around the room.
“I have one last favor to ask first. Please bear with me.”
“Sure. Whatever. You poisoned me, you call the shots.”
“I need to use the bathroom. Badly.”
“Try the room with the white seat.”
“Very funny, Jack. But I need you in there with me.”
“Look, I promise I won’t leave. At the very least, I have to find out why you’ve poisoned me. And frankly, I may decide to keep you here for the police.”
“It’s not that. I can’t go alone.”
“What, are you scared? I told you: I’ll be right here.”
“You
“You’re seriously insane, aren’t you?”
“Jack, you’ve only known me a few hours. But by now, you should know I mean what I say.”
Okay, give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s only number one. I think I’d die if it was the other. You should see what I’ve gone through to do that.”
Jack didn’t know what she was talking about; didn’t really care. He wanted answers. So fine, she needed to pee with him in the room, here we go. Very least, it’d be something amusing to share with Donovan Piatt first thing in the morning: Don, my man, I had this blonde in my hotel room. And she wanted me to watch her pee. Wild, huh?
Kelly helped him up from the bed—he realized he still felt a little shaky, dizzy—and he shuffled after her into the bathroom. Typical hotel setup: bathtub with shower, vanity, towels washed so hard that you could practically smell the bleach in the air. Jack sat on the edge of the tub and watched Kelly unhook her belt, then unbutton her jeans. She started to unzip, then stopped.
“You don’t have to look.”
Now he was being accused of being a perv.
“Sorry.”
Jack turned his head away, stared at a white square tile on the opposite wall. The sealant around it was a little sloppy. He heard the rustle of jeans slipping down over a pair of legs, followed by what he presumed was a pair of panties. This would make for another excellent image for the wife. Jack, alone in a hotel bathroom with a blonde who had her pants around her ankles. But honey, he’d argue. I was facing a tile wall the whole time. I don’t even know if she’s a natural blonde.
She started to go, making for an incredibly awkward silence. The water hitting water sounded as loud as the Hoover Dam.
“So … is this, like, a nervous disorder?”
“Nothing like that. You said you had a family. Aren’t you ever in the bathroom at the same time as your wife?”
“Not if we can help it.” Not since she filed for divorce. “We’re private people.”
“I thought men were a little more open than that. I used to date a guy who loved to take care of business with the door wide open. He’d stroll around my flat naked. No shame whatsoever. Then again, he did have something to be proud of. I suspect he was part exhibitionist.”
“Well, that’s not me.”
Now that he thought about it, the only girl he’d ever watched in the bathroom was his daughter, Callie. But that had been when she was toilet training. And that he’d stopped about a year ago, when she was three. “I need privacy, Daddy,” she told him one day. Made him laugh and broke his heart at the same time.
Kelly finished. He heard her rip some toilet paper from the roll, then flush. As she stood to pull up her pants, Jack found himself turning back to face her.
He told himself he thought she was done, already covered, but the moment the thought entered his brain, he knew it was a lie. Because he wanted to see. Because he was a guy.
Men were visual creatures, endlessly fascinated by the random body parts of women they didn’t even find particularly attractive. In his case, even a woman who had poisoned him. He couldn’t
“Hey.”
Jack caught a fleeting glimpse: Kelly’s pale white skin, with a perfectly trimmed triangle of red hair, shaved close. Definitely not a natural blonde. Then it was gone, hidden by the pink stripes of a pair of bikini briefs.
“I’m sorry. Thought you were done.”
“Right.” Kelly smirked. “Though I suppose I owe you at least a look, don’t I? After all I’ve put you through?”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I owe you an explanation. But are you ready to hear it?”
12:18 a.m.
Explain it to me best you can.”
Kowalski was on his cell. He’d convinced Ed’s wife— Claudia, her name was—to return to her bedroom for a moment while he called for backup. He, of course, was doing no such thing, and Claudia would know within a minute something hinky was going on. The clock, as always, was ticking.
Welcome to my life.
Then he’d headed back to the bathroom. Christ. The Dydak Brothers would have come in their pants, all this blood. This was at least a six- or seven-hour detail.
Next, he’d hit the phone. Called his handler on the last number he’d memorized. Asked her what to do.
“Explain it to me best you can,” she’d said.
Kowalski stepped inside the bathroom, closed the door—he didn’t want Claudia hearing this stuff—and quickly described the injuries. It was all from the neck up. No visible gunshot wounds or lacerations. All of the blood seemed to have spurted out through the eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. Like the man’s brain were a blood orange and some invisible force had reached in and squeezed tight in one spasmodic jerk.
“Hold, please.”
Claudia started sobbing again. He could hear her through the wall. Damn it, this wasn’t going to last long. Hopefully, the brain boys up in CI-6 were moving fast. Telling his handler how to respond. What to do next.
“We’re going to need the subject’s head,” his handler said. “Seal it and await pickup instructions. I’ll call you on this phone.”
That’s what Kowalski thought. Fuck. With the wife next door, this was going to be complicated. Then another thought occurred to him. One subject, kissing another, the new subject dead within an hour. Bioweapon? Supervirus? Ebola?
“Should I quarantine the house? The subject’s wife is here.”
“No need. But do not let any of the subject’s blood to come in contact with any open wounds or scrapes or mucous membranes. Treat it like AIDS. Clear? We also need you to clean the house.”
Kowalski didn’t need clarification on that one. “Clean” didn’t mean Windex and rags.
Claudia was still crying.
Now this joker in the bathroom might or might not have gotten what he deserved. It’s never good karma to kiss a strange woman in an airport when you’ve got a wife at home. But the wife was innocent, as far as he knew.
Claudia, grieving like anyone would.
