Endurance - Jack Kilborn [57]
Deb’s mouth curled in the faintest smirk, and the lines on her forehead smoothed out.
“You might want to call the White House instead. These decorations are mind-blowing.”
“They’re unpresidented.”
This time Deb actually did smile, full wattage, and it lit up the room.
“Thanks for splitting a partridge sandwich with me, Mal. I think I’m going to turn in. Long day.”
Mal wracked his brain to come up with some reason to keep talking. Another interview question? Something more personal? A joke?
Then he saw Deb stifle a yawn with the back of her hand, and realized the proper thing to do was let her get some sleep. She was, after all, competing in a triathlon.
“I’ll walk you up.”
They took the stairs slowly, silently, but the silence wasn’t awkward. When they arrived at Deb’s room, Mal felt a tinge of uncertainty, like he’d just been on a date and was unsure if he should try for the kiss.
Deb unlocked her door, then turned and looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, Mal saw in her eyes the same desire he felt.
Should I try it?
Then Deb stuck out her hand.
The goodnight handshake. Ugh. That’s even worse than the goodnight peck on the cheek.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Deiter.”
He folded her hand into his. “The pleasure has been all mine, Ms. Novachek. See you in the morning.”
Mal let the touch linger. So did Deb. Her eyes were big and her chin was titled up and all the signals were there, so Mal went for it. He leaned down, parting his lips, and got a faceful of hair when she abruptly turned around.
Deb slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, leaving Mal standing there like a dork. He recalled what Deb told him earlier.
“How old are we, twelve?”
He sure felt like it.
Mal let himself into his room. Several dozen Harry S. Trumans stared at him, and they all seemed to be thinking what Mal was thinking.
Smooth move, Casanova.
Mal padded into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and pants, and took a leak. Then he turned his attention to the shower. Unlike the rest of the room, which was decorated in late 60s Norman Bates, the shower stood apart by appearing modern. It was a walk-in, with a floor-to-ceiling glass door, and the shower head was big and chrome and new.
Mal turned the knob to scald and stepped inside. The water was rust-colored, and smelled medicinal, but the stream was strong and felt good on his body. He opened the little box of soap in the soap dish and worked up a lather. Also in the soap dish was a mini bottle of shampoo. Mal unscrewed the top, dumped the brown contents into his hand, and raised it to his head.
That’s when the smell hit him.
A foul, rotten smell, like meat gone bad. He brought his hand to his face, sniffed the shampoo, and almost puked.
It’s not shampoo. It’s blood. Old, decaying blood.
Revolted, he pawed at his head, trying to get the gunk off. He could feel little pieces—clots—become tangled in his hair. Mal felt his stomach twist again, the partridge sandwich struggling to get out like it still had fluttering wings. Doubling over, Mal took deep breaths, watching gunky, brown blood swirl down the drain. He put a hand on the glass door to steady himself, wiping off a streak of steam—
—and saw someone standing in the bathroom.
Startled, Mal backed into the corner of the shower, watching the figure approach. Once he got over the initial shock, his mind tried to make sense of what was happening.
Deb? Coming back for that good night kiss?
Another guest, who walked into the wrong room?
Eleanor Roosevelt’s son, the one with the truck who was supposed to take them back into town?
Someone trying to do me harm?
Mal hollered above the water spray, “Who’s there?”
The person didn’t answer. He came up to the door and stood there.
Christ, he’s huge.
“Who the hell are you?”
The giant didn’t reply.
Mal’s heart went into overdrive. This whole situation felt like it was happening to someone else, and it was so far removed from reality that he wasn’t sure how to react. That he was naked made the vulnerability even more intense.
“What