Elevator, The (19 page)

She folded her arms and stepped up to one of the fence’s supporting poles, then leaned against it. The door to the visitors’ locker room had opened; several of the Sickles players came out, wet-haired, fresh-faced and carrying green-and-gray gym bags that seemed to drag their shoulders into a posture of discouragement. As silent as a defeated army, they moved out in single file, led by their coaches, who headed toward a chartered bus.

Poor kids. Gina had seen Mattie wear the same look after a major loss, and nothing she could say or do seemed to cheer him up. Fortunately, his depression vanished with the start of a new week.

She straightened as the door to the home locker room opened and the players began to exit. She looked for her son’s copper-colored hair, but she couldn’t find him in the crowd. A group of players grinned, hooted and slapped hands as they cavorted in the grass, then the skinny kid who served as team manager cut through them, dragging a mesh bag bulging with footballs.

Surely they were ready to go. Gina straightened and took a few steps forward. For some silly, macho reason the boys weren’t supposed to mingle with the crowd after a game, but if she walked to the open area behind the goalposts, Mattie could meander over and hear her quiet congratulations before he headed toward his car and the victory party.

She had nearly reached the area behind the end zone when she spotted her son with Chuck Hoff, the towheaded kid who’d been Mattie’s best friend since middle school. They were laughing together as Matthew quietly accepted mock punches and congratulations from his teammates.

She unfolded her arms and lengthened her stride, anxious to catch Matthew and Chuck before they got away.

Sonny should be doing this.

She hadn’t walked more than ten steps when an oddly primitive warning sounded in her brain. The Gaither players, still jiving and celebrating, were taking their time about leaving. The remaining Sickles players, who practically vibrated with resentment, had to file past the Gaither boys….

Might as well combine gasoline and flame.

She swerved to dodge a pair of entwined middle-school sweethearts and hurried toward the football players. Where had all the coaches gone?

She stepped into a hole and pitched forward in the grass. Ordinarily she would have been embarrassed, but no one seemed to notice. If only Mattie would look and come help her!

She pulled herself up, then winced when she tried to put weight on her ankle. She’d probably sprained it, but it couldn’t be helped. All that mattered was getting those boys off the field and on their way.

A warning spasm of alarm erupted within her when she looked up and saw one of the Sickles players walk past Mattie and deliberately bump him. Mattie turned, his arm lifted, his smile flattening into a thin line. He said something, the other player replied, and before Gina could act, remnants of the two opposing teams squared off under the lights.

Adrenaline fired her blood as tension crackled between the players. Obviously, they’d picked on Matthew because he’d scored against them. Her son wasn’t the type to fight, but, like his father, he wouldn’t back down.

She hobbled into a blizzard of insults. The leading Sickles player stood with his hands loose at his sides, his gym bag on the grass at his feet. He’d clamped his jaw and was breathing hard though his nose.

Did kids hide weapons in their wet towels?

She faced her son who, like his friends, was still hyped up on testosterone. “Matthew,” she said, using her sternest voice. “You need to get in your car and go.”

Her sixteen-year-old warrior cast a glance of well-mannered disdain in her direction, then faced his opponent. A muscle quivered at his jaw.

“That your mommy?” the other player sneered. “Want her to take the heat for you?”

“I’ve got a handle on things,” Mattie said, his face set in the ears-back look dogs give each other before springing forward.

Gina stepped into the narrow space between the two players and lifted her arms. Both young men towered over her, but she had to maintain this fragile peace. “If you fight,” she said, her words strangled by the panic welling in her throat, “you’ll have to fight around me.”

A couple of the Sickles players murmured in the background while Matthew’s arm flexed. She breathed in the scent of male ferocity and sweat, knowing he would hate her for this; he would blame her for destroying his reputation and threatening his manhood.

He’d say she made him look like a wuss.

One of the Gaither players launched a stream of curses against the Sickles team; a Sickles player responded in kind. Gina kept her arms up and lifted her chin, her heart hammering her rib cage as the threatening players edged closer—

“What’s going on here?” One of the referees, still in his black-and-white shirt, shouldered his way through the crowd. He blinked at Gina, then turned immediately to the boys. “You guys break it up and move along. Sickles, your bus is about to pull out. Unless you want to walk the five miles back to your school, you’d better hit the road now.”

Gina exhaled in a steady stream as the muttering players retreated, one or two pausing to flash a crude but eloquent bit of sign language in her direction. Mattie moved away, too, safe in the company of his friends.

She waited until the last player had stepped onto the asphalt parking lot, then she looked at the ref.

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure, lady.”

“Let me borrow your shoulder?”

Under bright lights and a cloud of flying insects, Gina covered her face and rested her forehead on the man who had come to her rescue. The bewildered referee patted her shoulder until she straightened and palmed tears from her cheeks.

“You okay, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you. I have to find my daughters and take them home.”

The ref’s tongue worked at the inside of his cheek for a moment, then he grinned. “That was a pretty gutsy thing you did.”

“Oh. Not really.” She ran her fingers along her lower lashes to wipe away any smeared mascara. “Any mother would have done the same thing.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Then, to prove her point, she folded her arms, lifted her chin, and set off in search of Mandi and Samantha.

Sonny should have been there.

2:00 p.m.

M
ichelle swallows hard and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The sour taste of vomit lingers at the back of her throat while a thin sheen of sweat covers her chest and forehead. The other women have retreated to their corners, probably because they find her offensive. They must be repulsed by her; she wouldn’t blame them if they were. At this moment she despises herself.

What has happened to her? She’s Michelle Tilson, always confident and always in control. When life doesn’t flow her way, she takes the helm and charts a new course, doing whatever it takes to cruise through troubled waters. She adapts and perseveres and survives, but in the last hour all her efforts have resulted in ruin.

Eddie’s death is all her fault. If she hadn’t bullied the answering-service operator, he would still be safe at home. But instead he crossed the bridge and headed into a storm to save a group of women who demanded his safety harness and watched helplessly as he tumbled down an elevator shaft.

She lifts her head as a new sound reaches her ear. From someplace above them, Eddie’s dog is whimpering. Despite her fear of all things canine, the sound lances her heart.

“Listen,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “What are we going to do about that?”

Gina gapes at her as if she’s suddenly begun to speak Chinese. “What do you mean, what are we going to do? We can’t do anything to help ourselves. Why should we care about a stupid dog?”

Michelle claps her hands over her ears as the animal breaks into a heartrending howl. “I don’t think I can stand that noise. It knows, it knows what happened!”

“Then it knows we didn’t have anything to do with that man’s accident,” Gina snaps. “The elevator company should have sent a team with ladders and the proper tools. Instead they sent Ichabod Crane and his hapless hound—”

“At least he came. No one else would take the chance.”

“But they should have! We’re in desperate need here! When the hurricane blows ashore we’re going to be caught like sardines. I don’t know a lot about elevators, but I know we’re hanging from cables that are attached to the top of the building. If the roof of this building goes, so might we. One quick ride south, and it’ll all be over.”

A low, tortured sob breaks from Isabel, who is still wrapped in a tight knot, her arms around her knees. Her shoulders shake as she weeps.

For a long moment Michelle is too paralyzed to respond to either woman. They are helpless; they are miserable; they all feel terrible about Eddie Vaughn. They’re going to have to answer for him; maybe they’re going to have to answer for everything they’ve ever done.

Her grandmother believed in Judgment Day. In an awe-inspiring, angry God who only smiled when he wore the face of Jesus.

Gina glares at Isabel. “You are getting on my last nerve, so stop crying.”

Michelle lifts her chin. “You don’t have to yell at her. She feels bad about Eddie—we all do.”

“We need to get over the mechanic,” Gina answers. “We have to come up with some kind of strategy if we’re going to get through this ordeal. We need to make a plan.”

Michelle blinks at the older woman, unable to believe what she’s hearing. Though Gina is certainly no warm fuzzy, she can’t be as unfeeling as her words imply. This snappishness has to be some kind of post-traumatic stress reaction.

“Shh.” Michelle crawls toward the distraught cleaning woman, then rests a tentative arm on the woman’s shoulder. “We’re going to get through this. We just have to have a little faith.”

Gina whips her head around. “Faith? In whom?”

Michelle searches for an answer. “Gus knew we were going upstairs. The answering-service operator knows about us. And…well, my grandmother always said God sees everything. He knows we’re here.”

Gina snorts, then props one elbow on a bent knee. “Oh, yeah, the Almighty got a lot of people out of New Orleans when Katrina struck. And all those people he plucked up from the tsunami—how could I forget about them? He sends out heavenly rescue squads all the time, doesn’t he?”

Despite Gina’s sarcasm, Isabel’s sobs slow and subside. After a few moments, she pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose. “Thank you,” she mouths silently.

Michelle responds with a nod, then lifts her arm and slides a little closer to her corner. What is to become of them? Despite her attempt at comforting Isabel, she can’t help feeling that Eddie was their only hope. The distressed dog can’t help them and the elevator hasn’t moved in—

She groans as a new realization strikes. Eddie said the elevator won’t run if the ceiling hatch is open. So if the power happens to come back on, they won’t move to the next floor. They’ll be stuck here, exposed to whatever happens to fly down the shaft, for however long it takes for the hurricane to pass and rescue operations to begin.

Like the Katrina victims who sweltered and died in their attics, they could be trapped for days. They might die from dehydration in this car. She might never see Parker again, never have an opportunity to tell him she wanted to marry him.

Never be able to share her secret.

Michelle draws a deep breath and looks at the redhead, who has leaned back against the wall, her face resettling into calm lines. Perhaps it was good for them to let off a little steam. Perhaps it’d even be good for them to confess a few things.

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone—” she lowers her gaze to her hands “—but if we don’t make it out of here, I’d like someone to know. If we aren’t rescued, three people won’t die in this car. There’ll be four victims. This morning I discovered I’m pregnant.”

Gina’s placid expression softens as a smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Congratulations. Is this good news?”

Michelle barks out a laugh. “I wasn’t sure at first, but the more I thought about it, the more excited I became. I was on my way to tell my—”

“A file.” Gina lifts her head like a cat scenting the breeze. “You said you came here to pick up a file.”

“That’s right.” Michelle nods. “My office is on the thirty-sixth floor. But my boyfriend works on that floor, too, so I was going to tell him after I picked up that client file. He knew I was coming and he promised to wait. We were going to leave the building together. I was hoping we could ride out the hurricane at his place while we celebrated my news.”

Gina’s eyes narrow slightly. “Are you sure your man isn’t married?”

The remark is designed to sting, and it succeeds. Michelle’s lower lip trembles as she returns Gina’s stare. “I told you, he’s a widower. And even though he has three kids, I hope he’ll be excited about another baby.” She blinks as a sudden flood of tears stings her eyes. “If we don’t get out of here, he’ll never even know.”

Gina tucks her hair behind her ear. “Does your mystery man work for the attorney general’s office? I know some of those guys from—”

Isabel interrupts by breaking into loud sobs. Michelle turns, alarmed, as the housekeeper again covers her woebegone face with her hands. “What’s wrong now?”

“They will arrest me!” the girl says, her words muffled. “I didn’t mean to get into trouble, but they will see my cart, they will blame everything on me. The attorney general is a powerful man, and he will know everything—”

“Relax.” Gina catches Michelle’s eye and winks. “Dan Foster’s a pretty big wig, but he’s not as powerful as he thinks he is.”

“She’s right,” Michelle adds. “They can’t blame you for getting caught in the elevator. And it’s not your fault we bullied our way in here.”

“No, no.” Isabel shakes her head and wipes the tip of her red nose with the tissue that is now little more than clumped paper. “The general will put me on trial and my
fotografía
will be in the paper. People will talk, the news will spread. He is looking for me now. When he finds me, I am dead.”

Michelle glances at Gina, an unspoken question in her eyes, but the redhead only shrugs.

Michelle pats the cleaning woman’s knee. “I’m sure you are mistaken. Why would the attorney general want to kill you?”

Isabel wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, then presses her trembling lips into a thin line. She stares at Michelle for a long moment, as if judging her ability to keep a secret.

“We’re not going to turn you in, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Gina says, her voice flat. “Whatever you’ve done is of no interest to me.”

The housekeeper peers out at them through tear-clotted lashes. “Two years ago, in
México,
” she says, her voice wavering, “
mi novio
—my boyfriend—was Ernesto Carillo Fuentes, one of the most important men in Monterrey. I became—how do you say it?
Embarazada,
like you. A baby.”

Michelle supplies the word: “Pregnant.”

Isabel nods through her tears. “
Sí.
I thought Ernesto would be happy, and he was, but not for why I thought. He wanted me to carry
cocaína
in my belly. He said it would be easy because the American guards will not X-ray a pregnant woman.”

Gina, who is examining Isabel’s face with considerable absorption, gasps aloud. “You carried cocaine in your belly?”

“I’ve heard about this,” Michelle says. She lowers her gaze and looks into Isabel’s eyes. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

As Isabel buries her face in her hands and goes quietly to pieces, Michelle lifts a brow and considers the cleaning woman from a new perspective. She’s always believed that success requires two things—hard work and a willingness to bend the rules when necessary. Judging from the way Isabel’s carrying on, she’s done more than bend the rules.

So which rules, exactly, has she broken?

“Will you please bring your seat backs and tray tables to their upright and locked positions?”

As the flight attendant repeated her instructions in Spanish, Isabel leaned forward and looked across the aisle. Juana, another of Ernesto’s girls (though not, like Isabel, carrying his child), buckled her seat belt as casually as if she smuggled fifty thumb-size pellets of cocaine across the border every day.

Isabel shivered as a sudden chill climbed the ladder of her vertebrae. Before she’d boarded the plane, Ernesto had warned her that the drugs in her belly were worth a great deal of money—enough that the men who waited in New York would kill her if she tried to escape. She would have to go with them, do exactly what they said, and cooperate until she passed every ounce of cocaine. To think about keeping even one of the pellets would invite disaster. When all the tightly compacted capsules had been counted and cleaned, the New York contacts would give her a good dinner and send her away with five hundred American dollars, a package for Ernesto and a return plane ticket.

“If all goes well,” Ernesto said, nuzzling her cheek, “you will be back with me before the weekend. But if you run—” he pulled away so she could see the threat in his eyes “—they will track you down and slit your throat. If you lose the package they give you, I will gut your mother…and then I will come after you.” A devilish smile spread across his thin lips. “No one crosses me and lives to tell about it,
chiquita.
No one.”

Isabel felt a fresh scream rise in her throat and choked it off. How could someone who looked so appealing be so evil?
Mamá
had been right—deceit is a lie that wears a smile.

The flight attendant at the front of the plane picked up a microphone. “We are now making our descent into New York’s JFK Airport. When you exit, be sure to have your customs card filled out and ready to hand to the officials.”

Isabel grimaced, then pulled her I-94 card from the seat pocket. How was she supposed to know the address where they’d be staying? What had the others written?

She looked at Juana and exhaled when the older girl held the card at an angle so Isabel could see what she’d printed: 625 East Sixty-eighth Street, New York.

Isabel filled out the form, then caught Juana’s eye to smile her thanks. The older girl laughed.
“Es el apartamento de Lucy y Ricky Ricardo,”
she whispered, pointing to the address.
“En el programa de televisión.”

A dart of panic pierced Isabel’s heart, but Juana only giggled and raised the back of her seat. Isabel did the same, then held the arrival card between her damp palms until the roaring plane jolted to the runway.

Ernesto had sent six girls on this flight—along with Isabel, Juana, Berta, Paloma, Rosa and Susana were traveling with bellies and intestines packed with cocaine capsules. Berta, Isabel noticed as she stood to pull her small suitcase from the overhead bin, did not look at all well. Pearls of perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip, but perhaps she was nervous.

Isabel didn’t want to consider the other possibility. If even one pellet burst inside a girl’s body, she would die. She might survive if she could make it to a hospital, but none of the men waiting for them in New York City would consider approaching a hospital if one of them became ill.

Isabel fell into line behind Juana as they exited the aircraft, but she knew she was supposed to step away from the others as soon as they entered the gate area. Ernesto always sent several mules at once in order to deflect suspicion. If one girl got caught, he reasoned, the authorities would be so busy interrogating her that the others could slip through.