Sam shook his head. “We’re not splitting up again. Are you kidding?”
The lobby seemed to have lost some of its former luster. It was still beautiful, but somehow darker, less impressive, and much less inviting. Sarah walked straight to the back office, where Sam had seen the mouse, and returned holding the revolver and a box of cartridges.
“Load it,” she ordered Al.
Al took the weapon from her and did as she was told. He placed a bullet in each chamber, six in all, and offered the loaded gun back to Sarah.
“Test it,” she commanded.
Al stiffened. “I don’t…”
“Fire the fucking thing.”
No one said a word. Al shot Sarah a puzzled, pleading expression, but it was returned with a cool stare. He felt the weight of the weapon in his hand, shifted his body from side to side, and resigned himself to the logic of her request. With care, Al raised and aimed the pistol at the ground a dozen feet in front of the group, took a deep breath, and fired.
In the silent space, the report was louder than anyone had anticipated. Al was so shocked he dropped the gun, which fell and clanged on the tile. Janet screamed. Even Sarah seemed jolted from her determined demeanor and clutched Sam’s right arm for support. It was several seconds before Al could steel his nerves enough to bend down and retrieve the gun, which now seemed heavier than moments earlier. He turned to Sarah and raised an eyebrow.
“Replace the empty shell,” she said, admitting a slight crack in her voice, unable to maintain the same degree of unquestioned authority she had held before. Still, Al did as he was told, surprised by the heat of the gun chamber this time, restoring the gun to its full complement of six rounds.
No one said anything for several seconds. The only sounds in the room were from Janet, who seemed to be trying to stifle a whimper.
“Okay,” said Al at last. “Now what?”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but realized Al had directed his question to Sarah, not to him. Despite the hotel being Sam’s, Sarah seemed to have taken charge, and all eyes were upon her.
Sam was reminded of their third date, when he had planned what he thought to be a fun evening of live music at a coffee shop followed by a bit of bar-hopping, ending up at a club where he could impress her by knowing the DJ, expecting Sarah to be dazzled by his preparation and connection to someone as cool as Vaughn. Truthfully, “planned” was a pretty strong word for his idea, but he felt he could pull off the cocky confidence necessary to make it seem like it took a degree of effort and coordination, something he presumed most men to lack. Besides, he reasoned, it was the mythical “third date,” where the chance of a first-time sexual encounter was heightened. But when he had picked Sarah up from her apartment and explained his plan, she had dismissed the whole thing as something they could do anytime, and instead suggested (or, rather, informed him of) the different direction the evening would take. At first, Sam had been a bit taken aback at what he perceived as rudeness, and told her so, albeit in a way that hinted he was kidding should she have taken offense. But Sarah argued, quite effectively he had to admit, that the rudeness was with Sam for assuming that he would always get to decide what they did on any particular evening, considering he had controlled the first two dates. Sam relented, offered a mea culpa for his caveman ways, and admitted he was intrigued by the idea of not being in charge for a change. She flashed him a triumphant smile that was just about the sexiest thing Sam had ever seen, grabbed his hand, and said “let’s go.”
He began to regret his decision to let her run things when she informed him of two other guys they were picking up. Sensing his annoyance, Sarah assured him that it was still a date, and they were only giving them a ride there, not back. Sam still hadn’t been told where “there” was, but he agreed, and followed Sarah’s directions to a duplex on the other side of town. The two guys hopped in the back, and barely introduced themselves before breaking out a small sheet of what Sam thought were stickers. Before Sam could comment, they each placed a small strip of paper in their mouths, leading Sam to belatedly realize that it must have been LSD. Sam had never seen acid in person and had no experience with it at all, and was somewhat relieved when Sarah declined to partake. He wondered at the time if she had sensed his uneasiness and was staying clean for his sake, but later discovered that she, like him, had no interest in it. As they drove on, seemingly to the middle of nowhere, following Sarah’s directions from a handwritten sheet of paper, Sam decided it was okay to lose control a bit. If Sarah wanted to run this night, he’d just have to sit back and let her. After all, he didn’t think he was being used, or taken advantage of, or lied to. Rather, he just felt led.
Sarah directed him off the main roads, through small side streets, and onto a dirt road Sam wasn’t sure was a road at all. The night had smothered the last of the ambient blue, and they seemed to be driving deeper and deeper into a forest. Sam’s mind began to offer protest. Where were they headed? A cabin? A tent? A place of demonic sacrifice? But he tried to play it cool, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a third date to involve acid-tripping strangers and a car trip to nowhere. He didn’t believe Sarah was setting him up. He just couldn’t wrap his head around how different the night was progressing from his original plan. And if there was a bit of fear and anxiety mixed in with his curiosity, it only made the night feel more exhilarating. He loved not knowing what was going to happen next.
They arrived at a clearing, where more than a dozen other vehicles, all unoccupied, were parked. Sarah reached over to squeeze Sam’s right thigh, assuring him “you are going to love this.” They exited the vehicle and Sarah pointed to a barely visible walking trail entering another section of woods. Prepared for the darkness, Sarah retrieved a small flashlight from her purse and led the way. The four walked together through the dark trail for what seemed like ten minutes before Sam heard the faint sound of distant drums. Holy shit, he thought. It is a demonic sacrifice! But Sarah grabbed his hand, reassuring but playful, and increased their pace. A minute later, Sam could smell smoke, and the drums got louder, and it at last dawned on Sam what Sarah had gotten them into.
“A drum circle?” Sam asked, incredulous.
Sarah beamed. “I told you you would love it.”
Sam was transported back to their very first conversation, at the party where they had met. He had been trying to impress her by name-dropping the neo-paganist quasi-religion of Wicca as they talked, even though he knew nothing about Wiccans and was gambling that this darkly hot girl, with her goth hair and body piercings, would at least feel that Sam must not be as square as he looked. When she had asked if he was a Wiccan himself, Sam laughed and replied “no, I couldn’t be satisfied with a life of playing bongos around a bonfire all night—I want to make something of myself!” When she had dryly responded by detailing her Master’s studies, and describing a more impressive future life plan than Sam had ever considered for himself, he was sure he had blown it. But they continued to talk all night, found they had quite a bit in common after all, and he had gotten her number. And now, Sarah was getting her revenge, commandeering their third date to play bongos and sit around a bonfire.
The crowd was about forty in all, ranging from pentagram-wearing pagan girls celebrating something called the “Sabbat” to grey-haired hippies with their own didgeridoos. A few, like the guys Sam and Sarah had picked up, seemed only interested in getting high and watching the fire, while others took the opportunity to dance for hours without a break. It was not, to say the least, Sam’s “scene,” but it wasn’t Sarah’s, either. She was able to introduce him to a few friends, and they even took a turn at some primitive instruments together, but as relative outsiders, they shared a winking bond. They sat by the fire, leaning into one another, Sam’s arm around her, both feeling profoundly comfortable and at home.
At around four in the morning, as the fire had gone down and some in the crowd had begun to pack up their things, Sarah had kissed Sam’s n
eck and asked him to take her home. They had gone back to her place, where they had helped each other undress, and taken a shower together to wash away the smells of sweat and smoke. It was the first time they had seen each other naked, and the fact that it wasn’t in an act of sex, but of cleanliness, made it all the more intimate. With the tenderness of long-time lovers, they touched each other under the water, washed each other, and dried each other, before heading naked, holding hands all the way, to Sarah’s bed. They curled into each other, kissed twice, and closed their eyes, and as the sun began to rise, both drifted off together in the blissful weight of extreme exhaustion. And only the following afternoon when they awoke, entangled in each other’s bodies, did they have sex for the first time, followed by the second, and third, and fourth times, never leaving each other for a moment for the entire weekend, dressing only for the pizza delivery man.
Sam nodded at Sarah across the lobby of The Eaton. If she was willing to lead, he would follow.
Al was still waiting. Sarah winced in pain, her breast throbbing, then smiled grimly.
“Now,” she answered, “we get the hell out of here.”
fifteen
There was momentary disagreement as to the exit strategy. Sam preferred checking floor by floor to see where the elevator had gotten stuck, since he believed the stairs could only take them so far. Sarah reasoned that they should take the stairs as far as possible, reasoning that they must exit somewhere, and she no longer trusted the power to remain reliable. When Sam reminded Sarah that such a strategy meant having to encounter Kedzie again, Sarah responded that she had no intention of leaving her body in here a moment longer than necessary, and they would have to carry her out. This made Janet anxious, and she tried to argue that they shouldn't touch the body until the police arrive, but Sarah was adamant. “But, you're not touching her,” she snapped at Vaughn. “Just in case.”
As they approached the stairwell, Sam caught Al sneaking a shot from his flask. Based on the angle of the swallow, Sam guessed it was the last sip. It made him nervous that the one responsible for the gun had not chosen to stay sober, but decided not to bring it up. After all, Al was the only one among them with any experience handling a weapon, and a buzzed shot from an expert beat a sober shot from a scared amateur. But Al was acting a bit funny as well. He said nothing as they trudged up each set of stairs, and seemed almost as uneasy as Janet, who was now consistently trembling, expecting evil around every corner.
They were almost to the turn that would reveal Kedzie's body, and Sam squeezed Sarah's hand, helping to brace them both for the impact. But when the corner came, the shock of the empty stairs trumped any horror they had expected.
“What the hell?” Sarah stepped back, checked the floor number on the wall, then sprinted up several stairs to turn another corner, again seeing nothing.
“She was right here!” insisted Sam, to no one in particular. They all knew her body had been there, and now it was gone.
“Maybe she wasn't dead,” offered a hopeful Al.
“There's no way that's true,” said Sam, shaking his head. “She was dead. We all saw that. Someone moved her.”
“Who the hell could have moved her?” demanded Janet, who was getting close to unhinged. “There's no one fucking here.”
“Logic would argue otherwise,” Al deadpanned.
Sarah was still standing a few stairs above the rest of the group. “Come on,” she urged. “We have to get out.”
There was no argument. The group sped up the stairs, only to confirm Sam's theory that the stairs did not go all the way to the surface. They stopped at 11.
“The Mastersuite,” Al remembered.
Sam tried the door, which was of a higher quality wood than the doors to previous hallways, but it wouldn’t open. “It’s locked from the inside,” he explained, motioning to Janet. She understood and fumbled through her purse to retrieve the key ring. Sam took it from her and found the proper key, which turned freely in the lock mechanism, but the door could not be budged.
“Is it stuck?” asked Sarah. Sam shook his head. The door wasn’t stuck, for it seemed to give a fraction of an inch or so as he pushed his body against the wood. It seemed instead as if the door was blocked by something on the other side, perhaps a large piece of furniture.
“I think,” Al opined, “that this door doesn’t open into a hallway like the others, but directly into the Mastersuite itself. Like a top floor penthouse, the entire level might be one beautiful rentable space, no hallway required.”
“So what,” remarked Sarah. “We should still be able to get into the back door.”
“Not if some idiot decorator put a 400 lb. armoire in front of it,” scoffed Al.
“Well we have to try,” Sam argued, and there were nods of approval as he used all his weight against the stubborn door. Still nothing. Vaughn and Al then tried together, but even the two of them ramming their bodies against the wood only moved the door an imperceptible distance.
The aggressive physicality of the act did succeed in jarring Al into feeling some effects of the recent alcohol. A seasoned drinker, the amount in the now-empty flask hadn’t been enough to cause any real impairment, but his vision had been affected, for when he had been inches away from Vaughn as they rammed the door together, Vaughn’s skin had appeared to flutter and grow darker, almost rippling like a puddle of ink in front of his face. Al had stepped back from Vaughn and blinked a few times to reset his eyes, and saw nothing unusual, except a tall black man shooting him a quizzical expression.
“Y’alright there?” Vaughn asked.
“Yeah, sorry,” Al stammered, shaking his head. “Just got a little spacey there for a second.”
“Scared to be that close to a black guy, eh?” Vaughn laughed and patted Al’s shoulder. “Come on, man. This is Eaton Rapids, not Detroit.”
Al laughed awkwardly, as did Sam, who remembered Vaughn using that exact same line once before at a Fourth of July event at Island Park.
“We need to try the floor below,” said Sarah.
Janet stiffened at this. “We need to go up. We need to get out.”
Sarah threw up her hands, then wished she hadn’t, for it stretched the bloody skin on her breast and sent a searing pain through the left half of her body. “What do you want us to do, Janet? We’re as high as the stairs go, and this door’s blocked. I say we try the next door that might actually lead somewhere, if that’s okay with you.”
Janet let out a choked sob, then turned toward a corner and said nothing.
“There has to be a way to the surface,” Sam assured her. “Either we find the elevator and take it up, or we find some other stairs. There have to be stairs leading out of this place, not only for if there was a power or safety issue, but because the elevator itself had to be built by someone, right? How would the builders have gotten up and down without stairs? They’re here and we’ll find them. Or the elevator. Either way, we’re getting out and we’re getting help. I promise.”
Janet shut her eyes tight for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.”
“The next floor down,” observed Al, “is Transit. Seems as good a place as any for an exit.” He did not remind her that the lobby sign had said Transit was “coming soon.”
Janet nodded again, and the group walked down a level, grateful for gravity’s aid in their descent, after a rough eleven flights up.
Sarah arrived at the door first, opened it without hesitation, and walked onto what must have been an ancient subway platform.
“Holy crap,” she said.
Like the first floor lobby and the fifth floor baths, the tenth floor transit level had higher ceilings and boasted a more ornate design aesthetic, with richer woods, tiles, and extra touches throughout. Arched brickwork over the doorways conveyed the grandeur of a big city train depot. Easy chairs and Victorian benches lined a cobblestone strip which resembled an old European city street. The electric lamps were encased in glorious iron chandel
iers, hung high against a dark blue ceiling which suggested a night sky, masking any immediate confirmation of being underground. It was like stepping back in time, but to a time that only existed in the fantasies of steampunk graphic novelists and fanciful film directors.
For all its majesty, however, it was unfinished. Large portions of the back wall were incomplete, with piles of bricks and bags of concrete waiting in a corner. There was a steel train car, with small, narrow windows, but no markings. Before it lay a tunnel, which seemed to penetrate further horizontally than any floor they had seen so far, filled with scaffolding, tarps, and even a few abandoned workmen helmets. A booth labeled “Tickets” was completely empty, lacking even a single chair, counter, or cabinet.
Beside the unfinished subway tunnel, in its expected position, was the elevator shaft, though a quick look through the cage showed no elevator car. Sam tried the call button just in case, but nothing stirred. He turned his attention to the tunnel instead, hopping down to the track to inspect the tight space, then looked back to Al. “Could this train even fit through that tunnel?”
“It had to be tight,” answered Al. “I think it’s pneumatic.”
“Like the bank teller tubes we saw down in Maintenance?”
“Yeah, I think so. Look at the train car. There’s no engine. It’s passive. It would need to be sucked through the tunnel or pushed out.”
Sam peered into the tunnel. It went at least another fifty feet, but got darker as the lighting receded, which made an accurate estimate impossible.
“Hey Vaughn,” he called back from the entrance of the tunnel. “You still have the DJ lights?”
Vaughn gave Sam a look that said do you see them in my hands? Sam did not. He realized they must be several floors below.
“They had to have some work lights,” called Al, helpfully.
Sam looked around, and spotted two trapezoidal contraptions plugged into long cords traveling many yards behind him. He found the on switches, and soon the tunnel was flooded with light. It went on for the length of a football field, much farther than the footprint of the train station or its parking lot, but did seem to stop at some point, although it was hard to see clearly from this distance. Sam began to walk further into the tunnel, but heard protests from Sarah back on the platform.
The Eaton Page 13