Of course, she thought to herself as she pushed herself up to a standing position. Rebecca began running back in the direction of the transmission room; throwing a hand over her mouth and nose as she picked her way through the rapidly expanding smoke. Clear of the smoke, she sprinted the last few meters to the one place where she knew there would be a first-aid kit.
Rebecca rushed headlong into the women’s bathroom. She headed to the cabinet at the end of the room. Throwing open the doors she saw an empty space where the first-aid kit should have been.
“Damn it!” she yelled. Then she remembered. She had used the kit to fix Jim’s hand the day of the Church team’s arrival. She must have left it in his room. No time to run back and get it, now. Besides, she knew where there was another one.
She ran from the woman’s bathroom to the next-door down. Pushing it open, she rushed into the men’s-room.
Forty-Seven
He had heard the explosion as a hollow boom that shook the floor, rattling dust from the overhead acoustic ceiling panels, and sending it falling gently to the floor like snow.
Tony Gallagher rose from his perch in the men’s room stall, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. He opened the door with a creak of dry hinges and stepped out into the glare of the overhead lights.
Making his way past the porcelain urinals, he took the brown overnight bag from under his arm and set it down on the sink, leaned against the unit with both arms extended and stared deeply into the mirror that ran the entire length of the wall.
He was tired of this disguise. It was time for a change. Unzipping the travel bag, he pulled out a straight razor and set it on the counter-top followed by a tin of unscented shaving cream and a face towel.
In Europe, they called straight razors ‘cutthroat razors’, an apt name for this particular instrument: A rigid steel blade hinged to its case by a small steel stud. The blade folded out of the black pearl case, which formed the handle when the razor was open for use. One slip with this thing could slice open an artery and leave you bleeding to death on your bathroom floor. No wonder they were no longer in use, replaced years ago by the ‘safe’ razor and then by the electric razor and finally by Insta-Shave cream. He had found it at a flea-market antique stall in Kansas, its rugged build and ability to turn something as mundane as shaving into a skill, immediately appealed to him.
Pushing the plastic plug into the sink’s drain, he activated the water faucet and watched as it rapidly filled the sink with warm water, steam rising ponderously into the air. Splashing the water onto his face, he squirted a large glob of shaving cream from the can and smoothed it onto his lower face, ensuring he covered his entire beard. Then, with one final look into the rapidly misting mirror, he picked up the straight razor and began to hack off his facial hair.
Forty-Eight
Rebecca flew into the men’s room, slamming the door back on its hinges.
Fixed to the furthest wall, past the stalls and urinals, was the glass cabinet containing the first-aid kit and medical supplies she was looking for. The washbowls were obscured by the toilet cubicles and as they came into sight, she was amazed to see the broad back of a man bent over the sink, his head dipped down toward the basin, his lower face mostly obscured by white foam.
“Thank God,” she yelled to the man’s back as she rushed to the cabinet. “There’s been an accident. People are hurt. I need all the help I can get.”
The man reached for the green towel resting on the counter and began mopping away at the residual shaving cream covering his face. She could make out his blue eyes as his reflection stared at her from the mirror, the rest of his face obscured by the towel like some Bedouin nomad.
She opened the glass door and grabbed the med-kit.
“Didn’t you hear the explosion?” she asked, as he finished wiping away the foam from his face, those intense eyes still fixed attentively on her. Reaching out she touched the man’s arm and said with as much patience as she could muster “You’re with the crew from the Church aren’t you? Are you hurt?”
He let the towel drop to the floor, revealing his newly shaved, grinning face in the mirror.
“Hello Rebecca,” he said, his voice holding back a barely restrained chuckle. “Remember me?”
At first, the man’s identity made little impression on Rebecca. There was a sense of someone from her past, an inkling of recognition. His voice sounded familiar. His pink, freshly shaved face regarded her with an almost benevolent smile.
And then the mask dropped away from him and everything flooded back to her.
He was her nightmare. It was him. He was her killer.
A mewling whimper slipped from Rebecca’s lips as she took a stumbling step backward. Her eyes widened in shock, and in what seemed to be time distilled down to its finest component, she began to turn and run. The very air around her had suddenly become molasses, her movement reduced to a slow-motion movie.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, pushed there by some primeval survival instinct, she watched herself as if from afar. She saw her body from above and watched as it twisted—slowly, ever so slowly—and began to lean forward. Come on. Run, her mind screamed. For God’s sake, run. She placed first one foot and then the other in front of it. Her heartbeat maddeningly slow in her ears, its sound drawn out to a long, low, beat.
Thrummmmmp! One step away.
From the safety of her mind’s vantage point, somewhere near the ceiling of the bathroom, she saw the man begin to move too. She watched as he used the sink unit to launch himself after her, his massive arms propelling him in a fluid movement away from the sink. She screamed down at herself to run faster. Move faster.
Thrummmmmp! Another step.
The door. She had to make it out into the corridor. If he caught her in here, she was doomed. Security would be too concerned with fighting the fire raging in the transmission room and dealing with the victims. No one would think to look in here for her, and no one would hear her screams over the wailing of the fire alarm.
Thrummmmmp! Her mind screamed, keep on moving.
With a startling suddenness, she was back in her body. Seeing through her own eyes. Feeling the rhythmic Thump! Thump! Thump! of her heart pounding in her breast. Sucking in air through gritted teeth, she felt the dampness of perspiration underneath her arms and across her face as she accelerated toward the exit. Her senses heightened now to the point that she could feel the hairs on the back her neck tingling as the hot breath of her pursuer, so close behind her, spilled over her.
Concentrate on the door. Get to the door.
She was almost there. Her hand reached out, she was going to steam right through it and out into the corridor to safety.
She felt the punch just as her hand touched the aluminum fingerplate of the bathroom’s swing door. It was like a hammer blow between her shoulder blades, knocking her forward. Her feet tangled and she felt herself tipping over. No! No! No! her mind screamed, but it was too late. Her forward momentum was already carrying her toward the door and the floor at the same time. Instinctively, she drew her hand to her chest, trying to regain her balance and check her fall but instead allowing her head to strike the door with such force her vision doubled and her teeth snapped painfully together. She tasted blood, bitter and metallic in her mouth.