Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (11 page)

She’d been forced to detour to the subbasement, two floors below the lobby, and crawl around searching for her damn shoe among garbage cans and gurneys, wasting valuable seconds. She located it in the angle where the stairs met the floor and stretched to get it, like a cat reaching for a toy under the couch. Halfway back to the ground floor, she’d heard the dreaded sound. The sound of a pursuer. The man was fast, probably FBI. Step, step, bang. Maybe to the fifth floor already. Her premonition had been correct.

Breathe. Is okay. Exit is close.

She slammed open the door to the lobby and raced to the front entrance. She went to the front of the taxi queue. Some of the taxis had no driver or even a place for a driver. How could that be?

The cab at the front of the queue was normal, with a swarthy driver reading a paper. She hopped in and implored the cabbie to go, go, go!

Had she made it? She looked back at the entrance. Her heart knotted.

Her pursuer came charging out. The man stood frantically looking around, then his eyes locked on to the cab. She clenched her fists and lowered her head but continued watching. It was too late. He’d seen her. The man turned and sprinted after them.

Viviana turned to the driver. “Help. Go fast, please. Is my ex-husband chasing.”

The cabbie, a foreigner himself, glanced in the rearview mirror and stepped on the gas. The vehicle lurched forward.

But before the car went a few meters, the man closed the distance and reached for the door handle, yelling something. With a click, the lock depressed as if by magic. The cabbie chuckled. She locked eyes with her pursuer.
Ce? Is Beckman! Detective.

The cab pulled away, but Beckman didn’t give up, he kept running. A traffic light turned red. The taxi slowed.

She leaned forward and held her head low so that she could see the light. “Please go though. Go through light.”

The cabbie shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I must stop. I would lose my license.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I caught up with the cab. She drew back from the door.
>

Yes, it was her! Those were indeed her strange curse words I’d heard in the stairwell.

I looked her in the eye. “Wait, please!” I reached for the door. The cab pulled away. “Stop. Stop!” I kept running. I couldn’t give up. She might disappear forever. I’d never unravel her mystery. I’d never see her again.

The traffic light ahead turned red. The cab slowed.
Yes!
I could catch them. Maybe get in the cab with her.

Ten feet separated us when the cabbie accelerated and went through the light. Had he been playing with me? The intersection was empty.

The cab disappeared down the street. I ran until I was exhausted. I put my hands on my knees and drew in ragged breaths, like a marathon runner who had come in a close second.

What was wrong with me? I slapped my knee. I
knew
she was going to try to escape. I should have insisted on a better guard. I should have come here immediately after I resolved Donny’s case. It was my fault.

* * *

Viviana stepped out of the cab on California Street. She had asked to be taken to California and Hyde, a few blocks from Grace Cathedral. No point in leaving a record of her true destination. A warm breeze came up the hill and ruffled her hair. Where was the fog and cold? Could this really be October?

She started up the hill toward the church. A hundred dollars was a lot for going through the red light, but in a few minutes it wouldn’t matter. No worries.

The church was still open twenty-four hours a day. Good. Walking in the front door, she glanced at the magnificent columns extending up to the graceful arches of the ceiling. Instead of appreciating their beauty, she wondered whether she could climb them. No. Probably not.

She knew the way to the columbarium. It had been over forty years, but for her, only two weeks. Her clogs echoed as she went down the cement staircase and through the empty hallway in the basement.

The cremation urns sat in their individual niches along narrow aisles. In perpetuity. Perfect. Sections that had been empty before were now filled. Small chandeliers cast a yellowish light on the chambers, each protected with a Plexiglas front. The walls had become dingier over the years.

She passed her uncle’s urn. The three leaves engraved on the front now faced the side. He’d rotated it ninety degrees. Good. He’d retrieved its contents.

When her urn came into view, a wave of dizziness passed over her, as if the floor had moved. Strange. She never got dizzy. She tilted her head back and studied the chandelier. It was swinging back and forth about a centimeter in each direction.

An earthquake. Just a minor one—nothing to be concerned about.

The metal of her urn was darker now. She took out the hospital’s table knife and inserted it into the slot at the side of the Plexiglas covering. With the proper tools, removing the facing would have been a snap. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. No worries—the knife would work.

If she could pry the plastic out enough to grip the edges with her fingers, she could pull it free and open the niche. She’d grab the urn, open it, and pull out the riches she’d hidden inside: diamonds, cash, gold, and folded up stock certificates, all neatly packed in a Minigrip plastic bag. She would then put the urn back, rotated ninety degrees.

The Plexiglas seal was tighter than expected. The tip of the knife bent. Over and over she pried the plastic out, and it snapped back before she could get her fingers under it. Yet each time it came away from the wall a little more. She concentrated on the task for what seemed like an hour. No rush. No one was around. Viviana took a deep breath. Soon the treasure would be hers again.

A Klaxon alarm made her jump. An announcement followed: “Warning. Earthquake imminent. Take cover.”

She kept working but frowned. She understood the words, but they didn’t make sense. No one knew when an earthquake was coming. Some new technology? She would think about that later.

Running footsteps echoed through the basement. Someone yelled, “Earthquake coming, everybody out!” The man rushed past her aisle, then came back.

Viviana’s knife disappeared into her sleeve. She put her hands together as if praying.

“An earthquake is coming, ma’am. Any second. You must leave.” His voice was strained.

“No. No earthquake. Please leave me here with husband.”

“Ma’am you don’t understand.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled.

She twisted her wrist and snapped it from his grip. He tried to grab her again.

“No!” She kicked the back of his leg just enough to make him unstable and pushed him toward the exit of the aisle. “You go. Run. I follow.”

He shook his head but left.

She reinserted the knife into the crack. Another tiny quake hit.
Humph
. Big fuss for nothing. Then the wall jumped out at her. She stumbled and fell to the floor, the knife clattering onto the marble.

The rumbling stopped. She grabbed the knife and hopped up. She smashed the handle end into the Plexiglas. Not even a crack. Back to prying.

Clenching her teeth until they hurt, she forced the bent tip of the knife into the slot. Now or never. The angled tip was an advantage. She finally found one corner of the covering that was weaker than the others and it came loose. Good. She held the corner open and reached up with her other hand to wrench the cover off.

The wall smashed her in the shoulder and the lights above her went out. Her body flew across the narrow aisle, and her head cracked into the wall. She slid back and forth between the walls on the slippery marble floor as if in a carnival fun house.

The sound of hundreds of urns clattering around in their compartments assaulted her ears. Crashes of breaking glass echoed from above.

She braced herself with her feet against one wall and her hands against the other. The shaking stopped, but when she got halfway to her feet, it resumed. It seemed to go on forever, then ceased with a huge boom that she felt in the pit of her stomach. Her hands were clammy and trembled.

She licked her lips and sat up. The air smelled of dust. The remains of the cremated?

A bluish light filtered in, presumably from battery-powered emergency lighting in the main hallway.

She had to retrieve her urn. No one would bother her now. She felt around on the floor, but the knife was gone.

She waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and located her niche. She felt the corner of the covering. She’d pulled it out a centimeter. With her fingers under it she pulled and strained. She slipped, and one of her fingernails ripped from its bed.
Aoleu!
No, she needed to find something sturdy to pry the cover off.

She moved out of the aisle and into the hallway. It was brighter there. On the floor she found a small painting of Jesus with an ornate metal frame, its glass broken. She worked the frame loose, placed the canvas gently against the wall, and returned to her aisle.

Back at her niche, she struggled to get the corner of the frame under the Plexiglas. It wasn’t happening, and now a bad smell made her want to hold her breath. What was that? It was getting worse.

Gas!

She tried once more to pry the covering off.
No.
She pictured herself running, falling, engulfed in flames. Time to give up. Somehow, she would come back later.
La naiba!

Viviana took one last look at the compartment, then ran. She sprinted down the hall and followed the lit exit signs up the stairs—three at a time—to the front entrance. A pile of concrete neatly blocked the door. What had fallen? She looked up but saw only darkness.

The odor of gas was weaker in the large main hall of the church. She looked back down the stairs. No, she would leave now and find some way to return later with the proper tools.

She removed her clogs, squeezed them into her waistband, and climbed over the pile. Would she cut her feet? She squeezed through a narrow gap between the rubble and the top of the entryway. She jumped to the ground, put her shoes back on, and walked out the front of the church. Wandering across Taylor Street, she sat down on a low wall and blew out her cheeks. Defeat.

Under the moonlight the man who’d grabbed her wrist came over and squatted down. “I’m so glad you got out. You must have been very close to your husband.”

She thought about the riches she’d cached in that urn. Without any funds, it would be impossible to disappear. Impossible to stay free.

He put his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah.” She looked straight ahead. “Tell me about it.”

A dull thud reached them and they turned toward the cathedral. The light of flames flickered from the holes where minutes before, stained glass windows had stood.

* * *

I was slumped over my home-office desk, dreaming that Viviana was poking me in the stomach, when Shake Alert, San Francisco’s Early Earthquake Warning System, blasted me with its Klaxon. My arm jerked to the side, sending a cup of pens and pencils flying to the floor. I looked into my kitchen. The pots hanging from the ceiling were swinging slightly. I must have slept through a small quake. Not enough to set off the EEWS.

After Viviana escaped, and after notifying Stan, I had raced back to my condo, desperate to figure out where she’d come from. I’d thought I could uncover some clues that would tell me where she might go. I must have fallen asleep.

My TV, tablet, cell phone, watch, and even my refrigerator were all concerned for my safety. They blared out the same “Dive! Dive!” sound followed by the words “Warning! Earthquake imminent. Take cover.” They repeated their messages continuously, and not in unison.

I jumped up, sending my chair rolling across the room, and slapped myself on the cheek.
Okay, Beckman, wake up. Think!
I snapped up the tablet, dismissed the alarm, and saved the open browser tab to offline storage. Got it!

I looked over at the TV, which displayed a countdown with screen-filling red numerals: 42 … 41 …

I dove under my massive dining-room table. It was a Parson’s type design, with thick wooden legs at each corner.

I was on the sixteenth floor of my condo building on Front Street, smack dab in the middle of a liquefaction zone. The worst place to be during an earthquake. This would be bad. Maybe Dayton, Ohio, would have been a better place to live.

37 … 36 …

Wait. Plenty of time. I sprinted into the bedroom, my socks slipping on the hardwood floor. I picked up the earthquake supplies backpack from the closet. I’d borrowed something from it last month. What was that? I stepped over to the bedside table and retrieved my wallet. I checked my watch.

25 … 24 …

Running shoes, where? By the bed. I grabbed them and put them under my arm. I detoured to the window and snatched the solar charger. Anything else? No. No time. The EEWS was supposed to be accurate to within a few seconds, using each device’s exact location.