A Picture of Guilt (15 page)

“It doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “Not much else is happening.”

How could I resist with an opening like that? “And what does that mean, kimosabe?”

“Kimosabe?” He got up and headed down the hall. “You are a dinosaur.”

I followed him to the tape library, where all Mac’s shows are stored. “I’m donating my bones to the Field Museum.”

He grunted as he punched in the code on the wall panel. “What shows do you want to add?”

“How about the most recent one we did for Midwest Mutual—you remember—the one for Claims? And the promo for the Jewish Broadcasting Network. And maybe the opening of Atlantic Wireless.”

“No Marian Iverson?”

I shot him a look.

“Hey, we got paid.”

“I thought we all agreed the price was too high.”

Back in the editing room, he hunched over the keyboard. He set up the Avid for digitizing, then hit the Record button. As video played through the monitor, his shoulders sagged.

“Okay, Hank. What’s wrong?”

For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, “There’s this girl…”

The light from the monitor cast a pale glow across his face. For some reason, I’d never associated him with a woman before. Not that I thought he was gay. But with his slender build, ponytail, and magic fingers, he seemed almost androgynous. A sprite, too ethereal for the messy emotions the rest of us get mired in. But now, watching him fidget, it occurred to me how blinding the myopia of self-absorption can be.

“Tell me about her.”

“She’s a musician. Alto sax. I met her at the White Hen. She was buying cereal and milk.” He smiled wistfully. “At two in the morning.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sandy. Sandy Tooley.” It rolled off his tongue. “We got together a few times. She was really nice, you know?” His eyes were faraway and unfocused. I knew that look. It’s the one that says,
I can still taste her skin, her lips, her body
. “I thought she really liked me. I mean, she acted as if—” He broke off.

“It’s okay,” I said softly.

He swallowed hard. “Everything was great for a couple of weeks. Better than great. Then I called her the other day—night—when I got off—to tell her I was on my way over. Except she said not to come. She said she had things to do. I wasn’t—well—real happy about it. I really wanted to see her, you know?”

“So you went over there anyway.”

He didn’t answer.

I shaded my eyes. “And when you got there, she was with another man.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m sorry.”

“She said it was her old boyfriend, and that she would call me later.” He took a shaky breath. “That was Monday, Ellie. I haven’t heard from her.”

Today was Wednesday.

“Maybe they were just talking.”

“For three days?”

An hour later we’d finished digitizing the new pieces and cut in the excerpts. We were just winding up when the phone rang. Hank grabbed it. Though I only had a view of his back, I could tell it was Sandy. His spine straightened. His voice grew silky and eager. He ran a hand through his hair.

I ducked out of the room and wandered into Mac’s office. It was a comfortable room with two floor-to-ceiling windows that spilled pools of yellow across the dark expanse of lawn. The studio was tucked away on an industrial block in Northbrook. At night, without the bustle from nearby businesses, it was quiet and isolated.

Hank’s muffled voice drifted through the air. “He was? You’re sure?” I heard a relieved exhalation. Then, in that eager, breathy voice, “Yes. About an hour.” A pause. “Me, too.” Then, “Don’t get dressed.” The receiver was replaced with a click.

I strolled back into the editing room. Hank was beaming, his smile so contagious I had to return it.

“She was out of town.”

“Get out of here, Hank. We can finish tomorrow.”

His smile broadened.

“Out.” I pointed to the door.

“Tell you what. Lemme finish this edit, and I’ll dub it in the morning.”

“Better yet, if you set up the machines, I’ll run the dubs myself.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s okay. I can lock up.”

“Well…” Indecision and desire warred on his face. “Mac—”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure he trusts me to lock a door.”

Desire won. Hank finished the last edit and added black to the tail of the piece. Then he went into a side room to set up the dubs. After checking to see that the VHS machines were in sync, he started them rolling. “Thanks, Ellie. This means a lot.”

“Go away before I change my mind.”

He grabbed his backpack and bolted. I heard him race down the hall and out the door. Young love.

Seating myself in his chair, I swiveled in front of the bank of monitors. We’d added three new excerpts and deleted three others. As the signals changed from digital impulses to magnetic signals and then to images and sounds, I marveled at the magic of technology.

The reel was less than eight minutes. When it was over, I checked the dubs to make sure an image had indeed been recorded, then rewound and ejected them from the decks. The silence was sudden and deep. Hank had said not to shut down the Avid, so I gathered my bag and the shows we’d pulled.

As I walked back into the tape library, I mentally indexed my clients of the past few years. Midwest Mutual; Seagrave’s Food Service; Van Allen, the paper company; Brisco Chemicals. I’d produced shows for them all. The corporate handmaiden.

It hadn’t started out that way. I’d graduated college with dreams of becoming the American Lina Wertmuller who also produced substantive documentaries on the side. Seamlessly segueing from the arts to politics in a highly versatile and acclaimed career. Instead, I got married.

I was restacking the Midwest Mutual show on the shelf, thinking how time really does mellow us all, when the door to the library slammed shut. I stood where I was, uncomprehending. Then I realized it had to be Hank. He must have forgotten something.

“Hank?”

I thought I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. “What’d you forget, lover boy?”

No answer. I went to the door, intending to give him
shtick
about Sandy and how she’d be dressed to the nines if he didn’t get over there soon.

I twisted the knob. It didn’t move. I tried again. Nothing. “Hank, are you there? The door’s locked.”

Silence. I heard a squeak. “Hank. Stop screwing around.”

I listened again and thought I heard a quiet rustling on the other side. Like paper being shuffled. Then a sharp, pungent smell. Familiar. Almost tangy. I banged my fists against the door.

“Hank. Come on. Something’s wrong. Open up.”

No one responded. I kept banging until my fist was sore. I pressed my ear against the door. I felt a sensation of warmth. Strange. I hadn’t expended that much energy. I leaned my palms against the door. More warmth. I looked down. At the bottom of the door, orange light flickered.

My brain connected. The smell. Like a parking garage! Gasoline!

I broke out in a sweat. Fire! And I was trapped. “Help!” I screamed. “Anyone. Fire! Open up!”

I beat on the door with my palms until they stung. When nothing happened, I threw myself against it, hoping to smash the lock. Pain radiated through my shoulder, but the door held.

The room seemed to have heated up ten degrees. “Help! Please!” I looked wildly around. Wasn’t there supposed to be a fire extinguisher in every room? Not here. No windows. No pictures. Not even a nail in the wall. But when I scanned the ceiling, a wave of relief surged through me. A sprinkler. Of course. Water would gush down and extinguish the fire. All I had to do was wait.

I started pacing. I should call the fire department. I automatically looked for my bag, then realized I’d dropped it—and my cell—on the other side of the door. Damn! Meanwhile, crackles replaced the rustles on the other side of the door. The doorknob was too hot to touch. Wisps of black smoke seeped under the door. Didn’t I read that most fire fatalities came from smoke inhalation, not flames? I covered my mouth with my hand. Why weren’t the damned sprinklers working? Mac would never let fire prevention slip below code, would he? Should I stuff something under the crack in the door?

Another smell, like burning tires, wormed itself into my nose and throat. I tried to remember what I knew about fire. Never open a door if it was hot to the touch; a new source of oxygen would fan the flames. No problem. It was so hot I couldn’t open it.

Now thick curls of smoke were rising on my side of the door. The heat pressed against my skin. I was starting to sweat. Where was the water? The only way out was through the door. I might have to break it down to open it. But if I did, I might create a back draft. What should I do? I couldn’t wait much longer.

I started to case the library, trying not to feel desperate. But aside from the tapes, the shelves, and the stepladder, which was too heavy to lift, there was nothing in the room. No windows. No furniture. Not even a trash can. I sucked down hot air.

The shelves. They were the do-it-yourself kind that could be disassembled and put together in multiple configurations. Studying them, I got an idea. When they got going, the sprinklers would help douse the fire. If I could somehow use a shelf to break through the door when the water started, I might make it out.

But that required the sprinklers to kick in. I looked up at the ceiling. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. What was taking them so damn long? The ones in the hall, at least, should have been on by now. My heart sank. Mac probably hadn’t updated the system since he first moved in. And that was ten years ago. It was possible they weren’t going to work.

Smoke billowed under the doorjamb and started to rise, saturating my clothes and hair. Heat blanketed the room like a shroud. I struggled to take a breath. If the sprinkler didn’t start soon, it wouldn’t matter. I dropped to the floor to find some breathable air. My stomach leapt to my chest. Flames licked the bottom of the door.

I got up and lunged at the closest shelf. As the tapes on it clattered to the floor, I banged on the underside to dislodge it. But the metal teeth gripped the slots in the frame. Nothing moved. The smoke thickened and moved lower. I coughed. Sweat poured off my forehead. I kept pounding the underside of the shelf.

Finally I was able to maneuver one of the teeth out of its slot. I kept banging; another one popped out. Grabbing the free end, I twisted and jerked. The shelf came free.

It was a bulky, awkward piece of metal, about a yard long, a foot wide, an inch thick. I looked up. Smoke was dimming my eyesight, but the sprinklers were still dry. I was running out of time. I stepped back, holding the shelf like a battering ram. I swung it back to gain momentum, then smashed it into the door. The door shook. Something cracked, but it held. I backed up, clutching the shelf, but a spasm of coughing stopped me. There was too much smoke. The shelf slipped from my hands.

I dropped to the floor and crawled to the other side of the room. But the air over there was just as smoky. I felt woozy. I forced myself to start naming the fifty states. I couldn’t give up.

When the water finally streamed down, its force stung my skin and startled me awake. I was lying on the floor dazed and sleepy. The spray drenched me and seemed to dissolve the wall of smoke. I mouthed a prayer of thanks.

Slowly I got to my feet. I picked up the shelf one more time and rammed it into the door. This time the veneer splintered, and a jagged hole appeared. I tore at it with my hands, breaking off slivers of wood. Finally, the hole I’d made was large enough to thrust my arm through. I stripped off my jacket and wrapped a sleeve around my hand. Then I reached through to unlock the door from the other side. Grabbing the shelf, I flung myself into the hall.

Flames danced along the floor and walls, but no fireball engulfed me. The sprinklers were doing their job. Using the shelf as a shield, I staggered through rising steam toward Mac’s office. I could make out the dim shape of the windows. I stumbled over to one, drew back the shelf, and rammed it as hard as I could. Glass shattered. An alarm sounded. Using the shelf, I broke off shards of glass that still clung to the frame and crawled through the window.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

I was still gulping down air when the fire department arrived. My throat felt gritty, I was dizzy, and I was bleeding in two places on my legs. After checking my vitals, the paramedics insisted on taking me to the ER, but I refused. I did let them lead me to the ambulance, where they gave me a wet towel and a bottle of water, and bandaged my cuts. I wiped off some of the soot that covered me and slung my jacket over my shoulders. By the time Mac arrived, the fire been reduced to a residue of sodden debris.

“A shelf?” After being briefed by the battalion chief, Mac came over and grabbed my shoulders. “You broke out of the library with a shelf?”

“Someone locked me in.”

“Where was Hank?”

“He left.”

“Are you okay?”

I thought about making a crack about being toasted on a stick like a marshmallow, but when I looked at Mac, I changed my mind. Usually a consummate prep, he was wearing wrinkled khakis and a stained T-shirt. That stiff-upper-lip Wasp thing he does had vanished, an expression of fear and relief in its place. I nodded.

“Christ, Ellie. You could have been killed.”

I started to shrug, but the movement turned into a shudder, and the shudder into a sob. The tears started, and I sagged against Mac. He held me until it passed.

***

I washed my hair three times, but it still smelled like smoke the next morning. Mac called to tell me the police had picked up Hank and held him for six hours at the station. They let him go around five.

“They can’t think he had anything to do—”

“Not anymore.” Mac’s voice was grim. I got the feeling it hadn’t been a fun time. “His girlfriend waited for him. They went back to her place.”

Two points for Sandy.

“They
are
treating it as an arson, aren’t they?”