by Orton, D. L.
At the sound of my voice, the rubble shifts, and I realize that someone is lying next to the piano. “Isabel? Is that you?” I grab my phone and search more carefully, looking for signs of life. “Can you hear me?”
The long, delicate fingers of a disembodied hand give a feeble wave, and my heart rate surges.
“I can see you, hun!” The sudden intake of breath causes me to start coughing. “Hang on, Iz. I’ll get you out.” I choke back tears. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
God, I hope I’m right.
I look back over my shoulder and pull the cloth away from my mouth. “Help! We need a paramedic in here!” I give the string a couple of hard yanks and then turn back to Isabel.
Just in the few minutes I’ve been in here, it’s gotten hotter, and the smoke is worse. Sweat, or maybe blood, is running into my eyes, so I wipe my forehead with the damp cloth and then tie it back over my nose and mouth. I start shifting debris away from her, moving as quickly as I can to clear her face.
A minute later, I can see that she’s curled up in a fetal position next to the piano keys, her arm protecting her head. She came within millimeters of being crushed by the staircase, saved only by the indestructible craftsmanship of the piano case—and her nearness to it.
There’s not much room to work in, but I manage to push a heavy chunk of masonry off so I can free her head and shoulders. She blinks up at my light, her silk scarf wrapped snugly around her nose and mouth.
Those gorgeous green eyes are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
She tries to speak, but starts coughing.
I sweep the hair out of her face. “Shh. Don’t try to talk. Are you seriously hurt?”
She shakes her head no.
“Good. I’m going to pull you free.”
She nods.
I clear debris until I have room to drag her out, and then I sit down, take hold of her shoulders, and pull hard, pushing with my legs. The exertion makes me cough, but she only moves an inch or two. Something is caught or jammed.
I let go and move over her again. “Can you tell what’s stuck? Is it your clothes?” Her eyelids flutter shut, and my heart jumps into my throat. “Isabel! Don’t leave me. Please.”
A light flashes across us, and three firefighters in hardhats and gas masks come up behind me. The first one hands me a mask and then steps around me and fits one over Isabel’s face.
“Using the string was an excellent idea, sir. We followed it right to you.” The voice is muffled, but understandable.
Those kids saved Isabel’s life—and probably mine too.
I pull down the makeshift bandanna, tighten the mask over my head, and breathe in, feeling the cool rush of oxygen into my lungs. The firefighter taps my shoulder. “Is there anyone else in here?”
I glance at the foot sticking out from under the piano and then shake my head no.
“Okay. We need to get both of you out fast. Can you walk?”
I nod
“Good. Go with Ripley.” Another firefighter takes my arm.
I shake my head and then start to take the mask off so I can talk.
“Leave the oxygen on, sir.” The voice is female. “We’ll get your wife out.”
“I tried to pull her free,” I say, “but her clothes are caught on something.” My words come out as a muddle, but she gets the idea. “I’m not leaving without her.”
Ripley speaks into her headset and then pulls on my arm again. “You can stay. But step back so I can get through.”
I follow orders and watch the firefighters clear more debris. One of them squeezes in next to Isabel, reaches behind her, and uses a knife to free her. A moment later, they pull her out.
Her whole left side is soaked with blood!
Please let it not be hers.
Ripley leans over Isabel and flashes a light in her eyes. “Can you wiggle your fingers and toes?
I shift around so I can see Isabel’s response and then let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Let’s go!” Ripley takes my arm as the other two lift up Isabel, one carrying her crossed legs over his shoulder and the other with his arms around her torso. I grab onto the kite string with my bleeding hands, and using the firefighter’s powerful light, we exit the smoky building in less than a minute.
Outside, the scene on the street is chaotic, but the gawking crowds are gone.
Isabel is placed on a gurney and lifted into an ambulance, but I refuse the bed offered. “I’ll be okay, the cuts are all superficial—but I want to go with her.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but unless you need immediate medical attention, there’s no room in the ambulances. We’re still transporting victims with multiple lacerations and severe blood loss.”
“Sure. No worries. Which hospital?”
“UC Med.” The paramedic takes my arm and leads me over to the fire truck. “Sit here and keep using the oxygen, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you.”
I sit down, feeling exhausted. “Do you know what happened to the guys who brought the pets out?”
“Didn’t see them,” the paramedic says, “but we can check with the Battalion Fire Chief when I get back.” He disappears into the crowd of emergency responders.
I breathe in the cold, dry oxygen and look around. The fire has spread to other buildings—lots of other buildings. I watch Isabel’s ambulance leave and another take its place. Five or six people are loaded in, and it disappears too.
Across the street, I see the animal cages. People are moving around them, but the groups of kids who saved our lives are nowhere to be seen. I peer down the street, looking for the jewelry shop, but the whole block has gone up in flames.
There’s a loud screech of bending metal from behind me, and I turn just as the ceiling of the atrium collapses, sending a huge cloud of smoke and debris out the broken window I just exited. Flames erupt from the newly formed gap in the sky.
“Damn, that was close.”
I stand up, set my mask down on the fire truck, and make my way toward the cages stacked on the grass.
Most of the pets seem to be okay. I switch on my phone light and scan the cages until I find the black kitten. She squeaks when she sees me, her eyes glowing in the dark.
“Hey, kitty girl, you want to come home with me?”
My heart falls when I notice that the cage below hers is empty. Tolstoy’s torn newspaper is still in there, but the puppy is gone. I scan the grassy area, but don’t see him anywhere.
“What happened to your friend?”
The kitten wrestles with the towel in her cage, and I notice there’s an envelope lodged underneath it. I pull it out and read the name scrawled on the outside:
Sherlock
I laugh out loud.
Inside there’s a note on jewelry shop stationery:
We took Tolstoy home with us, and Lucky seems to be fine.
Take care of the missus,
—The Hole-in-the-Wall Gang
I tip the envelope up and two gold wedding bands fall out in my hand. I smile so big it makes my lips crack.
Propose by text message and present her with a stolen ring. Classy, Nadales, classy.
I stick everything in my pocket, scoop the kitten out of the cage, and start jogging toward the hospital.
Chapter 4
Matt: People Will Die
I shiver and pull the jumper tighter around my neck, trying to ignore the fact that tons of dirt and rock are hanging above my head. I don’t like enclosed spaces, and this hollowed-out mountain is about as bad as it gets.
For the tenth time, I pick up my empty coffee mug and attempt to coax out one last drop. Sixty seconds tick by. I glance at the locked door.
What the hell is going on?
The fan at the back of the room kicks on, and cold ai
r blasts against the back of my neck. My phone says it’s not yet five a.m., but I’m done waiting.
I push my chair back just as the conference room door flies open. A man who earlier claimed to be Mr. Johnson scowls at my “Make Cupcakes Not War” jumper. Mr. Undoubtedly-Not-Johnson is wearing a nondescript black suit, white shirt, thin gray tie, and get this: mirrored sunglasses.
Nitwit.
He might as well be wearing an “I Killed ET” button.
He takes off his sunglasses. “Having a little nap, are we, doctor?”
That’s it. I slam my hands down on the fake wood table. “What the hell is going on? I’ve been pried out of my bed in the middle of the night, stuffed blindfolded into the back of a hulking SUV, frog-marched into the bowels of a man-made cave, and bullied into waiting in a locked closet with nothing but a bloody awful cup of coffee.” I bump the mug and it scoots across the table. “And if that wasn’t enough, I’ve been told absolutely nothing, except that if I don’t cooperate, people will die.”
I place my elbows on the table and let my head fall into my hands. “Merlin’s pants! Who the hell would have died if you let me sleep for a couple more hours?”
“Are you done now, doctor?”
“I’m not a doctor.” I look up. “I’m a physics professor, and I’ve had just about enough of this cloak and dagger shite.”
The alleged Mr. Johnson raises his eyebrows and then dims the lights—as if I had just mentioned that the juice and biscuits were running low. “What you’re about to see was recorded by a security camera six hours ago, doctor.”
“Please stop calling me that! For chrissake, I can’t even put a sodding plaster on without written directions.”
The government agent leans against the wall and crosses his arms, his eyes on a flat-panel display.
Up on the screen, the cone of a street lamp slices through the gray and black murk. Lurking behind it, bombed-out buildings poke up into the night sky, broken walls standing at odd angles and smoke billowing up into the darkness. The stark infrared image gives the scene a sinister feel of things turned inside out.
Bloody hell.
I study the security camera recording. The distant skyline seems familiar, but I can’t place it. At the bottom of the screen, a Warning! No Trespassing! sign hangs askew on a sagging chain-link fence. I tip my head sideways in a useless attempt to straighten it.
This is absurd.
And then I recognize the mailbox-shaped skyscraper in the background. “Denver. And that’s the famous hotel that burned to the ground a couple of weeks ago, right?”
Mister ET-killer glances at me, his lips tight, but doesn’t answer.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
From the left of the screen, three teenagers bob into view, skulking around past curfew. They swagger down the sidewalk, followed by a black and white puppy, and then stop and look around, unaware that anyone is watching. The tall, skinny kid gives an unconscious tug on his sagging pants, an act as contagious as a yawn, and the other two follow suit. A moment later, two more hooded figures join them, and all five scramble up the chain link fence, the chubby one knocking the crooked warning with his foot. The sign clatters silently to the ground, and the puppy jumps back. The boys leap down on the other side, one of them landing with his pants around his thighs.
I always wondered about that.
The trespasser hikes up his jeans, bends up the bottom of the fence to let the puppy through, and they all slink off into the smoking ruins.
The timestamp in the corner of the video freezes, and then the screen goes black.
I yawn and rub my eyes. “You broke down my door in the middle of the night for that? Or did I miss a secret message encoded on the guy’s boxer shorts?”
He ignores me. “This next clip was recorded by one of the suspects. It was recovered from his portable cellular device less than two hours ago.”
Portable cellular device, my arse.
But before I have a chance to respond, an amateur-looking video appears on the screen.
Two guys are looking at something in the burned ruins of the hotel. They lean over and accidentally bump their heads, and the camera guy chuckles. The picture bounces as he moves closer, and a shiny object the size of a basketball comes into view.
“What the hell is that?” The voice behind the camera is a whisper.
The taller guy reaches out, but the other one slaps his hand away. “Don’t be a dumbass. It could be dangerous.” He looks off camera. “Hey, Lani, we found something!”
The kids gather around the metal ball, and the camera zooms in. The object is glowing like a full moon, eerie and ominous.
The leader of the group, a slight Asian kid, touches the sphere and then jerks his hand away. “Shit! It’s still hot! It must be solid metal and worth a fortune. Let’s see if we can pry it out.”
The voice sounds odd—and then I realize that the kid is actually a girl—and she is obviously used to calling the shots because the other guys get right on it.
Three of them bring back a long piece of steel pipe and wedge it under the sphere, resting the middle on a huge chunk of broken concrete. Then the four of them attempt to pry the object out while the voice behind the camera calls out encouragement. I can see the pipe bend with the applied force, but the sphere doesn’t budge.
They rest for a moment, and the chubby guy hikes-up his pants, looking impressed. “That sucker’s heavier than a dead preacher. What do you think it is?”
The camera operator coughs. “A bomb.”
The tall kid starts backing away, his hands covering his crotch, but trips and falls on his bum.
“You halfwit mooker.” The skinny girl wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “If it was a bomb, it would have exploded by now. This whole place was a furnace a week ago, wasn’t it Tolstoy?” She kicks the metal ball with her boot to demonstrate her point, and a dog barks.
“Yeah, sure.” The guy scrambles back to his feet. “I knew it wasn’t a bomb.”
The girl looks over at the camera. “Put that thing away, Spielberg, and come help us.”
A moment later, the screen goes blank.
Mr. Johnson—who I have decided to call “Agent Dick” in honor of his congenial personality, flamboyant wardrobe, and tasteful pseudonym—flips on all the lights. I sit for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust, and attempt to suppress the headache forming in the back of my exhausted brain. Then I open my lab book to a blank page, smooth the paper, and write the date at the top.
Agent Dick peers over my shoulder. “I have orders to get through this as quickly as possible, doctor.”
I ignore him and start writing:
Spherical, dense, metallic, reflective, still hot after more than a week.
I underline hot twice. I consider some common alloys, trying to decide which one fits the description.
Steel? Titanium? Possibly a gallium alloy?
He taps his foot and then clears his throat. “Powerful people are waiting to make critical decisions based on your analysis, Dr. Hudson.”
Does this guy go home at night and practice being an arse?
“Well then bugger ‘em. If you expect me to figure out what the bloody hell that is, then belt up and let me do my job.” In the notebook, I draw a circle and inscribe a hand so I get the relative size correct. I pencil in the steel pipe the kids used as a lever and the concrete fulcrum, using them to estimate the force applied by four teenagers. I write:
Diameter = 24 cm?
Mass > 440 kg?
“How much is that?” Dick asks.
I snap the notebook shut, yawn, and stretch my arms. “I’m guessing that metal sphere weighs five times as much as you.”
He looks suitably impressed.
As I’m wondering what those kids found in the smoking ruins, the door behind Agent Dick opens
and a younger guy steps in. “It’s here, sir. They’re waiting for us to bring it in.”
He’s wearing exactly the same outfit as Johnson.
Maybe they got the glasses on a Blue Light Special.
Agent Dick turns to me. “Let’s go, doc. You’re not going to believe what those delinquents found.”
That’s the first thing he’s said all night that rings true.
Chapter 5
Diego: Handle My Weapon
The moment I hear the shower start, I pull the shell and note out of my pocket. The traffic was bad today, but that’s not what made me late to Isabel’s place. I had an errand to run, and when I put my new purchase in the glove box for safe keeping, a note and a seashell fell out.
God only knows how they got in there.
I turn the shell over in my hands. Striking bands of orange radiate out from a dense, milky-white interior and burst into sharp spines. I found the shell at the beach on La Isla when I was nineteen, and it’s been sitting on my desk at work for years.
Why would someone put it in my glove box and include an ominous note?
Lucky jumps up on the couch to investigate, and I pet her soft fur. She’s been living with me for the three weeks since the fire, but I know she’d rather be living with Iz. Both of us would.
“It’s just too weird.”
She lets out a squeaky meow and flops down in my lap. I set the shell down and unfold the note, still spooked that it’s in my handwriting.
Prepare for the worst! When things are darkest, give Isabel the shell and let her go. With Einstein’s help, you will meet again. Tell no one or risk losing everything!
I consider showing it to Isabel, but something about the warning stops me—that and the fact that I’ve already started preparing for the worst, and I don’t want to worry her.
In the three weeks since the fire, Isabel and I have spent every free moment together, and I still can’t get enough of her. I slept in a hospital chair the night of the fire, and in the morning, she suggested that we move in together. I have been working to make that happen ever since.
Although we had originally planned to buy something in town, with the way things are going, I asked the agent to find isolated properties up in the foothills, and this afternoon I’m taking Isabel to see one.