Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  Once he overcame his initial fears, movement through the facility had become easy. He had stolen three different sets of plans and, over several weeks, all the materials he would need. All but the explosive gelatin, which he made in a homemade lab in his apartment, a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook at his side.

  He had a job to do, and he intended to do it correctly.

  He had just finished snaking the No. 12 when he heard the sound of a voice not far behind him. The utility tunnels intersected throughout the complex, not only with other utility tunnels but with vertical utility shafts as well, the basement-to-rooftop chimneys that carried the same piping and conduits. He had to be careful. As the project neared completion, more and more legitimate electricians and inspectors would be traveling these tight passages. Where construction workers would not realize he was not a hired electrician, other electricians most likely would. He had to avoid them at all costs.

  With no way to tell who might be approaching, the man set off quickly down the tunnel. With practice he had become quite agile at moving through the tunnels, which to the laymen seemed almost impassable. He reached an intersection and turned left—north—now facing the older Pavilion C. These two pavilions were separated by a twelve-foot gap between their outside walls, except for the walkway on Level 1 and Spanner’s Drugs on Level 2. Their utility tunnels were not connected, as some other utility tunnels in the complex were.

  Reaching a vertical utility shaft a moment later, he hurried down the ladder grips mounted in the cement, the moist smell of clay filtering through his battered nose. He paused and listened. He was all alone. He had ditched whoever had been behind him.

  At Sub-level 1 he joined up with another tunnel and headed toward his stash. It was nearly midday. Nearly time to go to work on another column. For the past several days there had been some jackhammer work going on outside just after lunch. The noise made the perfect cover for his star-bit drill.

  He pulled down the cinder blocks carefully and aimed his headlamp into his makeshift storage area. He grabbed the drill and his longest extension cord. He had to discard the small amount of cement from the Tupperware and mix himself a fresh batch, using water from a plastic jug hidden there. After five minutes and a quick polish of the thick lenses, he was on his way again, the extension cord across his chest like a bandolier.

  15

  Laura Haff found a place to sit down. The fight in the grocery store had rattled her. She checked her shopping list. Tim had taught her to write notes, and a good thing, too, now that she was single. So much to do just to stay on top of things.

  She checked her list:

  Take girls to camp

  Food—milk, cereal, margarine, veggies, noodles, Kool-Aid, orange juice, tuna, popcorn, hot dogs, hamburger (1#), hamburger helper

  Drugstore—aspirin, Keze’s med., Tampax, dental floss Sandals?

  The nice thing about Yankee Green—even if it was too big, as everyone claimed—was that absolutely anything could be found within its walls. One-stop shopping, she thought, reminded of the many ads for the mall she saw every week: billboards, radio, television, newspapers.

  She had shopped closer to home until last week, when she had read about the frozen food and vegetable prices at Safeway. That was all it had taken. She changed her allegiance in one week from small store to mega-mall.

  On her one previous visit she had had no time to explore the enormous six-pavilion complex. Today, the kids would not be ready until noon and it was just after ten, so why not?

  The sound of the towering fountain relaxed her. It had taken her a full ten minutes to walk from the Safeway in Pavilion A to the Atrium in Pavilion C. She had passed replicas of New York streets, a life-sized model of the space shuttle, a few hundred stores, and few dozen restaurants. Like a movie scene of Paris, hundreds of shoppers sat around white patio tables, reading, eating, drinking, and chatting. The sound of the voices seemed to be absorbed by the relentless fountain.

  Laura had nearly passed this area by because as she arrived a large crowd had been watching a pair of costumed jugglers. She was not in the mood for crowds; she was feeling lonely, and crowds only made her feel more alone. When Laura felt as she did now, she longed for some quiet, reflective solitude to let her mind wander and grab what it would. The background hum of the fountain was perfect for that.

  But her mind focused on her children. Keze would need a doctor in a day or two if her cough didn’t improve. Laura wouldn’t let her swim until it did. The thought of a doctor made her think of money, which in turn reminded her of the large insurance settlement and what to do with it. Her father had suggested she invest it in mutual funds. Her brother, a broker, trusted the stock market and advised avoiding aerospace and buying blue chips: “Good steady growth potential and strong dividends,” he had told her.

  Tim had liked certificates of deposit. That’s where her money was now, growing at a modest rate. The account had earned nearly thirteen thousand dollars in interest. How strange, she thought, that with Tim gone the family now had more money than when he had been working. Her teaching salary, combined with the interest on the CDs, brought in over thirty thousand a year. They had a new car, a new VCR, and morning camp for the girls. All she needed now was Tim back.

  She worried for the girls. They would have to be told the truth. Shelly had come through it well so far, though Laura thought that perhaps she knew. Keze still occasionally asked where Daddy was.

  Laura glanced up at the changing patterns of the fountain. Beautiful. It seemed never to repeat itself. She wondered if she should repeat herself. Should she go on a “manhunt” as her friend Georgine constantly suggested? All the arguments were there, most importantly that the girls could use a man around the house. At their age, the loss of their real father had not yet had too much impact on them. In a few more years, acceptance of a new man around the house would be difficult for them.

  It had been over a year. For the first six months there had been no urges whatsoever. Lately, however…. Her physical desires were returning, no matter how hard she tried to keep them at bay. Her denials were finally being denied by nature. It hit her in waves, a week or two apart. Flashes of desire. Glimpses of guilt.

  In her heart she believed that no one could ever replace Tim. So what was the use? Georgine kept telling her that replacing Tim was not the idea; starting over was the idea. But starting over would require a change of heart.

  She looked up to the second level, well aware of the shoe store and the fact that Sam Shole worked there. Her palms began to sweat. Georgine had found out about Sam Shole and suggested to Laura that she simply walk into the store and buy a pair of sandals. “Check it out,” she had said. “What can it hurt? You’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in years. What’s wrong with that? You can’t shelter yourself forever.” Easy enough for Georgine to say.

  “May I get you something?”

  The sound of the waiter’s voice startled her. He wore a white coat with epaulets and a black bow tie. He looked silly. “The Garden Restaurant,” he explained, waving an arm dramatically. “We cater these tables. Would you like to see a menu?” He held it out for her.

  “No, thank you.”

  He nodded and walked on. He was young, perhaps twenty-two, broad-shouldered and handsome, yet he did nothing for her. She decided to move on. What good was sitting around here? She had errands to run.

  To Laura, a relative newcomer to the Green, it seemed as though every living person in the state of Massachusetts was shopping here. What astounded her was that the crowds were made up almost entirely of women like herself. Many dragged children along by one hand, a shopping bag in the other, a purse slung over a shoulder. And they all seemed to know where they were going. Could it be that she was the only woman new to this place?

  She located a large INFORMATION placard, which was bolted into the cement against the far wall. The color-coded map displayed a blue curved arrow marked YOU ARE HERE. It showed her which concourse of which
pavilion she was on and listed, by number codes, all the retail stores in the entire complex.

  Spanner’s Drugs was located on Level 2, East Concourse, the south end of Pavilion C. She tried to ignore the fact that it was only a few doors down from the shoe store where Sam Shole worked. She took her bearings and looked around the large structure. It had begun to rain, she deduced from the tangle of water streams that were being shed from a vented glass canopy high overhead.

  She wondered if someday people would live in cities like this, never seeing the out-of-doors, protected from a polluted environment, supplied with all the necessities and luxuries of life. She then recalled having read about penthouse apartments at the Green. It had already begun. Little numbers at first. But how long until this was the norm and a house on 6th Street the exception?

  She rode a glass-sided escalator up to Level 2, where a decent-sized crowd had gathered to watch a performance by two white-faced mimes. There was entertainment everywhere, she realized. Yankee Green truly was an amusement mall; it wasn’t just part of the advertising hype to lure people here. First the jugglers, now this. She glanced back at a large clock, the word TIMEX printed in boldface. She hadn’t seen a clock that size since Grand Central Station. An hour had passed since the grocery store. Incredible, she thought.

  After Spanner’s Drugs, she glanced again at her list. The bourbon and rum were for Georgine, who was throwing a party this weekend and knew the booze here was less expensive. Everything was less expensive here. Laura rarely drank alcohol, and then only a glass of wine. The liquor store was near the car. She made a mental note to pick up the booze later.

  Sandals? she read off her list. Shoe store, she thought. Why was she doing this?

  Georgine had convinced her that new clothes helped one to change attitude, start fresh. Georgine was big on starting fresh. Recently she had begun to tease Laura. “Sure haven’t seen that blouse before…. Get that skirt when we were in high school? Nice shoes, Laura. Those are from the Stone Age, aren’t they?” So Laura had been coaxed into shopping for a nice pair of white sandals to wear to Georgine’s party this weekend, if she got up the courage to go to it. She had a sneaking suspicion that George—as she called her—was more interested in matchmaking. First she had heard an awful lot about Tony somebody-or-other who worked with George’s second husband. Laura disliked the name Tony; she didn’t even want to meet the man. Then George had mentioned Sam Shole.

  Sam….

  What could it hurt to look at a few pairs of sandals?

  Laura edged closer to the store and scanned the dozens of shoes displayed, noticing a pair of white sandals she liked. He probably wasn’t even working today. Why worry about it? The sandals were on sale. She shrugged and headed for the open entrance. On sale. Why not?

  There he was.

  She stopped cold. He stood by an inside display, speaking to a salesman who wore a bright red name tag. The sight of Sam triggered a flood of memories. He hardly looked any different—the same Sam she had been madly in love with at the grand old age of seventeen. The same Sam with whom she had skinny-dipped out at the Corwin farm. Sam the basketball player. Sam the school vice-president. Sam, her last real heartthrob before Tim.

  She stepped back, away from the entrance, and moved to the side. She couldn’t go inside. She just couldn’t do it. She put her hand to her chest. Her heart was running out of control. Slow down, lady. She moved back against the railing and turned around, looking down at the Atrium with its trees and fountain, its mirrors and lights and miles of brass railings. The table she had been sitting at was now occupied by two women and three children. The same waiter was asking them the same question. She turned, took one step toward the shoe store, stopped, stepped back, and leaned against the railing again.

  Rain drummed against the overhead glass. She suddenly felt warm. She fanned herself, thinking, It’s just a pair of sandals. From here she couldn’t see inside the open store. She felt foolish. What could be wrong about buying a pair of sandals? What’s the big deal? He probably wouldn’t notice her anyway, and if he did, he’d never recognize her. She was a mature woman now—women change in ways that men don’t. Men are easy to recognize ten years later. Not so with women. Anyway, that had been years ago. It wasn’t as if they had feelings for each other now.

  Then why was her heart still racing?

  She spotted a sign indicating a public rest room a few doors down. She found her way down a short hallway, entered the cavernous lavatory, and headed straight for the mirror. She chastised herself for being so vain. She applied a fresh coat of nearly invisible lipstick. She brushed her hair. She tucked in her blouse and smoothed out the wrinkles. Ridiculous. She smiled and checked the spaces between her teeth. She wanted to pry herself away from the mirror, but brushed her hair once more before she did.

  “Got a date, hunh?” asked a woman to her right, also preening herself in the mirror. This woman wore bright red lipstick, no bra, and a shirt with a huge kiss on the front.

  Laura shrugged, uncomfortable with the woman’s looks.

  “Me too,” said the woman. “Sort of,” she added with a shrug and a forced smile.

  He won’t even notice, Laura thought.

  “You look great, hon.” The overbuilt woman slipped the lipstick into her purse and walked out of the rest room with full control over her lower half. Laura wondered how you could walk like that without dislocating your hips.

  She straightened her skirt. Her hands were clammy.

  A minute later she hesitated by the open doorway to the shoe store and then edged her way inside, quickly turning to face one of the displays.

  “Laura!” he called out from clear across the room. She wanted to run. Oh, God! She felt her face warm.

  She pretended to be searching for his name. She blurted out, “Sam… Sam Shole. Good grief!” He had already crossed the room to her. His strong, confident hands took her gently by the shoulders. He was quite tall, and nearly as fit as he had been ten years ago. Even more handsome. He bent down and kissed her cheek.

  She felt lightheaded.

  His expression changed to sympathy. He said softly, “I read about Tim. I’m so sorry.” He lit up. “But I’m certainly not sorry to see you. Let me look.” He stepped back, and his piercing blue eyes ran from ankle to earlobe. She thought her neck might set fire to her collar.

  “You’re lovely,” he said sincerely.

  “And you’re the same old charmer you always were.” She stepped aside to allow a patron to leave.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She shook her head and looked him in the eye. “It comes and goes.” She had always been able to talk to Sam about anything. It felt good to slip right back into it. “Listen to me. It’s like we’ve been friends for the past ten years. A lot has changed.”

  “A lot hasn’t.”

  They stared at each other, eyes searching.

  “How about you?” she asked, her heart drumming.

  “Partner in Fleet Street Shoes. Really hit the big time.”

  “Still putting yourself down, I see.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It looks terrific. It’s gigantic.”

  “Twelve hundred square feet.” He paused. “Pun intended,” he added.

  She forced a giggle. “Still making terrible jokes.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Same old Sam.”

  She couldn’t believe that two grown, mature people were staring at each other in a shoe store. She had two children, for heaven’s sake; why did she feel so damn vulnerable and young? “Sandals,” she finally said, breaking his stare. “I’m after a pair of those white sandals.”

  “Right.” He took her gently by the elbow. “Have a seat. What size?”

  “Five and half, six,” she said, sitting down and adjusting her skirt.

  “White? You’re sure? Red’s more your color; red or a bright blue. White’s too… too simple for you.”

  “White, I’m afraid.�
�� She blushed. “Yes. I need them to go with yellow slacks.”

  “White it is. Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  She caught her breath, noticed herself in a mirror that faced her, and adjusted a sprig of hair. Better now.

  He came out of the back with three boxes stacked in his arms. His size made the boxes look small. He set down the boxes and pulled up a stool to face her. “Okay,” Sam Shole said. He reached down and touched the back of her ankle to lift her foot.

  Laura experienced what felt like a bolt of warm fluid rush up the back of her calf to the inside of her knee, up her thigh, through her crotch, and into the hollow of her stomach, where it floundered and cooled. Instead of tensing, she felt her whole body relax. He had already pulled off her shoe and set it on the floor. He fiddled with a box, removed a left sandal, and took her foot softly into his hand again.

  The same thing happened all over again. She recalled how tender he had been with her, on that night at the Corwin farm, ten years before when they had been nervous teens in the first throes of petting. Perhaps that night was why she had sought him out. Was she after affection, or was she just testing the waters?

  “The only way you get into this business is by having a foot fetish.” He forced a smile.

  She wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

  He attempted an accent. “I’ve seen a lot of feet—miles of feet, as we say in the business—and yours are the nicest.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Only past high school sweethearts whom I’ve never forgotten.” He looked up quickly and then back down to the foot he held. “Stocking running time.” He tugged on the toe of her stocking and ran his finger between her big toe and the next toe over to make room for the stem on the sandal.

  She jerked slightly as his finger touched her there.