Elevator, The (26 page)

The wind catches Isabel’s words, too, but Michelle understands her meaning. She makes a shoving motion, then pushes at the vending machine, but her strength is no match for its weight. Even in the trailer park, when kids routinely rocked the machines in a search for spare quarters, she had never been able to budge the behemoths.

She looks around and in a barely comprehendible flash she realizes that rain is falling in the hallway. These slashing raindrops aren’t coming from the sky, however; they’re falling horizontally and coming from an open window.

But this is not the time to marvel at Mother Nature. She pushes wet hair out of her eyes and flinches when something touches her leg. The dog, its fur tufted and dripping, has crept to her side.

Ignoring the animal, she yells above the ripping wind. “Do you see anything we can use to push this out of the way?”

Isabel glances over her shoulder, where a potted ficus has begun to scoot over the wet carpet. She holds up a finger, then lowers her head and runs toward an unmarked door. Taking a clutch of keys from a pocket of her sweater, she unlocks the lock.

Michelle smiles as understanding dawns. A custodial closet might have tools. Isabel appears a moment later, a mop in one hand and a broom in the other. For an insane instant Michelle is afraid the woman wants to clean the hallway, then she realizes that the industrial mop and broom are mounted on steel poles.

The girl is brilliant.

Michelle sets the flashlight on top of the soda machine, then takes the broom from Isabel and insinuates the tip of the pole into the gap between the vending machine and the door to the stairwell. Beside her, Isabel does the same thing with the mop, then both women brace their poles against the edge of the machine and push. Michelle’s broom slips on the wet surface, but Isabel’s mop finds purchase, enough to slide the vending machine forward an inch.

Michelle twirls her finger in the air. “Change positions!”

Approaching the machine from the side, the women again shove the handles of their tools between the heavy metal box and the door frame, then they push again. The steel poles groan and their veneers of paint crack and flake away, but the machine slides over the wet rug until the edge encounters a clump of carpeting.

Michelle drops her broom, pleased to see that they’ve created a passageway large enough for them to squeeze through. She motions Isabel forward, then she claps for the dog. The animal crouches on all fours and barks, refusing to follow.

Isabel shouts from the doorway, but Michelle can’t understand what she’s saying. She creeps closer to the dog. “Come on, pup, we need to go now.”

The dog continues to bark, its big feet splashing the wet carpet in some strange doggy dance. Michelle chews her lip. She can’t do this. She doesn’t like dogs; she’s never had one; she doesn’t speak their language. How can she help the animal if it won’t come when she calls?

She turns, about to follow Isabel, but the retriever’s frantic barking pricks at her conscience. She can’t leave Eddie’s pet. If he cared so much for this creature that he wouldn’t leave it alone with the storm approaching, she can’t abandon it in a dangerous skyscraper with the worst weather yet to come.

Despite the blood pounding in her ears, she kneels on the carpet and tries to hold the dog’s attention. “Come on, nice puppy. Come with me and we’ll get you out of this wind and rain.”

The dog looks at her, then runs in a tight circle before stopping to bark again. The sound arouses a memory that swims up through the years.
Dogs know when you’re scared of ’em. When they smell your fear, they’ll attack ’cause they know they can take you down.

S
weat pours from Eddie’s face as he pulls himself upward, then swings his left foot onto the horizontal beam across from the twenty-fifth floor. He stops to catch his breath, then eyes the vertical duct that stands between him and the landing doors.

What’s the old saying? So close, and yet so far away. If not for the vertical duct, he could sit on the horizontal divider beam and slide toward the doors, letting his broken leg hang free. Standing would be a challenge, but what’s one more?

Rain—or sweat—runs a trickling finger down the back of his neck as Eddie pulls in several quick breaths. Along with the pain of his injured ribs, a sludge of nausea churns in his belly. He can’t look down. His eyes cling to the duct as he pulls his weight onto his arms and swings his good leg toward the landing. There! Because he’s off balance, he shifts his weight onto his left leg, then removes his left hand from the rail and reaches for the duct. His eyes close when his fingers contact its smooth surface.

After a moment of quiet self-congratulation, he releases the rail entirely and curls his left arm around the four-sided duct, letting it help support his weight while he struggles to hop on his good leg. He shouts with every excruciating movement, his voice blending with the clamor of the storm, until he embraces the duct and repeats his swinging maneuver around the obstacle in his path.

Clinging to the duct like a wet towel to a nail, he lowers his forehead to the metal and shivers with fatigue. He’s not sure he can manage the remaining distance because his lungs are burning and his arms are…like gelatin.

Gelatinous,
ten letters, like gelatin, rubbery. Semisolid.

In spite of the pain, he laughs when another word occurs to him:
manumit,
a seven-letter word meaning
to free.
He can’t give up if he wants to complete his manumission and finish that stupid puzzle.

He lifts his head and looks toward the landing. Nothing much to cling to over there, only a one-inch door frame and a steel strut. But at least there’s something.

All right, then. Another journey across emptiness, a few more painful hops and all the screams he can muster. He draws the deepest breath he can and stretches for the door frame.

When he finally reaches the sill, he gingerly eases his left foot onto the narrow strip, allowing himself the freedom to bellow like a bull gator when his broken limb strikes the surface of the door. His right hand is fastened to the strut with a clawlike grip; his left hand must release the rollers above the door.

Mindful of the yawning black emptiness at his back, Eddie closes his eyes and listens intently for angelic voices. When he hears nothing, he presses his chest against the smooth metal and hobbles sideways until his fingers find the locks at the top of the frame. He presses the release, then smiles when he hears a soft click. He slips his hands between the doors and exhales as they slide open with the smooth precision of well-maintained machinery.

Struggling to maintain her fragile control, Michelle crawls forward, speaking nonsense in a low voice. The skittish animal dances before her, alternately retreating and advancing, and Michelle’s heart leaps into her throat when she finally lunges forward and hooks the dog’s collar. She freezes, holding the animal at arm’s length, but it doesn’t snarl or try to bite her.

She smiles, hoping the dog understands that her intentions are friendly, and uses her free hand to stroke the dog’s chest. “Nice doggy.”

Under her palm, she feels a heart pounding as fast as her own.

“You’re scared? So am I, but we’re gonna get out of here.” She moves forward and attempts to lift the animal, but the dog is heavier than it appears. She manages to pull the retriever onto her knees, but when she tries to stand, her feet slip and both of them fall onto the floor.

“Can’t you cooperate?” Michelle’s voice breaks as she releases the animal. “Please, sweetheart. I don’t want to leave you, but you’re too big to carry.”

The dog whimpers, then licks her face. From the door, Isabel calls another indecipherable warning.

“Okay, then.” Michelle pulls off her belt, slips the end through the buckle, and makes a loop. “Come on, sweetie,” she says, slipping the circle over the dog’s head. “Like it or not, you have to come with me.”

She tugs on the belt, intending to use it as a leash, but the dog lies down, then rolls onto her side. Michelle pulls again, hoping the dog will understand, but pressure from the taut noose is forcing the animal to wheeze. The dog’s tongue lolls from her mouth as terror enters her eyes.

Good grief, she’s killing Eddie’s dog.

Frustrated, Michelle turns toward the stairwell door, where Isabel is watching with obvious alarm.
“Vamos! Prisa!”

A rise of panic threatens to choke Michelle, but she can’t leave the dog, not after what Eddie did for them. What did he call the animal? Lady? Sally? No—Sadie.

“Sadie?” Tamping down her fear, she kneels to release the pressure on her belt. “Sadie, we’re going home.”

The dog lifts its head, its ears pricked forward.

“Sadie, come!” To reinforce her good intentions, Michelle drops the belt and lifts her hands. The retriever watches as she retrieves her flashlight, then the dog rolls to her feet and trots forward.

“Good girl!” When they have passed through the stairwell doorway, Michelle gives the animal a tentative pat on the head.

She turns on the flashlight as the door closes behind them. Eddie was right—it is quieter here. Though the wind continues to howl, the lack of windows and the reinforced walls have created a safe haven. Only dim exit lights brighten the space, but Michelle doesn’t expect any surprises in the stairwell—only concrete steps, two sets per floor, with handrails along each wall.

She walks to the metal railing and shines the light over the steps. The lobby lies twenty-eight flights below, but from the eighth-floor Pierpoint Restaurant they’ll be able to survey the street and most of the downtown area.

Before heading down, though, she turns and looks at the steps that lead up. Her office lies at the top of those stairs, and Greg Owens’s file waits on her secretary’s desk. She could leave Isabel and the dog, run up four flights, grab the file and be back in ten minutes…but somewhere below, Eddie Vaughn needs help.

In the glow of an exit light, she gives Isabel a tremulous smile. “Are you ready?”

Isabel’s look of confusion melts into understanding.
“Sí.”

“Then let’s go to the Pierpoint. We’ll look for Eddie on the way down.”

Isabel places one hand on a stair rail and the other on the dog’s head. “It is a good plan.”

They are halfway down the first set of steps when the fluorescent lights along the concrete walls hum and flicker. A moment later the stairwell is as bright as a new day.

Michelle clicks off her flashlight and laughs. “Gina may reach the lobby before us after all.”

Gina catches her breath as the overhead lights burst into bloom. The car shudders faintly as a machine begins to hum. She reaches for the railing, then presses a hand to her chest.

The elevator is operating; the lights are burning steadily. The car is moving downward, not in a free fall, but at a stately and relaxed pace.

Twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five…

She stares at the control panel, mentally counting the passing floors even though there are no landings at the express elevators. Her heart races, her fingers flutter, but surely she has no reason for concern. A fall would feel much swifter than this, wouldn’t it?

Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty…

At this rate she’ll be downstairs long before Michelle and Isabel. She covers her mouth to restrain a nervous giggle. What did that foolish girl say about the storm ripping the roof off the building? Who cares if it does? She’ll be safe downstairs, tucked into one of those nice leather chairs near the grand piano in the Pierpoint’s lounge. Right across from the lovely restrooms.

Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…

Perhaps there are others in the building—people who found themselves trapped in their offices or in the other elevators. They’ve probably taken refuge in the restaurant, too, or in the lobby. She might step onto a marble landing and discover the attorney general or one of his lawyers. If they’re stranded here, rescue won’t take long. As soon as the hurricane passes, they’ll be barking orders on their cell phones. She’ll have one of them call the children so they’ll know she’s all right.

Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…

Gina glances at the panel, realizing she’s forgotten to select a floor. She presses the eight, but the button doesn’t light.

A prickle of unease nips at the back of her legs, but surely everything is fine. Perhaps the elevator is in maintenance mode or some such thing. What did that young man say? Something about when an elevator starts up again, it will return to the lowest floor to pick up its programming. Fine, but she wants to go up to the Pierpoint. The restaurant will be a much more comfortable spot to wait for rescue.

Gina picks up her trench coat and the gun, then drops the weapon into her coat pocket. When it strikes something with a metallic chink, she sighs and remembers her car keys. She won’t be able to drive out for a while, but she can wait.

Ten, nine, eight…

What is she to do about Sonny? Instinct warns against mentioning his name, but he’s gone and she had nothing to do with his death. Though her mind can’t quite accept the idea, she is a widow.

The Mexican girl should go to the police…and if she doesn’t, Gina will follow up. The kids will never need to know about Sonny’s infidelity. The family reputation will be safe, along with the estate. Michelle Tilson is still carrying Sonny’s child, but Gina saw the look in the younger woman’s eye when she realized the truth. Her romantic illusions died with Sonny, so she’s not likely to be bragging about her child’s paternity.

As a matter of insurance, though, Gina might send the woman a check, accompanied by a suggestion that Tilson Corporate Careers relocate as soon as possible. Ten thousand ought to cover it. With the rates her company charges, she could deposit that amount in her business account and no one would be the wiser.

Five, four, three…

With a soft sigh, the elevator approaches its berth on the ground floor. Only as the tension leaves Gina’s shoulders does she realize how overwrought she’s been. She laughs softly at her anxieties, and smiles at the overhead lights.

Still burning, bright and strong.

The elevator shivers beneath her feet, halting with a distinct splash.

What the—

Almost immediately, water invades the lower edges of the car, coating the floor in a slick shine. Gina presses the eight on the elevator panel. The button lights beneath her fingertip, but before she can lift her hand, water begins to trickle from the rubber strips at the bottom of the elevator doors.

She steps closer and jabs the Close Door button. In the distance, a motor hums, the car vibrates…and the mechanical hum stops. The car is sinking; she can feel it moving beneath her feet as liquid seeps through the seams of her loafers.

This cannot be happening.

The trickle increases to a torrent that appears to climb the door like flame. A rising stream spatters her legs and contains a coldness she has never experienced in Florida waters.

“No!” She slams her fist against the control panel, but even though the overhead lights are still burning, the buttons have gone dark. This isn’t a power outage, it’s an elevator malfunction.

She drops her coat and steps toward the doors, then stops. If she tries to open them, she will only let more water into the car. The only way out…is up.

She lifts her gaze to the ceiling, where the exit hatch cover sits squarely in place…at her request. A hatch that can only be opened from the outside.

Because I could not stop for Death—

She trembles as her mind approaches an undeniable and dreadful understanding—

He kindly stopped for me.

In the hollow of her back, a single drop of perspiration traces the column of her spine. Shivering, she moves to the rear wall and as the water rises she hears herself repeating syllables as if she has been stricken by a spontaneous case of stuttering and will spend the rest of her life unable to stop speaking a single name: “Sonny!”