Bedbugs

Susan stared at the kitchen table, boring into it with her eyes, picturing the badbugs working through the swirls in the wood, just below the surface. And her mind worked at that word—hotel—like a tongue works at a dead tooth.

Hotel

.

With their

hiding.

And their

lying.

The matchbook in Alex’s pocket.

The matchbook from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

Someone has to commit the act

Susan had laughed at herself for being so silly. Ever to think that her husband would do such a thing, would go out to some hotel …

that throws open the door to the darkness.

But, oh, he had been out so late, hadn’t he? Two in the morning. That night, that Friday night, just after they moved to Brooklyn. She had finally started painting again, and she’d slipped into some bizarre unconscious state and added violence into her art, covered poor Jessica Spender with bedbug bites. Meanwhile, where was handsome hubby? Why, just over at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, and not alone … and then she had laughed at herself for being such a shrew, a jealous little wifey.…

Someone has to commit the act, think the thought that throws open the door to the darkness.

The Mandarin Oriental Hotel. And then — the next morning—the next morning—a spot of blood on her pillow.

For as bedbugs are drawn to heat and carbon dioxide, badbugs are drawn to the hot stink of evil.

“Susan?”

Andrea was waving her hands in front of Susan’s eyes, snapping her fingers. Susan stood abruptly, and the legs of her chair scraped loudly on the kitchen floor.

“Andrea, it’s time for you to go downstairs and call your sister, I think.”

“Yes. But—”

“Nan will be worried sick, Andrea. Just worried to death.”

She grabbed the two teacups by their handles and tossed them in the sink, moving quickly, feeling a kind of delirious lightness. She plucked the phones off the kitchen table, handed Andrea’s to her and stuck her own in her pocket. “Susan?”

She led Andrea by the elbow, down the hallway and to the door.

“Glad to help. Good night, Andrea.”

Susan stood with her hand on the doorknob, listening to the muffled patter as Andrea scurried down the steps. Cimex Lectularius: The Shadow Species had said in no certain terms how the curse could be undone, how the badbugs could be sent back to the other side.

And now there is only one question left: How to get rid of them?

Unfortunately, there is only one way to remove the blight.

Someone invited the bugs in. Someone opened the door to the darkness.

That person must be discovered, and destroyed.

Pullman Thibodaux was unequivocal on that last point. Susan marched back to the kitchen counter, where the knife block sat thick and squat, like a gargoyle. She ran her fingers along the protruding handles, hearing Alex’s voice in her head, condescending, chastising. I’ve told you, save the good knives for when you really need a good knife.

“Totally,” Susan said. “You’re totally right, honey.” She wrapped her fingers around the heaviest handle and slid the butcher’s knife free from the block.

26

The little TV on Alex’s dresser was on, as if he had intended to wait up for her and continue their conversation, but he had fallen fast asleep. He lay in a nest of pillows, his thick curly hair splayed out around his head, mouth half open, snoring gently. Susan turned off the TV and watched him sleep, the handle of the butcher knife sweating in her palm. The room was silent but for the baby monitor on the night table, emitting its steady sibilant crackle.

Susan crouched beside her husband and whispered in his ear:

“Bad news, Alex. We have bedbugs.”

He muttered something unintelligible, licked his lips, and turned over, presenting her with the back of his head. She whispered again, a little louder, in his other ear: “Lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of them.”

He slept on.

“Dammit, Alex, wake up.” She smacked him on the side of the head, as hard as she could, cracking the butt of the handle on the base of his skull.

“Get up.”

Alex shot up into a crawling position and then fell forward again, gripping the back of his head. He flipped over, blinking, confused, the covers bunching around his torso. “Susan? Did you — what—”

He saw the knife and froze with his mouth open. His hair sprung out in all directions, a crust of drool pooled at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were brown and wide. Susan had always loved his eyes. As she held up her knife, watching him tremble, she felt a sudden sharp sting at the back of her neck: new bite. New itch.

Susan winced but did not release her grip on the knife. He had done this to her. All of the pain and confusion and misery. All of the itching. He had done it.

“What are you doing, Susan?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what?”

She swung the knife, inexpertly. He jerked back and the blade just barely caught him, tracing a bright line of blood along the tan flesh of his forearm. Alex shrieked, high and womanish, pulled back against the headboard. Both of them stared at the long line of the cut, and then up at each other.

“What were you doing at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel the Friday night after we moved to Brooklyn?”

“What? Susan—”

“Friday, September 17. The Mandarin Oriental Hotel.”

All the details were completely clear to Susan, totally available to her. Now she knew the story, of how her life had fallen to pieces, and why. Because of whom.

“I seriously don’t know what you’re—”

He cut himself off, midsentence, and lunged for the knife. She jumped backward, steadied herself on her back foot, and parried forward, nearly cutting him again. Alex retreated against the pillows, lifting the comforter over his chest as if it were a shield.

“Susan, I swear to God I have never been to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.”

“Don’t lie,” Susan said flatly. The knife trembled in her hand. “Please, don’t lie.”

“You’re sick, Sue. You have—”

She cut him again and did a better job of it, swinging the blade like a scythe, right across his ribs. The knife bit deep, biting into the fat layer of flesh above his heart, and she could feel the resistance of meat beneath the blade. Alex brought his arm down and then up, staring at the sticky mess in his hand.

“Oh, God. Susan—”

“Tell me the truth,” she hissed.

“OK,” Alex said slowly, pressing his hands against the wound, keeping his eyes on the knife, now smeared