Read the 1st (draft) chapter of Thirteen Steps (Not a Mars Bahr Mystery)

THIRTEEN STEPS

By KJ Erickson

Copyright 2006

Chapter 1

Waking up with a headache in a dark, unknown place should be enough to convince me that I have lost control of my life in important ways.

A headache? That doesn’t begin to do justice to what is happening in my head. What this feels like is the sharp-end of a cement block penetrating my skull, touching an orange neon nerve that connects to all other nerve endings in my body.

I am momentarily distracted from the cement block’s presence by a sense of warmth to my immediate left. What I hope is that the warmth is residual: that I have turned over in my sleep, leaving in my wake a hot zone that now emits a radiance of my past presence.

That my past presence has the power of radiance is an idea that is gratifying, but short-lived:

The warmth moves.

Shit.

I draw a breath—slowly, not wanting to further animate the warmth.

I consider the possibilities of where I might be.

There are two clues.

One is the darkness:

It is the kind of dark that comes not just from night, but from night that is hidden behind lined drapes.

The other clue is smell:

Stale fabric that has had contact with legions of bodies in varied states of dress and undress, cleanliness, and uncleanliness…

The intense, textured scent of cigarette smoke that has filmed hard surfaces and been absorbed by soft surfaces. The scent of cigarette smoke that even days after the last drag has been drawn, gets up your nose and twitches…

The tang—faint, but discernable—of commercial cleaning products.

In combination the darkness and the smell mean that I am in a certain kind of hotel room. Not the kind of hotel room one would consciously choose to wake up in under any circumstances, much less with a cement block stuck in your skull and an unknown person next to you in bed.

I lift the bed covers gently, carefully pushing myself up and forward. In an instant, my stomach lurches and my gut twists.

It is at this moment that the warmth speaks.

“What?” Not fully awake, but awake enough to foil an unobserved escape.

“Sorry,” I say. As if good manners count for something in a deal like this. How little they count might best be understood by a more detailed description of the situation.

I am naked.

I have no idea who this warm man is.

I have no idea how I came to be naked with a warm man whose name I don’t know.

“Didn’t mean to wake you, but I’ve got to go.” I stagger up, holding a pillow in the center of my body.

Modesty in this situation counts for less than good manners.

Modesty in this situation is also unnecessary. Only vague shapes are discernable in the intense dark.

“Go?” he says.

The small, single word seems to have a deeper meaning than it deserves. I begin to think that there are unknown facts at play that are more complex than this warm man’s identity and how I came to be naked in his presence.

“Yes,” I say, moving away from the bed and immediately stumbling on what, to my bare foot, feels like a shoe.

My clothes must be on the floor. I can gather my clothes in the dark or I can ask to turn on a light.

There are pros and cons to either choice.

I imagine how the flash of incandescence will feel to my freshly peeled eyeballs. I imagine me, illuminated before his squinting eyes. I imagine him, illuminated before my squinting eyes.

Strong arguments in favor of maintaining a shroud of darkness that conceals an increasingly unpleasant reality.

But that same shroud may mean that I will not find all of my clothes, particularly as I have no recollection of what I was wearing when I removed them. This is a compelling argument in favor of lights on.

Is it necessary to ask to turn on a light under these circumstances? Wouldn’t it be easier to just do it?

If I ask, he may shield his eyes from the light, and from me.

“Would it be alright,” I say, “if I turned on a light?”

“No,” he says.

I am struck by the fact that he has spoken only three words since he morphed from a thermal unit to an animate being.

Three words, eight letters: What? Go? No.

Three words, eight letters, and somehow it feels like he is in complete control of this situation.

How did that happen?

I have made a serious tactical error. I have taken on the aspect of a supplicant. Of the subordinate partner.

Scratch ‘partner.’ ‘Partner’ suggests a commitment. Something planned and ongoing. Vague associations with things corporate.

Please note: corporate, not corporeal.

Corporeal. Now there’s a word that applies to the situation at hand. Of the body, distinct from things spiritual.

Decidedly distinct from things spiritual.

The tactical error I have made is to behave timidly rather than boldly. By being timid I have put myself at the mercy of a man who, in three words and eight letters, has established dominance.

I see the shape of him move, stretch to his left, over a mound of bedding. I hear the rattle of metal against what I take to be the surface of a nightstand. A small green circle of light flashes.

He falls back on the bed, a motion I hear more than see.

“Not even three,” he says. “Get back in bed.”

“Love to,” I say, “but I’ve really got to get going.”

He says, “You’re not going anywhere.”

In this moment I recognize that his dominance is not benign. I am—belatedly—scared. A benefit of the fear is that it burns the edge off the pain in my head, allowing me to set priorities.

I realize: good manners aren’t going to get me out of here.

I need to start lying.

“Oh, okay. I guess.” I do a nervous, little girl’s dance that I hope he can hear, feel—even if it can’t be seen. “But I’ve got to pee first.”

I toss the pillow I’ve been holding in the direction of his voice, drop down, grabbing clothes from the floor, nearly fainting from the pain that results from lowering my head. Then I weave in what I hope is the direction of the bathroom.

I hit a wall before my outstretched hand finds a door frame and a doorknob.

“And brush my teeth,” I say before I close the bathroom door behind me, “my mouth tastes like a drawer full of dirty socks.”

I close the door before I turn on a light. The darkness is utter. But having a closed door between me and the man in the bed is more important than light.

I long to turn the lock in the door knob, but I can’t risk the slight, provocative click that will come with the turn of a lock.

Dread gathers as my hand feels the wall for the light switch. I dread two things: seeing myself in a mirror and finding that I have nothing in the bathroom that will help me get out of here with something approximating an iota of dignity.

I find the light switch. Fake illumination floods, lashing my eyes with pain.

I have enough hair over my face to obscure how bad I look, but my nakedness is shocking. It reminds me of how vulnerable I am. Of how few options I have.

I take stock, sorting through the clothes I was able to scoop off the floor. A pair of jeans. Underpants. A bra. One shoe.

Shit, again.

I look around the bathroom, prepared to improvise. From the smell of the room, the bathroom fixtures, and the brand names on the toilet products, I know I can’t expect a terry cloth robe on a padded hanger. But there are towels, and if it comes to that, the jeans and a well-wrapped towel around my top will have to do.

Then, a bit of good luck.

More than a bit of good luck.

The one thing that is essential to my getting out of here.

My purse is on the floor, on the right side of the toilet.

One problem.

Someone has thrown up in the general direction of the toilet.

Someone has thrown up on the floor. Splattering the wall. Splattering the toilet tank.

Splattering my purse.

A half-memory returns. Me coming into a bathroom. The strap of my purse sliding off my shoulder, the purse hitting a tile floor. Me throwing up before I realize one of those useless paper seals has been slid over the toilet seat.

I look at the toilet. The vomit-covered seal is still in place.

I look again. Someone has also peed over the seal. Depravity reigns.

I pick up the purse by the strap, and turning on the tap, run water over the purse fast, then blot the purse with a hand towel.

What next? I need to improvise.

Just as this is not the kind of hotel that has terry cloth robes on padded hangers, this is not the kind of hotel that has real drinking glasses in the bathroom, covered by stiff paper caps with pleated edges. This is the kind of hotel that has flimsy plastic glasses sealed in plastic bags that are harder to open than airplane peanuts.

Which is too bad. My improvisation scheme began with the need for a real glass.

But I am not daunted. I am challenged. I look around the bathroom.

Four glass light bulbs are lined up on a chrome strip over the mirror.

That’s going to have to do.

But first things first.

I dress. Underpants that somehow don’t fit. More than don’t fit. Black lace? Me? I’d take them off, but it doesn’t feel like I have time to get picky about lingerie. The jeans do fit. I sarong wrap a towel over my chest. Do I wear a bra under the towel? The idea of bra straps rising above the wrapped towel seems obscene. The bra goes into my purse.

No shoes is better than one shoe if you’re going to run.

I’m as dressed as I’m going to be.

I unscrew three of the light bulbs, leaving the fourth for light, and wrap them in the damp towel. I flush the toilet, feign a cough, and slam the towel against the tile floor. Opening the towel, the shattered bulbs look just right.

I loop the strap of my purse over my neck. I open the shampoo and conditioner bottles, leaving the caps on the sink. Then I turn off the remaining light.

I open the bathroom door slowly, silently.

Gently closing the door behind me, I feel along the wall to reassure myself that the room’s door is where I think it is. Then I kneel down and open the towel on the floor, scattering the broken light bulbs. I squirt the shampoo and conditioner onto the carpet…

“Hey,” the warm man says.

I hear the flap of a blanket being lifted, thrown back. I hear his feet hit the floor.

My fear turns to terror.

I’m up, on my feet, both hands on the wall, feeling my way back to the door, the warm man’s footsteps gaining behind me. I hear him stumble, curse.

Finding the door, I open it quickly, admitting a sharp slice of artificial brightness from the hall before the door slams shut behind me.

I am half way down the hallway before I hear his scream.

I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I hear his one word expletive.

“Bitch!”