A Fountain Filled With Blood

She shoved the suitcase back into place and shot to her feet. Where to hide? Where to hide, where to hide, where to hide? She slapped off the light in the closet and stood stock-still, shaking, flushed, her skin hot and prickling, clenching her fists so tightly that her close-clipped nails dug into her palms. Think. Thinkthinkthink. Under the bed? Too obvious. In the closet? There was nothing to hide behind except Malcolm’s suits. All it would take would be a light on in the room and someone to cast one glance inside to notice her legs taking up the space between his jackets and the shoe rack.

The hall light came on. She could hear a mutter of voices, indistinct, male, coming closer. She darted a glance behind her and realized the curtains were still closed. She leaped to one window, jerked the fabric apart, and then ran to the next, almost stumbling over the little chair in front of the desk.

No footsteps now because of the plush thickness of the carpet, just the sound of a voice complaining and another answering shortly. The bathroom was her only hope. She bounded in, shutting the door behind her. It had been shut when she came into the room, hadn’t it? She couldn’t remember. Light from the open window picked out a pedestal sink, a toilet, and a shower stall. She suddenly thought of the crowd around the bathroom downstairs. If she were Malcolm and had to pee, would she wait in line next to the dining room when she had a private john upstairs? Her throat closed and for a second she heard a roaring in her ears.

You’re a pilot, damn it, “Hardball” Wright snarled in her ear. You know what they call pilots who panic? Dead! She drew in her breath, a quick, sharp gasp, and ruthlessly shoved everything except the problem out of her mind. She could hide behind the shower curtain. There was almost no chance he was going to shower, not with someone else accompanying him. Unless, of course, he was planning on a little private party for two.

She could hear the voices, louder now, and then there was a gleam of light beneath the edge of the bathroom door. Her choice was made for her. Slipping out of her heels and clutching them in one hand, she edged her way behind the shower curtain and into the cubicle, gritting her teeth at the quiet rustle and clank of the hooks on the curtain rod.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm,” a male voice said, muffled slightly by the bathroom door.

“Chill out,” Malcolm said, and suddenly Dave Matthews was singing “Forty-One,” intense and seductive, pure high notes and a wicked bass coming from that suitcase-size CD player. How can his books be so lousy and his music so good? she wondered inanely, and then she heard Malcolm say, “I have to take a leak. Hang on.”

She willed herself into immobility as the door swung open and the bathroom light clicked on. She couldn’t help it—she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, like a child, as if not seeing would make her invisible, too. Her heart was tripping so fast, it was difficult to keep her breathing slow and steady. She fought the urge to hold her breath, knowing that if she did so, she would eventually make even more noise letting it out.

The toilet seat clunked up and Malcolm went about his business, peeing for what seemed like a half hour—did he have the bladder of a racehorse?—before zipping up, a noise like a small guillotine, and flushing. The water racketing down the porcelain bowl gave her enough cover to take a deep, lung-popping breath of air. Then the water was running in the small sink, and she opened her eyes, looking in horror at the half-dissolved bar of soap on the chrome caddy hanging over the showerhead. Please, she thought, please, please, please…Then she heard the sweet sound of a liquid-soap dispenser squirting and knew she had dodged the bullet on that one. When he twisted off the water and reached for the hand towel, she could actually see the tips of his fingers at the edge of the shower curtain as he grabbed the towel and then hung it up again. He clicked off the light and pulled the door behind him, so that it swung nearly—but not quite—closed.

She wanted to sag against the back of the shower and slide bonelessly to the floor. She realized she had been clutching her shoes so tightly, her hands ached. She took a deep, slow breath in an effort to settle her heart and unstring her muscles. All she had to do was remain still, quiet, and hidden, and eventually Malcolm and the other man would leave to rejoin the party.