C Box - Below Zero

He sipped his drink, trying to act nonchalant. “But I figure Stenko’s working the groom, so why bother?”

Then he did something she was getting used to: he withdrew his laptop from his computer case and opened it on his thighs.

“Stenko got all the numbers from the groom,” Robert said, as much to himself as to her. He handed her the spiral notebook opened to a page filled with scrawled words and numbers.

“Read this to me so I can input the data,” he said.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to you,” he said, annoyed. “It makes sense to me. Now just start at the top and read out each entry while I put it into the database.”

She sighed. “Twenty international guests from Europe.”

Tap-tap-tap.

He said, “That’s eight thousand nine hundred fifty KM each. Seventeen hundred seventy-two KG of carbon per. Seventeen thousand nine hundred KM total, seventy tons of carbon total. Okay, next.”

“One hundred sixty guests from Chicago.

Tap-tap-tap. “Five thousand seven hundred KM. One point two tons carbon each. One hundred ninety-two tons total. Wow. Next.”

“Eighty from NYC and LA.”

Tap-tap-tap. “Ten thousand four hundred KM. Three hundred twenty tons of carbon total. Then the driving.”

“What?” She asked.

“See below where it says rental cars? What are the figures?”

She flipped the page back and found more entries. “Two hundred sixty guests driving three hundred twenty miles Denver-Aspen.”

Tap-tap-tap. Mumbled, “One hundred twenty-five tons of carbon.”

He hit enter with a flourish, then whistled. “One society wedding produces seven hundred and seven tons of carbon into the atmosphere to further choke our planet to death. The offset cost is $7,815.88.”

She thought about it for a moment. She was beginning to understand.

“What about the honeymoon?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you count that, too?”

He grinned.

She got it, and she felt her scalp crawl. “There won’t be a honey-moon.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Our global honeymoon is over, girlie. All for the best,” he said.

Then: “Stop looking at me like that. Carmen used to do that, too.”

Aspen

WHEN PATTY JOHNSTON HEARD A SCRATCH ON THE KEYCARD entry on the outside of her door and saw the tiny yellow dot of the peephole blink out indicating someone was outside in the hall, she propped up on her elbow in bed and shook her hair so it cascaded into place but not entirely. When a strap from her nightgown didn’t fall casually over her shoulder as intended, she squirmed so it did. She tried to imagine what she would look like to Alex when he opened the door, but she was pretty sure she’d look sleepy, soft, warm, inviting-but not too hungry for him. The bathroom lights were dimmed and the door slightly ajar, so there was a soft glow of gold reaching across the bedroom. But not too much. It annoyed her that Alex shut his eyes when the lights were on, that he’d only look at her furtively in casual asides while they made love. She hadn’t been working out and dieting until her belly was rock hard for their wedding for him not to look at her.

She was still trying to get over the realization she’d had recently when they were having sex: that Alex closed his eyes because he was a kind of performance artist auditioning for the lead role in his own private movie about himself. The thought still haunted her, but like his tendency to tell his friends and relatives, “I’m getting married,” not “We’re getting married,” it was just one of these quirks she’d eventually grind out of him.

She’d almost fallen asleep waiting. It had been over an hour since she’d slid her extra key under the door of his room so he’d find it when he came in. She’d gone to bed without taking out her contacts, without removing her makeup. Waiting. Her eyes burned but she knew he didn’t like her in glasses.

The key card slipped into the lock, was withdrawn, and there was a dull click indicating it was unlocked, but he was too slow grasping the handle- wasn’t he always? -and she rolled her eyes in the semi-dark while he fumbled with the latch. She breathed in deeply while he did it again. Fumbling, trying to fit the key into the slot. Wasn’t he always?

Then she heard a deep male voice, not Alex’s, say: “Step aside. Let me do it.”

She shot up in bed, eyes wide, thinking the front desk had given someone a key to her room.

The door opened and there was Alex’s profile. Tall, square shouldered, bad posture, spiked hair. Wearing, as always, an untucked oversized Brooks Brothers shirt so starched it crackled like a wind-filled sail when he moved.

“Alex, is there someone with you?” she asked, making her voice rise toward the end.

Then she saw the profile of the other man in the second it took for the two of them to enter her room and shut the door behind them. The man with Alex was tall as well, but beefy, rounded, thicker, older. His face, illuminated briefly by the hall lights, was jowly. Deep-set eyes, mustache-he looked like that famous writer she never liked. What was that guy’s name?

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “This is Stenko.”

She dug her heels into the mattress and rocketed back in the bed until her back thumped the headboard. She pulled the comforter up, clutching it under her chin.

Stenko said, “If you scream, you’ll both die.”

His voice was deep, harsh, but somehow apologetic. It took her a moment to believe what she’d heard.

She said, “Alex, how could you bring someone with you? What in the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. The second word was slurred, shorry.

“You’re drunk,” she said. To Stenko: “Get out now. Whatever he told you is not a possibility.”

“Patty…” Alex said, stumbling forward in the dark as if pushed, “it’s not like that.”

“Sit down on the bed, Alex,” Stenko said. To her: “I have a gun.”

“He has a gun,” Alex repeated, bumping into her bed clumsily, then turning and sitting down hard. She barely moved her leg in time to avoid the weight of him.

“What’s this about?” she asked Alex. “I can’t believe you brought a man in here with you.”

“Keep your voice down, please,” Stenko said. “I don’t want either one of you to get hurt.”

“Hurt?” she asked. “What does he want, Alex?”

“He’ll tell you,” Alex said.

She wanted Alex to stand up and protect her, to charge Stenko, to knock him down to the floor. But Alex just sat there, heavy, his head down and his shoulders slumped more than usual and his hands between his knees.

There was so little light from the bathroom that she could barely make out Stenko as he grabbed a chair from the desk, turned it backward, and sat down with his legs spread. Stenko rested his arms on the back of the chair and leaned forward, putting his chin on his forearms. He held a long-barreled pistol in a big fist, but it was pointed away from them.

“What do you want?” she asked Stenko directly.

“You’re not going to believe it,” Alex said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. He smelled of alcohol and cigar smoke. “We met in the bar.”

“Obviously,” she said, anger starting to replace fear.

Stenko said, “I need you to listen carefully to what I have to say.”

She reached out from beneath the covers and hit Alex in the shoulder with her open palm. “Alex, do something!”

Alex didn’t move.

But Stenko sighed and swung the pistol over, pointed it vaguely at both of them. She saw a smudge of white thumb in the murk and heard him cock the revolver.

“I said listen,” Stenko said in a whisper.