by E. R. Mason
Outside the bar, the flow of people and traffic had grown even more intense as the lunch hour rush peaked. As Markman started back along the gritty, gray sidewalk, a wide alley alongside the drinkery caught his attention. It was a perfect shortcut to the old movie house where he hoped the strange mirror-door would still be waiting. The alley looked deserted. With a last quick glance around, he cautiously entered. It was an uneven, black-topped passageway, strewn with trash and garbage. Dirt and paper whirlpools formed within the uneven corners where buildings joined. Rusty, black fire escape ladders hung from the brick and concrete overhead. At the far end of the shortcut, Markman could make out the blur of people and traffic passing by in the echoed commotion of daily routine. As the sounds of the city faded eerily behind him, he began to worry that the way back might not be there. He hastened his pace and cursed under his breath about the presumptuous woman who had led him to such an arcane place. He winced and realized he had been just as impulsive as she.
Suddenly the blaring sound of car horns and an engine racing startled him. He looked up in time to see a black, late-model sedan pull into the alley ahead. The girth of the shiny car barely fit between the dirty alley walls. It blocked off the other end completely. Markman stopped and squinted in surprise, but then decided it would be impossible for the car to traverse the full length of the alley. The walls narrowed still further in some sections. He relaxed and continued to walk, hoping the driver, who was concealed by a black-tinted windshield, did not plan to remain parked there. To his surprise, the car’s engine began to race menacingly. The sedan rocked from side to side, like a bull pawing the ground.
Markman stopped and looked back over his shoulder. He had nearly reached the halfway point. Passing clouds began to shadow the dark alleyway further. He looked back at the sedan. Its engine continued to race. Once again he dismissed concern. The car looked new and expensive. The alley walls were jagged and coarse. No one would ruin a car like that by forcing it down too narrow a path. He took another step but stopped with abruptly.
The sedan had lurched and begun to creep slowly forward.
In disbelief, he raised one hand and waved, thinking perhaps the misguided driver had not seen him. Clearly there would not be room for the car to get by and there were no quick exits in sight. Alarmed, he turned and scanned the alley walls. There were no open doorways or vestibules to take refuge in.
The sedan crept ahead and began to pick up speed, so close to the side walls that dust and dirt were swept up from the cracks and crevices. Off-balance, Markman abandoned his frantic waving and turned to start a quick walk in the opposite direction. In response, the engine of the mechanical predator wound still higher. Still out of range, pedestrians walking past the alley were not noticing what was happening, and another quick glance over the shoulder confirmed that the auto was closing in too quickly to reach the street.
Markman began to run.
The hideous sound of grinding metal broke in over the racing engine as the car picked up still more speed though its fenders had begun to drag along the alley walls. The maniac driver pumped the throttle on the straining motor, forcing the damaged vehicle onward. Markman ran faster, glancing back to see the spray of sparks trailing behind the bent and twisted fenders as the car ground its way forward. The noise had become almost deafening. The driver continued to accelerate, like a madman out of control. Sweat began to break on Markman’s face as he sprinted with all his might, knowing the car would not stop when it caught up.
As the roar of the engine closed in, he dared not look back again. He focused ahead and realized he could not possibly reach the main street in time. He sucked for air in short, quick gulps, wondering if the maniac planned to hit him and stop, or drive right over the body and continue on. In the gasping, sweat-filled moment he could almost feel the front bumper tapping him behind the legs. Visions of being knocked beneath the car raced frantically through his mind as he ran full out.
The wining engine roared up on his heels. Through the sweaty blur something on his left suddenly became visible. It was a closed door set back a few inches into the red brick wall. At the last possible moment, he flung himself at it, not knowing if he would feel the impact with the car or the solid wood door first. He slammed face first into the tiny alcove as a mangled front bumper brushed by the backs of his legs. The driver yanked the wheel hard to the left, trying to crush him into the narrow slot, but succeeded only in crashing harder into the wall just beyond it. Markman wrenched around to his right trying to get a look at the person who was so intent on killing him. The tint on the driver’s door window was much lighter. There was a faint human outline. It was a woman, shoulder length hair, blond. Sparks flew from both sides of the car as it continued on its wild ride. At alleyway’s end, red brake lights flashed as it careened around the corner and into traffic. Horns honked, people yelled. Abruptly the alleyway became quiet once more.
Dazed and exhausted, Markman slumped back against the dirty brown wooden door that had saved his life and began to breathe again. Slowly he sank down into a squat, drained from physical exertion and fear. For a split second the adrenaline again surged, and he jerked up to see if the madman had thought to return.
The alley remained empty and ominous. Deep, black scars marked the walls where the car’s mangled body had cut grooves. Quickly he collected himself and stood up. He straightened his clothes and brushed the dirt off his jeans. His Berretta was still secure in its holster. He looked nervously around and began a brisk walk in the direction of the old movie theater—now more anxious than ever to depart from this insane place. His overloaded mind searched for a reason someone might have to run him down. The driver had been crazy—that was the only possible explanation. The vague, tinted silhouette played over and over in his mind as he walked. It had definitely been a woman. It had looked somewhat like Ms. Cassell, but he knew that was impossible. His brief dealings with her had been enough to convince him she was not capable of such violence, and his instincts about people were nearly always correct. She was certainly no murderess, and besides, it was highly doubtful she could handle a speeding car with the level of skill the would-be assassin had demonstrated.
The bang of a loud backfire coming from behind jolted Markman. He spun and watched wide-eyed as the badly maimed black sedan reappeared, forcing its way through traffic to reenter the alley. Its headlights were broken; its front end crushed and twisted. He stared in disbelief as the driver paused and rev’d his engine exactly as before. Markman narrowed his stare. He scanned the area around him until he found the right place, and made a dash for it, drawing his Berretta as he ran.
The tires on the sedan smoked and screamed as it began its second homicidal run, its crushed body helping it fit more easily through the narrow spots in the tight corridor. This time it picked up speed much faster. The driver bore down on Markman with the same cruel determination as before.
He turned, crouched, and brought his gun to bear, cradling it in one hand. He drew a bead on the driver’s side of the blackened windshield and paused hoping the threat would have an effect. The car’s engine roared still louder.
This time he stood his ground. With the pistol grip resting in one palm, he began to squeeze off shots. Fractured holes from well-placed shots exploded in the driver’s glass as the gunfire rang out over the scream of the engine.
The car kept coming. It did not slow but began violently bouncing back and forth off the alley walls. At the last possible moment Markman jammed his pistol into its holster, leaped upward, and caught the bottom rung of the overhead fire escape ladder he had positioned himself beneath. He jerked his legs up and out of the way, as the car thundered past.
Quickly, he dropped back to the pavement and turned poised to fire again, but pedestrians on the sidewalk at the alley’s end were in the line of fire. The sedan raced away, disrupting the flow of people and cars as it forced its way back onto the busy street. Amid a chorus of horns and angry voices, it disappeared once more around the corner.
Markman ran, jamming his handgun back in its holster as he went. He reached the main street and searched in both directions, but saw no trace of the sedan. The police officer who had been directing traffic was nowhere in sight, although traffic seemed to be moving just as well without him. He exhaled in exasperation and looked around in disbelief. No one seemed the least bit interested in what had just happened. People were going about their business as though nothing at all had occurred.
He shook himself out of the daze and jerked around to look across the street at the old movie theater. A flush of anxiety came over him as he searched for the outline of the mirror-door. It was there, waiting in the same glass display case. With a sigh of relief, he went to the curb.
Lunch hour traffic continued to be heavy. As Markman waited to cross, a stumbling drunk rose into view from a basement apartment alongside the movie house. The man began to stagger his way past the front of the theater, pushing off against the red brick wall as he went.
Markman paced nervously, anxious to get across. The drunk was getting dangerously close to the glass display case. If he leaned against the mirror, he might fall into it.
The painfully slow traffic kept on. Markman stepped off the curb hoping it might provide some leverage against the unyielding flow. But time ran out. Just as the street opened up, the vagrant reached the display case and fell hard into it, nearly breaking the glass.
To Markman’s astonishment, nothing happened. The drunk wavered momentarily and continued on, hindered only by his inebriated stare.
Relieved, Markman hurried through the stalled traffic without taking his eyes off the mirror-door. Not only had the unwary drunk failed to pass through, neither he nor anyone else seemed even aware of the out-of-place silhouette. He made his way to the theater entrance and stopped at the ticket booth where the cute young girl was now engrossed in manicure. She looked up and smiled.
“Ticket?”
“Um, no thanks, I’m working. Did you just see a black sedan come flying out of that alley over there?”
“I’m sorry, no. I haven’t been paying attention.”
“Well, tell me this then: Have you seen an attractive lady with long blonde hair go by here recently—in the past half hour or so?”
“No, no one like that at all, sir.”
“Well, thanks anyway.” He nodded and turned to leave.
“You’re welcome. But come back and make it with me in the store room sometime, okay?”
Taken back for a moment by such casual bluntness, Markman looked back in puzzlement. He smiled, gave an awkward wave, and escaped around the corner. The outline of the mirror-door was still waiting.
After a quick glance around to see if anyone was paying attention, he pushed his left hand and arm into the void to make certain the passageway was still available. Nothing had changed. One more quick look for the right moment and he stepped back into the mirror-door and across the void, much more carefully this time. A second later, he was standing once again atop the ramp in the Professor’s secret lab.
Chapter 8