by Diane Hoh
And then she remembered the dumbwaiter. Used, Aidan had said, to tote art supplies to the upper floors from the lobby.
Where was that dumbwaiter? Where on the tenth floor did it stop?
Wouldn’t a dumbwaiter in the art building logically unload into the supply closets of the studios? Wouldn’t that make the most sense?
Leaving the door, Rachel unsteadily walked the length of the closet, glancing on both sides of her, looking for a little door to the dumbwaiter.
The walls were covered end to end with shelving and those shelves were crammed full of supplies. If there was a small door behind there somewhere, how would she ever find it? Take everything off the shelves? That would take years.
Aidan had said he used the dumbwaiter a lot. So it wouldn’t be hidden. It would be where he could get to it easily to unload it.
Rachel felt defeat sweeping over her, dragging her down. Maybe the dumbwaiter didn’t empty into this closet, after all. It could go to any one of a dozen other studios on the ninth and tenth floors.
Unwilling to give up hope, she got down on her hands and knees and crawled along the floor, tears gathering in her eyes. She had to keep swiping at them with the back of a hand to clear her vision, and her head seemed to be on fire.
Crawling laboriously, scrutinizing the space underneath the bottom shelf as she slowly moved along the floor, she had almost reached the rear wall, where she would have to give up hope entirely, when she saw the stack of canvases leaning unevenly against the back wall in a small, bare space beside the end of the shelving unit. The carelessness of the way they were perched, slightly tilted, gave Rachel the impression that someone had tossed them there in a hurry. Maybe … maybe they weren’t usually there. Maybe they were usually on the top shelf, where she’d seen the other canvases. Maybe whoever had stashed them there hadn’t even realized they were covering up something important. Like a small door in the wall …
In her eagerness, Rachel misjudged the distance between the end of the shelving unit and the wall, and as she lunged forward to push the canvases aside, she drove her forehead into the sharp metal edge of the second shelf. The blow sliced a gash two inches long, and blood flowed freely, running into her eyes and further blurring her vision.
Not even feeling the pain, Rachel muttered an oath, grabbed the first thing at hand, a paint-stained rag on the bottom shelf, to staunch the flow, and when it seemed to have eased, she reached out again to shove the canvases aside.
And there it was … a wooden door just like the one in the lobby, a small metal knob perched on one side.
Awash in relief and renewed hope, Rachel pulled the door open.
There were the ropes, the pulleys, and the little cupboardlike box, sitting empty now. It was small, but so was she.
She lay on her stomach, staring bleakly at the open, waiting cupboard. You’re crazy, she told herself. The blow to your head has scrambled your brains. You are ten floors above the lobby. You’re feeling sick and dizzy and exhausted, and you expect to haul yourself all the way down ten stories by pulling on those ropes? Not in a million years.
I wouldn’t have to lower myself all the way down, she argued. The other studios might be open. I can just lower myself one floor, crawl out into another studio, and escape that way. I can do that. That’s not so hard.
The wound on her forehead was still bleeding. She had to keep swiping at it with the rag to keep her eyes clear.
But what if the other studios are locked? she asked herself. Then what? You’ll crawl out, you’ll go to the door, you’ll try the knob, and it won’t budge. You’ll still be shut in. Are you going to try that at every single floor?
There would be a telephone. She could go to the next floor, crawl out of the dumbwaiter into the studio, and call for help. And wait.
And then Rachel remembered, with a jolt, just how all of this had happened. She remembered that someone unseen had darted into the closet, had knocked the boxes out from under her, had grabbed her purse and run, locking the door after him.
What if he was still around?
What if he was, at this very moment, standing on the other side of the storage closet door, listening and waiting? He’d hear the dumbwaiter moving slowly, painfully. He’d know what she was doing. He would turn and race downstairs, much faster than she could let out the ropes. He’d be on the next floor waiting for her when she crawled to what she thought was freedom.
Too risky.
It was the lobby or nothing. Even if he was down there, waiting, when she arrived … if she made it … he wouldn’t dare reveal himself with all those people around. She’d be safe.
Ten floors … she was so dizzy … it seemed impossible.
But she had no choice.
Keeping the rag with her to wipe her forehead, Rachel crawled forward, into the dumbwaiter. It lurched crazily when she entered. Her heart stopped as she grabbed for, and clutched, both ropes. She imagined the small, wooden cupboard free-falling under her weight, hurtling downward like an elevator with a broken cable, smashing into a thousand pieces when it hit the ground ten stories below.
But when she grabbed hold of the ropes, the dumbwaiter steadied itself. It slid downward again as she settled her weight inside, but when she pulled on the ropes with all of her strength, it stopped descending, swinging slightly.
Rachel pulled herself into as small a ball as possible, her head bent, her legs folded into her chest.
Then, taking only tiny little gasping breaths, she tested the two ropes to see which one would lower her. When she pulled on one, the wooden cage tilted slightly upward, telling her it was the other rope she needed to grasp.
Clutching it with both hands, she let it out no more than half an inch at a time. Had she been trying to haul her own weight upward, the task would have been too much for her. But gravity was on her side, and as she cautiously let the pulley rope out, the cage began, very slowly and unevenly, to descend, swinging very slightly from side to side, banging gently against the sides of the narrow shaft.
It took a thousand years for Rachel’s precarious descent. Every nerve in her body was screaming with tension, and her fingers, palms, and arms throbbed in agony from the strain of her death-grip on the thick, rough rope. Four different times, her fingers jerked in a reflex action against the relentless tension, and four different times the dumbwaiter lurched sickeningly. Each time, Rachel gasped and tightened her grip again, nearly passing out from sheer terror.
The cupboard lurched and swung and banged against the sides, but it continued to lower itself. Because Rachel had to keep both hands on the rope, she was unable to swipe at the cut on her forehead with the rag, and as she continued her agonizing descent, blood from the wound began to pour anew, running down into her eyes and over her cheeks, onto her chin. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing to see. There was no light in the shaft, nothing but pure darkness. Anyway, she thought, giddy with near-hysteria, it’s not as if I need to see where I’m going. There isn’t any other traffic in here.
The laugh that escaped her then quickly became a sob, and she had to bite down hard on her lower lip, bloody from her forehead wound, to keep more sobs from escaping.
At last there was a soft but definite bump as the dumbwaiter hit the bottom of the shaft.
She was on the ground floor. Safely. In one piece. The dumbwaiter hadn’t fallen and crashed. It was now sitting solidly and securely on the ground.
Rachel sagged against the rear wall of her little cubbyhole. A sound came out of her mouth, half a gasp of relief, half a moan of exhaustion and pain.
When her breathing had steadied a little, she leaned forward and, with great difficulty, pushed open the small door facing her, without knowing or caring where it led. She was safe. It didn’t matter where she was. She swiped at her forehead with the rag, and crawled out of the dumbwaiter.
All conversation in the lobby of the art building came to an abrupt halt. A crowd of horrified spectators watched as out of the small doorway eme
rged a figure with a blood and tearstained face, a nasty gouge across her forehead, and bloody palms.
Chapter 10
BECAUSE THE CUT ON her forehead wasn’t as deep as it had seemed, when the physician at the infirmary had ruled out broken bones from her fall and concussion from the blow to the back of her skull, Rachel was discharged, bruised and aching, a tube of cream in her hands for her raw palms.
Rachel’s head ached. Her shoulders were throbbing and her hands hurt. She had already explained several times, to a wide assortment of teachers, security personnel, and friends, exactly what had happened. Without exception, they had all stared at her as if she had suddenly sprung antennae. She couldn’t be sure that anyone believed her, although they had clucked and said, “Isn’t that awful? Why, that’s just terrible.”
Rachel realized that the sight of her crawling out of the dumbwaiter must have been a terrible shock to all of those people gathered in the lobby viewing the artwork. If it hadn’t been for Paloma and Samantha, she would still be sitting on a chair in the art building telling her story over and over again, trying to get someone in authority to comprehend it. The two girls had practically kidnapped her, insisting that she go to the infirmary before, as Sam put it, “she bleeds to death.”
An exaggeration, but it got Rachel away from all those staring, disbelieving eyes.
Although Paloma and Samantha had been sympathetic, repeatedly asking her if she was okay, there were questions in their eyes, too. And Aidan, Joseph, even Rudy had done nothing but ask logical, annoying questions about what she was doing on the tenth floor, how she’d become locked in the closet, why she had risked the treacherous descent in the dumbwaiter, which wasn’t meant for people at all.
As if anything that had happened to her lately could be explained away logically.
Having someone, anyone, understand what she’d gone through would have eased the pain just a little. They were all very, very sorry, but …
And when Rudy went back upstairs to check, the storage closet door was unlocked, and open.
When she said, “But my purse is still missing, isn’t it?” someone, she wasn’t sure who, suggested that she’d lost it down the dumbwaiter shaft when she crawled in.
The security guard took down what little information she could give him, but she could tell he was only doing it because it was his job. The look on his face told her he thought it was probably a crazy bid for attention, or maybe a sorority prank.
“I still don’t get it,” Aidan said as he walked her back to Lester. Everyone else had already returned to the art building, once they knew that Rachel was going to be okay. “You were standing on a pile of boxes? And someone kicked the pile out from under you?”
When she didn’t answer, Aidan went on, “And what were you doing in the studio in the first place? You never did say.”
No, and she wasn’t about to now. What difference would it make? He’d asked her that question at least four times, and she still didn’t know how to answer it. If she said she had been looking for some tiny piece of information—anything—about the artist who had painted the seascape and the still life, he’d give her that look again, the one that told her to leave it alone.
So, ignoring his questions, she asked one of her own. “Did anybody find my purse? I need it. It has my student I.D. in it, my credit cards, my bankcard, money. I’ll be lost without it.”
Aidan looked annoyed. “Oh, I get it. You’re not going to tell me what you were doing in the studio, are you? That must mean you didn’t have a good reason for being there. If you did, you’d tell me.”
Rachel was annoyed, too. And tired and sick and scared. “You know, Aidan, you have this irritating way of focusing on details instead of seeing the whole picture.” Shouldn’t he be more worried about her safety than why she had been in the studio? “Maybe that makes you a better artist, but it doesn’t make you such a great friend.”
He stopped walking, an angry flush on his face. They were just a few feet from Lester. “Friend? Is that all I am? A friend?”
Rachel looked him square in the face. He still hadn’t asked if she was okay. “I’m not even sure you’re that, Aidan. Thanks for walking me back.” And she turned and moved her stiff, aching body into the. building, leaving him standing there with his mouth open.
She went straight to her room, ignoring the shocked expression on Bibi’s face when Rachel walked in with a gash on her forehead and the front of her gray sweatshirt soaked with bloodstains. She went into the bathroom and shut the door, plunked herself down on the cold tile floor and burst into tears.
It felt good, letting them loose after holding them back for so long, and she would have cried for a long time, but Bibi wouldn’t stop pounding on the door and shouting Rachel’s name.
Rachel got up and let her in. Then, at Bibi’s insistence, she poured out the whole, crazy story.
To her surprise, Bibi didn’t give her that look. The gash on Rachel’s forehead seemed to be enough proof for Bibi that all of it really had happened. When she had been assured that no, there were no broken bones and yes, Rachel was okay, she said, “Does Aidan know what happened?”
Rachel nodded reluctantly. She was beginning to regret what she’d said to Aidan. To take her mind off it, she said, “Bibi, Rudy was there, in the lobby, when I went upstairs. He was the only person who knew where I was. And he wasn’t very nice when I asked him to keep an eye out in the lobby for someone looking at the still life. Later, when he went back upstairs after I fell out of the dumbwaiter, he said the storage closet door was unlocked. But it wasn’t, Bibi! Either the person who locked me in there went back up later and unlocked it, or Rudy was lying.”
Bibi sat back on her heels. “Lying? Why would Rudy lie?”
Rachel flushed. She should have known better. If she had to tell someone she didn’t trust Rudy, that person shouldn’t have been Bibi. Now, she’d alienated the one person who had seemed to believe her story.
“Forget it, Bibi.” Rachel said quickly. “I’m just really, really tired. What time is it, anyway?”
Bibi glanced at her watch. “One o’clock.”
Rachel pulled herself awkwardly to her feet. “I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up unless there’s a fire or an earthquake … or someone delivers my purse.”
“You lost your purse?”
Rachel nodded. “Well, I didn’t really lose it. The person who knocked me down and locked the storage room door took it. No one believes that, or even that there was a person, but it’s true.”
As Bibi turned to leave, Rachel added, “Bibi, have you heard anything about what happened to Milo Keith?”
“I heard that he’s still unconscious, that’s all.”
Thirty minutes later, Rachel was in bed and asleep.
Bibi sat on her own bed, watching Rachel until she was positive her roommate was asleep. Then she got up quietly and left the room.
Someone is lying on a table in one of the studios. A girl, wearing jeans, her hair swept away from her face, her skin shiny with grease, plastic straws protruding from her nostrils. The plaster, liquid now like milk, is in a large glass pitcher on a smaller table opposite her right foot. A cardboard shelf has been placed under her head to catch any excess plaster as it’s poured over her features.
She seems too vulnerable, so utterly trusting as she lies there, waiting for her face, all of it, her mouth, eyes, nose, every inch of her face, to be covered with the white liquid, which will thicken and harden into a complete life mask of the girl, who is very pretty, with smooth, clear skin, long, thick lashes, and a straight nose and full mouth.
A shadowy figure moves into view, tall and hulking, covered inflowing black.
Where are the other students, where is the professor? Why is the girl alone in the room with the figure in black?
He is talking soothingly to the girl, telling her it’s okay, it’s fine, no problem, won’t take long, she’ll love it, she’ll love the great life mask he’s making of her face, w
hich has, he tells her, great bones, perfect for immortalizing in plaster.
When he approaches with the pitcher, the girl shrinks back, momentarily apprehensive.
But he reassures her, patting her shoulder with a black-gloved hand. The straws, he tells her, will allow her to breathe. “Don’t worry. Relax. We want the mask to reflect your usual expression and not look grim and tense.”
The girl breathes deeply in an effort to relax. She trusts the figure in black and doesn’t seem to be questioning his odd attire as he moves closer, glass pitcher of milky liquid in hand.
“Ready?” he says, the pitcher poised. “You’ll have a moment of panic when this stuff starts to cover your mouth, but remember the straws in your nose, okay? As long as they’re in there, you can breathe just fine. Ready?”
She nods, and closes her eyes.
He begins pouring carefully. The milky white liquid spills out over her forehead, her closed eyes, across her cheeks, her nose, avoiding her nostrils from which the plastic straws protrude. When the plaster reaches her mouth, covering her lips, her legs jerk instinctively, and he cautions her gently to lie still. “Remember to breathe through your nose,” he says, and she is quiet again.
He continues to pour until all of the girl’s face except for her nostrils is covered with a thick layer of white.
He lifts the pitcher.
Lowers it again.
Then he bends close to her face. He is smiling beneath the black hood. He puts his mouth next to her ear and whispers, “Surprise!” and in one swift, calculated movement, he rips the straws from her nose and pours again, filling both nostrils with the rapidly drying plaster.
The girl stiffens on the table. Her arms would have flown up then to flail at the air, but he has dropped the empty pitcher to the floor and is pinning her arms at her sides. Her legs are free and she kicks those, wildly, frantically as the plaster in her nose begins to harden. Her chest heaves in a desperate effort to suck in air, her body bucks and thrashes, but his weight pressing on her arms keeps her pinned to the table.
