The Elevator. Angela Hunt
she listening to, mariachi music? In any case, she must be doing well. The managers of the Lark Tower take good care of their employees, even the foreigners.
She shifts her gaze as she thinks of the Hispanic families Sonny has insured over the years. Many of the Cubans in Tampa’s Ybor City are quite prosperous; she’s lost count of the quinceañeras she and Sonny have attended to celebrate the fifteenth birthdays of clients’ daughters. Those people spare no expense to honor their blossoming young women; they spend buckets of money on food, bands and party dresses.
If only they spent as much insuring their belongings and their loved ones. How many will be adequately covered if Felix rips their homes apart?
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