Elevator, The

by Hunt, Angela

  Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…

  Perhaps there are others in the building—people who found themselves trapped in their offices or in the other elevators. They’ve probably taken refuge in the restaurant, too, or in the lobby. She might step onto a marble landing and discover the attorney general or one of his lawyers. If they’re stranded here, rescue won’t take long. As soon as the hurricane passes, they’ll be barking orders on their cell phones. She’ll have one of them call the children so they’ll know she’s all right.

  Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…

  Gina glances at the panel, realizing she’s forgotten to select a floor. She presses the eight, but the button doesn’t light.

  A prickle of unease nips at the back of her legs, but surely everything is fine. Perhaps the elevator is in maintenance mode or some such thing. What did that young man say? Something about when an elevator starts up again, it will return to the lowest floor to pick up its programming. Fine, but she wants to go up to the Pierpoint. The restaurant will be a much more comfortable spot to wait for rescue.

  Gina picks up her trench coat and the gun, then drops the weapon into her coat pocket. When it strikes something with a metallic chink, she sighs and remembers her car keys. She won’t be able to drive out for a while, but she can wait.

  Ten, nine, eight…

  What is she to do about Sonny? Instinct warns against mentioning his name, but he’s gone and she had nothing to do with his death. Though her mind can’t quite accept the idea, she is a widow.

  The Mexican girl should go to the police…and if she doesn’t, Gina will follow up. The kids will never need to know about Sonny’s infidelity. The family reputation will be safe, along with the estate. Michelle Tilson is still carrying Sonny’s child, but Gina saw the look in the younger woman’s eye when she realized the truth. Her romantic illusions died with Sonny, so she’s not likely to be bragging about her child’s paternity.

  As a matter of insurance, though, Gina might send the woman a check, accompanied by a suggestion that Tilson Corporate Careers relocate as soon as possible. Ten thousand ought to cover it. With the rates her company charges, she could deposit that amount in her business account and no one would be the wiser.

  Five, four, three…

  With a soft sigh, the elevator approaches its berth on the ground floor. Only as the tension leaves Gina’s shoulders does she realize how overwrought she’s been. She laughs softly at her anxieties, and smiles at the overhead lights.

  Still burning, bright and strong.

  The elevator shivers beneath her feet, halting with a distinct splash.

  What the—

  Almost immediately, water invades the lower edges of the car, coating the floor in a slick shine. Gina presses the eight on the elevator panel. The button lights beneath her fingertip, but before she can lift her hand, water begins to trickle from the rubber strips at the bottom of the elevator doors.

  She steps closer and jabs the Close Door button. In the distance, a motor hums, the car vibrates…and the mechanical hum stops. The car is sinking; she can feel it moving beneath her feet as liquid seeps through the seams of her loafers.

  This cannot be happening.

  The trickle increases to a torrent that appears to climb the door like flame. A rising stream spatters her legs and contains a coldness she has never experienced in Florida waters.

  “No!” She slams her fist against the control panel, but even though the overhead lights are still burning, the buttons have gone dark. This isn’t a power outage, it’s an elevator malfunction.

  She drops her coat and steps toward the doors, then stops. If she tries to open them, she will only let more water into the car. The only way out…is up.

  She lifts her gaze to the ceiling, where the exit hatch cover sits squarely in place…at her request. A hatch that can only be opened from the outside.

  Because I could not stop for Death—

  She trembles as her mind approaches an undeniable and dreadful understanding—

  He kindly stopped for me.

  In the hollow of her back, a single drop of perspiration traces the column of her spine. Shivering, she moves to the rear wall and as the water rises she hears herself repeating syllables as if she has been stricken by a spontaneous case of stuttering and will spend the rest of her life unable to stop speaking a single name: “Sonny!”

  6:00 p.m.

  CHAPTER 26

  Iknow why you risk your neck…because you’re afraid to risk your heart.

  Through a haze of pain and exhaustion, Eddie keeps hearing his sister’s voice. She speaks in the ripping wind, in the steady patter of rain dripping from a sagging ceiling tile, and in the fluttering rustle of papers blowing from an open doorway. He has collapsed in a leather chair that must have rolled from some secretarial desk; there’s a definite nail-polish stain on the armrest. It is a lovely chair, one he would happily occupy for at least a week, but three women are still in the building and he needs to help them.

  He forces his heavy eyelids open and squints toward the hallway. The stairwell has to be around the corner. All he has to do is pull himself out of this seat and walk, a feat that won’t be impossible, even in his condition. After all, he just climbed sixty feet with a broken leg.

  Incredulous: eleven letters; doubtful, skeptical, unconvinced.

  How the other techs will react when they hear his story.

  Michelle figures they have reached the twenty-sixth floor when Isabel hesitates on the landing. “I hope Mrs. Rossman made it downstairs.”

  Michelle laughs. “She’s probably pacing in the lobby, wondering why the Tampa police aren’t rushing to rescue her.” She winces as a twinge of guilt strikes. “I shouldn’t have said that. She went through a lot in that elevator.”

  They have just turned a corner when darkness engulfs the stairwell, an inky black broken only by the exit lights above each door.

  “We’d better hurry,” Michelle says, switching on the flashlight. “I don’t know how long the backup generators will last.”

  Together the women and the retriever start down yet another flight of stairs. As they walk, Michelle shines the light over the concrete walls around them. Despite the roar and rip of the storm, the stairwell has held firm.

  Isabel hesitates on the landing. “You think the hurricane is almost over?”

  Michelle checks her watch. “Why don’t you turn on the radio? Let’s see what’s happening out there.”

  Isabel pulls the CD player from her pocket and presses it into Michelle’s hand. “You will better understand.”

  Michelle stops walking long enough to adjust the dial and slip the earbuds into her ears. A moment later the scratchy voice of an announcer fills her head. “St. Petersburg is cut off from the rest of the state,” he intones in a voice that strikes Michelle as oddly triumphant, “and police estimate that downtown Tampa is under eighteen feet of water. The West Shore area is completely flooded.”

  The news strums a shiver from Michelle. She stops on the stairs. “Isabel?”

  “Yes?”

  “How do you feel about vending-machine food? I have a feeling we may be here a while.”

  A shy smile crosses the girl’s face. “I have a key to the Pierpoint Restaurant. Crackers, drinks, soup and canned goods—I know where they are kept.”

  “You’re a wonderful woman, Isabel.”

  They have just turned another corner when Sadie stops, her nose vibrating, her tail rising like a plume. Michelle steps back and elbows Isabel. “What does that mean?”

  “She is not growling. Maybe she hears a rat?”

  Before Michelle can speak to the dog, Sadie takes off, bounding down the steps. Michelle leans over the railing, searching the dim depths, but she can’t see anything.

  An instant later she hears a bark, an astonished cry and a yelp of pain—a yelp that sounds strangely human.

  She looks at Isabel. “Could that be—”

  She doesn’t wait for an answ
er.

  Eddie isn’t sure if he’s more pleased to see Sadie or the women. The dog throttles him with her welcoming jump, and the brunette does as much damage when she throws her arms around him.

  Though he tries not to groan, he can’t help releasing a restrained ooof when she squeezes his ribs. “Are you—” She pulls away. “Oh, my goodness, you’re hurt!”

  He attempts a smile, knowing that his expression probably looks more like a grimace with teeth in it. “I’m alive, and that’s what counts.” He is about to congratulate them on their escape when a sudden thought strikes. “What happened to the other lady?”

  The air around them vibrates with dread, then the brunette answers, “She stayed in the elevator.”

  “So she’s still up there?”

  “I don’t think so.” The woman’s voice vacillates between confidence and uneasiness. “She had us close the hatch so the elevator would move if the power came back on. And it did—we had lights for a while, maybe twenty minutes.”

  Eddie closes his eyes, trying to imagine what might have happened. The car would probably descend to the first floor, where it would get in step with the controller. With power, it would operate normally unless something shorted out the circuits….

  “Mrs. Rossman is okay, no?”

  Eddie looks up to answer the housekeeper’s question. “I hope so.”

  “We tried to get her to come with us,” the brunette says, her words coming in a rush. “But she wouldn’t budge.”

  The housekeeper averts her eyes, unwilling to join the conversation. The gesture arouses Eddie’s curiosity, but this is not the time or place for an interview.

  The brunette, who has retained control even in this situation, backs up and plays the flashlight over his face and the push broom he’s been using for a crutch. “Hold still a minute—let us have a look at you.”

  Eddie leans on the railing, unable to resist a rising feeling of gratitude. This corporate woman might be bossy and light-years out of his league, but at the moment it feels good to let someone look after him.

  “Good grief.” Her voice, coming from behind the flashlight, is flat with disbelief. “You’re as bruised as a hockey goalie.”

  Eddie squints into the light. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “How are you even walking around?”

  He extends his hand to block the bright beam. “There’s no drug like adrenaline.”

  The woman turns the light to the wall, leaving him momentarily blind, then her shoulder slides under his arm. “Throw that broom aside and lean on me, Mr. Eddie. Isabel and I are going to fix you up.”

  He tips his head back to study her face. “You know anything about setting broken bones?”

  For an instant confusion and fear mingle in her eyes, then a smile trembles over her lips. “Back in the holler, I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. I watched my daddy set the bone, so I know exactly what to do.”

  He snatches a wincing breath. “Who are you, lady?”

  “You,” she says, her breath warm on his neck, “can call me Shelly.”

  Michelle loses count of how many doorways they pass. With Sadie leading the way, she and Isabel drape Eddie’s arms over their shoulders and carry him down the steps. Adrenaline might have fueled his escape from the elevator shaft, but he feels more like dead weight with every passing floor.

  “Here,” Isabel finally says, nodding. “The eighth floor.”

  “About time.”

  Michelle supports Eddie while Isabel opens the door, then together they lead him to the lush lounge outside the Pierpoint Restaurant. A grand piano occupies the central space, but a leather sofa stretches against the wall and a thick carpet covers the floor…a carpet, Michelle notices, that is still dry.

  She moves her watch into the flashlight’s beam. Nearly seven o’clock, so the storm is probably swirling around them now.

  While Isabel leads Eddie to the sofa, Michelle shines the flashlight over the area. No windows, which is good, but no lights, either. The restaurant, however, has small candle lamps on each dining table. She and Isabel can gather enough to light this sheltered space.

  “We need lamps,” she tells Isabel. “We need to take a look at Eddie’s broken leg.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait?” Isabel rubs her arms. “There are big windows in the restaurant, so if we go in there to get lamps—”

  “The glass ought to hold,” Michelle assures her. “I remember when they redesigned the place, they put in windows that are supposed to be hurricane-proof. So we need to get the lamps and take care of Eddie’s leg before the bone starts to die.”

  A groan rises from the sofa as Isabel takes the flashlight and moves away. “Die?” Eddie asks. “Are you kidding?”

  Michelle turns in the darkness, hoping her voice will convey a confidence she doesn’t quite feel. “Isabel has a key to the restaurant, so we’re going to get lights, a cutting board and plastic wrap. I’m going to make sure the bone is straight, bracing it against the cutting board if I have to set it, then we’ll secure it with napkins and plastic wrap—”

  “And I’m supposed to live through this?”

  Michelle allows herself to laugh softly. “Don’t worry, Eddie. I’m also going to fetch a big bottle of brandy. You won’t feel a thing.”

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16

  11:00 a.m.

  CHAPTER 27

  Michelle dips a kitchen towel into a bucket of murky water and wishes someone in the Lark Tower had thought to fill a couple of bathtubs. She isn’t sure the building has any bathtubs, but right now she’d give her entire 401(k) for a cold bubble bath to relieve the sticky heat of this enclosed space.

  She presses the wet towel to the back of her sweaty neck and tries not to think about the bacteria that may be breeding in it. Isabel filled the bucket in the stairwell, happily reporting that the water level had dropped several feet during the night. “The only water remaining is probably the water that can’t get out,” Eddie answered, lifting his bottle in a salute. “Someone’s going to have to pump it out of the basement.”

  Michelle hopes they won’t be around to watch the pumping crews.

  After falling into an exhausted sleep last night, they woke to a changed world. Isabel awakened first and scoured the kitchen for supplies, returning with bread, crackers, cheese, batteries and bottled water. Over that fine breakfast, Eddie, looking even more battered than he had the night before, turned on the radio and repeated the news for Isabel and Michelle.

  Tampa had experienced a direct hit by a category-four hurricane. One-hundred-fifty-mile-per-hour winds had ravaged buildings up and down the coast. Tides had risen over twenty-three feet, flooding the downtown district, the international airport and the military base. More than a million people had safely evacuated and were waiting to hear from those who remained behind.

  Several fishing piers in Pinellas County had been washed away. Scattered looting had been reported in Tampa, Clearwater and St. Petersburg. Electrical power and telephones—landlines and cellular service—were out almost everywhere, and trees blocked many roads, hampering rescue efforts. Numerous tornadoes, spawned by the storm, wreaked peripheral damage in Lakeland, Plant City and Winter Haven.

  The Port of Tampa, the sole source of gasoline for Florida’s west coast, would be out of commission for several weeks. Due to the prolonged power outage, Hillsborough County’s eight hundred pumping stations had shut down, causing sewage to bubble up into city streets.

  Tampa General and St. Joseph’s hospitals, both of which had been built to withstand one-hundred-twenty-five-mile-per-hour winds, had been demolished. Downtown, the mayor’s office, city and county government centers, police headquarters, and the state and federal court buildings were all presumed uninhabitable.

  A helicopter flying over the downtown area reported mounds of shattered glass and asphalt on roads chewed up by the receding storm surge. Officials estimated that the sixty-six thousand people who worked in the downtown area would be out of
work for months. “Things are pretty bad downtown,” the pilot reported. “We hope the area was evacuated, because we didn’t see any survivors down there.”

  “Not all the news is bad,” Eddie added, smiling. “The county tax collector recently added a concrete bunker, an emergency generator and steel shutters to his office. He’s happy to report that all local tax records have been safely preserved.”

  Michelle brushed bread crumbs from her hands, then tossed her last crust to Sadie. “I guess we need to hang a flag or something out a window to let them know we’re here.”

  “Might be easier to wade down to the tax collector’s office.” Grinning, Eddie pulled the earbuds from his ears, then handed the radio back to Isabel. “We have supplies, so we’ll be luckier than a lot of people. Until they send someone down here, we can make like we’re at Scout camp or something.”

  Michelle noticed Isabel’s blank expression and smiled. “I don’t think I’m the only one who never went to Scout camp.”

  “No?” Eddie straightened and grimaced, revealing the pain he tried to hide. “Well, it’s all about survival and keeping a positive outlook. You search for the things you need, see if you can’t use whatever you have at hand, and make the most of what you have. Simple stuff.” The corner of his mouth dipped slightly when he looked at Michelle. “I’ve got to admit, at first I thought a woman like you wouldn’t know much about roughing it—”

  “Surprised you, didn’t I?” Michelle lifted her chin. “I think I’ve surprised myself.”

  She waited for him to come back with a smart-aleck retort, but he only smiled, winking the dimple in his left cheek. “I reckon you have.”

  Now she sits on a chair in the restaurant, trying to cool off as she looks through a gaping window at what used to be a bustling business district. The newscaster was right—a river of water swirls up what used to be Tampa Street, but the level is several feet below the waterline on adjacent buildings.