by E. Z. Rinsky
But when they return, the yard will be filled again with prisoners. I have to get at him while he’s alone with Becky.
I’m going to turn and follow my bread crumb trail back to the entrance when I hear something creak on the other side of the empty elevator shaft.
I instinctually go for my weapon, and nearly trip over my own feet. Catch myself and go still.
Could it be Oliver? I saw the elevator go up . . . maybe he sent Becky up by herself?
I stand still, focus on keeping my breaths quiet. The sound doesn’t startle me the second time; it’s too deep and heavy to be a person. It sounds more like the building is settling into its foundation, and groaning with relief.
Keeping one hand outstretched for balance, one still gripping the butt of my pistol, I slowly turn the corner of the elevator shaft and grope forward in the direction of the sound. It grows louder as I step away from the elevator. I drop a few pieces of torn business card and keep moving ahead, until reaching what seems to be a sort of stone archway, wide enough for two to enter side by side.
The air blowing out of this tunnel is warmer, and I see the web of red and blue pipes over my head appear to be bulging, like high-pressured hoses. I keep walking ahead, keeping one hand on the wall of the path. It’s not stone, feels more like lichen or moss, warm and damp to the touch.
The walkway opens into a circular room. The ceiling is violently pulsing red and blue tubes. Periodically I hear the groaning sound again . . . seems to be coming from the mossy walls of this room.
In the center of the room is a knee-height circle of polished stone. I grit my teeth. On the lip closest to me is the bouquet Becky was holding outside.
They stopped here before taking the elevator.
As I approach the flowers, I see the circle is a pool, filled with still black water. I lean over the pool and peer in, and am so horrified by what I see that I stumble backwards. On the surface of the pool is reflected a picture-perfect image of Becky’s little brother, with his eyes closed.
Jesus Christ.
Pulse pounding in my temples. I force myself back to the pool, and look again. A still, peaceful child’s face. For a few seconds it remains unmoving, and then the eyes and mouth open, and the groan reverberates inside my chest.
I feel faint. I step back from the pool and lean against a wall.
It’s just some kind of illusion. He probably has a projector under the water. Or coming from above.
Turn up over my shoulder. No projector. Just the web of pipes.
I tear myself away from the disgusting ceiling. This isn’t why I’m here.
Where is this bastard?
I turn and, keeping my arms out for balance, like I’m walking on a diving board, follow the white specks of paper back past the elevator shaft, to the entrance and the two staircases. I choose the one on the right and start climbing, grip my pistol tight in my shooting hand in case someone jumps out of the shadows.
The steps are very narrow. I hug the wall for fear of falling off. Keep one eye on the steps rising in front of me, the other scanning above me for signs of Sophnot and Becky. Etched into the rising walls are smiling, childlike faces, all crying what appears to be blood. I climb above the ceiling of pipes from the first floor. From the edge, the second floor looks much like the first, with an apparently identical ceiling of red and blue pipes.
I think I see the outline of another mossy entranceway, which I assume holds another pool.
Keep climbing. The air is so thick with moisture that it feels like it’s resisting me at every step. Feels like I’m pushing through a swimming pool.
Pass three or four more floors. All the same. My legs are exhausted. I still haven’t seen the source of the violet light that—mercifully—is saving me from doing this climb in complete darkness.
The staircase I’m on periodically intersects with its counterclockwise counterpart, which is snaking up in reverse. When it does, the stairs meet in a shared ledge. Then each starts again, with a foot of vertical space between it and the platform.
I stick with my clockwise stairs, and keep climbing, ignoring the mounting ache in my lower back, the fire in my chest.
Maybe if Sophnot took the stairs every day he wouldn’t be so chunky.
After what I guess is ten floors, the wall on one side of me falls away. The rest of the floors are unfinished. The staircases continue spiraling upwards, but now without support on either side.
I stare up at fourteen floors of this winding tightrope walk. The stairs can’t be more than two feet wide, and up this high the breeze is much stronger than on the ground . . . One strong gust and we could be looking at some Pollock-inspired splatter art.
Lamb: Study in red.
I wipe some cool sweat off my forehead with my already saturated khaki shirt. Clench my jaw, and keep climbing, praying the elevator overhead doesn’t come to life and carry Oliver back downstairs to kill Courtney and Mindy.
There are no pipes or anything on these floors. Just unfinished wood flooring. No archways, no reflecting pools. I actually find this switch somewhat comforting. The spell of the bottom ten floors is broken. If I strain my neck, I can see the illuminated glass top up above, and what I think is the resting elevator. I have little doubt this is where Oliver and Becky are.
I wind around and around the periphery of the tower, now far above the dormant sentry towers. The only light is that of the just rising moon, a few stars. Good thing we’re in Colorado. In NYC the haze would block most of this.
I stop thinking about the stairs. My body is pretty well used to the motion by now. Can climb pretty much on automatic. If one of them is misshapen, that’s going to be a problem. My legs aren’t in much pain anymore—or rather, they are but I can’t feel it. The fresh air seems to have helped my head.
The key to the stairs is kind of tricking myself into being indifferent between falling and climbing. If I fall I’ll cruise peacefully down through the night, dying instantly upon impact. If I make it to the top, I’ll try to kill Oliver, likely fail, and then be strung up and butchered.
Floors nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. . . I think I hear a sound drifting from the top floor. Some kind of music I think, that I can’t quite identify. In the middle of floor twenty-two the staircases meet for the last time, and I slip as I climb from the shared platform back onto my staircase. I grope frantically for something to hold onto and nearly lose my grip on the pistol.
I kneel on the platform, panting.
Reholster my pistol and resume my trek. As I ascend the final floors, the music grows louder and more distinct.
At the top of the final floor, the staircase winds into a cement enclosure. A narrow stairway that reminds me of those underground storage spaces every restaurant in NYC has. I sit down on a step and catch my breath for a moment. Or rather, try to catch my breath, but I’m exhausted. Totally spent. Light-headed from exertion.
I’ll bet I’m the first person to ever take the stairs all the way up here.
I unbutton my khaki shirt and toss it off into the night. Watch it flutter in the breeze then disappear from sight.
I close my eyes. Breathe through my nose. I know the song seeping from the floor overhead. It’s from the early nineties I think. Don’t remember the name or artist, but recognize the overplayed chorus: Where were they going without ever knowing the way?
I can’t wait any longer.
I follow the stairs up as they wind into a room.
I frown, confused. This is not what I expected.
I’m in a sort of cramped, cheap-looking space, filled with metal cabinets holding trays and dishes. Linoleum floor. Pans hang everywhere. An eight-burner stove, industrial-style compact oven. A huge grill.
A kitchen?
What the fuck?
The music is coming from the adjacent room. I wind past a second grill, a row of deep fryers, until I spot two swinging, saloon-style doors. Bright light leaks through the slats. I approach the doors slowly, then kneel and peer into t
he next room.
The scene before me takes the wind out of my body.
I’m looking at an exact replica of the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill, where we interviewed Elaine. Where Becky Carlson used to work. The floor is checkered black and white tile, a bit shinier than I remembered. The upholstered bar stools are the same dark green. The glare from the lights the kind that will sober you up at any time of night. The music is coming from a CD deck resting on the bar. There’s the cubby with all the board games, framed dollar bill behind the bar, same tall glasses for making old-school soda drinks. The only notable additions I can spot are a bunch of shiny instruments of torture, collars and whips, hanging on the coat rack near the entrance.
Oliver Vicks is seated in one of the booths next to the window. The front of his white cloak is open–the most lethal man in the state is wearing a purple paisley shirt while munching on greasy French fries. Standing over him is Becky Carlson, wearing a horrible, pleated green waitress uniform, with a name tag on the lapel. She’s holding a yellow notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. Resting on the bar, I note, are a wax mask, white robe and the silk bag holding the books. In front of him on the table are writing implements and what must be some new literary undertaking. They’re unaware of me watching. Over the next song that’s come on—something by Christina Aguilera, Oliver is ordering:
“And I’d like sour cream on the side. As usual.”
I turn away from the swinging doors and try to think. Without even realizing, I’ve un-holstered my gun and am gripping it like I’m hanging over an abyss.
Think, Frank. Think, you fucking dumbass.
I can’t kill Oliver until I know how to unlock the collars on Mindy and Courtney.
So, what . . . burst in with the gun and demand he tell me?
Will never work. He knows the same thing I know—I have no bargaining power. I need to create leverage.
Slowly turn back to the scene on the other side of the wood slats.
Becky is finishing up the order, voice almost indiscernible in the shadow of Christina’s powerful vocals: “Anything to drink?”
Oliver smiles.
“Just ice water.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks so much. I love you.”
I think she hesitates ever so slightly.
“I love you too,” she replies softly, tucks her notepad into her pocket and walks toward me. I scramble to hide, but there’s no time. She gently pushes through the swinging doors, into the kitchen.
I quickly put a finger to my lips. But she doesn’t even seem surprised to see me. Her eyes register only confusion. I don’t think she recognizes me. I peek through the swinging doors, see that Oliver is preoccupied with writing.
“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m Frank. Lamb. I was at your apartment . . . we brought you croissants and muffins.”
This last bit seems to register with her. She nods slowly. She seems neither pleased or upset to see me, just totally disoriented by what’s going on. Her breath is awful, like catnip and stale licorice.
Heroin smoke.
She’s only half here.
“I can help you,” I whisper. “I can get you out of this.”
The skin on her face seems to tighten. She says nothing.
“Do you know where he keeps his keys?”
I take a step toward her and she flinches, like a dog that’s used to getting kicked.
“Becky,” I say, and spread my arms. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Then I take another step toward her and again she recoils. Her body is silently quivering, like she’s being lightly electrocuted.
“Becky, do you know where his keys are?”
“I’ve never . . .” she whispers. “I’ve never seen any keys.”
I dash back to peek through the wooden slats on the swinging doors, see if Oliver has noticed anything awry. He still appears absorbed in his work.
I try to slow my breathing. A weak plan starts forming in my head.
“Do you have any papers in here?” I ask her. “Not the notepad. Like full-sized pages.”
She blinks slowly at me, and shakes her head.
I scan the kitchen. Freezer, double sink for dishwashing, prep surfaces with storage space underneath, grill, deep fryer. Higher up on shelves are grilling utensils, oils . . .
The sink. Maybe.
I drop to the grimy tile floor and open the cabinet beneath the sink, part of the unit. It’s totally empty, nobody bothered to replicate the contents of the actual Bar and Grill. Except . . . yes. Still taped to the top of the cabinet space, wrapped in plastic, is the user manual and warranty information. I tear it out and rip off the plastic.
The sink is made by something called Lincoln Manufacturing, and will have to do. At least the pages are clean and crisp.
“One more thing,” I tell her. “Can I see that pad and pen for a second?”
She slowly hands them to me.
“I’m going to write you a note. If he kills me, bring this to Elaine, at the grill in Colorado Springs as soon as you leave here for the week. Alright?”
Her blue eyes tremble. She dutifully nods.
Elaine,
This is from Frank. PI who visited a few days ago. Call the police and tell them that Nathan Heald, the warden at SCF, is Oliver Vicks’s fake name. He killed Rico Suarez, Courtney Lavagnino, Mindy Craxton, and me, Frank Lamb.
Please call my daughter, Sadie: (777) 418-2902 and explain what happened to me.
F
I tear the note off the pad, fold it and give it to Becky.
Tuck my Glock into the back of my pants, take a deep breath, and walk into the ersatz Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill, carrying the user manual in my right hand.
Oliver Vicks looks up from his writing immediately.
“Son, why aren’t you at the communal meal! You know you aren’t permitted in here—” He doesn’t immediately recognize me. But then he pushes his thick bifocals up onto his forehead to reveal the horrible whites of his eyes. Even from across the length of the restaurant they’re jarringly pure, like polished ivory. “Frank!” he cries with something like delight. “Frankie Lamb. Wait, don’t tell me you walked all those stairs . . . ?”
“I did,” I say, voice cracking. “Every last fucking one of them.”
He winces. “Don’t use that language here, Frank. This is a sacred space.” He gestures to the booth across from him. “Come on in. Sit down and we’ll talk like civilized people.”
I take two steps closer. A thin stream of bile rises in my throat. My hands are shaking as I ease myself into the booth across from Oliver Vicks.
Sophnot.
“Well.” He smiles. “It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out why you’re here.”
I say nothing. Try to stare at his forehead. Bite my lip too hard and taste warm blood in my mouth. He keeps talking.
“Frank Lamb . . . Lamb of God, the sacrificial lamb. You had to know I wasn’t likely to just agree to let you and the two prisoners downstairs walk out of here. You had to know that the second you walked in here I was likely to slice your throat.”
He flicks the middle finger of his right hand, and a gleaming blade the length of a steak knife shoots out from the wrist of his white cloak. He has some contraption attached to his forearm, much like the ones on his collars.
“Do you have a dart in your cheek? Like Courtney?”
I blink. I nod my head slowly, then open my mouth, pull back my lips and peel the dart from my gum. Put it on the table between us.
He cocks his head at me and smiles. His eyes seem to whiten. They’re the color of stars.
“Gun?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious.
“Yes,” I say, pulling the Glock out and showing it to him. “But I’m not here to kill you.”
He fixes his white eyes on me. They seem to be scanning me on a wavelength I can’t perceive, like an MRI probing me for deceit.
“Of course you’re not here to kill me. You�
�re smart enough to see that’s a waste of everyone’s time. Becky!” he shouts to the kitchen. “I’m starving!”
He looks back at me.
“The service here is terrible,” he says. Then he takes the blade protruding from his sleeve, clenches his bicep, and appears to stab himself in the heart. His paisley shirt tears, and I see the steel disappear into his flesh. He grimaces in mild discomfort, then swiftly pulls the knife back out and slams his hand back on the table. His shirt is torn where he stabbed, but no wound.
I can’t feel my legs. Try to appear unimpressed, try to process the visual trickery I just witnessed, but my face must betray my shock.
“I have seen the day of my death, Frank.” A toothy grin. He picks up one of his French fries and waggles it at me. “I’ve seen it. These little guys here, they’ll be the end of me. Not a knife, not a gun . . . saturated fat.” He tosses the fry in his mouth and gnashes it. “But until that day, I have nothing to fear. You on the other hand”—he spreads his palms helplessly—“I’m afraid this will be your last Sabbath here on earth. But you must have known that when you walked in here. Unless you really are as boneheaded as old James says. And, well, when James says someone is boneheaded I mean . . . you wouldn’t believe how little he argued when I told him to cut off his balls. Would you believe—I didn’t say anything about the pecker! He just took the initiative.” Oliver shakes his head, chuckling, getting a little lost in thought.
I take a deep breath. I can feel my pulse in my neck. I set the pistol on the table, beside my dart. A gesture of good faith.
“I came up here to make a deal with you,” I say.
He purses his lips.
“A deal? Okay. I like deals. What were you thinking?”
I glance outside the window to my left. Can see the dark outline of one of the prison dormitories and the admin building. Beyond, headlights of lone cars on the highway. Feels a bit like we’re in the space needle, but Seattle has disappeared.
“Sampson gave you four million in fake unregistered stock certificates,” I say. “I’m guessing you needed all forty-eight million for construction costs on this tower. So I suspect you’d be interested to know where the four million of actual certificates are. The ones he kept to himself.”
