I saw them in motion. I saw them each take a step-then another-away from their posts-toward the red carpet, toward the black car, each extending his neck, each poking out his head, each seeking to steal a look between Angelica Eden's legs.
For one instant, the rope behind them stood unguarded, the path into the courtyard, the path to the theater's back door, was unmanned.
Some part of my brain was still pulling my eyes toward the limo, toward Angelica, but I fought against it. I knew I had only an instant. I started moving. I squirmed between two barricades. As the policemen craned their necks to get a look through the limousine door, I strode boldly, quickly behind them. I ducked under the rope. I ducked out of the wonderful silver light and entered the shadows of the narrow courtyard. I stood straight and started running hell-for-leather toward the door.
Three seconds. Three seconds of pulse and motion, every moment exposed. The cops at the courtyard's far end had their backs turned, but could glance over their shoulders and spot me at any time. The cops behind me were sure to return to their posts in the next instant. And wouldn't one of the people in the crowd have seen me break out? Wouldn't one of them point his finger and alert the law? Three seconds, my feet slapping the bricks, my breath in my ears, my heart hammering. Then my hand was on the cold door handle, my thumb was on the latch, my heart was turning to ice as I thought: Don't let it be locked, don't let it be locked!
It was not locked. I pressed the latch and pushed. There was a snap-I felt it jolting through me. I felt the latch give beneath my thumb. The door swung open. I tumbled through it.
I was inside the New Coliseum.
Darkness Visible
I crouched there motionless. I was stunned. My mind was blank. Everything had changed so fast, so unexpectedly. One moment, the thing was impossible, the next it was done. I was completely taken by surprise. I could not believe I was actually in the building.
For another second, I hunkered, breathless, gaping at the wall as the door to the outside slowly swung shut behind me. I was in a long, dark, unadorned corridor. There were men in workclothes on either side of me. An efficient-looking young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt was carrying a clipboard somewhere. A security guard in a blue uniform scanned the area, a two-way microphone clipped to his shoulder. There was also a plainclothes security man at the far end of the hall.
For that one instant, as I crouched near the door, in a daze, all of them were occupied. None of them was looking my way. Even in my startled state, I realized I must have no more than a fingersnap's worth of time before one of them noticed me and raised the alarm.
I had to get going. I had to get out of sight.
My eyes shifted quickly, this way, that. I saw another door, about two long steps to my left. I had no choice. Another moment, I'd be caught. I stood up and moved to the door. I pulled it open. I went in.
I was just in time. Even as I drew the door closed again, I heard a low, crackling voice come over the uniformed guard's two-way.
"One-oh-one, you report any intruders at that location?"
I heard the guard answer out in the corridor, probably not more than ten yards away from me, "No, everything's clear here."
The crackling radio voice: "Okay, we had a civilian sixty-three report."
"Nope, it's four, it's good."
"Roger."
I heard the guard's footsteps stroll past, just on the other side of the door from me. I heard him push the door open-the door to the courtyard outside. I guess he wanted to make sure no one was lurking out there. I stood where I was, breathing, listening, waiting-wondering if he might check behind this door next. I turned around to get a better look at where I was, where I might hide.
That's when I saw I was trapped.
I was in a closet, a long storage closet. There was all sorts of junk in here: brooms, mops, buckets, ladders, coats and jackets hanging from a rod, a shelf full of paper towels and toilet paper, another shelf with boxes of stationery and markers, and so on. A bright light shone down on all of it from the high ceiling. There were no shadows to sink into. There was only the one door, the one way in and out.
I held my breath. I leaned my ear toward the door. I listened over the beating of my heart. But the guard didn't try to come in. I heard his footsteps moving on now. I heard his voice speaking again farther along the corridor-speaking to another security guy.
"NYPD outside had a citizen's report of someone in the courtyard. You see anything?"
"Nah. I been right here. I'd've noticed anyone come in."
"Me, too."
I let out a long sigh of relief.
Then the closet doorknob turned and the door came open.
I was standing so close to it, trying so hard to hear through it, that it nearly smacked me in the side of the face. But it opened only a crack. Then it stopped-a centimeter from my jaw.
A woman's voice called from the corridor. "House is full, Maryanne. Five minutes to lights out."
"Okay." Maryanne's voice came from the other side of the door, inches from me. "I'll be right there. I just gotta get something."
The door came open the rest of the way. But by then, I was already gone. I'd taken two gigantic, panicked strides down the length of the closet and slipped behind the last coat hanging on the rods. It was a long trenchcoat. It covered me to my knees. Still, it wasn't much of a hiding place. You only had to look down to see me from my shins to my shoes. And if you came close enough, I'd be visible plain as day, my back pressed into the corner, my face rigid with fear.
Maryanne stepped into the closet and shut the door behind her. Peeking through the coat hangers, I could see her. She was a typical backstage worker, slovenly, rad, short-chopped black hair and crystal blue eyes in a pudgy, pixie face, an enormous shapeless sweatshirt and ridiculous striped tights ending around her calves. The kind of glamourless girl the glamour-puss actresses like to have around because they don't steal the limelight. Just a misfit from the Midwest, you know, calling her divorced mom back home every other day to tell her about her cool job in the big city.
I wondered if I was going to have to knock her out.
I couldn't think of what else to do if she saw me. I wasn't expert enough to deck her with a punch, but I could probably choke her until she lost consciousness. Find something to tie her up with. Gag her so I'd have time to get away.
I huddled behind the trench coat. I closed my eyes. I prayed she would leave the closet before I was forced to hurt her. Rashid flashed into my mind again. Rashid writhing and sobbing behind his gag after I'd shattered his second kneecap. Thank God he'd started talking then. Thank God he'd confessed the whole thing-the whole plan, years in the making, devised way back during the New Coliseum's construction, run with the help and permission of terror masters in the Middle East. Thank God he'd sobbed out the whole story before I had to start crushing his balls.
But it was enough. Enough to show me to myself. Enough, I said to God. Don't make me hurt the girl, too.
My fingers curled at my side as if they were already around her throat. Images flashed unbidden in my mind, images from long ago of other women in my harsh hands. I shook them away. My heart strained up to Heaven, praying I would not have to do this thing.
I opened my eyes, peeked through the hangers. Maryanne was coming forward, coming right toward me. Now she was two feet away, standing beside the coats dangling in front of the trench coat from the same wooden rod. She was so close, I could smell her perfume, tart and coy. I could see strands of her black hair shining in the closet light. Sweat coursed down my forehead, over my cheeks.