Shame

up the stairwell made her apprehensive. It wasn’t an open stairway but an enclosed tower. She hurried up the steps.
    Being attacked and knowing she was a target had forced her to rethink her standard precautions. Though she was working under an assumed name, it wasn’t a new one. She had kept her current half dozen aliases for at least three years. It was time to get some new IDs, time to switch her routines around.
    Elizabeth exited the stairwell on the second floor. The inn was midday quiet. Even the pool was deserted. She started forward along the walkway, her footsteps loud and hurried. Maybe I should get a bodyguard, Elizabeth thought, at least for a few days. The idea didn’t sit very well with her. She didn’t like being dependent on anyone.
    Just ahead of her a door opened, and a man backed out carrying two large suitcases. Heavy suitcases, judging by the way he was straining to lift them. She couldn’t understand people who didn’t have wheels on the bottom of their luggage. Maybe itwas a male thing. Maybe it was also a male thing to try to carry too much luggage in one trip, as he was doing. He put down his bags and reached for two hanging bags that were draped over the railing. With all the luggage in her way, Elizabeth couldn’t pass. “Excuse me,” she said.
    The man suddenly straightened, apparently surprised by her voice. As he turned toward her, the thought struck Elizabeth: it’s late to be checking out. Her realization came an instant too late.
    His blow caught her on the side of the head. As she was falling he grabbed her by the hair, then pulled her head toward him. He covered her mouth and nose with a wet rag that reeked of some chemical. Elizabeth stopped breathing. She shook her head violently, trying to pull her face clear of the rag.
    His grip tightened, and he started to drag her into his room. With her mouth covered she couldn’t scream, but she bucked and kicked. It was broad daylight. Someone had to see what was going on. But he had picked the perfect spot to ambush her, had used the stairwell tower, his shoulder bags, and the right angle of the walkway effectively to block his assault from anyone’s view.
    With a vicious yank, she landed in his room. He kicked the door closed behind them. Elizabeth again tried to shake her head clear of his hand, but he pressed it all the tighter against her face.
    Don’t breathe.
    With his mouth next to her head, he spoke, his breath hot on her face. “Before being led to the gas chamber, Robert H. White was asked if he had any last wishes, and you know what he said? ‘Yes. A gas mask.’”
    Elizabeth tried to butt him with her head but succeeded only in bumping his chest. She was already lightheaded and began to see stars.
    Don’t breathe.
    Elizabeth tried falling forward, but he held on. Her lungs were burning.
    Don’t breathe.
    She tried to flail, to make some kind of noise, tried pounding the flooring with her feet, but the carpeting was too damn thick.
    “Still with us?” he asked. “This one’s my favorite. Tommy Grasso wasn’t happy with his last meal. While being led off to his death he said, ‘I did not get my SpaghettiOs. I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this.’”
    He started laughing, and Elizabeth tried to buck him off of her, but even she knew the attempt was feeble. Without oxygen, her limbs couldn’t respond. She couldn’t bite, couldn’t knee, couldn’t scratch. All she could do was pray, and even that took air.
    Don’t...
    She took a breath. Still, her lungs burned for more oxygen. Everything started growing fuzzy. In her mind’s eye, Elizabeth saw her own picture. She had become part of that terrible collage, part of the scene of the scream.
    Elizabeth took another breath and blessedly lost consciousness.
    Feral lay on a chaise longue at the side of the pool. Predators, he knew, liked to wait in ambush around some watering hole.
    The last light of day was giving way to darkness. His time. Feral stretched. He could feel the anticipation. He raised himself from the chaise and put aside the magazine he’d been pretending to read.
    Four people were in the spa. Boiling away. Fools. Feral didn’t like making a lobster of himself. There was only one other adult in the vicinity, a man in the pool, a type A assiduously doing his laps.
    And there were the two children.
    “Marco,” yelled James.
    “Polo,” yelled Janet.
    James lunged, swimming furiously in the direction of her voice, but just as