Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  But he sensed it might already be too late.

  Fifty Eight

  Madison fast-forwarded the video to a man with gray hair and a gleaming aluminum briefcase sitting down at a computer. She’d never seen him before, nor the last seventeen people who’d used the library computers over the last twenty minutes.

  She forwarded to a young female . . . then to identical male twins in red NYU jogging suits . . . to a hefty woman with a short, skinny bald man . . . a Hasidic boy with heavy school books . . . a blue-collar worker with a bad limp. . . an old man with shaky hands.

  She knew she might be wasting her time. The person behind everything might have worn a disguise.

  As she fast-forwarded to two Asian boys, she heard a thump in the hall behind her. It sounded like a book had fallen. She tightened her grip on a nearby cassette.

  Another thump. A footstep. . . .

  Madison spun around and looked at the door.

  Nothing. Silence.

  Then . . . footsteps . . . louder.

  Her stomach balled up tight.

  “Any luck?” Emily asked as she walked in and plopped a thick dictionary down on a nearby shelf.

  “Oh, not yet.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay after we close in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

  “When you’re ready to leave, just dial 23 and Marvin, our security guard, will come and escort you out.”

  “Thanks again, Emily.”

  “You’re welcome.” The librarian smiled, picked up a thick green tome entitled Black’s Law Dictionary and left.

  Madison was relieved that she wouldn’t have to rush through the videos, and even more relieved that a security guard knew she was down here.

  For the next ten minutes, she watched an ongoing parade of business professionals, students and seniors tapping away at the keyboards. None looked the slightest bit familiar.

  Suddenly, the lights went out.

  She was in total darkness.

  She began to panic . . . then realized it was closing time. The basement lights were probably on a timer.

  She flicked on the desk lamp, which gave her just enough light, then turned back to the VCR screen. She fast-forwarded to two middle-schoolers in blue uniforms, two nuns in black habits, a thick-hipped woman in red Spandex.

  Something creaked out in the hall. A floorboard? A wooden bookshelf? A ventilation duct, maybe? She listened. Silence.

  Relax, she told herself.

  * * *

  Eugene P. Smith loosened his minister’s collar as he stared through the tiny crack in the door at Madison McKean. So similar, he thought. Same color hair, same tall curvaceous figure, same long neck and high cheekbones.

  So similar to Lori. . . .

  Lori Laurent. Smith met her in his university drama class. She’d been drawn to acting for the same reason he had: to learn how to fit in better with others. In A Room With A View, their on-stage romance continued off-stage and soon Lori moved into his apartment.

  After graduation, they planned to go to Washington while he began training at CIA Headquarters. But her mother’s sudden, terminal cancer forced Lori to remain in New York. To help pay her medical expenses, Lori got a job as a secretary at Turner Advertising. One evening, as Mark McKean was rushing off to catch a flight, he asked her to hand deliver an important new business proposal to a Manhattan address by the 10 p.m. deadline. She took a taxi, delivered the proposal to an address in north Harlem fifteen minutes early, then came right back outside.

  But her taxi had fled the high crime area.

  As she waited for another taxi, two men dragged her into an alley, then raped and brutalized her.

  Seven hours later, Lori Laurent died in Downtown Hospital.

  Her death devastated Smith and filled him with rage.

  A month later, he tracked down the two gangbangers who’d raped her. He dumped the two corpses, minus their genitals, in the same alley where they’d left Lori.

  But Smith’s rage was not quenched. He transferred it to Mark McKean. After all, McKean should have asked for an extension to deliver the package the following day. Or had a man deliver it. And because he didn’t, Lori was dead.

  But his daughter, a few feet away, was very much alive.

  Smith removed the syringe from his pocket and looked at its eerily translucent liquid. So lethal . . . so painful . . . and so appropriate for the woman who’d proven more elusive than any of his other victims.

  Smith squirted droplets of the toxin into the air. The flow was perfect. Within three minutes the toxin would stop her sweet little heart. The medical examiner would wonder why her heart failed, but he’d never test for sea wasp venom since she died in a library. He would, however, test for opiates and be shocked to find a lethal amount of heroin in her blood.

  Smith would inject the heroin into her arm where the medical examiner couldn’t miss the puncture, and the venom under her toenail, where he’d be least likely to check.

  Smith watched her rake her fingers through her thick brown hair. He grew excited as he imagined her life force slowly draining away ... like it once drained away from Lori Laurent.

  And even though the Executive VP had just phoned him and told him not to kill Madison, because the EVP had the votes she needed to pass the ComGlobe merger, Smith would kill Madison anyway. It was get even time.

  Madison McKean for Lori Laurent.

  Fifty Nine

  Why isn’t Madison answering? Kevin wondered as his taxi raced back toward the Mid-Manhattan Library. She would have left her cell phone on to hear the update on his mother’s condition. But maybe her battery died again. Or maybe the library had one of those cellphone-blocking systems.

  No. My cell phone worked in the library.

  Why isn’t she answering?

  Deep down, he knew why.

  Eugene P. Smith.

  Kevin tried dialing her number again, but misdialed as the taxi swerved around a cement mixer and threw him against the side of the cab. At a red light, he dialed again and listened.

  Nothing.

  He slammed his phone shut.

  He’d let Eugene P. Smith sucker him up to Mount Sinai. Smith must have been in the library all the time, probably watching them, somehow overhearing their plans. Then, he called pretending to be Dr. Telvin. Amazingly, Smith had used the specific medical terminology of a cardiologist and a voice tonality completely different from the one he’d used on Sand Bank Bay. The man was a linguistic chameleon as well as a master of disguise. Had Smith also diverted Officer Vincent to a bogus terrorist situation?

  Meanwhile, Madison was alone, unprotected, and by now injured or. . . .

  Sick with worry, he dialed Detective Loomis’s number to ask Detective Doolin to speed police over to the library. After several rings, the phone was picked up.

  “Loomis.”

  Kevin wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Detective Loomis?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Kevin Jordan. You sound fine.”

  “I am fine.”

  “But your car accident?”

  “Big-ass lie. We’re trying to find the bastard who started it!”

  “Probably the same man who just lied to me about my mother’s stroke.”

  “Who?”

  “Eugene P. Smith.”

  Loomis cursed under his breath.

  “Smith lured me away from Madison at the Mid-Manhattan Library. She’s there alone.”

  “But Officer Vincent’s guard –”

  “No. Vincent was pulled over to that terrorist situation, some guy with a suitcase bomb.”

  “What terrorist situation? Jesus H. Christ! Hang on.”

  Loomis shouted to someone and seconds later came back on the line. “There’s no active terrorist incident going on in Manhattan right now! How could Smith send Vincent –”

  “I don’t know, but right now Smith has Madison all to himself in the library. And she’s not a
nswering her phone.”

  “I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes.”

  By then she could be dead, Kevin feared.

  They hung up. Kevin felt like steel pincers were tightening around his head. He phoned the main library number, hoping a security guard might pick up, but got a recording.

  Then he realized something. Smith had called him. Kevin hit the Last Call Received button. Caller ID displayed Unknown Number. Kevin hit the re-dial button, praying that the ringing would distract Smith, or at least alert Madison. He waited for the ring. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Smith had turned off his phone.

  Frustrated, Kevin snapped his phone shut, then leaned toward the taxi driver. “Please hurry!”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  The man pointed ahead.

  Kevin looked and saw traffic frozen solid in all directions.

  Sixty

  Madison freeze-framed on a tall woman who seemed to intentionally turn away from the camera as she walked toward the computers. Her bulky rain coat concealed the shape of her body while her high collar, sunglasses and scarf hid most of her face. Yet, something about her seemed familiar. What was it?

  Then she knew.

  The scarf! That purple pattern scarf!

  Madison thought back over the last few days. Karla had worn a scarf that color in the board meeting. And she walks sort of stiff like that.

  And Dana Williams wore a similar colored scarf a few times.

  The woman on the screen sat down at a computer and appeared to log onto the Internet. Madison pushed the PAUSE button to study her profile, but the picture began to jiggle. She pushed PLAY again, hoping the woman would face the camera. She didn’t.

  She has to show her face when she leaves.

  Behind her, Madison again heard a strange sound in the hallway. A soft, scuffing sound.

  Was Emily back? No. She would have left when the library closed twenty-five minutes ago. Madison snapped to full alert. Her heart was pounding. Ten seconds, twenty. No more scuffing. No sounds. Perhaps she’d been mistaken.

  Then, behind her, the door creaked open and her neck muscles tightened. A shadow moved across the video screen. A large shadow.

  Please be the security guard.

  She turned slowly and looked into the dark, empty eyes of Eugene P. Smith. He was dressed as a minister. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Praise the Lord!” he said, grinning. “I’ve found my prodigal daughter.”

  In his hand, he carried a syringe filled with a clear liquid, its needle gleaming in the dark room. Her mind racing, she inched toward a side door that led to another hallway.

  “Sorry I missed you in Cannes,” he whispered.

  “We left after the Awards Show.”

  “Without celebrating with me?” He took a step toward the side door, cutting down her angle of escape.

  She had to buy time. “May I ask you something?”

  “You may.”

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “Sorry, that’s confidential.”

  “Why confidential, if you’re going to kill me?”

  “You make an excellent point. So does this syringe!” He waved the point of the needle toward her face.

  She leaned back and swallowed a dry throat. “Who hired you?”

  “Someone who doesn’t like you very much.”

  “Someone I work with?”

  “Reasonable assumption.”

  “Karla Rasmussen?”

  “Persistent, aren’t you?” A smile revealed his small, white teeth.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  Another thin smile.

  “Be a good soul and hand Reverend Smith that naughty video you were watching.”

  “I didn’t recognize anyone on it.”

  “That’s because someone on it wore a disguise. My disguises work. Remember the old man with a cane on your flight from St. Kitts?”

  “You were the old man? You left the Sand Bank Bay postcard?” She pretended surprise, even though she and Kevin had figured it out.

  He took a slight theatrical nod.

  “Where’d you learn disguises so well?”

  He smiled knowingly. “You’d like to hear my nice long bio, so the righteous Officer Vincent will get back to save you, like a sweet Hollywood ending, dissolve to black. Sorry, but the only thing dissolving to black around here is you. So just hand me the video.”

  Now or never, she knew. Somehow she had to distract him long enough to run out the side door – without getting injected by the needle. She reached toward the DVD player and hit EJECT. The disc popped out, and she leaned over and pulled it free.

  Pretending to be defeated, she turned slowly to hand him the DVD. When he reached for it, she threw it at his face.

  He jumped back as she ran for the side door.

  He grabbed her sleeve, ripping it.

  She threw a DVD case at him.

  He ducked and raked the syringe needle across her bare forearm, bringing drops of blood to her skin.

  Crazed, she threw a heavy stapler at him, hitting his hand and knocking the syringe under the desk. When he bent down to pick it up, she yanked free, ran out the side door and sprinted down the hall.

  Turning the corner, she found herself running down another hall lined with doors, some open, some closed. She had no idea where she was going. Seconds later, she faced a dead end.

  She heard his footsteps coming.

  Trapped, she ran back up the hall, opened a door marked “Janitor,” went inside and closed the door. She saw a mop and quickly wedged it under the door handle lever and against both sides of the door frame. She prayed it would hold.

  She heard him sprint past her. When he reached the dead end, he began coming back, opening doors and closing them, checking rooms, working his way back up the hall toward her room.

  She was trapped.

  Inching backward in the darkness, her heel touched something solid. She reached down and felt cold steel, a metal pipe two feet long. She picked it up and gripped it like a baseball bat.

  Smith opened the door next to hers. Moments later, he shut it.

  Through a thin crack in the door frame, she saw him step toward her door, stop and stare at it. Did he see her? Perspiration covered her skin and her arm burned where the poison syringe had drawn blood.

  Smith grabbed the handle of her door, turned and pulled. The mop-brace held. He jiggled the handle harder, but it still held. He continued staring at the door. Then, slowly, he walked to the next door, opened and closed it. She listened as he opened two more doors, and then walked down the hall toward the video viewing room.

  Then she heard nothing.

  Maybe he’s left. She waited a full minute, two....

  Silence.

  She unclenched her teeth, then quietly pulled the mop handle from the door handle. She grabbed the steel pipe and eased the door open an inch. He was not in the hall.

  Suddenly, the door was jerked from her hand – and Smith’s needle was slashing down toward her neck.

  Ducking sideways, she swung the steel pipe hard, hitting him hard above the ear. Stunned, he froze, then slumped against the door and slowly dropped to one knee. She sprinted down the hall and up the stairs to the first floor.

  “Help!” she screamed, running into the library, hoping the guard would hear her.

  Warm blood skidded down her arm onto the floor, leaving a roadmap of red drops. She pressed her sleeve against the needle cuts to stanch the flow.

  Behind her, she heard Smith coming after her. Any second, he’d turn the corner and see her. She ducked between two tall bookshelves and hid herself in the shadows next to a bookcase ladder.

  Through a gap in the shelves, she saw Smith tracking her blood. He stopped where the blood drops stopped. Then he lifted his head and sniffed like a jackal catching his prey’s scent.

  And he appeared to catch the scent of her perfume, because he walked directly toward her bookshelf. Sh
e was blocked in by the bookshelves and the wall. Her only way out was the way in. He’d see her instantly.

  He began to move along the bookshelf as though he knew where she was on the other side. Then he stopped two feet away. She froze.

  Smith pushed two large books through onto the floor beside her and looked through the opening. Madison ducked back just in time. He pushed several more large books onto the floor, wobbling the shelf a bit, then reached through the opening, missing her by inches.

  It was only a matter of time before he saw her.

  The bookshelf wobbled. Can I topple it over on him?

  Soundlessly, she climbed the ladder on the bookcase behind her and sat on the top rung. Then she placed her feet on the bookshelf next to Smith.

  “Love that light floral scent, Madison. Allure is one of my favorites.”

  The fact that he knew she wore Allure sent shivers down her spine.

  “The game is over, Madison. This time I win!”

  Maybe not, asshole!

  With all her strength, she pushed her legs against the top of the bookshelf. It tipped, then suddenly crashed down hard onto Smith, burying him beneath hundreds of heavy volumes and the thick oak shelf. He gasped loudly, but she heard him moving about.

  She jumped from the ladder and ran out into the library hall, shouting for the night guard.

  No response.

  Maybe Smith killed him . . . .

  Behind her, she heard Smith crawling from beneath the bookshelf. Soon, he would catch up to her.

  Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a red light on the wall. She ran over and yanked the alarm lever.

  Instantly, an ear-splitting horn blasted off the library walls. Red lights flashed everywhere.

  When she glanced back, she saw Smith freeze, then turn and hurry the other way, toward the entrance.

  She stopped, leaned against a bookshelf and took several deep breaths.

  Seconds later, she heard keys jingling and saw a heavyset security guard wearing iPod earphones jog into view. He raised his flashlight beam to her face.

  “You pull the alarm?”

  “Yes.”

  “You the lady what Emily said was in the basement?”

  “Yes. A man attacked me.”

  He yanked his gun out. “Where’s he at?”