“Tek’s an interesting name,” I say, partly because I’m curious and partly because it’s the only thing I can think of that’s not business but not too personal. “Is it-short for something?”
The walkway is ending. With a quick motion, Tek steps off, and onto solid ground. He holds out a hand, offering to assist me.
“Detective,” he says. He keeps my hand infinitesimally longer than necessary as I hop off the moving conveyor. “Tek is short for Detective. And I’ll tell you my real name-if you tell me yours.”
Taking my hand back, I’m briefly flustered by his touch, and somewhat frustrated, because what should be an uncomplicated situation seems to be getting more complicated by the moment. And just to prove I’m right, now I have to go to the bathroom.
WHERE’S TEK? Frowning, I look both ways as the door marked W clicks closed behind me. Peering down the hallways, I realize that’s about the only door with an understandable designation. The others all have those letters and numbers. Except, of course, for the one marked M, which is probably where Tek’s gone.
I lean against the wall, waiting for him to emerge. The low-ceilinged hallways, lined with low-watt fluorescent tubing, are silent, uninhabited. I briefly wonder about the annex Tek was talking about. How long will it take to pull the documents and photos I need? My frown returns. This is taking too long.
I wonder if he’s all right. There’s no reason for him not to be all right, of course, and checking my watch, I see it’s only been five minutes. Maybe seven, since I came out. But that’s too long. If something is wrong, he’s sick, or he fell, or, I don’t know. And if I was just standing here the whole time…
I turn and knock, tentatively, on the door marked M. “Tek?” I say. I pause, waiting for him to yell he’s okay. But there’s no response. Maybe I didn’t knock loudly enough. Taking a deep breath, I knock again, louder, and again call his name. “Tek? You in there?” With a final breach of everything we learned in grade school, I push open the door, looking but not looking. Of course if anyone else is in there, they would have answered when I knocked. Probably.
The room is stark and silent. And empty. No sprawled body on the ground, no feet showing under the stall doors, no invasion of privacy for a surprised ex-cop.
Okay, fine. Plan B. So what’s the deal? I play back our conversation and remember Tek said we were “almost there.” Maybe he’s just gone on to the storage room. Thinks he told me where it is or figures I can find it.
I continue in the direction we were walking, examining the look-alike doors to see if there’s anything I recognize, or any sign of where I am or where I should be going. But all the doors are identical. Indistinguishable. And closed. No sign of anyone.
I try a couple of doors, at random, figuring someone might be inside, or there might be a phone, but one after the other, they’re locked. I’m having some sort of Through the Looking Glass moment, in a place that should feel safe and ordinary but instead is tauntingly surreal. Tek can’t just vanish. And what’s behind all these locked doors? I rattle each doorknob in turn, annoyed, frustrated, and getting angrier by the second. Damn Tek. He couldn’t wait two more minutes for me to come out? And now I’m-a door opens. And I take one step inside.
The murky and flickering fluorescent lights are on and the windowless room is filled with steely gray file cabinets, identical, floor to ceiling. I hesitate, listening. “Tek?” I say. The sound echoes though the room and I can hear it’s not quite my normal voice. No answer.
Leaving the door open, I check an elaborate fire exit chart in the hall. “You are here,” I read. “Right. I know that. Question is, where is everyone else?”
I head back through the warren of file cabinets, noticing they all seem to be labeled with numbers and dates. I give a halfhearted tug at one file cabinet handle. Locked. As the map in the hall promised, there’s another door in the rear. That opens, no problem, and I’m out in another hallway intersection. Left, right and straight ahead. Who the hell knows which way to choose?
Ahead it is.
I’m infuriated. The fronts of my thighs ache from trying not to slide on the linoleum-slick hallways. My heels are noisy. I’m starving. And I’m lost, lost, lost. In one more minute, I’m going to retrace my steps and head back to the guard’s desk. And there’ll be some explaining to do.
Was that-footsteps?
“Tek?” I call again. I stop, listening. No answer. The only sound is the buzz of the lights and some faint hum of air-conditioning. Shaking my head, I begin my trek back to the lobby-and then, unmistakably this time, footsteps.
My shoulders sag in relief. Tek’s probably looking for me, too. We should have made a plan. At least this will be a funny story. If we decide to tell it. “Tek?” I call out. “Not funny! Where’d you go?”
Trying to track the sounds, I walk slowly, one tentative step at a time, toward the footsteps. At the hall intersection, I see a fish-eyed traffic mirror, set almost ceiling high. Reflected from far down the dimly lighted hall, I see the blue jacket I know Tek’s wearing.
Shaking my head, ready to share our archives adventure, I feel my whole body relax. The blue-coated figure comes closer. Walking faster, then breaking into a trot. Then I see he’s also wearing the white gloves. And a ski mask. The man-I guess it’s a man-begins to run. Holding something. A gun? I’m not going to wait and see.
I turn, confused and terrified, and blindly run in the other direction. Down one hall, then another, my bearings, if I ever had any, completely lost. My damn shoes, clopping like castanets, amplify every step and echo thorough the corridors. I pause, catching my breath, and rip them off. Barefoot and terrified, and holding both shoes in my hands, I race around another corner, touching the wall to keep my balance as I careen through the maze of corridors. This has all got to come out somewhere. Someone’s got to be here.
I skid around another corner. My blue jacket flapping, my T-shirt coming untucked, my bare feet sticking to the cool linoleum, one shoe in each hand.
And there he is.
Two strong hands grip my wrists. I squeeze my eyes closed and snap my hands down and away, the one move I remember from a self-defense class. “Use what weapons you have,” I can hear the teacher saying. And I do have weapons. I clench my shoes, heels down, and with a yell that’s half fear and half rage, bash both stiletto heels right into his crotch.
I hear a satisfying howl as-whoever it is-doubles over in what I can only hope is excruciating pain. I manage to yell “get away from me” at him as I take off down the hall.
Minutes go by. I know I can’t keep running. I pause, listening intently. Nothing. Maybe I should find another open door-but that’s stupid, if I can get in, he can get in. If whoever it is gets in, I’m trapped. I prop myself up against the hallway wall, breathing hard, palms on my knees, one shoe still dangling from each hand.
Was it Tek? I try to remember how tall the person was. I can’t. I know he had on jeans. I think he did. Some eyewitness I turned out to be. That blue jacket, and the gloves, certainly. Like everyone else in the building. I know Tek wasn’t searched after he showed his badge, so he could have had a gun. And if it isn’t Tek, where is he, anyway? And what might have happened to him?
Maybe he’s waiting. Waiting until I make a move. But I have to move. I dash down another hall, my eyes swimming with tears. Am I going toward “out”? Or farther in? Am I going in circles? And is whoever it is waiting for me? Or gone? Doesn’t know who I am in the first place? Just hanging around the archives in a ski mask. Right.