A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (29 page)

My nose wrinkled and I coughed. The pungent fumes of ether assailed me. I followed the smell to the bathroom, where John stood near the toilet with a befuddled look on his face. I released the door. It shut, but didn’t latch. “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

“I’m putting the ether on my abrasion, like the doc said.”

“Come out of there or you’re going to get sick.”

Even as acrid fumes hung in the air, my mind ignored the fact that we had left the bottle of ether on Marie’s counter in California. I was angry and confused and focused on the meeting with the admiral.

I continued on into the bedroom, grabbed my gray raincoat from the bed, and was on the last button when John dragged himself into the room. “What now?” I said grimly. “You’re not going to feel good so we can’t go the meeting?”

John bent and moaned, then shuffled closer to me. “Help me,” he pleaded. I shrugged, stepped over to the blaring television, and turned it off. “Help you? Like hell!” Angry words spewed out of my mouth. “The last time I helped you I went down twelve stairs. I’m not going to let you make me fall again. You’re acting sick just as you did when we were supposed to go to your seminar. Is this going to be today’s excuse for not meeting the admiral?”

“Help me.”

“This falls right in line with all the lame excuses this week and your secretive behavior, whispering into phones. I’ve had it, John. If we don’t meet with the admiral, I’m flying home today no matter what.”

John turned and limped around the divider to the dressing area and sink. I followed. He was now back in the bathroom and standing once more by the toilet. I stormed in after him.

“If you don’t come out of here right now, you’ll pass out on the tile floor.”

“Help me.”

“Go ahead, you son of a bitch. Fall. I’m not going to stop you, and I’m not going to call for help.” I turned to leave. Fingers dug into my left shoulder as John spun me around. “Help me,” John croaked.

His right arm flung around my shoulders and pushed me into his chest. My eyes widened. An ether-soaked washrag propelled toward my nose and mouth. I was scared. Adrenaline surged through my body, and my survival instinct kicked into full gear as I jerked my head back and forth. My thoughts raced.
Make a moving target. Ether can kill. Think fast. Don’t open mouth. Don’t let rag stay on face. Don’t breathe or you won’t leave this room alive.

I wiggled and twisted, struggling to get out of his grip, but I couldn’t.
Think, Barbara, think. Handicap bar on bathtub wall. Grab it!
I held on to the bar with both hands and created enough leverage to partially extricate myself from his bear hug. My left shoe came off. Fingers tightened around my left wrist. I thrashed about as the rag neared my face once more.

Must get out. Get to door.
Desperate, I grabbed at the doorjamb with my free hand and pulled myself into the dressing area, right along with John.
Keep mouth shut. Move head back and forth, up and down. Don’t stop. Oh my God, I’m going to die in a hotel room in Virginia.
My right ankle twisted, and that shoe came off. My free hand poked at his eyes but couldn’t quite make contact.

It was a silent attack. I didn’t scream. I didn’t dare open my mouth and inhale the fumes; the ether was too powerful. John didn’t say anything, either. He just kept wrestling with me and beating my face as he tried to cover my mouth and nose.

Suddenly, John snorted and his eyes widened. The washrag dropped. He grabbed the open ether bottle on the sink counter and doused my face with the liquid ether. I struggled harder. I had to survive!
Move head faster and faster. Twist around. Move up. Move down. Keep face out of liquid.
One earring fell to the floor and crunched under John’s foot. A disconnected thought flashed through my mind . . .
this isn’t real, it’s like the movies.

The battle continued. I inched closer and closer to the partially open door, visualizing the headline MURDER AT THE MARRIOTT. I kicked survival up another notch. I was getting closer. Another burst of energy.
Just a little more. Stretch.
I had the doorknob.
Pull. Pull.
It opened and I ran into the small foyer, but not before John had my arm once again. “Help! Help!” I screamed, but there was no one to hear me. The solid double doors were closed. John yanked me back into the room and kicked the door shut.

“Bitch!” he uttered.

Bastard,
I thought, as I tried to kick his crotch. He pushed me and I stumbled backward, falling on my back in the dressing area. My energy was sapped. My adrenaline slowed. I was getting weaker and weaker, no match for the six-footer he was.

John knelt down and straddled my chest. He grabbed my left hand and pinned it down with his right knee. I tried to go for his balls, but my right arm was too short. I tried to knee them from behind, but only hit his soft butt. His left hand grabbed my flailing right arm and pinned it to the ground.

I had nowhere to go. No more leverage or energy with which to struggle. John groped around behind him. He retrieved the amber bottle, lifted it above my face, and poured the remaining ether. At least I could still move my head. I shook it, wildly. My remaining earring flew across the rug. John had trouble hitting his darting target, but I could feel the cool liquid make contact more than once. I told myself not to breathe.

“Bitch! Hold still,” he seethed.

Then he stopped. He was panting. I looked into the mouth of the inverted bottle held above my face. He shook it several times, trying to release the last drop. John threw it to one side, scooted up, and sat on my chest, with all his weight on my hands, which were still pinned on either side of my head. He started wheezing, and his face flushed to an abnormal color.

He glared at me with wild devil eyes, vacant eyes, scary eyes, like nothing I had ever seen in my life. His eyes blazed like a wild beast, set to kill his prey. And I was that prey.

I stared back at him and subconsciously reached into the depths of my being for the right approach to let me survive. Without skipping a beat or consciously recognizing it, I slipped into my caretaking mode, which I had practiced for almost ten years. Smooth it over. Try to understand. Get him to change. I smiled weakly and kept constant eye contact with him. Then, from my heart—from my inner self—I uttered the words that saved my life.

“John, if there’s a problem we can talk about it.”

He cocked his head to one side. His muscles relaxed on my hands and chest, but he didn’t move. I softly continued. “I think we both need a rest, don’t you? Why don’t you help me up?”

I firmly believe that if I had reacted any other way I would have died that day, in that hotel room. If I had not acquiesced, and instead had continued to struggle in my weakened condition, I know it would have triggered John into finishing the job in the heat of the moment. My words broke the momentum of his murderous attack.

For a moment, he did nothing. Then he loosened his grip, and his eyes lost the beastly stare. He didn’t speak, just sighed and struggled to get off me and stand up. Once steady on his feet, he reached down and helped me off the floor. I leaned against the divider, frozen, as my mind reeled with what had just transpired, and I remained speechless while John picked up my earrings, straightened my shoes, and retrieved my gloves and the car keys that had been knocked off the counter during the attack. He stood between me and the door. Even if I had wanted to run screaming for help, I could not have escaped.

“Let’s lie down,” he said.

He grabbed my right hand and led me to the disheveled bed where we had spent the night, cuddled together. I looked at the pillows. Alarms sounded. Would they be his next attempt at snuffing me out? An eerie calm pervaded the room.

“I don’t think I can lie down right now, John. I might get sick. I feel nauseated.” That sounded logical, and it was the truth. “But I’ll sit next to you while you rest.”

John bought it, and why wouldn’t he? I had accepted so many of his bad behaviors before. I followed his orders and sat down obediently on the edge of the bed, shoeless and in my torn raincoat. It still didn’t even occur to me to try to escape. Something was broken and I needed to understand what, so I could fix it. John crawled to the middle of the bed and stretched out, then reached over and grabbed my right wrist. His grip was tight, and he didn’t let go as he stared at the ceiling.

“Why did you do this, John?” I cooed, with care and kindness, with bewilderment and wonder.

“Right before we left, the doc called and said I had terminal cancer.”

“But why did you try to kill me?”

“I didn’t want to kill you. I just wanted to put you to sleep so I could jump off the Key Bridge and kill myself.”

“We have good medical coverage,” I said. “We can get you the best doctors.”

“I don’t want to live.” John’s eyes welled up with tears, and he coughed hoarsely. “I’m as crazy as your brother and should be locked up in an institution.”

“We can get you mental help, too, if that’s what you need.”

A tear ran down his cheek. “You said this trip was one of the biggest disappointments in your life.”

I paused. “No, John. Today was the biggest.”

We both fell silent, lost in our own thoughts. I was completely thrown off balance, and confused. I didn’t know if the cancer story was valid or if he was crazy. What if he tried to murder me again? My head throbbed. My mouth was dry. I asked if I could get a glass of water.

John released my wrist and rolled over to get off the bed. My pace was controlled, slow and easy. John followed directly behind me. I robotically passed the door and made no move to open it. At the moment it didn’t seem to offer me an escape. I moved to the sink.

The ether aroma lingered in the air, and for a moment I thought I might throw up, but I didn’t. I refused to lose control. I reached for a clean glass and shuddered. The empty amber bottle sat innocuously at the back of the counter, as did my wrecked earrings. Full glass in hand, I quickly glided back into the bedroom, passing my shoes that had been neatly arranged in the closet, and made my way to the desk chair. I took a sip of water, then another.

John followed but stopped at the end of the bed. His breathing was now less labored, and the redness in his face had receded. Perhaps he, too, still felt in control, so much so that he now removed his trousers, white dress shirt, and tie before he dragged himself back to the middle of the bed.

“Come sit beside me. I’m so tired.”

I returned to my spot beside him and perched on the edge. Thankfully, this time he did not grab my bruised wrist. “Close your eyes,” I whispered. “When you wake up, we can go to Bethesda Naval Hospital and get you checked out.”

“You always take such good care of me,” he said.

I gently laid his right arm in my left hand and lightly stroked it. His eyelids closed, his breathing deepened, and he appeared to be sleeping. Now I had to make the most important decision of my life.

I was in a dilemma. Beset with bold new facts and fears, I replayed the events of the morning and of the last several days. Is someone in the project out to get John? Is there actually a project, or an admiral? Does he have cancer? Did he go berserk because of the cancer news? Does he need mental help? Do I stay with him and take him to the hospital when he wakes up? Or do I try to escape and call the police?

Suddenly I understood how battered women feel, although I still didn’t realize I was one of them. My beloved, my most trusted person, had just tried to kill me. Murder? Did he really mean to do it? He seemed so contrite. Was it my fault? Did I push him to the brink? What could I have done differently? My mind swirled with questions. My skin itched. My throat burned. I continued gently rubbing my fingers up and down John’s arm.

Deep-sleep snores emanated from the bed. John was out, or so I thought.
If I’m going to do anything, this is my chance.
I reached into my inner self and found the strength I consciously lacked. The voice inside said,
RUN. If you don’t, you won’t leave this room alive. RUN for your life. Do it now. RUN! RUN! RUN!
For once I listened and decided to escape, but first I had to execute a safe plan.

I leisurely stopped rubbing John’s arm. He didn’t move. I softly laid his arm on the bed, slipped my left hand free, and sat very still with my hands folded in my lap. I hardly breathed. John snorted, stirred slightly, and resumed his snoring. Cautiously, in slow motion, I stood up, acting like I was going to take off my coat. John didn’t move. I tiptoed to the end of the bed and stopped, still pretending I was unbuttoning my coat. His eyelids remained closed, and his chest heaved with deep breaths.

My heart pounded. After a few seconds that seemed more like two hours, I slipped past the divider, grabbed the door handle, and slowly, quietly, carefully turned it. The latch clicked. I froze and listened. John continued to snore. I pulled the door open just enough for me to squeeze through and then braced it as I let it come to rest, without slamming it.
Time is of the essence,
I thought.
Go! Go! Go!

I pushed open the solid doors and bolted through, turned right, and ran in my torn stockings through the two sets of double glass doors, down the long hall past the meeting rooms. Crazy thoughts sped through my mind. What would I say? Murder? No, John had just gone berserk. He needed help. I needed help. We needed to get to a hospital. Denial obliterated reality.

I turned left and sprinted past the elevators, then right, past the house phones. People stopped and stared as I wove around them—a shoeless woman in a torn coat with disheveled hair, reeking of ether. I didn’t care. At the main desk I caught my breath and blurted out the truth. “Call the police! My husband just tried to murder me with ether.”

A manicured manager appeared, and she led me immediately into her office. “We called the police. They’re on their way. Our security police are going to your room now. Is there anything you need?”