A Ballad of Wayward Spectres: Day 1

by William B Hill

CHAPTER VII

  Alyson hugged the right wall just below the cameras. They were unavoidable, but she was in as much of a blind spot as she could be.

  Each floor of the Broadway Walk was formed around an H shape, with elevators at each end, and different housekeeping and administrative stations in the middle. Stairwells and a freight elevator were also positioned at the center, for staff convenience.

  Elevator doors parted ahead of Alyson. Her spine went rigid, and her shoulders snapped upright. One last breath escaped.

  A man and a woman in their seventies stepped out into the hall, carrying an ancient blue leather suitcase, with simple silver latches, wrapped in airport stickers and a pair of leather straps holding it shut.

  Alyson’s breathing returned, labored, hot, and moist on her chin as she bit her lower lip.

  She imagined that she looked guilty to the leering digital eyes that followed her. Stupid bitch; why did you choose to stick your husband today? She cursed Marina as she stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the eighth floor.

  The golden box sealed around Alyson, and shuddered into controlled descent.

  Alyson dropped to her knees, and hit the Emergency Stop switch at the bottom of the control pad. She dropped her multi-tool into her fingers. She thumbed a flathead screwdriver from the body of the tool, and pried a plastic plate from the control panel to expose six screws beneath. The tip of the screwdriver jumped from the grooves of the steel pegs as she trembled. Alyson kicked the screws into a corner, and yanked the steel face of the control pad away, a bundle of cables following it to the floor. A screeching tenor sounded from the dismantled control panel. Sixty seconds. I shouldn’t need that long.

  Alyson sorted through the bundles of the cables, searching for a thick green cable at the center of the bundle. Ten. She couldn’t kill the entire panel; that would leave her with an elevator shaft to climb through, and a stubborn, locked exterior door to contend with.

  She switched to a knife, pushing the Phillips screwdriver away, and pushed the blade into the bundle of cables on its side, wedging the wires apart. Twenty-five.

  She found the green cable at the center. Thirty.

  Alyson turned the blade and pressed it against the rubbery coating. A white scratch divided the surface. She cried a “shit”, and tried again. Forty.

  The wound was deeper, but didn’t break the flesh.

  She closed her multi-tool, and stuffed it back into her wrist band. Forty-five. She grabbed the switchblade from her backpack, and pushed against the cable, damning the other necessary wires to damage.

  The plastic split. Fifty-three. She pushed, driving the blade deeper, fifty-five, and slit the core, fifty-seven.

  The tone ceased, leaving the echo of Alyson’s tremulous breath to shake the walls.

  Her laughter sounded like frustrated sobs as she stuffed her switchblade back into her pocket.

  She reached over to the dismantled control panel, and released the Emergency Stop switch, and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

  That should buy me at least a minute.

  The doors opened on the fifth floor, and Alyson rushed out into the corridor, reaching a hand to her ear, as if she could mask her face to the security cameras. Her gesture was little more than theater. She could imagine the mechanical whirring of the little eyeball trying to keep a lock on her, to execute a biometric scan to match the specs she’d devised for Marina Dekare.

  A wooden door with a golden “STAIRS” sign was just ahead on her right. Alyson passed the door and continued down the corridor.

  She heard the door latch turn, and the creak of the door opening slow enough to breach the gap with the barrel of an assault rifle.

  Alyson darted down the hall, and stomped over the solid color blocks of carpet as she strode around the corner. She jumped through the door to the stairwell, the slam of her shoes on the steel platform echoing through the chamber

  Fear held her in place. The thunder of heavy footsteps flooded the column of steel and concrete from above and below. Alyson closed her eyes, and tried to count the steps within the cacophony. Two came from below, and they were closing in on her position. Hell carried another from the top floor.

  The door slid open behind Alyson.

  Alyson turned, gasping, as the tall armor vested cop pushed into the room, raising his machine gun. Alyson threw herself over the guard rail, and into the stairwell.

  She could hear him shouting into his radio as she fell. She reached for rails, catching the steel poles or the lips of the sides of stairs before slipping and descending further

  A pair of gloved hands caught her. She shrieked in brief surprise, and jerked her head to the right, seeing the cop that caught her. Another officer waited with a zip-tie restraint and a service revolver as he dragged her over the rail.

  She reached for the guard rails, pulling herself back towards the safety of free fall and the promise of quadriplegia. “I’m not…” she managed to say as the officer dragged her to the floor, and pushed her to her knees.

  “We’ve got her,” the one who caught her said. “We’re on the third floor, north-east stairwell.”

  “Good job Merrick. Deckard and Pierce will meet you at the bottom floor.”

  Merrick tugged her backpack away. Alyson struggled, rolling over on the stairs and sliding away, her knees slamming against the carpet-covered juts of metal. She scrambled down and away, trying to get to her feet. One hand searched her pockets for the switchblade as she rose. She thought she heard the zip-tie clatter on the carpet. She found the knife, and palmed it, sliding it up the sleeve of her jacket.

  “Piss off,” she muttered.

  The nervous blend of shock and adrenaline thrust her over the rail once again, plunging to the first floor. She’d seen enough people survive it in movies, and even in the streets. Criminals dodged cops when they jumped off of fire escapes. You just have to land with your knees bent, she thought.

  She crouched in midair, and waited. Seconds felt like minutes.

  Warm amber light broke into the pale flow of fluorescent lights, and the two backup cops rushed in, their weapons at the ready.

  Not again, she thought.

  They moved beneath her, primed to repeat their colleague’s feat.

  Alyson straightened her legs, and crashed into them, dragging them to the floor as she tumbled into the belly of the stairwell, not sure whether to thank God or curse him for allowing her to live.

  She released the knife from its hold in the hilt, and jammed it beneath her like a mountain climber seeking traction, and rose to her feet. She stomped the others knee in her effort to gain traction. She darted out the door while they writhed in confusion. Orders were shouted. She ignored them. Shrapnel sloshed in her backpack.

  Alyson passed through the empty first floor halls, and followed the guidance of illuminated red exit signs hanging at each junction.

  She turned a corner and faced a plain gray metal door, with a locking arm, marked with warnings in three languages.

  They’ve watched me the whole time. There’s no reason why they’d be pissed about the fire alarm.

  She threw her weight against the door, and triggered the digital banshee shriek.

  The smoky hands of nighttime took Alyson by the hands, and brought her into the arms of the city. She fled into the alleys and away. Sirens begged for her fear, and her presence.

  Martin and Rich watched the light sit on red. Martin counted time for twenty seconds; no change.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Martin groaned.

  “If I know Derrick, and I’m sure that I do, he has the area cordoned off for two blocks in every direction. They moved in silent, but they haven’t reported an arrest yet,” Rich replied, his mobile pressed to his ear.

  “That’s weird. I didn’t expect there would be any chase to it.”

  “Maybe they’re just taking their time, or the elevator is out,” Rich said. “I’m more willing to believe that quicker than that some mi
ddle-age businesswoman hauling ass out of a hotel, taking out a SWAT team on the way down.”

  “You’re giving our SWAT team a hell of a lot of credit,” Martin laughed.

  The light turned green, a car passed, yellow, and red again.

  “Shit,” Martin muttered.

  Rich dropped his mobile into the console between them, and reclined his seat. “Fuck it; just wake me up when you get there.”

  “I’m not keeping that promise. I’ll probably kick before you do.”

  “Fine, we’ll both die in traffic, like good and proper heroes.”

  Martin put the car in park, and turned the radio on. A Deep Purple track buzzed to life, riding F-sharp into Martin’s ears as he tapped the guitar riff on the steering wheel.

  “Guess I’d be wasting my breath asking you to turn that off?” Rich asked. He crossed his hands over his belly, and wove his fingers together.

  “You want me to turn it up?”

  “Off. Down. Something,” Rich said.

  “No,” Martin said.

  "Jesus, I’m going to die in this fucking car.”

  “Rich, could you bitch anymore? There are so very few pleasures in life, and I mean real pleasures, not the bullshit that goes into fucking for ten minutes, but real pleasures, and you’d spit in the face of the best of them.”

  “Music that was old as shit when I was a kid?”

  “Hey, if music was worth a damn now, I’d listen to it.”

  “For some reason, I don’t believe you,” Rich sighed.

  Martin hummed along.

  “No,” Rich said. “I’ll fire you if you sing.”

  “Worth it,” Martin chuckled. “I’ll even start the song over if you’d like. It’s a hell of tune.”

  “Martin…I have a gun.”

  “Okay,” Martin said, thumbing the volume knob.

  Rich’s mobile rang. He sat up, left his seat down, and answered. “What’s the word, Derrick?”

  Martin listened to the mumble on the other side, and tried to decipher the angry shouts.

  “So you let a middle-age woman out of your hands?” Rich asked. There was a pause. “Yeah, send me the footage.”

  Rich hung up. “Well, I’m asking for a raise.”

  “I guess we were right.”

  “Yeah, I was. The girl in the footage looks nothing like the picture we have on file. Derrick is sending me a copy of the surveillance system footage. And I’m sure you heard; she got out.”

  The mobile beeped. Rich typed on the screen, and opened a video file. A biometric readout accompanied the video, which tracked a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, running through a hotel corridor alone with a ratty yellow backpack hanging from her shoulders. Martin reached into the backseat, and retrieved the folder with Marina Dekare’s photo in it. “Pause that when you find a good angle on her face,” he asked.

  Rich tapped the screen, freezing a high angle image of the fleeing woman. Martin put the photograph next to the mobile. “Not even close,” Martin said. “Facial structure isn’t even close. Skin color isn’t the same. I doubt she’s even wearing contacts to match this woman’s eyes. What profile were these assholes reading from?”

  Rich pulled the mobile closer, and peered at the screen. “It’s the same one we’re supposed to have from her ID. I’ll send Derrick a message. I’m sure he’ll send it over.”

  “I’m taking us out of this traffic,” Martin muttered, turning right, and driving away from the Broadway Walk Hotel.

  “Get us back to the station,” Rich said. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to come up with anything tonight, and I need some sleep.”

  “Yeah, I’ll drop you off.”

  The mobile beeped. Rich opened the file. “Well, look at that. I think your friend at the airport had the right idea.”

  Martin pulled the car into a parking space.

  “I think that we should place this case in the care of the cyber-crimes division,” Rich said.

  Martin stared at the screen for a moment longer. “No,” he said. “Keep this under your hat for a little while, and let me see what I can figure out.”

  “Are you really going to arrest some stupid kid, and drag her in to talk to that Rojas fella from Four Nations?”

  “Maybe I just want to question her myself. I’ll even turn her over to cyber-crimes if you want.”

  Rich took the mobile from Martin and closed the file. He tapped on the screen, and deleted it. “How long do you want? I’m sure those bastards from Four Nations will be all over my ass.”

  “Thirty-six hours should do the trick.”

  Rich nodded. “You do your thing, but don’t call in any favors. I don’t want to see anything that will lead your investigation back to me.”

  “And what will you tell everyone at the office? Will I be unfit for duty for another two weeks?”

  “Strep, Detective; your service record is fine. It’s just a case of strep.”