Where the hell is everyone? The flashing red lights of a smoke alarm give me one idea-a worthless one. I have nothing to set on fire. I run nearer the red light, figuring where there’s a fire alarm, there’s an exit. Instead, there’s a smoke alarm with a red light and a-what?
A security camera. Problem is, if I scream for help, it’ll only let whoever it is know where I am. And the damn security cameras have no audio anyway. Hoping the security guard’s not completely transfixed by baseball, I pretend to scream. I plant myself in front of the camera lens, jumping up and down. Waving my hands. “Help! Help!” I silently mouth into the camera. Clutching my throat with both hands, I pantomime disaster, which isn’t so difficult, since this is a disaster. I look in all directions, making sure no one’s coming up behind me. Or in front of me. I have to keep running. The guard should be seeing me. Where are the damn exit signs?
I pick another hallway, trotting now, realizing with an additional flash of concern that running might just bring me closer to whoever is after me. If he-she?-is still after me. Every time I see a security camera, I stop, waving and holding my throat, silently screaming for help. But there’s nothing. And no one. The bad news and the good news.
Just another length of hallway, door after door, stretching out. And then I see one more thing. A metal opening in the wall. A silver door about the size of a big-screen TV with a black knob that’s labeled Pull.
Linen Chute, it says.
Where the security guard told us to-where is he anyway? Told us to drop our jackets. I stand in front of the shiny metal door, my lips pressed tight together, assessing the odds. I know the building only has one floor. How far can it be to the basement? And there’s gotta be a basement exit.
What are the chances there’s a big fluffy laundry basket at the bottom? Pretty good. If today’s pickup hasn’t already been made, the sane part of my brain reminds me. Still, at least I know where this door goes.
I swing it open. Yeah, I know where it goes. Down. Down into the yawning darkness. Like an evil, narrow, suffocating tunnel. I flash back to my fan the toll taker, who was so supportive and enthusiastic and who completely believes I’m brave. This is for you, then, Edith-with-a-Y-and-an-E. One foot at a time, I swing myself into the metal cylinder. Clutching my shoes and praying there’s no concrete floor or hidden triple-story basement below, I slide into the unknown.
I OPEN MY EYES slowly. Mentally checking for breaks, pains, twists or any part of me that isn’t where it should be or hurts more than it ought to. Nothing. I’m sprawled on my back, clutching my shoes. Safe in a puffy nest of discarded blue jackets sprinkled with white gloves. I look around the dingy walls of the basement, my eyes tingling in the musty surroundings, my nose beginning to twitch with the dust and accumulated pungency of a pile of dirty laundry. Potentially lifesaving laundry.
Glowing on the wall across from me, a red sign, showing perhaps the most reassuring word I’ve ever seen: EXIT. Holding on to one side, I clamber out of my jacket-filled laundry bin, swinging one leg over the side, then the other, then I hop to the ground. I scoot my feet back into my black sling-backed weapons and head for the exit door.
FOR THE SECOND time today, I march across the parking lot toward the sliding glass doors of the archives entrance. I’m steaming with anger and I’m more determined than ever now to see those damn photos. My theory? There ain’t no photo array in that box. Which is no doubt why someone was trying to stop me from seeing it. And whoever that is certainly doesn’t expect me to pursue it. Wrong.
The glass doors to the archive lobby slide open. I see Tek, arms crossed, leaning back on the guard’s desk, facing the door. Waiting for me?
Tek stands with a start. I can see he looks worried as he comes toward me, arms outstretched. “My God, Charlie,” he begins. “I couldn’t figure out where-are you all right?”
I stop, assessing, ready to take a step backward. Ready to run. I see Tek’s hair is perfect, his clothes unrumpled. He’s dumped his blue jacket. And there’s no ski mask in sight. Or gun. He has on jeans and so did the person in the hall. But so do I. So does half the planet.
Tek comes closer and touches me on one shoulder. “Where the hell-”
“Where the hell were you?” I interrupt, twisting myself away. “I was in the bathroom for about two seconds. When I came out, you had vanished.” I clench my fists, looking at the floor, my stomach churning with indecision and fear. “And then-”
Tek grabs my elbow, exactly the wrong thing to do. Again, I yank my arm away. “You vanished,” I hiss. “And then someone-”
Tek holds up both hands, surrendering to my attack. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he says, backing away. “I went to room G156, just like I told you. I waited for you there.” He shakes his head, as if thinking back. “I figured there was some female thing in the bathroom, but after a while, when you didn’t show up, I went in to check. And you weren’t there. I came back to the security desk to wait for you, figuring that’s what you did, too.”
“So didn’t you see me? Calling for help on those snazzy high-priced security cams?” I try to keep my voice even, but my words are spitting out, taut and tense. “Someone was chasing me. Someone who I think had a gun.” I could swear Tek didn’t tell me a room number. I think. He trails after me as I stalk to the security desk, questioning him over my shoulder. “You were here? And you didn’t see me? On any of those stupid cameras?” I turn to the guard. “What the hell are you guarding, anyway? First base? Did you see me? Did you see anyone leave?”
The guard looks up from his screen as if I’m intruding. I see the game is still underway. I guess I am intruding. “Nope,” he says, and then turns back to watch baseball.
“Hey,” I slap both palms on the desk and lean across it, trying to drag Mr. Security away from Fenway Park. “Hello. Mr. Guard,” I snap. “I called for help on your not-so-security cameras.” Then I slowly stand up, realizing soon all this mystery will be solved. Through the miracle of videotape. Whoever’s chasing me was also on camera. And therefore, on the security tapes.
I turn to Tek. “Let’s get that video. The security video. Then we’ll know the whole story.” I cross my arms in front of me, my jaw tight and my eyes narrowing. “Get it.” If it’s Tek on that tape, he’s trapped.
Behind me, I hear a rattle and clink of metal on linoleum. I turn to see the guard sliding his chair away from the televisions.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says. He picks up a scattering of black markers that are strewn across his desk, then deposits them, one by one, into a bright blue coffee can. “There’s no tape in those cameras. It’s just surveillance.”
Your tax dollars at work.
“It was probably nothing, your imagination,” Tek says. “Did you actually see a gun? Did anyone actually threaten you? Or even say anything?”
“Well, no,” I say, thinking back. “But he-grabbed my wrists.”
“And let you go, apparently.”
“But I hit him. With my shoes. It must have hurt him.” I watch Tek’s face, checking for a wince of memory. I should try to check the front of his pants, too, to see if my shoes left any marks. Except whoever it was had on that jacket. And I still can’t figure out why-wait. It’s got to be about the photos.
Someone doesn’t want me to see them. What else could be the motive for trying to scare me away? If Tek’s the hallway bad guy, he’ll come up with some reason we can’t get the photos today, or we should come back, or he couldn’t find them. Some bogus reason to hide the evidence that will set Dorinda free. This morning’s bizarre confrontation, now that the fear is dissipating in the normalcy of the lobby, might even be worth it. To find out who’s side Tek is on-the side of justice? Or his own future? Here comes the test.