Out in the corridor, I could hear Beck shout my name, banging into offices in search of me. He fired a shot that made me jump even at this remove. While I'd known I wouldn't shoot him, I wasn't at all convinced he wouldn't shoot me, accidentally if nothing else. I yanked off one shoe and set it in the path of the open elevator door. The door slid shut, encountered the shoe, and popped open again, a process that repeated like a tic. I turned and pressed the G button on the opposite panel, dispatching the freight elevator to the garage level. The doors were slow to respond, which gave me time enough to cross to the second set of doors. I yanked my shoe from the track and slipped into the counting room as the corridor doors slid shut. The doors to the counting room slid shut half a beat later, and I was safe. Temporarily, at any rate.
Marty's body was still there.
I went on disconnect and blocked any and all emotional responses. Now was the wrong time. I tossed the shoe aside, not daring to take time to slip it on again. I looked at the ladder affixed to the wall, following the sight of it, rung by rung, all the way to the top. I started climbing, one shoe off and one shoe on, diddle-diddle-dumpling, my son John. I knew the trap door at the top opened onto the roof. Once there, I'd hide or hang over the parapet screaming until the cops showed up. Maybe officers were already scrambling – regular Santa Teresa cops, the SWAT team, hostage negotiators – all of them decked out in bulletproof vests.
I flicked a look at Marty, still bound to his chair. Why hadn't the guys done as Beck instructed? They were supposed to get him out of there, but they'd left him where he was. My hands were perspiring, but I ventured a second quick look down, noting what I'd failed to spot earlier. The counting and bundling machines were still sitting on the counter. The currency was gone. Instead of disposing of the body, the goons must have packed up the cash and removed that instead.
I reached the top rung of the ladder and reached for the door directly above my head. I couldn't find a lock or a knob or any means to open it. I ran my hand across the surface, looking for a hook or a handle, any kind of lever that might cause it to spring open. Nothing. I clung to the top rung, hanging on for dear life while I tried to get my fingertips in the crack. I banged on it with the flat of my hand, then pushed as hard as I could.
Below, I heard the elevator door slide open. I laid my head against the ladder and held my breath.
In a conversational tone, Beck said, "That door's locked so you might as well come down. Reba's on her way. Soon as we've settled up, you're free to go."
I looked down at him. He was wearing his raincoat, apparently in preparation for his departure. He had the gun in one hand and it was pointed right at me. He probably didn't have a clue how much pressure it took to pull the trigger. If he inadvertently blew my head off, I'd be dead all the same. He leaned down and picked up my shoe.
He waggled the gun. "Come on. I don't want to hurt you. This is almost over. Wrong time to cut and run when we're down to the wire."
I eased my way down, feeling for each rung with my foot, suddenly fearful of heights. I considered letting go, plunging down on top of him, but I'd only hurt myself and there was no guarantee I'd do him any harm at all. He watched me patiently until I reached the bottom. He probably preferred keeping his eyes on me to looking at Marty. He hadn't seemed to register the fact that the body hadn't been removed.
He smiled slightly. "Good try. You had me goin' there. I thought you ran the other way…" He handed me my shoe. I paused, leaning against the wall while I pulled the shoe on.
He took my elbow and urged me through the service elevator to the corridor. He was right. It was almost over so what was the point of risking my neck. In the end, this had nothing to do with me. I hunkered, taking my time while I tied my shoelaces. Beck was getting short on patience, but I didn't like to walk with laces flapping loose. He took me by the elbow again and steered me around the corner to the public elevators. He'd left his briefcase in the hall. He picked it up and used the knuckle of his index finger to push the call button. The elevator must have been sitting right there because the doors opened instantly. The two of us got on. Beck pressed the button for the lobby. Like strangers, we stood silently against the back wall, eyes on the digital readout while the floor numbers dropped from 4 to 3 to 2 to the lobby. I had one brief hope that when the doors opened, I'd see cops, guns drawn, ready to arrest him and put an end to this.
The lobby was empty except for Willard, sitting at his desk. The fountain in the center of the lobby was gushing like a toilet. My bladder was so full I could have drawn a diagram of its shape and size. Outside the plate-glass windows, the walkway was dark, not a soul in sight. The stores across the way were shut down tight. Willard was on his feet, his attention focused on his bank of ten monitors. He held an arm out and snapped his fingers rapidly. Beck and I crossed the lobby and rounded the end of Willard's desk. He pointed. The image on one of the black-and-white screens showed the underground parking lot. Reba, driving my VW, nosed down the ramp and turned right. The car passed from our view. Three minutes later, we saw her enter the service corridor, one floor below. She was using two hands to haul the duffel, which was clearly heavy. She eased it down on the floor and looked up at the corner-mounted security camera. "Hey, Beck?" Her cheek was swollen from the blow she'd taken, lips puffy, one eye black. Her nose looked as though it had been flattened across the bridge. She waited, looking up at us.
Willard handed Beck the handset from the phone on his desk. He pressed a button and we could hear the wall phone ring in the service corridor. Reba picked up, her gaze fixed on the camera.
Beck said, "Hey, baby. How's by you?" Mocking her earlier greeting. "Knock it off, Beck. You want this or not?"
"Show me first."
She dropped the handset and it banged against the wall, bouncing on its spiral cord. Beck jerked his head back, murmuring "Shit." Below, Reba leaned over and opened the duffel bag. The computer was clearly visible.
"And the floppy disks?"
She opened a side pocket and extracted a handful of disks, probably twenty by the look. She held them toward the camera, holding them face forward so he could read the sequence of dates he'd probably written himself. "Okay. Good enough," he said.
She slipped them back inside and zipped the duffel shut. "Happy now, you asshole?"
"I am. Thanks for asking. Come on up to the lobby and behave yourself. I've got Kinsey right here in case you want to get cute about this.'' Reba flipped him the bird. Attagirl, I thought. That would show him. I glanced at Willard. "You just going to stand there?" No response. Maybe Willard had died and no one had remembered to mention it. I wanted to wave a hand in front of his eyes to see if he would blink.
The service elevator reached the lobby level and the doors slid open. Reba stepped forward, struggling with the weight of the duffel. Beck, gun in hand, watched her for any hint of rebellion or treachery. She set the duffel on the floor in front of him. He motioned with the gun. "Open it."
"Oh, geez. You think it's booby-trapped?"
"I wouldn't put it past you."
She leaned down and unzipped the duffel, exposing the computer for the second time. Without his having to ask, she took out the floppy disks and handed them to him. "Now step back."
She backed up about ten feet, her hands in the air. "So worried," she remarked.
Beck passed the gun to Willard. "Keep an eye on both." He knelt and freed the computer case from the duffel. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a small Phillips-head screwdriver, which he used to loosen the screws that held the housing in place. He tossed the screws aside and then took off the back panel. I couldn't figure out what he was up to.
The inner workings of the computer were now exposed. I don't own a computer and I'd never seen the inside of one. What a complex assortment of multicolored connectors, wires, circuits, transistors, or whatever they were called, lots of weensy things at any rate. Willard held the gun steady, barrel pointing first at Reba and then at me, but almost idly I thought. Beck opened his briefcase and took out a glass beaker with a glass stopper wedged in the top. He opened it and dolloped a clear liquid across the circuits like salad dressing. It must have been acid because a hissing went up and the smell of chemical burning filled the air. Insulated wires dissolved, small parts curling as though alive, shriveling and shrinking as the caustic liquid made contact. He took out a second beaker and poured acid over the floppy disks, spreading them out so as not to miss any. Holes appeared instantly, and a sizzling smoke developed as the disks disintegrated.