Aiming his flashlight against the ceiling, Mason found the escape hatch used to reach the roof of the car. Certain only that he didn't want to be inside the elevator if it plunged to the bottom of the shaft, he boosted himself onto the waist-high rail around the interior of the car and popped the hatch open with his forearm.
The hatch, an eighteen-inch square in the corner where he was perched, gave him the room and the angle to pull himself through the opening. Flashlight clamped between his teeth, he stuck his head and arms through the hatch, grabbing hold of the housing for the wire-rope cables to pull himself up on the roof of the car.
His flashlight wasn't strong enough to penetrate much of the pitch-black shaft, and he couldn't tell where he was until he saw an elevator door marked 6 several feet below him. A service ladder was bolted into the wall of the shaft alongside the doors, a good five feet from where he stood. Peering over the edge of the elevator, he nearly lost his balance as the car lurched again.
Mason retreated to the center of the car, standing on top of the housing, his left arm wrapped around the greasy steel ropes, the flashlight aimed at the wall, his breathing echoing against the shaft. He measured the distance to the service ladder again, debating whether to try for the ladder or take his chances with the elevator.
The debate ended when the elevator plunged like an amusement park nightmare, Mason stumbling off the housing, throwing himself at the service ladder, slamming his face and chest against the cold metal while he fought for a handhold, sliding down a half dozen rungs before stopping his fall, his left arm dangling at his side, suddenly numb.
He'd dropped his flashlight onto the roof of the elevator, its pinpoint light vanishing in the instant before the car crashed into the pit at the bottom of the shaft, launching a plume of dust, choking and blinding him more than the darkness of the elevator shaft. He felt a warm, sticky flow down his left arm, touching it with his right hand, knowing it was blood, not knowing whether his skin had been ripped by the cable or pierced by his collision with the ladder. Either way, his arm wouldn't do what he told it to do.
Leaning hard against the ladder for support, Mason loosened his belt, pulled it out of three loops on his left side, and rethreaded it over his forearm, cinching his arm against his side before rebuckling his belt. He couldn't tell if he was making his injury worse since he had no feeling in his arm. At least it didn't hurt, he thought.
Mason hung on the ladder, expecting a quick rescue. The crash had been deafening and had to bring police and firefighters to the scene in minutes, he was convinced. When no one came, when no elevator doors were opened and no high beams shined on him, he began to understand the trouble he was in.
There were no security guards. The only office that might have been occupied at that time of night was the radio station. Anyone working there was probably in a soundproof studio wearing headphones that shut out the rest of the world. It reminded Mason of the existential puzzle-if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make any noise?
No one knew where he was or had reason to look for him. He was a one-armed man hanging on a ladder in a blacked-out elevator shaft, bruised and bloodied from a self-inflicted beating.
The only thing he knew for certain was that there were elevator doors above and below him. If the ladder was used to service the doors, there had to be a way to open them from inside the shaft. Mason ignored the fact that the serviceman would be equipped with tools, two arms to use them, and light to see what the hell he was doing.
He closed his eyes, not to shut out the darkness, but to concentrate on what he had seen in the brief moment he had shined his flashlight on the elevator door for the sixth floor. He pictured a bar extending across the door that he hoped would open it when the bar was pulled or pushed in the right direction.
Mason didn't like his options. He could climb up the ladder to the seventh floor and try the bar with his right arm. He didn't know if he had the strength to move it, and even if he could, he had no way to keep his balance at the same time. He could climb down to the sixth-floor door, using his right leg to work the bar while holding on with his good arm.
Or he could climb down the ladder all the way to the bottom of the shaft. He looked down, even though he couldn't see, his head swimming from shock, blood loss, and darkness. That option was last on his list, and certain to land him in a heap on top of the wrecked elevator with one wrong step.
Mason chose the sixth floor, lowering his feet, descending one at a time, one rung at a time. After each step, he swung his right leg out, feeling for the elevator door. It took three steps before his shoe found the smooth surface of the door and two more before it found the bar.
He edged his shoe along the bar, pressing down as he went, frustrated when the door didn't yield, near exhaustion from the effort. He couldn't reach far enough. Pulling his leg back to the ladder, Mason held on and gathered his strength. He realized he had to flip his position on the ladder, putting his back to the wall, holding on with his right hand while using his left leg to force the door open. The maneuver would double his reach if he didn't fall.
Taking a deep breath, Mason swung his body around, keeping only his right hand and foot on the ladder as his left leg slapped against the elevator door and jammed down hard against the bar. The first movement of the bar almost caused Mason to lose his grip on the ladder, he was so unprepared for it. Steadying himself, he renewed the pressure on the bar until the door began to slide open away from him. A dim light leaked into the shaft from the other side of the door.
Mason panicked, realizing that he would quickly lose his hold on the bar and the door would slide shut again. He had no time to think. He gave the bar a final shove, swung his body back onto the ladder, and slid down three more rungs until he was even with the bottom of the open door. Once again, he whirled away from the ladder, letting go and landing halfway in the opening, his head glancing off something harder than his skull. The door slid back, stopping against his legs.
Mason crawled the rest of the way in from the shaft, grabbing onto metal shelves, pulling himself to his feet. He was in a closet lit only by light oozing in from the hall. There was no handle on the inside of the locked door. He thumped his good hand against the door without conviction, slid to the floor, and passed out amid the smell of cleaning supplies.
Chapter 7
A burst of hard raps against the closet door roused Mason. He shook the cobwebs from his brain, concentrating on the deep, muffled voice giving orders from the other side. 'Police! Open up! Anybody in there?'
'Can't,' Mason whispered, unable to pump more volume into his reply. He was lying on his side facing the closet door, wedged in a fetal position, his bloody left arm draped over his middle, having slipped out of his belt when he spun off the ladder.
'Police! Open up!' the cop repeated.
Mason kicked the door in reply.
'Get a grip, Kenny,' a woman said. 'Whoever is in there can't talk and can't get out. Call the paramedics. We've got blood leaking out from under the door. And get the building manager up here with the goddamn key to this closet. We find a body in there, I'm changing the name of this place to the House of Usher.'
Recognizing the woman's voice, Mason tried to laugh, but hacked instead, discovering a ragged pain in his side. Samantha Greer had a black-and-blue sense of humor Mason couldn't resist. She'd crack up when he rolled out of the closet.
Mason's body was regaining consciousness in waves, each one cresting with fresh complaints. Though his arm was still numb and his ribs raw, his head throbbed like a psychotic sub-woofer, filling his ears with static. Disconnected sounds filtered through the white noise. Running footsteps. Snapping voices. He wondered if he'd made up or dreamt Samantha's voice until he heard her again.
'Ease it open, Kenny. Let's meet the neighbors.'
Mason scrunched his eyes as light flooded the closet. Opening them, all he could see were shoes, ankles, and shins.
'Lou!' Samantha said. 'When did you start playing extreme hide-and-seek?'
Before Mason could answer, two paramedics ran their hands over his body checking for obvious injuries. They
