Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

  “Guess I never had parents to help me unfuck myself.” He spins his tumbler as though unwinding memories. “I went from orphanage to foster mom when I was a very little boy.”

  He’s going the orphan route? So cliché it’s probably a lie. But static still builds, and the air between us might ignite at any moment.

  “I don’t say her name, Foster Mom, I mean. She was very nasty. With a nasty little habit.”

  “Makes two of you.”

  “Oh no.” He gives a taunting scoff. “Far more than two of us. You see, her nasty habit was taking cash from bad men with even nastier habits. So many very bad men.”

  The space darkens. The lounge, the whole hotel, all of it falls under shadow.

  “Men with nasty little habits like”—he brings a finger to his lips, runs his tongue from knuckle to nail—“like putting things inside me.”

  What little light remains stretches into long, thin rays.

  “So, I put scissors inside Foster Mom.” He shrugs, but those arctic eyes deepen. Then a smile. Shit.

  “You killed her.” I break from his face, desperate to find a mooring. I need to anchor myself to reality. To something, anything. A tremor climbs up my arm.

  “When I want something, I take it. When I chase something, I catch it. And you’re still running, aren’t you? Still uncaught.”

  “With scissors.”

  “I have a room.” His finger taps my thigh. A single, soft rap for each word. Another curve ball that comes so fast, my head might spin right off.

  “I—”

  “I will put my mouth all over you. For being so brave, I’ll make you feel so good. Outside and inside.”

  I need to call Detective Henning. I knew I was jumping into the deep end, but this is way too deep. I’m sinking in panic, and I must find something to push off from. To keep my head above water. His skin, red and inflamed. The laceration. My breath breaks free.

  “Did you kill her?” For the first time, my voice is even. Furious but balanced.

  Narrowed eyes, he pulls back. “Eventually.”

  “Not your fucking foster mom.” I speak slowly, deliberately: “Did you kill our dog?”

  “No.” Another pause. His lips and his wound both grin again. “Not yet.”

  My pulse spikes. Tilly’s alive. He has her, and he’s using her as a bargaining chip.

  “She’s upstairs,” he says as though reading my mind. “You want to see her?”

  The meaning his fractured words hold is brutally clear. I say nothing, and he knows he’s got me. My heart thrums in both ears.

  “You want, you come and get.” He polishes off his vodka like he’s had countless chats just like this one. I don’t doubt it one bit.

  His cruel flippancy, his proposition, sets fire to my thoughts. They rocket in all directions. Exploding, bursting, spreading flames everywhere they land. If Tilly’s here, if I can get her…No. Am I kidding? Am I fucking kidding? I can’t follow Kristian up to a hotel room. I just can’t.

  I didn’t plan for this. Shit, I never considered he might bring her with him. Alive. Wait. Do I believe he’s telling me the truth? That she is, in fact, alive?

  “Prove it. Prove you didn’t kill her.”

  “You got to trust me.” He wags that long finger, still slick from his tongue. “Dog is happy. Dog is very friendly.” His emphasis falls on very in a way that feeds my fear like gasoline. A conflagration as he ups the stakes. “If you brought police friends with you, you will not get her.”

  I didn’t suspect Kristian would bring Tilly, keeping her in a room close by. But I did very much worry he’d kill her should he escape. From cops I brought to our “date.”

  “There are no police,” I say. The truth, and he pushes his glass away, stands. He believes—he knows—I’m alone.

  Kristian leans in to my ear, and I brace for something bad.

  “I go upstairs. You follow me, play with me upstairs, let me put my mouth on you, and I give you your dog.” His words are slow but his breath bites sharp with liquor.

  “No,” I say through clenched teeth. “You’ll kill me up there. Bring the dog down. First.”

  “You stay here; I kill your dog. I make it hurt very badly. I make her cry for a very long time.” His voice dwindles to a whisper. Low, but all promise: “I keep her alive and show her what her insides look like. Do you think she might lick them? If she’s thirsty, she might lick her own insides when I show to her?”

  A fountain of vomit climbs my throat, and I choke it down. He’s splayed his cards atop the table. He’s given me options. I never gained a foothold. Never reclaimed control. I set the trap. I cast the line, dangled the bait. Ensnared him.

  Yet, here’s Kristian. He stands before me, gaping jaw unhinged. Ready to swallow me whole.

  He turns and begins a slow walk into the lobby, not bothering to look back. A casual stroll that says he doesn’t care if I’m following or not. He’s already had his fun. He plans to get off today, one way or another.

  “Fuck!” I slam a fist on the counter, and the bartender jolts. I’m out of moves.

  “Are you all right—”

  Her question is left unfinished. I’m already tracing Kristian’s steps, following him up. For Nathan’s dog. I can’t let him kill her, torture her. Doing that to Tilly and Nathan is not an option!

  A row of brass-plated elevators stands at the far end where Kristian waits. He still hasn’t glanced over his shoulder once. A chime, doors slide open, and he steps inside. As the elevator closes, both he and his wound smile.

  I sprint and throw my arm between the shutting doors.

  Inside, instinct flares, and I back into the corner farthest from Kristian. We’re alone in what might just be my coffin. I prayed, hoped against all hope someone else would be in here.

  But it’s only us. Me and my grinning killer.

  The doors finally close. The button for the seventh floor glows. Kristian moves close so our shoulders touch. I can’t breathe. My stomach scales my throat, and I’m choking on it.

  Kristian’s arm moves rhythmically against mine. He fondles his groin, breathes heavily through his nose. He’s aroused by my terror. Spots form before my eyes, and I might pass out. I’m a fucking idiot.

  The elevator ascends.

  Second floor. Third floor.

  I could mace him. I could mace him right now, get the hotel staff to open whatever room he has. Grab Tilly. Except I can’t. We’re in an elevator. Pepper spray will blind us both. I reach into my pocket, take hold of my only chance to live. I must be ready.

  Fourth floor.

  A vibration stirs in my other pocket. My phone. Someone’s sent a text.

  The floors whirl by. A countdown in reverse. A time bomb to some fate, mostly unknown but sure as hell not one I survive.

  Fifth floor. Sixth floor.

  I flip it screen-side-up with trembling fingers.

  Seventh floor.

  The elevator shudders to a stop with a single chime. The texts are from Nathan:

  Neighbor found Tilly!

  Will you please get her? And call immediately??

  I need to see her!

  IV. Hypoxic Convulsion

  Frothing of the mouth. Blueing skin and nails. Violent muscle contractions.

  34

  The elevator doors fold open. Kristian steps out onto the seventh floor, but my feet are cemented to the elevator’s plush carpet. I’m so fucking stupid! I asked about a dog. Kristian spied an opening. He took it same as he’ll take my life.

  He senses he’s not being followed, turns as the elevator doors start closing.

  His wound thaws me, and I stumble back against the wall. I clench my gut, reach for my pocket mace.

  Kristian lunges. The brass doors are almost shut. I will them to shut. They must sh
ut!

  His right hand breaks through, long fingers gripping the edges. The safety mechanism triggers and they open. Kristian leaps, arms thrust out. I hoist my mace, and he brings an elbow over his face.

  I fire.

  Nothing comes out.

  The trigger—it won’t budge. I’ve not armed it. I clicked it from off to on to off to on again so many times, it wasn’t armed at the bar!

  “Stupid little boy,” Kristian spits, grabbing my wrist like a blood pressure cuff. He thrusts the back of my hand against the wall. Pain live-wires up my arm as he slams it into metal. Over and over and over again.

  I kick outward but connect with nothing. Again, he thrusts my hand into dented brass sheeting. I scream in his ear.

  “Fuuuccckkk!” he screams back, blond bangs cascading down his face. Veins in his forehead swollen and fleshy. Ice eyes rushing like roiling seas.

  With a free hand, he grabs a fistful of my hair, and fire zigzags over my scalp. My vision blurs. He jerks, and my chin points to the ceiling, where a tiny security cam blinks. His eyes follow mine, and he laughs when he sees we’re being recorded. “You know just how I like it.”

  He covers my mouth, pushes me into the wall. Bolts of neon heat shoot up my shoulders. The unarmed mace hangs loose from my fingers, and he snatches it.

  I grit. “Stop—”

  “Not quite scissors.” He reaches in his back pocket where he trades my pepper spray for something else. “But it still hurts when it goes in.”

  A switchblade. He holds me at arm’s length, tilts his head, and just how fucked I am sinks in. Tears film my eyes. “You can’t—”

  “Glad I ordered extra towels,” he says as my pulse hammers in my throat. “ ’Cause I’m going to make a big mess of you.”

  “Please, Kristian!” I sob, backing up. He follows like the sweeping hands of a clock.

  “Save some tears for later, baby.”

  When he reaches to reopen the doors, I fall into the call panel. My spine smashes floor buttons to a chorus of ding ding dings. We lock eyes.

  “That was a mistake,” Kristian hisses as the elevator drops.

  Holding the knife close in the folds of his shirt, he steers me into a corner. He nods to the flashing recorder above. “Kiss me for the camera.”

  “No—”

  His shoves his liquor lips to mine. Hot breath, one hand on my back, the other gripping my hair like a leash. The elevator abruptly stops. He pulls back long enough to whisper, “Be a good boy, okay?”

  Over his shoulders, the doors fold open to an empty hall. Room numbers blur as I gasp for breath. They’re all three hundred and something. Third floor. A fistful of my shirt knots, and I’m held in place while the doors close.

  Sweat pours and we slip against each other for a second time. I reach for the call buttons. L for Lobby is too far. I can only hit the emergency stop, but if we stop, I’m dead.

  “Behave or I will slit you open right here.” He squeezes my hand and guides it to the needle tip of his blade. “Leave some of you on every floor. What do you think, huh?”

  My spine must’ve struck 2, because we’re stopping again.

  “People come to hotels to cheat.” His stubbled chin rakes my cheek as he grips my collar, muzzles my mouth with his. “So canoodle with me, my love.”

  Please let somebody be waiting for the elevator.

  Something wet finds its way inside my ear. Kristian’s tongue pushes deeper like a Q-tip. His stitches tickle.

  Somebody be there!

  We stop, a bell chimes, and the doors open. A man just over Kristian’s shoulder! Tall and surprised and please help me! I start to turn, to scream, but freeze when the knife teases my belly.

  “Ooh, honey, not so rough,” Kristian teases, moving my hand to his own ass. “A little busy in here. Maybe you catch the next one.”

  The stranger must’ve agreed because the doors shut. And we’re still alone.

  “See, lover?” Kristian runs his finger up my throat.

  Consciousness starts to slip. Time’s running the fuck out. If we go back up, I won’t ever come down. I’ve just got to stay unstabbed for one more floor. Now or never. I throw my knee into Kristian’s gut, and his grip falters. I hurl myself at the call panel and punch L.

  As it lights, Kristian springs. He squeezes my throat, brings the knife to my sternum. He starts to push it in. “I said—”

  Ding!

  We break eye contact. Doors part like theater curtains. A total scene change, and the show reopens to the ornate, sweeping space from earlier. Chatter and casual guffawing. Roller suitcases. Bellhops and coffee and piano jazz.

  I tear free of his grip, stumble across the threshold. Kristian follows for a flash but thinks better of it. I slip on the floor and fall onto all fours. I catch looks from blurry, abstract faces.

  I turn back to Kristian. His eyes dance around the lobby, drinking in the same worried faces. He takes two steps back. To the rear of the elevator, where he pockets his knife.

  As the doors close, our eyes meet again. Mine, wide and white. His, deep and angry.

  35

  NATHAN

  Oliver doesn’t reply to my texts.

  Where are you, husband? What are you doing? Or who? Speaking of, my next text is to Tom.

  Be there in 15-20.

  He replies in a typical Tom-like flurry of bullet points:

  Same.

  Met someone.

  Blue collar as fuck and fuckable as fuck.

  Will tell you all about it.

  Bet you won’t.

  I hang my lanyard around my neck. Photo ID and my CAC card.

  The Common Access Card is required for everything from parking lot entry to automated dispensing of meds via Pyxis machine. Swipe your CAC card, then your fingerprint, and the Pyxis pulls your credentials. Scan your prescription and the drawer storing whatever drug unlocks. Dr. Nathan Klein is an authorized user across all Defense Department hospital systems.

  I breathe deeply. The relief I should feel in the wake of Tilly’s recovery is lost to a pounding pulse and a rage that’s frighteningly silent.

  Sea-green scrubs, white coat and no one at the National Cancer Institute campus in Frederick will question my presence here. I lied to Oliver about working today, but it’s too late now. Besides, Tilly’s safe. Oliver will retrieve her from the neighbor’s, and I’ll have to trust him alone with her for just a little longer.

  I step into an elevator and send it up a floor to inpatient cancer care. This campus was once a hub for American biowarfare. Enormous vats that cooked up anthrax by the steel drum full. It’s ironic for two reasons: One, because poison is still very much used here in the form of chemotherapeutics. And two, I’ve also come for a weapon—though one far more subtle than sarin gas. The elevator doors slide open, and I take to the hall with deliberate purpose.

  Government hospitals are decentralized by campus. If I order meds from a Pyxis machine in Frederick, it will be recorded only in Frederick. Walter Reed will know nothing of it and barring a pattern of unusual drug dispensing—which I certainly have not created—this one impending order won’t trigger suspicion.

  When I pass a mobile supplies station, I pluck a sealed fifty-milliliter syringe and a trio of twenty-eight-gauge capped needles. Into my pocket they go, and I spot a Pyxis setup in a nook ahead. I also catch the eye of a scrub nurse who’s clearly gay and who clearly smiles to let me know he likes what he sees. I return the gesture before slipping into the alcove and activating the same touchscreen I use every day in DC.

  I’m committed to obtaining the weapon, but I’ve yet to commit to doing anything with it.

  I swipe my CAC, then my finger, and follow the prompts to scan the prescription I’d written last night.

  Whatever the hell’s gotten into me is irrelevant becau
se I won’t actually use it. I’ll simply feel better knowing it’s an option. Mother’s moving forward and making good on her threat. Couriering the paperwork and I suppose the next step is to simply evict us. Oliver won’t stop, can’t stop lying to me. Even Tom’s betrayed me. Tom, who’s been talking to my husband. Exchanging explicit photos with my husband. Maybe fucking my husband.

  I confirm my medication order and wait for that familiar click as the correct drawer unlocks. Sweat pearling on my brow, a slow tremor crawling up my arm. I would never take this exit. I just need to see the off-ramp. Vaguely, hazily, somewhere in the distance while I navigate all the lies. Pull my crushed body from under the devastating weight of all the betrayals.

  Mother’s.

  Tom’s.

  My husband’s.

  Fentanyl citrate. Fifty micrograms per injection, but the PCA pump syringe in my hand contains fifty milliliters. Patient-controlled analgesia attached to an IV drip. I need to be careful with this. Hide it somewhere safer than a stupid duct vent full of cigarettes. Once an addict, always an addict, and I can’t let Oliver find my off-ramp. He’d see the drug’s name and wouldn’t think twice about dumping this shit into his veins. Sure as hell wouldn’t consider dosing.

  Fifty milliliters contains 2.5 milligrams. As far as off-ramps go, this provides plenty of certainty.

  Because as far as milligrams go, the lethal dose is only two.

  36

  OLIVER

  I lose time.

  A fugue-like state of detachment takes hold. A post-traumatic response meant to keep me from feeling anything.

  I’d caught a waiting cab, but the ride home was a streaming abstract painting. Sharp angles and bold acid reds and yellows. Maybe I didn’t pay the cabbie. As I stumble down the sidewalk toward the house, reality bleeds through. Slowly at first. A drip-drop of the present forming puddles and pools until enough of a picture takes shape for my consciousness to tether itself.

  I rub my ear, finger the folds where his tongue wormed its way in. Kristian tried to kill me. A second time, and the bones in my hand throb where they struck the wall. My head pounds and burns from that fistful of hair, Kristian’s attempt to scalp me.