tile
floors, he noticed, were heated, warm to the touch. It was the first bathroom he had ever seen that had its own television
and telephone. There were even headsets in the spa. Five kinds of soap were displayed, one seashell-shaped, one in a box,
one scented, one with a designer label, and one that was even functional. There were two sinks and two amenity baskets. Among
the offerings were bath salts, bubble bath, hairspray, hand cream, shaving cream, razors, a sewing kit, body lotion, conditioning
cream, cologne, toothpaste, and toothbrushes. A lump came to Carl-ton’s throat. The Hotel had been so thoughtful. It was almost
as if they had anticipated his dilemma.
He filled the spa, poured in a little of the bubble bath, and turned on the churning jets. His conscience still troubled him,
but as he descended into the suds his other senses were soon overwhelmed by pleasure: the gentle music, the bubbling water,
the lilac scent. It had been a long time since he had indulged himself. The thought brought on a twinge of self-pity. In his
lifetime he had never taken time to smell the roses. Now it was too late.
After twenty minutes in the spa, Carlton regretfully raised himself out of it. All good things must come to an end, he thought
darkly. He reached for a towel. It was thick, more like a mink stole than a towel. While drying off, he took a moment to examine
an item new to him: an electric towel warmer. He was tempted to warm some towels just for the novelty of it but decided instead
to wrap himself in a terry-cloth robe. The blue-and-gold Hotel California crest was emblazoned on the robe. He felt it with
his hands, touched the stitching that stood out proudly like a royal signet. Then he picked up the cologne and sprinkled some
on his hands. It was Old Spice. He patted his red cheeks and dared to peek into the mirror. He looked better now, no longer
resembled one of those post office Wanted posters.
Trying not to think, Carlton walked into the bedroom. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a mess. He went to the bed and stripped
off the bedspread, then used it and the extra blanket to wrap the bodies. The bedroom’s large walk-in closet provided ample
space for their placement.
The strewn food, scattered room service trays, and spilled blood weren’t as easy to tidy up, but Carlton’s work was simplified
by the thick, stain-resistant carpet. When he finished, he felt an almost desperate need for fresh air. He opened the curtains
and the sliding glass doors and stepped out to the suite’s double balconies. Breathing deeply, he took in the panoramic expanse
of La Jolla Strand. Six floors below was the sandy beach. From where he stood, everything looked like an interweaving mosaic.
Couples walked arm in arm along the boardwalk. Weaving between bodies were skateboarders and roller skaters. Beyond the seawall
were the volleyball games, half a dozen or more being contested. The center of the strand was taken up with Frisbees, and
paddleballs, while joggers pounded along the surf line. Even the ocean had its territories, with waders, then the divers,
and finally the boogie boarders and surfers.
The sun was setting, and everyone was trying to get the most out of the waning light. How long has it been since I’ve watched
a sunset? thought Carlton. He settled onto a balcony chair, front row to the blue Pacific eating fire. When the sun set, he
heard clapping from below, San Diegans applauding the colorful end of the day.
The vermilion sky gradually gave way to darkness, and Carlton’s mood followed the colors. He thought about his life. His thinking
was mostly in the past tense. He was full of regrets, the enormity of his crimes overwhelming everything else.
A light suddenly came on behind him. He blinked, confused, lost for a moment. A young woman was standing in the bedroom.
“Excuse me,” she said very deferentially. “I knocked, you see, but there was no answer.
floors, he noticed, were heated, warm to the touch. It was the first bathroom he had ever seen that had its own television
and telephone. There were even headsets in the spa. Five kinds of soap were displayed, one seashell-shaped, one in a box,
one scented, one with a designer label, and one that was even functional. There were two sinks and two amenity baskets. Among
the offerings were bath salts, bubble bath, hairspray, hand cream, shaving cream, razors, a sewing kit, body lotion, conditioning
cream, cologne, toothpaste, and toothbrushes. A lump came to Carl-ton’s throat. The Hotel had been so thoughtful. It was almost
as if they had anticipated his dilemma.
He filled the spa, poured in a little of the bubble bath, and turned on the churning jets. His conscience still troubled him,
but as he descended into the suds his other senses were soon overwhelmed by pleasure: the gentle music, the bubbling water,
the lilac scent. It had been a long time since he had indulged himself. The thought brought on a twinge of self-pity. In his
lifetime he had never taken time to smell the roses. Now it was too late.
After twenty minutes in the spa, Carlton regretfully raised himself out of it. All good things must come to an end, he thought
darkly. He reached for a towel. It was thick, more like a mink stole than a towel. While drying off, he took a moment to examine
an item new to him: an electric towel warmer. He was tempted to warm some towels just for the novelty of it but decided instead
to wrap himself in a terry-cloth robe. The blue-and-gold Hotel California crest was emblazoned on the robe. He felt it with
his hands, touched the stitching that stood out proudly like a royal signet. Then he picked up the cologne and sprinkled some
on his hands. It was Old Spice. He patted his red cheeks and dared to peek into the mirror. He looked better now, no longer
resembled one of those post office Wanted posters.
Trying not to think, Carlton walked into the bedroom. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a mess. He went to the bed and stripped
off the bedspread, then used it and the extra blanket to wrap the bodies. The bedroom’s large walk-in closet provided ample
space for their placement.
The strewn food, scattered room service trays, and spilled blood weren’t as easy to tidy up, but Carlton’s work was simplified
by the thick, stain-resistant carpet. When he finished, he felt an almost desperate need for fresh air. He opened the curtains
and the sliding glass doors and stepped out to the suite’s double balconies. Breathing deeply, he took in the panoramic expanse
of La Jolla Strand. Six floors below was the sandy beach. From where he stood, everything looked like an interweaving mosaic.
Couples walked arm in arm along the boardwalk. Weaving between bodies were skateboarders and roller skaters. Beyond the seawall
were the volleyball games, half a dozen or more being contested. The center of the strand was taken up with Frisbees, and
paddleballs, while joggers pounded along the surf line. Even the ocean had its territories, with waders, then the divers,
and finally the boogie boarders and surfers.
The sun was setting, and everyone was trying to get the most out of the waning light. How long has it been since I’ve watched
a sunset? thought Carlton. He settled onto a balcony chair, front row to the blue Pacific eating fire. When the sun set, he
heard clapping from below, San Diegans applauding the colorful end of the day.
The vermilion sky gradually gave way to darkness, and Carlton’s mood followed the colors. He thought about his life. His thinking
was mostly in the past tense. He was full of regrets, the enormity of his crimes overwhelming everything else.
A light suddenly came on behind him. He blinked, confused, lost for a moment. A young woman was standing in the bedroom.
“Excuse me,” she said very deferentially. “I knocked, you see, but there was no answer.
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