Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (24 page)

My glass was empty. I looked at Susan, then at the bottle. It seemed to sway as I poured. After another tequila shot—or was it two? I went back to bed. The doctor had gone and given Jen a shot to calm her down. Susan and I hadn’t figured out what had happened, but we’d had enough tequila that we had trouble discussing it and it didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

Alain had called before I woke up; my cell showed two missed calls from him. Not that I could read his name very easily with the letters blurred.

The rest of the world was also off. The sunlight fried my eyeballs. My skull was filled with sand. No—with rocks. Sharp, jagged ones. How much had Susan and I had to drink? When had I gone to bed? What time was it?

So many questions. Too many.

I closed my eyes, letting the walls steady themselves. When I felt that the floor would hold still and support me, I got out of bed carefully. Slowly went into the bathroom, saw a hag in the mirror. Hair disheveled, eyes red, shoulders and forehead covered with dead peeling skin.

“Elle,” Susan knocked on the door before cracking it open, “Dr. Du Bois is here.”

“What?”

“He checked on Jen and he wants to see you.”

“What?” It seemed to be my only word. I turned to face her.

“Wow.” She gaped at me. “You look horrific.”

I nodded, agreeing.

“I’ll give him coffee.”

“I can’t see him—”

“Fix yourself.”

“How? I can’t—”

The door closed, and I heard Susan declare that Elle would be a couple of minutes. I turned back to the mirror. Oh God. No one would want to see a face like that. But Alain was sitting outside, waiting. I filled the sink with cold water, sunk my face into it, held my breath, felt a wave of panic as I remembered almost drowning. Kept my face in the water anyway, hoping my eyelids would unswell.

Finally, I picked my head up and patted my face dry, assessing myself. Nothing had really changed. My eyelids were still massive, my eyes bloodshot. My lips were cracked from sunburn. On good days, I wasn’t a knockout. And this wasn’t a good day.

But Alain Du Bois, who treated—no—who created some of the most symmetrically exquisitely captivatingly beautiful women in the world, was waiting to see me. Me.

I met my eyes in the mirror. Why would Dr. Alain Du Bois, who had habitually pursued stunning women, whose hands had molded perfect female chins and noses and breasts and butts and God knew what other parts, who was a master in the aesthetics of feminine form and who had devoted his life and career
to enhancing beauty—why would that same Dr. Alain Du Bois be waiting in the living room to see me?

What did he want?

I thought of our dinner. Had it been only the night before? It seemed long ago, indistinct. Had it even happened? Had Alain really asked me to spend the night? Had I wanted to? Something welled up below my ribs, answering that, yes, I had. And probably still did. I pictured Alain’s hands, fingers. The strong angle of his jaw. The soft curve of his lips. The chest I’d almost exposed—good God. I told myself to stop swooning. To get in the shower.

Water streamed over me, rinsing away my hangover, but thoughts began to surface. I remembered Jen’s bandages. The woman who’d somehow gotten into our suite. The feeling of paralysis I’d had when her veil had tickled my face. Uneasiness washed over me with shampoo suds.

And ten minutes later when I hastily threw on Capris and a t-shirt and came into the living room with my hair wet and hanging loose, I was still uneasy. I greeted Alain with a friendly hug as if he’d never helped me slip out of my dress. I smiled confidently as if I had lush full lips and a perkily perfect nose. I took a seat as if we were two regular people on a regular morning. But, all the time I was hearing sirens of red alert. When Alain asked if I would join him for dinner and I accepted, I was still seeing warning lights, wondering why the man was inviting me. What he could possibly, really want.

Sergeant Perez arrived just as Alain was leaving.

Jen came out of her room. Alain had removed her splint, replacing it with a small strip that molded to her nose so she no longer resembled a heron. “Oh, shit,” she looked at Perez. “Who died now?”

“No one.” Susan kept her voice low. “We had an intruder. So I called the police.”

Jen’s eyes widened. “But you didn’t believe me. You said it was just a dream.”

“We talked,” I explained. But I’d had no idea that Susan had called anyone.

“Señoras,” Sergeant Perez nodded to us one at a time. “Can we sit?”

We sat. I heard myself describe the figure I’d seen in my room, aware that I sounded incredible. After all, who would awaken to see a fist-waving stranger leaning over them and do nothing? Not utter a peep. Not get into a brawl. Not run screaming out of the room. Nothing. It wouldn’t help to explain that I’d been told by a professional that my aura attracted spirits of the dead, so that, when I’d first seen the figure, I’d assumed it was simply one of those. No, I couldn’t say that. Nor could I reveal that I’d seen my dead husband with a possibly dead woman on the beach and that I’d suspected the woman of being our intruder. I held back all this information and stuck to the most basic of facts.

I watched Sergeant Perez and he watched me, and I was sure he had concluded that something about me was off. After all, I’d been clinging to the balcony when Claudia fell. I’d found Greta’s carved-up corpse. I’d half drowned and my leg had been sliced. I’d probably had more police contact in three days than most people have in their lifetimes. And now I sounded as if, when I’d been awakened by a raving stranger leaning over me, I’d simply turned over and gone back to sleep.

When I finished, he waited a moment before speaking. “Señora,” his tone was surprisingly gentle, “you have been through a lot this week. So I ask you to think carefully: Did you recognize this person? The voice? The mannerisms?”

I shook my head, no.

“How tall was she? Was she heavy? Thin?”

Not tall. Not short. Not heavy or thin. “Her clothes were loose. It was hard to tell.”

He stroked his mustache, sighing.

“And you?” He turned to Jen. “You saw the same figure?”

Jen gave her account, described the attack and the woman crying out in Spanish, calling for vengeance.

“You speak Spanish?”

“
Un poco.”

“But you understand
la venganza
? It’s not a common term.”

Jen shrugged. She looked better without the splint even though her nose was swollen and not quite her own.

“What’s your point, Sergeant?” Susan asked.

“Why would someone break in here, seeking vengeance?” he asked. “What have either of you done to arouse that kind of passion?”

The three of us sat bug-eyed, silent. Perplexed.

“Nothing,” Susan’s voice was flat. “We’ve only been here a few days, and we don’t know anyone here. It makes no sense.”

“And yet someone attacked one of you in the ocean and another of you in the dark of night, calling for vengeance.”

Silence. My hands were cold. And my shoulders. And the rest of me.

“Do you think it’s connected to the deaths next door?” Susan suggested. “Those women—”

“More importantly, señora, do you think it is?”

More silence.

Sergeant Perez stood, asked to be shown where the figure had been. We walked him around the suite, and he examined doors, carpet, remnants of ripped gauze.

“The door was locked?” he asked.

“I locked it myself,” Susan insisted.

“Bolted?”

Susan’s face reddened. “No. Our other roommate was out. I didn’t bolt it in case she wanted to come in.”

“And where is this roommate now?”

Jen, Susan, and I exchanged glances.

“She spent the night out.”

“Where?”

“With a friend—”

“But you said you have no friends here. You told me you know no one.”

Aha! He had us. He stood tall and thrust his chest out, as if he’d proved something significant.

Susan straightened and crossed her arms. “She just met him, Sergeant. He’s Chichi, one of the activities directors.”

Perez pursed his lips, nodding slowly.

“Wait, you think our intruder is connected to Chichi?” I didn’t understand. “Why would someone want revenge against us because Chichi is seeing Becky?”

Susan flashed a scowl at me. As a lawyer, she wanted all communication with the police to go through her.

Perez didn’t answer. He went to the front door. Studied the lock. “Were the doors to the balcony open?”

I thought of the slats slapping in the breeze.

“You think she climbed in from the balcony?” Jen asked.

“No, her clothes were loose and long.” I reminded him. “They’d have gotten tangled on the railing—”

“Sí, señora.” Perez’s eyes drilled into me. “You would know about such things.”

My face blazed.

He folded his hands, thumped his thumbs together. “Okay. The intruder wouldn’t have been able to climb in through the balcony. But the lock on the front door is intact. It shows no sign of tampering.”

So? What did that mean? Did he doubt that there had been an intruder?

“But Jen and I both saw her—” I began; Susan fired another scowl.

“I need to speak with your other roommate and find out who had access to her key.”

Of course. The intruder must have had a key.

“And I want to take another look at the hotel staff. We never identified the maid you stated that you’d seen next door. But a
maid or anyone on the room service staff—even front desk personnel—these people have easy access to the rooms.”

In other words, our intruder might have been anyone who worked at the hotel.

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Jen asked.

“Señoras,” Sergeant Perez stepped beside the sofa, “before I came here today, I inquired as to the availability of another suite. I thought it would be wise to take a precaution and move you to another location. Unfortunately, the only comparable suite available is the one next door.”

“So that was a ‘yes’?”

“It was a maybe. I don’t know. But I think you would be wise to bolt your door at night. And to stay together or with large groups until we have this figured out. It seems that, for whatever reason, you are surrounded by
el peligro
.” He turned to Jen. “You understand, señora?”

Jen bit her lip, didn’t answer.

I didn’t speak Spanish, didn’t know his meaning, but I pictured Madam Therese cross herself and heard her warn that danger was around us, and that my aura was a beacon, drawing harmful spirits close.

Not that I believed in spirits.

After Sergeant Perez left, Susan got on the phone with Becky, explaining what had happened and arranging for her to speak with the police.

Jen followed doctor’s orders to get up and move and began walking laps around the living room.

I went to the bathroom mirror, examining the space around my head, trying to see a shadow or an ominous dark halo. I squinted. I stared. I discovered nothing about my aura. But realized I had lots of split ends.

When I came out, Susan was on the phone again, pacing. “Lisa, I’m a continent away. You’ll have to settle it yourselves—Yes, but you also have a father—Well, explain it to him—He’s not
clueless if you explain—So wait until he gets home—Look, you’re old enough to work things out—Lisa, I’m gone. I’m not there—You have to talk to each other.”