“Got it,” the man said. “I’m free.”
Balenger heard scraping sounds as the man resumed crawling.
“I reached some old steps!” Ortega called.
Thank God, Balenger thought, unable to catch his breath. Tasting dust, pressing his stomach to the ground, he squirmed forward.
His heart twitched when something held him back. His jacket was caught on a brick above him.
“Keep the flashlight steady!” Ortega called back.
“Yeah, steps!” the man behind Ortega cheered. “I see them!”
Balenger felt the brick move against his back.
“We’ll soon be out of here.” The actor in front of Balenger squirmed ahead.
The brick came loose, weighing on Balenger. More dirt trickled.
“Frank!” Ortega called back. “What’s wrong?”
Balenger didn’t dare speak for fear the vibration would dislodge more bricks.
“Why did you stop?” Ortega’s voice echoed.
Another brick weighed on him.
“My God, does it ever feel good to lift my head,” the actor in front of Balenger said. “I see a door!”
“Frank?” Ortega called.
As panic seized him, Balenger almost shrieked. A third brick shifted. Dust filled his nostrils. He eased forward an inch. Dirt pressed against his shoulder blades.
“Frank?”
The roof squeezed down on him. He needed more strength to pull forward. Bricks sank onto him. Abruptly, he couldn’t bear the weight any longer. The air was so stale, he feared he’d suffocate. Inwardly wailing, he squirmed faster, and suddenly more dirt fell. He crawled in a frenzy, bricks striking his legs, dirt collapsing, and he was shrieking out loud now, shoving with his knees, pulling, digging with his elbows, lunging, his legs feeling crushed, the noise of the collapse louder than his scream. Hands grabbed him, dragging him upward. The flashlight wavered in his trembling grasp. Dust swirled. He felt smothered.
Moaning, he reached stone steps, charged up, and crashed against a wooden door. It trembled. He crashed into it again. The door was so old it broke off its hinges. But even then it didn’t open. Something blocked it on the other side. Ortega joined him, the two of them slamming against it, and suddenly, it tilted, objects clattering beyond it.
Amid choking dust, Balenger saw lights beyond the door. When he and Ortega gave the door a final desperate thrust, it toppled, knocking more objects over. Fighting to clear his lungs, Balenger crawled over the door and found himself in a basement filled with old furniture. On wooden steps, a spectacled man in a suit gaped at them.
12
Balenger lurched past him. At the top of the stairs, he encountered more old furniture, a roomful of it, and continued to feel squeezed. Sunlight through a front window prompted him to hurry toward a door. Outside, he almost bumped into someone rushing along the sidewalk. He bent over, coughing. Only after the spasms passed and he raised his head did he notice a sign on the door: GREENWICH ANTIQUE FURNITURE.
Ortega came out, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. He lowered it and pointed toward the store’s interior. “The owner says he likes to take his customers down to the sub-basement. Evidently, that touch of history makes his furniture seem extra old and valuable,”
Balenger slumped against a light pole. “Thank God for antiques.”
“Yeah, well, he claims we ruined about thirty-thousand dollars worth of those antiques when we knocked them over, breaking down the door.”
“Now we know the price of our lives.” Balenger glanced at the store’s entrance, where the spectacled man frowned. “Will you take a check?”
“For thirty-thousand dollars? I don’t think he’s the type to appreciate a joke,” Ortega murmured.
“I’m serious. Sometime, I’ll tell you about a coin I found.” Balenger turned toward the owner. “Whatever your insurance doesn’t cover, I’ll pay for.”
Balenger heard sirens. Smoke drifted over the rooftops. People ran along the sidewalk toward the blaze.
“We need to get over there and tell the fire investigators what we know,” Ortega said.
“But it’ll take hours before they finish with us! You know as much as I do. Tell them I couldn’t stay.”
“Couldn’t stay? What are you talking about?”
“There’s too much to do. Report for both of us. I’ll talk to them later if they still have questions.”
“When you were in law enforcement, is that how you handled things? You let your witnesses tell you to report for them?”
“All right, all right, I hear you.” Balenger struggled to catch his breath. “Did you manage to keep that piece of paper?”
“In my pocket.”
“Can we use your photocopy machine?” Balenger asked the owner.
The man seemed to think this was the most reasonable question in the world. He nodded.
Balenger swatted dirt from his jeans and sport coat. They smelled of smoke. “We’ve got a piece of paper we need to photocopy so we can read what’s on it without leaving fingerprints.”
Ortega studied him. “You look exhausted. Talking to the fire investigators will at least give you a chance to rest.”
“When I find Amanda, that’s when I’ll rest.”
It took barely a minute to make photocopies and return to the street, but in that brief time, the crowd increased dramatically. Balenger folded one of the photocopies and stuck it into his jacket pocket. He and Ortega struggled through noisy spectators. Ahead, more sirens wailed.
“Police,” Ortega said. “Let us through.”
A few onlookers made space, but three steps later, others blocked the way. Balenger felt squeezed. There’s no time for this, he thought.
“Police!” Ortega yelled as more people jostled him.
No time, Balenger decided. A determined man shoved in front of him, allowing him to hang back. When three others elbowed past, Balenger used them for cover and ducked away through the crowd.
“Frank, where are you?” he heard Ortega shouting.
LEVEL THREE
HIDE AND HUNT
1
Legs unsteady, Amanda obeyed the voice’s instructions and climbed the staircase. As Ray, Bethany, Derrick, and Viv entered their bedrooms, she went into hers. She’d been told to go to the closet and put on the clothes she found there, but first she went into the bathroom and relieved herself. She didn’t care if there were cameras. Urgency cancelled modesty. Suspecting that it would be a long time before she saw another bathroom, she pulled toilet paper off the roll and crammed it into her pocket.
Now that the fog of whatever drug she’d been given was dissipating along with her nausea, Amanda realized how empty her stomach felt. Her mouth was dry. After flushing the toilet, she went to the sink, then paused, frowning toward the toilet. The water swirled down. But the tank didn’t make the sound of water refilling it. She had a fearful suspicion of what would happen when she turned the knobs on the sink — or rather what wouldn’t happen — but she tried it anyhow. No water flowed from the taps.
Amanda’s mouth felt even more parched as she went to the closet and opened it. Blue coveralls hung on a hanger, a many-pocketed garment that reminded her of flight suits she’d seen in movies about military pilots. Waffle-soled hiking boots were on the floor. They, too, were blue, as were the wool socks and baseball cap next to them. Now she did feel modest. Trying to avoid the cameras, she stepped into the closet and hurriedly took off her jeans. In a rush, she stepped into the coveralls and zipped them over her white blouse. The coveralls were sturdy nylon on the outside with an insulating fabric. Briefly, the material chilled her legs. After transferring the toilet paper to the coveralls, she carried the socks and hiking boots to the bed and put them on. Everything fit her.