Page 19 of The Shadow Friends

Hannah frowned at her housemate Andrei, who had just arrived for his shift to find the hotel in an uproar. “What?”

“This guest, Dr. Maslov, he is in restaurant yesterday,” said Andrei. “I serve him.”

“So we’ve been exposed too?” said the cook. “Oh, that’s just wonderful.”

“You work in the kitchen,” said Fishman. “How could you be exposed?”

“It’s only a few yards from the dining room.” The cook stood up. “I’ve got grandkids to think about. I’m going home.” He looked at his colleagues. “Anyone else?”

As half a dozen restaurant employees rose to their feet, Fishman held up his hands. “Fine! We temporarily close the restaurant, just until we get guidance from Maine CDC. Kitchen and waitstaff, you can take the rest of the day off.”

“And housekeeping?” said Hannah’s colleague. “Can we go home too?”

Hannah thought the question was perfectly reasonable, but she remained silent. She had been working at the resort for only a few months, and she didn’t want to bring any trouble down on her head.

“Our guests pay for top-notch service,” said Fishman. “It’s what sets us apart from other hotels. You can stay off the second floor, but clean the other rooms. Now, let’s get back to work.” He looked around at the unhappy faces. “I’m going to do my job. You do yours.”

But your job doesn’t include scrubbing toilets, thought Hannah. Fishman’s job didn’t involve picking up sopping towels or stripping sex-stained sheets from beds. She had worked as a housekeeper in five-star New York and Boston hotels, and she’d learned that whether the guests were bankers or diplomats or high-priced call girls, most people were basically pigs. Not to disparage pigs, who had no choice but to wallow in mud. But some people chose to make her job harder. They crumbled potato chips in bed and left toilets unflushed, as if to say Fuck you to the help and assert dominance over the nameless, faceless people who scrubbed and mopped their hotel rooms.

There were also thoughtful guests, of course, for which she was grateful. The ones who left a ten- or twenty-dollar tip on the nightstand. Once, on Christmas Eve, she’d even received a fifty-dollar tip. Too often, though, they forgot to tip at all.

The events of this morning were still fresh on Hannah’s mind as she rode the service elevator to the third floor. She wheeled her cart to #301 and knocked, wondering: What will I find in this room? “Housekeeping,” she called out, and slipped her master key card into the lock.

The room smelled of booze and stale pizza, and she saw two empty champagne bottles and scattered wineglasses. There was no tip in sight. Of course not. She gathered up the trash and dirty glasses and replaced the empty water bottles with two fresh ones. In the bathroom, she found towels smeared with makeup that would never come out in the laundry. Long blond hairs littered the sink, and on the countertop were creams and lotions and prescription bottles. Women were no neater than men; they just had better-smelling facial products.

In an open velvet case was a pair of glittering earrings. The sapphires looked real, and were probably worth a few thousand dollars. Not a fortune, but enough to remind Hannah of the eternal gulf between haves and have-nots. The haves, like the guest staying in this room, didn’t even know Hannah existed, but Hannah had learned a great deal about the guest. She knew this woman took Ambien to sleep, Ozempic to keep herself trim, and Xanax for anxiety. So much information could be gleaned by just a glance at a guest’s toiletries, the items in their trash can, and the documents they left on the desk. Hannah now knew this guest’s legal name and email, that she’d booked the resort through Hotels.com, and that she’d flown first class from Houston, where she’d purchased a leather jacket from an airport clothing shop for $825.00. None of this information was of any consequence to Hannah, but she automatically took note of it anyway.

And then there were these sapphire earrings. Hannah picked up one of the earrings and held it to her earlobe. When she was young and smooth skinned, these sparkly gems would have flattered her. Now, they just made her look like a desperate middle-aged woman.

She set the earring back in its case. As she scrubbed the toilet and shower stall, she felt growing resentment against this guest who’d carelessly left expensive jewelry in plain sight. As a temptation, a test? For Hannah, every day felt like a test.

The whine of sirens drew her out of the bathroom.

She crossed the bedroom to the window and looked out to see three police cars in the employee parking lot. Curious onlookers were already converging at the edge of the lot, drawn by the flashing lights of the cruisers. She was sorely tempted to go out and join the crowd, to watch what would happen next. Then she looked down at the carpet, where the woman staying in this room had thoughtlessly tracked in beach sand.

You’re here to do a job. Now finish it, she thought, and she turned on the vacuum cleaner.

Chapter 8

Maggie

I might as well be in prison, Maggie thought as she paced around her hermetically sealed hospital room. This prison, however, she could easily leave. All she had to do was step through the negative-pressure doorway, which was designed to keep any airborne viruses from escaping, and walk down the hall to the elevator. As far as she knew, there were no guards stationed in the hallway, no alarms or barbed wire. The only thing stopping her was knowing that at this moment, she might be incubating a virus that could kill her friends and neighbors. The news had already spread that a case of Ebola might have landed in town, and she’d seen the looks of fear as she’d been ushered out of the Cod Cove Resort by two health officials wearing hazmat suits. She had noted the way onlookers parted before her, like frightened fish making way for a trio of sharks. Yes, watch out for the plague lady; that’s what she was now, the patient who might kill you if you got too close. The patient who could only be approached while wearing gloves and an N95 mask.

She paced past the sink and saw her reflection in the mirror. The hospital staff had confiscated her clothes, and her shoes as well, and she’d been reduced to wearing two hospital gowns, one back facing, one front facing, to avoid the humiliating exposure of her backside. She might not feel like a patient, but she looked like one, her complexion washed out by fluorescent lights, her body swimming in shapeless blue cotton.

There was a knock on the door, and she turned to see Dr. Stamoran and another man walk in. Both were masked and gowned and wore plastic face shields for good measure. All to protect themselves against her. In her bare feet, dressed only in flimsy cotton, she felt exposed and nakedly vulnerable.

“Ms. Bird,” said Stamoran. “This is Dr. Chatterjee from Maine CDC. He’s joining your medical team, and he wanted to get caught up on your case.”

“As far as I know, I’m not a case yet,” said Maggie.

“No. No, of course not. Apologies.”

“Hello, Ms. Bird,” said Chatterjee, moving toward her. He came within a few feet of her but did not shake her hand. Of course he didn’t. No one wanted to shake the hand of Typhoid Mary. But he had kind eyes, and he looked at her as if she was actually a human being, not a specimen to be dissected. “I’m sorry you’re in this situation. And all because you tried to help a man.”

“How is he? Dr. Maslov?”

“He’s in the critical care unit, but he has an excellent medical team attending to him.”