But there was no window behind the curtains. The painted brick continued in an unbroken line to the opposite wall, where it was joined at an odd angle. There were no pictures, no decorations of any sort aside from the totally unnecessary curtains and the doily on the nightstand. Three holes had been drilled in the wall above the door, the first two no more than an inch in diameter and the third, the center hole, about twice that size.
I sat back on the bed and pulled my knees up to my chest. The movement triggered a memory of sitting in the same position, back in my room at Katherine’s, watching DVDs with Trey. I glanced back at the non-window and then at the small holes above the door and my heart began to pound. I tried to tell myself that I was jumping to conclusions based on incomplete evidence, but I knew.
I was in the World’s Fair Hotel, which meant that I had now broken two promises to Trey—although that was clearly the least of my worries.
How many women had Holmes killed in this room? How many had died on this very bed while he watched through the peephole?
My skin crawled at the thought and I stood up quickly. I was considering whether to try and open the door when it started to… well, slither toward the floor. I bit back a scream, and then a nervous laugh, as I realized the door was still on its hinges. The slithering was my dress, which had slipped off a coat hook.
I moved cautiously forward and picked it up, nearly tripping over the shoes that were underneath it. I was very glad to see the dress, but I had mixed feelings about those boots.
A movement caught the corner of my eye again, and for a split second I thought that I saw a flash of light in the opposite corner. I had the fleeting sensation of being watched, but when I turned it was still dark and no one was there. All that I could make out was the dim outline of a chair.
Sitting back down on the edge of the bed, I rubbed my eyes, hoping that the effects of the drug would clear soon. I spread the gown out beside me, feeling around for the hidden pocket in the bodice. I didn’t really expect the CHRONOS key to be there, and it wasn’t. That confirmed my suspicion that this hadn’t been a random decision by Holmes to grab a girl who seemed to be traveling alone. That wasn’t his modus operandi, and he was having plenty of luck luring young women here without resorting to abduction in broad daylight.
Somebody had convinced Holmes to take that extra bit of risk, and I was pretty sure that somebody was Simon. Why bother getting rid of me himself when there was a local serial killer who would be more than happy, probably for a ridiculously small fee, to keep me out of his way?
As that cheerful thought percolated in my head, the door opened suddenly. A soft yellow light spilled into the room from the gas lamps that lined the corridor. I tensed and was prepared to fight, but the figure in the doorway wasn’t Holmes. The young woman was tall with wavy, flaxen hair. Her pretty, heart-shaped face creased with concern when she saw me.
“Oh, no!” she said, quickly setting the tray down on the nightstand. “You mustn’t be standing yet. You’re still much too weak. Here, let me help you get back into bed…”
“No,” I said. “Where are my things? What time is it? I have to go…”
“You’re not going anywhere. My name is Minnie. It’s about dinnertime, and I’ve brought you some nice broth.”
Minnie took me by the shoulders and in a very no-nonsense fashion led me back to bed. This had to be one of the wives or mistresses that Holmes had managed to charm, straight up until the moment of their deaths.
“You fainted on the Midway,” she said, propping up the feather pillows and pushing me back against them. “It’s very lucky for you that my husband was there when you passed out. He carried you back here.
“He’s a doctor,” she added, a note of pride in her voice. “And he says you need to rest.
“As for your things,” she said, nodding toward the corner, “your hat is on the chair. That’s all you had when my husband brought you in. I hope nothing was stolen at the fair—crime is really quite awful these days.”
I couldn’t argue with that, although I doubted that she realized how much of the recent crime wave was directly attributable to her spouse.
My first impulse was to tell her to get the hell out of Chicago before she ended up in the basement with the others. That didn’t seem likely to increase my own odds of escape, however. The room was still semidark, but there had been enough light for me to see her expression when she was talking about her husband, the doctor. She was very clearly smitten with him, and I was pretty sure she’d run straight to Holmes, rather than checking for evidence first, if I started talking about lime pits, trapdoors, and skeletons.