Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “I’ve already signed in,” he says, gesturing to a computer keyboard on top of the counter. “You need to show ID, and then we’ll get started. Shouldn’t take long.”

  The blue-coated security guard looks up from an array of tiny television screens arranged in a flickering patchwork in front of him. Beneath it, a single, smaller, separate screen, plugged into an extension cord snaking under the desk. The Red Sox game. “Bags,” the guard says, half an eye still on the game. “Have to lock ’em up. Electronics? Phone, pager, beeper? Metal? Has to stay here.”

  “Playing the Yankees, right?” I’m trying to be congenial. “Not a big archive day, I guess.” I hand him my purse and tote bag, silently lamenting the loss of my connections to the outside world. I’d better not miss a call from Will.

  “Yup,” the guard answers. He drags his eyes from the screen as he waves me to the metal detector. “Place is pretty deserted.”

  I walk slowly under the metal structure without a beep, but the guard still brandishes another detector wand down my front, and up my back. From my quick tour through the Mass.gov website, I know the building holds three hundred years of history, documents from the original thirteen colonies, Civil War muster lists, handwritten transcripts of the Salem witch trials. I guess the security is understandable. The guard, straining toward his tiny TV, seems more interested in hitting than history. I watch for Tek to pass inspection, but he flashes his attorney general’s ID, and the guard opens a metal gate and lets him pass.

  “Here you go, gotta wear these at all times inside,” the guard says. He reaches under the counter and pulls out two pale blue packages, handing one to each of us. They look like just-washed shirts from a commercial laundry. I’m confused, but Tek rips open the plastic and shakes out a cotton dust jacket with buttons up the front, and long sleeves.

  “Government issue,” Tek says, putting his arms through the sleeves. He ignores the buttons. “Probably not up to your usual fashion standards. But it’s all about protecting our taxpayers. Can’t have people leaving here filthy with the dust from long-untouched document boxes.”

  I hold up my archive-wear by the shoulders, imagining I Love Lucy in that candy factory scene. “Very retro,” I say. “Do we get special shoes, too?”

  “Gloves,” the security guard says. We’re each issued smaller white packets. “Wear ’em if you want to, got to if you’re headed for the historicals.” He checks what looks like a schedule book, open on the counter. “You’re not registered for that, though.”

  Tek tucks his gloves into a pocket, and I follow his lead. “No,” Tek says. “We’re only going to the attorney general’s section.”

  “Dump ’em all in the linen chutes when you’re done,” the guard says, opening the door to the rest of the building. “Check out here before you leave. Getcher stuff.” He’s back at the ball game before the door closes behind us.

  Tek and I enter a long straight corridor. White-painted cinder-block walls are interrupted by a series of doors, identical except for stenciled letter and number markings. Tek walks confidently, apparently certain of where he’s leading me.

  “It’s a couple of pods away,” he says, as if I know what a pod is. I wonder how he can still look so cool, even wearing what could pass for a 1950s housecoat. “We’ll have to dig out the boxes from an inside section, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  I accelerate to a little trot, working to keep up with his long strides. We walk through the archives’ institutionally monotonous and monochromatic halls. I see only a few other visitors, all dressed in identical government-issue blue jackets, some wearing the white gloves. “It’s kind of like the Twilight Zone,” I say, partly because it is and partly because it seems we ought to be having a conversation. “Or a hospital.” This reminds me I haven’t called Mom yet today. Next on my list.

  We approach a stainless steel elevator and Tek swipes his ID card through a bracket by the doors. A square button lights up red, then flashes green. “You come here often?” I try again to connect, hoping he’ll be amused by what’s usually a pickup line.

  “Swampscott PD files aren’t stored here, but I’ve been around,” Tek says, looking at his watch. “When the A.G. needs records, he usually just sends a messenger.” He cocks his head. Suddenly his demeanor changes. I remember the smoldering look he gave me in front of the statehouse. “You’re getting the special treatment, though, Miz McNally. Your tax dollars at work.”

  The doors slide open, not to an elevator, but revealing a moving walkway like the ones in the terminals at Logan Airport. “Hop on,” Tek instructs. “And hold the rail. Most visitors have to walk. But this takes us right to the annex. Like I said, your tax dollars at work.”

  The walkway carries us past a bank of windows. At least now I don’t have to try to keep up. For someone I once thought was trying to win me over, even flirting, Tek’s now harder to read. Maybe he’s changed his tactics. Maybe he’s still devising them.

  “Tek’s an interesting name,” I say, partly because I’m curious and partly because it’s the only thing I can think of that’s not business but not too personal. “Is it—short for something?”

  The walkway is ending. With a quick motion, Tek steps off, and onto solid ground. He holds out a hand, offering to assist me.

  “Detective,” he says. He keeps my hand infinitesimally longer than necessary as I hop off the moving conveyor. “Tek is short for Detective. And I’ll tell you my real name—if you tell me yours.”

  Taking my hand back, I’m briefly flustered by his touch, and somewhat frustrated, because what should be an uncomplicated situation seems to be getting more complicated by the moment. And just to prove I’m right, now I have to go to the bathroom.

  * * *

  Where’s Tek? Frowning, I look both ways as the door marked W clicks closed behind me. Peering down the hallways, I realize that’s about the only door with an understandable designation. The others all have those letters and numbers. Except, of course, for the one marked M, which is probably where Tek’s gone.

  I lean against the wall, waiting for him to emerge. The low-ceilinged hallways, lined with low-watt fluorescent tubing, are silent, uninhabited. I briefly wonder about the annex Tek was talking about. How long will it take to pull the documents and photos I need? My frown returns. This is taking too long.

  I wonder if he’s all right. There’s no reason for him not to be all right, of course, and checking my watch, I see it’s only been five minutes. Maybe seven, since I came out. But that’s too long. If something is wrong, he’s sick, or he fell, or, I don’t know. And if I was just standing here the whole time …

  I turn and knock, tentatively, on the door marked M. “Tek?” I say. I pause, waiting for him to yell he’s okay. But there’s no response. Maybe I didn’t knock loudly enough. Taking a deep breath, I knock again, louder, and again call his name. “Tek? You in there?” With a final breach of everything we learned in grade school, I push open the door, looking but not looking. Of course if anyone else is in there, they would have answered when I knocked. Probably.

  The room is stark and silent. And empty. No sprawled body on the ground, no feet showing under the stall doors, no invasion of privacy for a surprised ex-cop.

  Okay, fine. Plan B. So what’s the deal? I play back our conversation and remember Tek said we were “almost there.” Maybe he’s just gone on to the storage room. Thinks he told me where it is or figures I can find it.

  I continue in the direction we were walking, examining the look-alike doors to see if there’s anything I recognize, or any sign of where I am or where I should be going. But all the doors are identical. Indistinguishable. And closed. No sign of anyone.

  I try a couple of doors, at random, figuring someone might be inside, or there might be a phone, but one after the other, they’re locked. I’m having some sort of Through the Looking Glass moment, in a place that should feel safe and ordinary but instead is tauntingly surreal. Tek can’t just vanish. And what�
��s behind all these locked doors? I rattle each doorknob in turn, annoyed, frustrated, and getting angrier by the second. Damn Tek. He couldn’t wait two more minutes for me to come out? And now I’m—a door opens. And I take one step inside.

  The murky and flickering fluorescent lights are on and the windowless room is filled with steely gray file cabinets, identical, floor to ceiling. I hesitate, listening. “Tek?” I say. The sound echoes though the room and I can hear it’s not quite my normal voice. No answer.

  Leaving the door open, I check an elaborate fire exit chart in the hall. “You are here,” I read. “Right. I know that. Question is, where is everyone else?”

  I head back through the warren of file cabinets, noticing they all seem to be labeled with numbers and dates. I give a halfhearted tug at one file cabinet handle. Locked. As the map in the hall promised, there’s another door in the rear. That opens, no problem, and I’m out in another hallway intersection. Left, right and straight ahead. Who the hell knows which way to choose?

  Ahead it is.

  I’m infuriated. The fronts of my thighs ache from trying not to slide on the linoleum-slick hallways. My heels are noisy. I’m starving. And I’m lost, lost, lost. In one more minute, I’m going to retrace my steps and head back to the guard’s desk. And there’ll be some explaining to do.

  Was that—footsteps?

  “Tek?” I call again. I stop, listening. No answer. The only sound is the buzz of the lights and some faint hum of air-conditioning. Shaking my head, I begin my trek back to the lobby—and then, unmistakably this time, footsteps.

  My shoulders sag in relief. Tek’s probably looking for me, too. We should have made a plan. At least this will be a funny story. If we decide to tell it. “Tek?” I call out. “Not funny! Where’d you go?”

  Trying to track the sounds, I walk slowly, one tentative step at a time, toward the footsteps. At the hall intersection, I see a fish-eyed traffic mirror, set almost ceiling high. Reflected from far down the dimly lighted hall, I see the blue jacket I know Tek’s wearing.

  Shaking my head, ready to share our archives adventure, I feel my whole body relax. The blue-coated figure comes closer. Walking faster, then breaking into a trot. Then I see he’s also wearing the white gloves. And a ski mask. The man—I guess it’s a man—begins to run. Holding something. A gun? I’m not going to wait and see.

  I turn, confused and terrified, and blindly run in the other direction. Down one hall, then another, my bearings, if I ever had any, completely lost. My damn shoes, clopping like castanets, amplify every step and echo thorough the corridors. I pause, catching my breath, and rip them off. Barefoot and terrified, and holding both shoes in my hands, I race around another corner, touching the wall to keep my balance as I careen through the maze of corridors. This has all got to come out somewhere. Someone’s got to be here.

  I skid around another corner. My blue jacket flapping, my T-shirt coming untucked, my bare feet sticking to the cool linoleum, one shoe in each hand.

  And there he is.

  Two strong hands grip my wrists. I squeeze my eyes closed and snap my hands down and away, the one move I remember from a self-defense class. “Use what weapons you have,” I can hear the teacher saying. And I do have weapons. I clench my shoes, heels down, and with a yell that’s half fear and half rage, bash both stiletto heels right between his legs.

  I hear a satisfying howl as—whoever it is—doubles over in what I can only hope is excruciating pain. I manage to yell “get away from me” at him as I take off down the hall.

  Minutes go by. I know I can’t keep running. I pause, listening intently. Nothing. Maybe I should find another open door—but that’s stupid; if I can get in, he can get in. If whoever it is gets in, I’m trapped. I prop myself up against the hallway wall, breathing hard, palms on my knees, one shoe still dangling from each hand.

  Was it Tek? I try to remember how tall the person was. I can’t. I know he had on jeans. I think he did. Some eyewitness I turned out to be. That blue jacket, and the gloves, certainly. Like everyone else in the building. I know Tek wasn’t searched after he showed his badge, so he could have had a gun. And if it isn’t Tek, where is he, anyway? And what might have happened to him?

  Maybe he’s waiting. Waiting until I make a move. But I have to move. I dash down another hall, my eyes swimming with tears. Am I going toward “out”? Or farther in? Am I going in circles? And is whoever it is waiting for me? Or gone? Doesn’t know who I am in the first place? Just hanging around the archives in a ski mask. Right.

  Where the hell is everyone? The flashing red lights of a smoke alarm give me one idea—a worthless one. I have nothing to set on fire. I run nearer the red light, figuring where there’s a fire alarm, there’s an exit. Instead, there’s a smoke alarm with a red light and a—what?

  A security camera. Problem is, if I scream for help, it’ll only let whoever it is know where I am. And the damn security cameras have no audio anyway. Hoping the security guard’s not completely transfixed by baseball, I pretend to scream. I plant myself in front of the camera lens, jumping up and down. Waving my hands. “Help! Help!” I silently mouth into the camera. Clutching my throat with both hands, I pantomime disaster, which isn’t so difficult, since this is a disaster. I look in all directions, making sure no one’s coming up behind me. Or in front of me. I have to keep running. The guard should be seeing me. Where are the damn exit signs?

  I pick another hallway, trotting now, realizing with an additional flash of concern that running might just bring me closer to whoever is after me. If he—she?—is still after me. Every time I see a security camera, I stop, waving and holding my throat, silently screaming for help. But there’s nothing. And no one. The bad news and the good news.

  Just another length of hallway, door after door, stretching out. And then I see one more thing. A metal opening in the wall. A silver door about the size of a big-screen TV with a black knob that’s labeled Pull.

  Linen Chute, it says.

  Where the security guard told us to—where is he anyway? Told us to drop our jackets. I stand in front of the shiny metal door, my lips pressed tight together, assessing the odds. I know the building only has one floor. How far can it be to the basement? And there’s gotta be a basement exit.

  What are the chances there’s a big fluffy laundry basket at the bottom? Pretty good. If today’s pickup hasn’t already been made, the sane part of my brain reminds me. Still, at least I know where this door goes.

  I swing it open. Yeah, I know where it goes. Down. Down into the yawning darkness. Like an evil, narrow, suffocating tunnel. I flash back to my fan the toll taker, who was so supportive and enthusiastic and who completely believes I’m brave. This is for you, then, Edith-with-a-Y-and-an-E. One foot at a time, I swing myself into the metal cylinder. Clutching my shoes and praying there’s no concrete floor or hidden triple-story basement below, I slide into the unknown.

  * * *

  I open my eyes slowly. Mentally checking for breaks, pains, twists or any part of me that isn’t where it should be or hurts more than it ought to. Nothing. I’m sprawled on my back, clutching my shoes. Safe in a puffy nest of discarded blue jackets sprinkled with white gloves. I look around the dingy walls of the basement, my eyes tingling in the musty surroundings, my nose beginning to twitch with the dust and accumulated pungency of a pile of dirty laundry. Potentially lifesaving laundry.

  Glowing on the wall across from me, a red sign, showing perhaps the most reassuring word I’ve ever seen: EXIT. Holding on to one side, I clamber out of my jacket-filled laundry bin, swinging one leg over the side, then the other, then I hop to the ground. I scoot my feet back into my black sling-backed weapons and head for the exit door.

  * * *

  For the second time today, I march across the parking lot toward the sliding glass doors of the archives entrance. I’m steaming with anger and I’m more determined than ever now to see those damn photos. My theory? There ain’t no photo array in that box. Which is
no doubt why someone was trying to stop me from seeing it. And whoever that is certainly doesn’t expect me to pursue it. Wrong.

  The glass doors to the archive lobby slide open. I see Tek, arms crossed, leaning back on the guard’s desk, facing the door. Waiting for me?

  Tek stands with a start. I can see he looks worried as he comes toward me, arms outstretched. “My God, Charlie,” he begins. “I couldn’t figure out where—are you all right?”

  I stop, assessing, ready to take a step backward. Ready to run. I see Tek’s hair is perfect, his clothes unrumpled. He’s dumped his blue jacket. And there’s no ski mask in sight. Or gun. He has on jeans and so did the person in the hall. But so do I. So does half the planet.

  Tek comes closer and touches me on one shoulder. “Where the hell—”

  “Where the hell were you?” I interrupt, twisting myself away. “I was in the bathroom for about two seconds. When I came out, you had vanished.” I clench my fists, looking at the floor, my stomach churning with indecision and fear. “And then—”

  Tek grabs my elbow, exactly the wrong thing to do. Again, I yank my arm away. “You vanished,” I hiss. “And then someone—”

  Tek holds up both hands, surrendering to my attack. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he says, backing away. “I went to room G156, just like I told you. I waited for you there.” He shakes his head, as if thinking back. “I figured there was some female thing in the bathroom, but after a while, when you didn’t show up, I went in to check. And you weren’t there. I came back to the security desk to wait for you, figuring that’s what you did, too.”

  “So didn’t you see me? Calling for help on those snazzy high-priced security cams?” I try to keep my voice even, but my words are spitting out, taut and tense. “Someone was chasing me. Someone who I think had a gun.” I could swear Tek didn’t tell me a room number. I think. He trails after me as I stalk to the security desk, questioning him over my shoulder. “You were here? And you didn’t see me? On any of those stupid cameras?” I turn to the guard. “What the hell are you guarding, anyway? First base? Did you see me? Did you see anyone leave?”