by Hunt, Angela
She saw her mother’s legs scissoring through the grass, accompanied by four brown-and-white paws, a small head, a snarling muzzle and two rows of jagged teeth.
“I’ve got Harley,” her mother called, a victorious edge to her voice. “And I’m gonna let him go if you don’t come out this instant. What’s it gonna be, Michelle Louise? Shall I send Harley in after you?”
For an instant the girl couldn’t speak. The neighbor’s pit bull haunted her nightmares and often drove her from peaceful sleep into her father’s arms. Harley had never actually threatened her, but he bore an unfortunate resemblance to a dog that had attacked her once, pinning her to the ground while it ripped at her upper lip.
A thin scar still marked the spot.
“No, Momma.” Torn between her desire to surrender and her fear of the waiting beast, Shelly rose as high as she could. “I’ll come, Momma, but get rid of the dog.”
“He’s stayin’ right by my side until you walk yourself through that front door.”
“Momma, I’ll come, but I don’t like that dog.”
“I’m not gonna argue with you, Shelly. Get your fanny out from under there and get in the house.”
Shelly gulped down a sob and crawled forward, then froze when the dog lifted his head, ears pricked to attention. When he growled deep in his throat, she knew he could see her…or he smelled her fear.
Dogs know, the Smith boys had told her. Dogs know when you’re scared of ’em. When they smell your fear, they’ll attack ’cause they know they can take you down.
“Momma?” She bit the inside of her lip and looked toward the pale legs. She could see the edge of the housecoat, a blue fabric scattered with white daisies. “Momma, take Harley away and I’ll come out.”
A fly, drawn by her sweat, hit her face and bounced away, then circled and landed on her cheek.
“Momma?”
“I’m still here.” Her mother’s voice had gone flat, almost pleasant. Anyone passing by might have thought she was waiting to give her daughter a welcome-home hug.
Harley growled and pulled at the leash. Shelly rocked back on her haunches, one hand pressed to her mouth as a cry bubbled up from someplace in her chest. She tried to choke off the sound, but she failed and began to sob in a high, pitiful, coughing hack. “Ma-ma! I—can’t—come—with—”
“Stop your cryin’, Shel, I didn’t raise no coward. I’ll hold the dumb dog—you get yourself out here right now.”
“But—I—can’t—”
“If you don’t, I’m letting Harley go. Wonder how long it’ll take him to wiggle under there and tear you up? I saw him get a possum the other day. Even though the critter played dead, he tore that thing to pieces. Not a pretty sight, not a’tall.”
Shelly fell forward and began to creep toward the lattice on shaking limbs. No sense in talking now; her mother had won…again.
She crawled over the dirt, every atom of her being cringing in revulsion, and trembled as she approached the gap in the lattice. Her mother stood ten feet away, one hand on her hip, one arm extended as Harley strained at the leash.
Squatting in the opening, Shelly swiped at her wet cheeks with grimy hands, then launched herself upward and ran for the front porch as if her feet were afire. When she reached the bottom step she heard the thrum of the pit bull’s pounding paws; by the time she passed the threshold the dog was on the porch and snapping at the screen door while her mother watched from the grass and…laughed.
Shelly ran into the bathroom, hiccupping as she washed her hands. She tried her best to clean up, but she couldn’t get the muddy streaks off the counter or the towels.
Maybe it was the mud that did it, or maybe Momma was past caring about anything but being mad. Without a word, she grabbed Shelly by the arm, pulled her through the living room and thrust her into the linen closet. At the bottom, beneath the shelf where they kept the good sheets, was a space just big enough for Shelly to sit with her knees bent up and her head bent low.
That space—and its darkness—were as terrifying as the dog. “Momma—”
“Hush, Shelly. Get in there.”
“Momma, no.” She knew she shouldn’t touch Momma with damp hands, muddy arms and dirty clothes, but in a desperate plea for mercy she threw herself onto her mother’s frame, shaping herself to the woman’s body, clinging like a shadow. “Momma, Momma, I don’t like the dark—”
“Don’t be a baby.” Her mother’s iron fingers pulled and pried while her feet pushed Shelly into the closet.
“Momma, no!”
“And stop that screamin’. The more you scream, the longer I’m leavin’ you in here.”
Because Momma did not issue idle threats, Shelly clamped her trembling lips, imprisoning the cries that scratched at her throat. She thrust out her hands in silent entreaty, but Momma pushed her firmly into a sitting position and closed the door.
“Momma,” Shelly whispered into her hands, “please don’t.”
She uttered the words without meaning to; long ago she’d learned that protests made no difference. Momma liked having her child put away before she started serious drinking; she liked knowing the shades were drawn, the oven was turned off, everything was in its proper place.
Good women made an effort to keep up appearances. They didn’t let outsiders see things that might get a little messy.
Shelly lowered her head onto her bent knees when she heard the thunk of the padlock against the hasp. She’d stay in the closet, silent and folded up, until Daddy got home…if he came home. All she had to do was keep quiet and try to think of happy things when her muscles began to complain.
She opened her eyes, but creatures swirled and danced in the darkness, slinking gray shapes that squeezed beneath the thin crack at the bottom of the door and buzzed in circles, darting around her arms and bouncing off her face until icy fear twisted around her heart and her breath came in short gasps.
Shelly Tills closed her eyes as tightly as she could and begged God to send her daddy home.
Gina stares across the gloomy car and struggles to retain her composure. One of her professors used to quote Christopher Smart in frustrating situations—what was he always saying?
The words ruffle through her mind like wind on water: determination is the key to success in any venture.
If she is going to succeed in this venture, she can’t falter or risk reacting to this mechanical malfunction. In a moment the power will come back on and they will continue moving upward as if nothing had happened—
Unless this is more than a temporary blackout. What if they are stuck in this car for hours?
At the sound of sniffling she glances to her right, where the maid is cowering against the back wall. What is wrong with that one? The cleaning woman is a Nervous Nelly, but the brunette seems to have at least a measure of self-control.
Gina lowers her gaze and counts to ten, trying to maintain her focus while a hundred worries needle her nerves. Why doesn’t Ms. Tilson use the emergency phone? Gina would press the button herself, but then she’d have to interact with these women, maybe even take charge. An anonymous woman would stare at the wall, remain silent, maybe clench her hands in her pockets—
All the things she’s already doing. She exhales in a rush and turns her head to stare at the circular speaker beneath the emergency light. Look at the panel, Ms. Corporate Careers. See the light? Right beneath it, did you notice the speaker and the button labeled Phone? Push it. Push the button and speak into the little microphone. Come on, look up, look at the stupid panel!
Michelle brings the edge of her thumbnail to her front teeth and bites down. How did she manage to get trapped in an elevator with pod people? She glances at the redhead, who still won’t meet her gaze. The cleaning woman has crossed one arm in a nonchalant pose, but her shoulders are visibly trembling.
Hoping that the housekeeper has inside information about building maintenance, she gives the woman a smile. “Do you know if anyone has been working on this elevator?”<
br />
The woman cringes under Michelle’s gaze. “No, no se. I don’t know.”
Michelle averts her eyes. “I knew they’d been having problems with the lower elevators, but the express cars have always been reliable.”
She moves toward the panel and presses the Door Open button again. Nothing happens.
Vaguely aware that she is trespassing on the redhead’s personal space, Michelle steps to the center of the car and presses her palms against the cool surface of the bronze doors. With an effort, she wedges her fingers between the rubber bumpers, then gasps when the doors move.
“I think I’ve got it!”
The doors slide apart, but move no more than a few inches when they stop, revealing a solid expanse of concrete wall. Though Michelle strains and tugs, the doors refuse to open farther.
When she releases the doors, the bronze panels slowly slide back to their closed position. Michelle straightens and rakes her hand through her hair. “I don’t get it. It’s almost as if there’s something blocking—”
She groans as a memory surfaces: last year, a memo from the building manager mentioned a new device for the elevators, a gadget that would prevent a passenger from opening an elevator door and falling down the shaft.
“The Hatch Latch,” she says, looking at the housekeeper. “I remember the name because it rhymes. The doors can only be opened from the roof of the car.”
The cleaning woman shakes her head. “It does not matter. Is nothing to see out there.”
“I know, but if we could open the doors, we might at least be able to get some fresh air into this place—”
The redhead finally meets Michelle’s gaze head-on: “Would you please press the button for the blasted phone?”
CHAPTER 8
Gina looks away and grimaces. She shouldn’t have blurted out a command like that, but she simply could not endure one more minute of useless talk.
“Getting upset is not going to help anything,” the brunette says, a truculent note in her voice. “I’m sure Gus knows we’re trapped. There’s a panel on the security desk that’s supposed to alert him to problems with the elevators.”
Gina ignores the woman and flexes her fingers within her pockets. Her nerves are strung as tight as a violin string; no wonder she snapped. But all is not lost. Ms. Tilson may finally do something useful.
She flinches when a hand falls upon her arm. The younger woman has moved to her side; her long fingers now rest on Gina’s sleeve.
“It’s okay,” the brunette says, her eyes soft with understanding. “I used to suffer from claustrophobia myself. You should take deep breaths and try to think of a happy place.”
Gina blinks, unable to believe what she’s hearing.
“While you calm down—” the brunette releases Gina’s arm and moves toward the elevator panel “—I’ll try to get someone on the line.”
Gina sighs in grim satisfaction when Ms. Tilson squares her shoulders and steps up to the receiver.
About time.
Isabel’s stomach tightens as the younger gringa pushes the button for the teléfono. But who will answer the call: la seguridad o la policía?
She presses her lips together in an effort to stifle the quivering of her chin. She had been relieved when the elevator stopped. She cannot help but hope that when it starts again the two gringas will be so frightened they will get off at the nearest landing and take the stairs down to the lobby. She will have time to go upstairs and retrieve her cart.
But if the power comes back on and these women continue to the thirty-sixth floor, she’ll still be in trouble. If either of these ladies goes into Mr. Rossman’s office, they are sure to call the police. If the police come, they will look Isabel up on their computers and her life will be over.
Everything she and Carlos have accomplished—their new jobs, new lives and new home—will be finished. If the attorney general learns what happened in Rossman’s office, she will be put on trial, her fotografía will appear in the newspapers, and her life will be worthless. A fluid stream of communication flows between los Estados Unidos and Monterrey; people will recognize her. Ernesto swore he would see her dead if she did not follow his instructions, so muerta is what she will be, probably before her trial comes to an end.
Ernesto has friends everywhere, so he will find her and kill her. If he learns where she has been living, he will come after Carlos and Rafael.
Because he knows her son is his son.
She gulps hard and swipes at her cheek, grateful that the gringas are too busy concentrating on the teléfono to notice her tears.
If God is merciful and gets her out of this elevator, perhaps she can take Rafael and disappear. But though running might save Carlos’s life, her departure would destroy him. He is a good man; he loves her.
Most important, he loves her son.
She rubs her neck as her throat aches with regret. How can she take Rafael away from this place? He is an American citizen. He deserves to experience fine schools, good doctors and opportunities he would never know in México.
Most of all, he deserves a father who loves him. Carlos.
When the red-haired woman looks back at her, Isabel pulls the CD player from her right sweater pocket and pretends to study the controls. But when she realizes that her pocket still sags with the weight of its contents, her lips wobble and tears spill from her eyes in spite of her brave intentions.
Michelle leans closer to the bronze panel, trying to figure out how the telephone works. In older elevators she’s noticed hinged doors that presumably open to telephone handsets, but this car’s control panel features a phone button, a built-in speaker and a tiny dot—the microphone?
Nothing happened when she pressed the phone button the first time, so she steps closer and presses it more firmly, ignoring the waves of disapproval that radiate from the redhead on the opposite wall. Michelle isn’t thrilled about being stuck, either, but the hurricane is still hours away. The power will come back on. It always does.
The tension in her shoulders eases when the sound of a ringing telephone comes through the speaker. “You know—” she glances at the worried housekeeper behind her “—in the summer months we have power outages all the time. A thunderstorm rolls in, the lights go out, and the power kicks on a few minutes later. I’m sure we’re going to be fine.”
She crosses one arm over her chest, trying to appear relaxed, but the monotonous ringing is beginning to fray her nerves. Who is this telephone dialing, and why don’t they answer?
She blows out a breath when the ringing finally ends with a click. A female voice chirps, “Majestic Elevator.”
Michelle tosses the redhead a victorious smile. “Hi. We’re stuck in one of your elevators in the Lark—”
“You have reached the answering service for Majestic Elevator Company. If you have reached this recording, all of our agents are busy helping other customers. Stay on the line and one of our staff members will be with you shortly.”
The corner of Michelle’s mouth twists. She’d like to release a few of her momma’s more colorful curses into that tiny speck of a microphone, but blue language isn’t going to help, especially when one of her companions is crying and the other’s wearing a look as hard as a stepmother’s slap.
When a tinny strain of Muzak pours from the speaker, she grimaces and leans against the side of the car. “I think,” she says, her voice rough, “we’ve been put on hold.”
The redhead frowns and crosses her arms while the cleaning woman pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose.
Michelle props one sneakered foot against the wall. “If they’re this busy, people must be trapped in elevators all over town. You’d think they’d bring in extra staff on a day like this—”
“Hello?”
The unexpected voice snaps her to attention. “Yes? Operator?”
“That’s me, honey. How can I help you?”
Michelle’s words leapfrog over each other. “We’re trapped in one of your e
levators. Since most of the building is empty, there’s no one around to help us get out—”
“Hold on a minute, let me get this down. You’re in an elevator—where, exactly?”
“Um…” Michelle closes her eyes to think. “The easternmost group. If you walk in the front entrance and go through the lobby, we’d be in the first bank of express elevators.”
The woman chuckles. “Slow down, sugar. I need to know what city you’re calling from.”
This company services more than one city? Michelle braces both hands on the panel and tries to ignore the creeping uneasiness at the bottom of her belly. She’ll be throwing up again in a minute, and she doesn’t want to do that, not in front of these women.
“We’re in Tampa,” she says, speaking with slow precision. “The Lark Tower. The very tall building at the intersection of North Ashley Drive and Tampa Street.”
All is silent but for the ghostly clatter of a distant keyboard, then: “The Lark Tower…at 420 North Tampa Street?”
Michelle sighs. “Yes.”
The operator clicks her tongue. “Got it. I’ll contact the local office so they can dispatch a technician.”
“Wait a minute—you’re not the elevator company?”
“I’m the answering service, honey. Majestic patched you over to me, most likely because it’s a weekend.”
“Are you even in Tampa?”
The woman cock-a-doodles a three-noted laugh. “Sugar, I’m in Atlanta.”
Michelle’s relief vanishes, replaced by a rising irritation. “Thank you very much, but I’m afraid your plan is unacceptable. In case you haven’t heard, Hurricane Felix is heading straight for us. Most of the city has evacuated. How are you going to get us out of this cage if there are no technicians in Tampa to dispatch?”
A moment of silence hums over the line, then the woman’s voice goes flat. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to advise you further, ma’am. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do—”