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Gina folds her arms. Ordinarily she wouldn’t be aware of the other passengers in an elevator, but today she needs to notice everything. If the police ever launch an investigation into Sonny’s death, they’ll try to track down anyone who was in the building today.
The maid is not likely to be a threat. Many of Tampa’s Hispanics are transient; this woman may not even be around by the time Sonny’s case is investigated.
No need to worry about the maid, then. The brunette is a different story. With her, Gina should be polite, but detached. She should stay calm and try not to do anything that might stick in the woman’s memory.
She slides her right hand back into her pocket and curls her fingers around the pistol. She will warm it with her flesh, prepare it for the task ahead.
She must be patient and courageous. In less than five minutes she’ll be facing her husband; in less than ten minutes he’ll be dead.
She frowns at a sudden thought. How thick are the walls in this building? If either of these women hears the shot, will they assume they are hearing some noise associated with the approaching storm or will they run for help? Gina has never heard a live gunshot, but she’s read that distant gunfire often sounds like firecrackers. Surely no one would think it remarkable to hear a vague pop or two amid the howling of the wind.
She tilts her head and looks at the two women—neither of them look like the hero type, but maybe she ought to sit and chat Sonny up while these ladies do whatever they’ve come up here to do. Fifteen minutes of polite talk about the kids ought to be enough time…. Or maybe she should let Sonny know she found his secrets in the safe. After he’s had a chance to rattle off his excuses and protestations, she can give him the bullet he deserves.
A wry smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Letting Sonny have a last word…why, that’d be more than fair. That’d be absolutely honorable.
After the deed is done, she might linger in Sonny’s office, giving the hurricane time to move closer. The police are already so strained it’s unlikely anyone will be dispatched if a shot is reported, but she shouldn’t take any chances.
While she waits, she’ll wipe her prints off the pistol and drop it on the floor. No one will think it strange that a successful downtown businessman was carrying his legal, registered weapon on a day like this. The scenario will make perfect sense—looters caught her workaholic husband in his office after the building had been evacuated. Sonny pulled out his gun; a trespasser wrested it away from him; Sonny caught a bullet. The murderer wiped the weapon clean and dropped it before leaving the office suite.
What could be more logical?
So she will proceed with her plan…even if it means spending an extra hour with a dead husband. Sonny’s been dead to her these last few months, anyway. When he does come home, he spends his time in his den, watching TV and reading the paper….
She can’t remember the last time he looked into her eyes and asked her opinion about anything.
Like that mother who drowned her children and then lined them up on the bed, Gina might pull Sonny into his executive chair, adjust his tie and roll him closer to the vulnerable windows. The windows might break in the storm, and water would do its part to eradicate any trace evidence she might leave—
She blinks as the overhead lights flicker and the elevator shudders to a stop. She looks at the panel—the thirty-six has gone dark. The seven is still lit, but they’ve been traveling far too long to be near the seventh floor. Because the twenty-five has not yet lit, she can only assume they have stopped somewhere between the seventh and twenty-fifth floors.
The brunette looks up and catches her eye. “This can’t be good.”
Gina doesn’t answer. As long as the lights remain on, they have power. As long as they have power, surely the elevator can move.
Without speaking, she steps in front of the brunette and presses the button for the thirty-sixth floor. The button won’t light and the car doesn’t budge.
“Let’s try this.” The brunette pulls her access card from the pocket of her jeans and slips it into the slot, then presses the thirty-six with a manicured fingertip. As some unseen power source hums, the car begins to rise.
Gina exhales the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The brunette leans against the far wall and grimaces. “That’d be just what we need, wouldn’t it?”
Gina watches the elevator panel. They’re still rising in the concrete shaft, but the twenty-five has not yet lit.
Behind her, the cleaning woman barks another cough. Gina grimaces and hopes the maid doesn’t have avian flu or some other awful disease. Ventilation is terrible in elevators; what one person exhales, another inhales.
She stares at the twenty-five on the elevator panel, willing the button to light.
The brunette lifts her head, doubtless about to utter some other scintillating bon mot, then the lights flicker again; the elevator stops and darkness swallows the car.
9:00 a.m.
CHAPTER 7
Cold terror sprouts between Michelle’s shoulder blades and prickles down her backbone. Not even a glimmer of light remains in the enclosed space.
She presses her hand to her chest, which has begun to suffer short, stabbing pains. She hasn’t felt these invisible arrows in years, but she knows the paralyzing pricks of panic all too well.
Get a grip, count to ten, breathe deeply. You’re a grown woman and everything’s fine; this is an elevator, not the trailer.
Sounds trickle into the car, a faint buzz followed by a steady tick. When a small bulb on the elevator panel blooms into light, Michelle inhales an unsteady breath and looks at the others. The housekeeper’s fear is visible in her trembling chin and wide eyes, but the redhead’s face is as blank as a mask. Something about the woman ignites a spark from Michelle’s memory cells, but after an instant the ember burns out.
When she is certain she can speak in a steady voice, she asks, “Are we all right?”
The redhead doesn’t respond, but the cleaning woman pulls the earbuds from her ears and dips her chin in a solemn nod.
“Then let me see if I can get us out of here.”
All the buttons on the elevator panel remain dark. Michelle presses the thirty-six, but the car doesn’t respond. She tries again with her access card in the security slot, but none of the buttons light at her touch, not even the L for Lobby. Finally she punches the Door Open button with her knuckle and holds it while she counts to five.
Nothing.
She slowly exhales a breath. She will not panic. There’s a light; she can see; she is no longer a child. No one here wants to hurt her.
She turns to the others. “Gus mentioned occasional blackouts—” she forces a smile “—so I’ll bet that’s what this is. As soon as the power kicks on, we’ll start moving again.”
She glances from Ms. Trench Coat to the housekeeper, but her companions are as unresponsive as the elevator controls.
“This same thing happened to me a few months ago.” In an effort to ease the tension, she locks her hands behind her back and leans against the wall. “I was stuck with a group of lawyers for about fifteen minutes. No big deal, except they kept arguing about who they should bill for their lost time.”
Neither woman smiles, leaving Michelle to wonder if they belong to some legal eagles’ antidefamation league. The redhead stares at the control panel as if she could diagnose the dead circuits with X-ray vision. The cleaning woman takes a tissue from her sweater pocket and blots pearls of perspiration from her forehead.
“Excuse, please?” The housekeeper lifts her hand and points to the light fixture on the panel. “We have light, no? So we have electricidad?”
“We have some power,” Michelle says, relieved that she is no longer talking to herself. “When I moved into my office, the building manager said something about the emergency systems being powered by a backup generator. We’ll be fine. We just have to wait for the main system to come back on. Of course—” she raps the plastic dome over the light with her knuckle “—for all I know, this thing might be powered by batteries.”
The woman nods, but a worry line has crept between her brows. “When power comes back—we will go down?”
Michelle shrugs. “I would imagine we’ll keep going up, since we were heading in that direction. But what does it matter? As long as we make it to any floor, we can open the doors and get to the staircase. So we’re fine. Maybe we should even be grateful. At least we’re not falling to the bottom of the shaft.”
She chuckles at her feeble joke, but the sound dies in her throat when the cleaning woman’s round face ripples with anguish.
“Don’t worry,” Michelle hastens to add. “This elevator is not going to fall. That only happens in bad movies.”
The housekeeper acknowledges Michelle’s comment with a slight nod, but Ms. Trench Coat either doesn’t appreciate Michelle’s attempt at humor or she’s not listening.
Michelle crosses her arms and leans against the wall, not certain where to rest her gaze. The little lamp is now glowing at maximum wattage, a token effort that doesn’t eliminate the shadows at the back of the car.
Michelle faces the doors and clenches her hand until her nails slice into her palm. Shadows and closed spaces elicit far too many painful memories.
“Michelle Louise Tills! Where are you, girl?”
The girl wriggled forward, digging her elbows into the soft earth, pulling her body through the narrow space. Dust and dirt rose with every movement, tickling her nose, but she would not sneeze. She wouldn’t make a sound, not as long as Momma waited out there.
“Where are you, Shelly? You’d better come out before I have to come lookin’ for you.”
Shelly moved deeper into the shadows, the raspy voice scraping like a razor’s edge against the back of her neck. Beyond the lattice apron, a blue warbler perched in the tall pine at the edge of the lot, calling Zhee zhee zizizizi zzzzeeet.
Shh, bird. Don’t tell.
“Shel-leeeeeey! I’d better not find you messin’ around with those boys!”
Past the fraying lawn chairs, the sun warmed the asphalt drive where the Smith boys were playing keep-away. The girl could hear Job Smith’s voice ricocheting among the trailers as he teased his younger brother, calling him noodle arms and stork legs….
“Shelly Louise! You get out here this minute or I’ll—well, you get out here. I’m losin’ my patience!”
Her mother’s words, pitched to reach the edge of the lot and no farther, were already softly slurred and she hadn’t even begun what she called “serious drinkin’.” In a while, if the girl was lucky, the woman would give up and go inside the trailer, forgetting about her child while she focused on the tall bottle of amber-colored liquid that demanded every drop of a worshipper’s devotion.
Shelly dropped her arms onto the soft dirt, then rested her cheek on her hands. If she could lie perfectly, soundlessly still, maybe she could become invisible. Maybe she could go away and wake up as someone else’s little girl.
Her mother’s slippers shuffled from the last porch step to the lawn chairs, her pale legs casting twin shadows that stretched toward Shelly like tongs. Instinctively, the girl recoiled, lifting her head so quickly that it clunked against the bottom of the trailer.
She squinched her eyes shut as the top of her head throbbed. Pretty, pretty please, don’t let her hear.
When Shelly lifted one eyelid, her mother was crouched on all fours, eyes hard and shining through the lattice at the bottom of the trailer. “Young lady, get yourself out here right now.”
Shelly put her hands over her eyes and wished the image away. A minute passed, maybe two. She breathed in the scents of earth and dust while the Smith boys laughed and the warbler sang so maybe everything was all right—
When she lifted her gaze, her mother was sucking at the inside of her cheek while her thin brows rose and fell like a pair of seesaws. “Shelly! You don’t want me to have to come in there after you.”
Dread gave the girl courage. “Go away!”
“Michelle Louise! I’m gonna count to three and you’d better be out here! You don’t want to test me, girlie. One! Two! Three!”
Though a warning voice whispered in her head, Shelly didn’t move. She waited, shivering from a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air, until her mother straightened up and moved away.
Could winning be that easy? Momma was a proud woman, in those days as protective of her reputation as she was of her liquor bottles. A good woman never drank in public, she often assured Shelly, and a good woman took care of her man and her kid before she took care of herself.
The girl looked toward the gravel driveway, where her father’s pickup wasn’t. Daddy was still at the mine; he wouldn’t be home until after dark.
She’d come out if he were here. She’d climb into his arms and ride his bony hip into the house. She’d be happy to see him, even if they found Momma passed out on the sofa. Her daddy loved her, but he was rarely home.
She had just buried her face in her folded arms when new sounds reached her ear—the steady swish of tall grass and the heavy heh, heh, heh of a panting animal. Shelly spun on her belly, turning toward the gap in the lattice where she had wormed her way in.
She saw her mother’s legs scissoring through the grass, accompanied by four brown-and-white paws, a small head, a snarling muzzle and two rows of jagged teeth.
“I’ve got Harley,” her mother called, a victorious edge to her voice. “And I’m gonna let him go if you don’t come out this instant. What’s it gonna be, Michelle Louise? Shall I send Harley in after you?”
For an instant the girl couldn’t speak. The neighbor’s pit bull haunted her nightmares and often drove her from peaceful sleep into her father’s arms. Harley had never actually threatened her, but he bore an unfortunate resemblance to a dog that had attacked her once, pinning her to the ground while it ripped at her upper lip.
A thin scar still marked the spot.
“No, Momma.” Torn between her desire to surrender and her fear of the waiting beast, Shelly rose as high as she could. “I’ll come, Momma, but get rid of the dog.”
“He’s stayin’ right by my side until you walk yourself through that front door.”
“Momma, I’ll come, but I don’t like that dog.”
“I’m not gonna argue with you, Shelly. Get your fanny out from under there and get in the house.”
Shelly gulped down a sob and crawled forward, then froze when the dog lifted his head, ears pricked to attention. When he growled deep in his throat, she knew he could see her…or he smelled her fear.
Dogs know, the Smith boys had told her. Dogs know when you’re scared of ’em. When they smell your fear, they’ll attack ’cause they know they can take you down.
“Momma?” She bit the inside of her lip and looked toward the pale legs. She could see the edge of the housecoat, a blue fabric scattered with white daisies. “Momma, take Harley away and I’ll come out.”
A fly, drawn by her sweat, hit her face and bounced away, then circled and landed on her cheek.
“Momma?”
“I’m still here.” Her mother’s voice had gone flat, almost pleasant. Anyone passing by might have thought she was waiting to give her daughter a welcome-home hug.
Harley growled and pulled at the leash. Shelly rocked back on her haunches, one hand pressed to her mouth as a cry bubbled up from someplace in her chest. She tried to choke off the sound, but she failed and began to sob in a high, pitiful, coughing hack. “Ma-ma! I—can’t—come—with—”
“Stop your cryin’, Shel, I didn’t raise no coward. I’ll hold the dumb dog—you get yourself out here right now.”
“But—I—can’t—”
“If you don’t, I’m letting Harley go. Wonder how long it’ll take him to wiggle under there and tear you up? I saw him get a possum the other day. Even though the critter played dead, he tore that thing to pieces. Not a pretty sight, not a’tall.”
Shelly fell forward and began to creep toward the lattice on shaking limbs. No sense in talking now; her mother had won…again.
She crawled over the dirt, every atom of her being cringing in revulsion, and trembled as she approached the gap in the lattice. Her mother stood ten feet away, one hand on her hip, one arm extended as Harley strained at the leash.
Squatting in the opening, Shelly swiped at her wet cheeks with grimy hands, then launched herself upward and ran for the front porch as if her feet were afire. When she reached the bottom step she heard the thrum of the pit bull’s pounding paws; by the time she passed the threshold the dog was on the porch and snapping at the screen door while her mother watched from the grass and…laughed.
Shelly ran into the bathroom, hiccupping as she washed her hands. She tried her best to clean up, but she couldn’t get the muddy streaks off the counter or the towels.
Maybe it was the mud that did it, or maybe Momma was past caring about anything but being mad. Without a word, she grabbed Shelly by the arm, pulled her through the living room and thrust her into the linen closet. At the bottom, beneath the shelf where they kept the good sheets, was a space just big enough for Shelly to sit with her knees bent up and her head bent low.
That space—and its darkness—were as terrifying as the dog. “Momma—”
“Hush, Shelly. Get in there.”
“Momma, no.” She knew she shouldn’t touch Momma with damp hands, muddy arms and dirty clothes, but in a desperate plea for mercy she threw herself onto her mother’s frame, shaping herself to the woman’s body, clinging like a shadow. “Momma, Momma, I don’t like the dark—”
“Don’t be a baby.” Her mother’s iron fingers pulled and pried while her feet pushed Shelly into the closet.
“Momma, no!”
“And stop that screamin’. The more you scream, the longer I’m leavin’ you in here.”
