulders as he held her down. The fear. And the pain. Oh, the pain.

  All of the things she worked so hard to forget surfaced in a terrible moment of understanding, and a deep, burning hatred swelled in Jill’s frozen heart. Silent tears streaked indelible tracks down her face.

  Slowly, one by one, Jill opened her eyes.

  She was a defenseless kid when her stepfather preyed on her. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. Jill gripped the counter and pulled herself up off the cold tile floor. Drawing in a series of deep breaths, she regained her equilibrium. Compartmentalize. Pushing the fear, the shock, the shame back, she focused on the one emotion that still remained. The hatred.

  Whomever Peter thought he was dealing with, he was wrong. She was no victim. She wasn’t going to shrivel up in a little ball and let him win. But what could she do?

  Perched on the edge of the bed, she planned her next move. She could go to the cops, but the cops would launch an investigation. Date-rape drugs were in and out of the system so fast, they were virtually undetectable. There might be physical evidence of . . . what? Rape? Or intercourse? It would be her word against his. And she was a married woman. A married woman who had had an affair, and whose lover had careened down a flight of icy stairs to his death.

  Peter would hire his own investigator, and what would he find? No. She couldn’t risk it. There were too many secrets in her past. Too many lies.

  Jill’s hands shook as she raked her wet hair out of her face. He wouldn’t get away with it. She wouldn’t let him.

  She would make Peter pay.

  With steadier strides, Jill crossed the room, snatching her purse off the night table. Unceremoniously, she dumped the contents onto the bed and rifled through it until she found what she was looking for. She remembered having trouble with her door last night, and the kind stranger who had helped her. Between her clenched fingers, she clutched a white card key bearing the Hilton’s logo, and she realized she must have inadvertently taken the key to Peter’s room in her haste to get back to her hotel last night.

  The conference was scheduled to start later this morning and would end well into the evening with the closing night banquet.

  Jill pressed the plastic access card to her lips as a plan began to form in her mind. Tonight Peter Young was going to get more than he bargained for.

  Jill dressed
to blend in with the tourist crowd at San Francisco’s Pier 39. The peak of her baseball cap sat low on her forehead, her long hair pulled starkly away from her naked face. The cold wind blowing off the choppy water of San Francisco Bay carried the smell of salted fish.

  Hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket, Jill veered away from the pier in search of a pawnshop. She was looking for the kind of place willing to break the rules. Instead, she met the gaze of a homeless man who was standing on the corner. Coarse gray hair spilled from the confines of a grimy woolen hat. The frayed collar of his green canvas jacket was pulled up in a vain attempt to shield his neck from the biting wind. His hands held a sign: “Vet down on his luck. Anything will help.”

  Watery eyes met hers, and Jill was about to pass as she noticed something else that stopped her dead in her tracks. While this wasn’t exactly part of the plan, sometimes fate had a way of intervening. Without further hesitation, Jill pulled a hundred dollar bill from her pocket and ripped it in half. Catching the man’s eye, she dropped it into his bucket and ducked around the corner. The last thing she needed was for a video-happy tourist to capture this transaction on tape. Some business dealings were meant for dark corners, and this was definitely one of them.

  “Hey,” he called after her as Jill ducked into the alley, her heart beating like bat’s wings in her chest.

  The alley was deserted, and Jill kept her back to the chipped brick wall as the bum rounded the corner. He held the ripped bill up for her examination. Before he could say anything, she stepped forward.

  “You’ve got something I need.”

  She grabbed the waistline of his pants to pull him closer. The gap-toothed smile he gave her was that of a man down on his luck who suddenly finds himself in possession of a winning lottery ticket, one with a big payoff.

  “Hey, little lady. Not sure what you had in mind, but—”

  In one quick movement, she reached around him to touch the bulge at the side of his waist. His lips parted, and his eyes hardened as he grasped her meaning.

  “Now what would you be needing with something like that?” he asked, his tone part curious, part scolding. Jill had no intention of making idle conversation. Instead, she brushed past him on her way out of the alley.

  “Come on now, don’t be so hasty,” he called after her, and she stopped.

  Jill turned with a knowing smile. Pulling the other half of the bill from her pocket, she handed it over in exchange for what she wanted.

  The revolver was old but looked in perfect working condition as she stuffed it in her coat pocket and headed back toward the pier. As she crossed the street, her body shook with adrenaline. Whether from triumph or fear, she couldn’t say. But there were two words that formed in her head, causing the slightest of smiles.

  Mission accomplished.

  33

  The card key disengaged the lock, and Jill let herself into Peter Young’s room. The maid had already been there, and the suite was in immaculate shape, from the high polish on the desk to the comforter pulled so tight across the bed, it would have passed her stepfather’s stringent coin-toss inspection. Peter wouldn’t be back soon, probably not for a few hours. The closing speeches would drag on and on, and then there would be drinking. Lots of drinking. One thing you could count on at an event like this was an open bar, and Jill was willing to bet Peter would take full advantage of that fringe benefit.

  She took her time searching the suite. The bathroom held all of the usual toiletries—deodorant, shaving cream, toothpaste. Stashed away in his shaving kit, she found something that made the rhythm of her heartbeat accelerate to a full gallop. There were three little white pills in the clear baggie. She would bet money that a fourth little white pill had made it into her glass of wine. On one side the word “ROCHE” was etched into the surface. On the other, a number one appeared stamped within a circle. Roofies.

  Peter Young wasn’t just a rapist. He was a fucking coward. He took what he wanted without a struggle. Jill closed her eyes. She could almost smell the bitter stench of her stepfather’s breath. Master Sergeant Sam Morris preyed on the defenseless, too. A picture of his cruel face filled her mind, and she pushed it away. She refused to let the memories surface. She held everything back behind the thick wall of her resolve. Everything except the hate. Hate seared through Jill’s veins. And she thought about Peter and the one thing he hadn’t counted on. Her. She had come here ready to fight. The comforting weight of the gun in her pocket guaranteed it.

  Jill turned off the bedroom light and disappeared into the large closet, pulling the sliding door most of the way closed. The bag of roofies was clenched tightly in her fist. All senses were on full alert, waiting for Peter’s grand entrance.

  There was nothing stealthy about Peter’s arrival. The door banged shut, and she heard him stumble through the living room. He stayed there awhile. How long, she couldn’t tell. Antsy, she thought about leaving the safety of the closet, but no sooner had she thought it than Peter shuffled into the bedroom.

  Peter bumped and crashed his way through the room in the dark. Jill glimpsed his shadowy figure as he passed by the closet door. He let out an earsplitting fart, and Jill grimaced. Pig. Next, the bathroom light flipped on and she was serenaded by the sound of a long, gratifying piss in the toilet. The lights clicked off, and Peter’s discarded clothes hit the floor in a heap.

  Not long after that, the buzz-saw sound of his snoring filled the suite. Jill waited as she went through the plan again and again in her head. Peter would pay for what he’d done. Anger uncoiled at the pit of her stomach. Jill slid the closet door open and stepped out into the darkened room.

  Her gloved hand sweating, she gripped the butt of the revolver. The barrel of the gun trembled slightly as she pointed it at Peter’s sleeping form. It was evident from the boozy cloud of breath he dispelled with each bed-rattling snore that Peter had made the most of the open bar. She hoped he was still lucid enough to understand what was happening to him. And why.

  Leaning forward, Jill shook his shoulder, still keeping the weapon aimed directly at him. Maybe it was the smell of Wild Turkey on his breath. Maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Whatever it was, for a moment Jill was transported back to the small bedroom in her stepfather’s house. She could see Sam’s sweaty face poised inches above hers in the darkened room as his gravelly voice called to her.

  “Jill.”

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. She gritted her teeth and focused on the man in front of her. He was not Sam. He was a small, pathetic coward. And she was not a scared teenaged girl. Not anymore.

  “Peter, wake up.”

  Snoring.

  “Wake up,” she demanded, shaking him even harder this time.

  “What? What?” He asked, waking with a start. His eyes, at first squinting in the dark to get a look at who dared disturb his peaceful slumber, popped wide as he caught sight of Jill, and the gun.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see me again so soon.” Jill’s tone was dangerously soft in the quiet room.

  “Goddamn it, Jill, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

  Even in the dark, she could see the hard glitter of fear in his eyes. Adrenaline spiked through her veins. She was gratified by the terrified look on his face.

  “You know, I can’t believe I fell for all of that ‘Scout’s honor’ bullshit. What did you do to me last night?”

  The expression on Peter’s face turned from fear to dread, and a cold certainty stole through Jill. Her hands steadied. She knew she was right to come here. With each passing second, she felt less like a victim and more like an avenging angel.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter lied in a shaky voice. His hand darted toward the night table, and she cocked the gun.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she said. He froze.

  “Reaching for my glasses, that’s all. We should talk this through.”

 
“Unless you want some extra ventilation for your brain, I’d keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “All right. All right,” he repeated, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s talk.”

  “Talk? Well, sure. Let’s talk about these.” Jill dropped the baggie with the pills she had found in the bathroom onto his heaving chest. “I think you slipped one of these pills into my drink last night so you could do whatever you wanted to me. Which was what, exactly?”

  Peter’s eyes fluttered closed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Jill’s gut twisted—a mixture of disgust and certainty. This is what she’d come here for. It was as close to a confession as she expected to get. Hate blossomed within her, and her hand tightened on the gun.

  “Listen, Jill, I’m sorry. Okay?”

  “You’re sorry,” she cocked her head in disbelief. “You raped me, and now you’re sorry?”

  A humorless bark of laughter escaped her lips. She plucked the baggie off the bed and stuffed it into her pocket.

  “Rape is a strong word,” he stammered as his eyes shifted away from hers and toward the phone. But it was too late to call for help.

  “Rape is a strong word. But having sex with someone against their will is the very definition of the act, is it not? Did you think you could get away with it? Did you think I wouldn’t tell? Did you think that your little white pills would put you in control?”

  “I’m sorry, Jill. I didn’t mean—” Peter’s warbling voice was barely a whisper.

  “You didn’t mean what? Please!”

  Jill glared down at him with a look filled with pure loathing as he shrank back. Pity was the furthest thing from her mind. She thumbed off the safety.

  “You’re the worst kind of coward. Give me one good reason why I should let you get away with what you did to me.”