Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

The device was halfway over the sill of the open doorway when she snatched it with her right hand. She brought it close to her chest, smothering it with both hands as if it were a football.

“Touchdown,” she whispered to herself.

Horror at the Top of the Park

By Barbara Matheson

It’s a cliché, but sometimes clichés are on the money. Our nightmare is over.

The city’s, anyway. The nightmares are unlikely to ever end for those directly touched by the horrors of this week. The ripples from these events will be felt for years to come.

Tell me about it.

Anyone who was on the ninety-eighth floor of Top of the Park will never forget what happened last night, and you can count this writer among them. We all had little expectation that we would survive. Had it not been for the heroic actions of NYPD detectives Jerry Bourque and Lois Delgado, who knows what might have happened. We all wish Detective Bourque, in the hospital and listed in serious, but improving, condition, a speedy recovery.

And while it’s becoming increasingly clear that the origins of this tragic week can be traced back to decisions made by a young Richard Headley, his own actions last night were probably what bought those two detectives enough time to bring down the terrorist behind the elevator disasters. Even though Headley had had no time to grieve the death, minutes earlier, of his son, Glover, he played the game that terrorist wanted him to play in a bid to save the hostages.

As everyone knows by now, Mayor Headley was found dead of an apparent heart attack in the stairwell, just shy of the ninety-fifth floor. I had, as regular readers of this column know, been a harsh critic of the mayor, but must admit I am reassessing some of my feelings about him. There are things that I, and at least one other person I know, would have liked to have told him if we’d had the chance.

Another big thank-you is owed to one of the city’s elevator inspectors who managed to reach the top floor, and, using the device the terrorist had used to commandeer the elevators, bring the cars back online and safely get everyone out of the building.

There was, obviously, a sense of urgency, given that there was believed to be a fifth bomb in the Top of the Park. But as I write this, no further explosive devices have been found, although the search is ongoing and the streets around Top of the Park remain closed as a precaution.

Now, about that terrorist. I hesitate to use his name here, because people who perpetrate these kinds of acts revel in a kind of perverse notoriety. But I need to tell you about Chris Vallins.

I got to know him a little this week, before I knew he was — as the tabloids are now calling him — the Elevator Executioner. I liked him. He seemed like a decent guy. I watched him give his gloves to a homeless man.

But we know now that he blackmailed an elevator technician into teaching him everything he knew, making him believe members of his extended family would be killed if he failed to go along. We know he killed that man — beat his face to a pulp and cut off his fingertips to hinder identification — when he feared the man was going to expose him. We know he plotted, for years, to gain the confidence of the mayor to exact his revenge, and had spent months getting into a number of buildings to prepare the elevators for failure.

We know he killed many innocent people when he took over the control of three of them.

The question is why.

He explained it all to me in an email I was able to read only today. He did it out of love. Love for his mother, who had been deeply wronged, years ago, by a young Richard Headley. You’ve probably already read or heard all about that by now, so no sense repeating it all here.

Are there any lessons in all this? I wouldn’t presume to be wise enough to know, but I can say this much.

Actions have consequences.

Maybe not overnight. Maybe not in a week, or a month, or even a decade.

But the things we do, the decisions we make, the way we treat other people, it all becomes part of the equation. Eventually, things have a way of balancing out.

Or maybe this is all just a load of bullshit. Honestly, I don’t know anymore. That’s why this is my last column, at least for the foreseeable future, for Manhattan Today .

Barbara took one last look at the piece on her screen and hit Send. The entire time she’d been typing, she’d been resting her right elbow on an ice pack. Hitting the floor, when she’d dived to grab the elevator control device, had made that earlier injury worse. Now that she was done writing her piece, the pack was warming. She flexed her arms, then leaned back in her kitchen chair, reached for her coffee, and took a sip.

She hadn’t yet slept. There’d been police to talk to, statements to make. It was four in the morning before she and Arla got back to her apartment. Arla was too shaken up to head back to her own place. The good news was, she’d managed to fall asleep in Barbara’s bed shortly after they’d come through the door.

Barbara had stripped off her blood-soaked gown and put on some sweats. It wasn’t long before she opened up the laptop and started to write.

Around eleven in the morning, Barbara heard rustling in the bedroom. She looked toward the door and saw Arla emerge, her hair a tousled mess.

“Hey,” Barbara said.

“Have you even been to bed?” Arla asked.

Barbara shook her head. “There’s always time to sleep. How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess. A bit numb. I can’t... I can’t believe all those things happened.” She brushed some hair from her eyes. “I can’t believe we’re alive.”

“Yeah, there’s that.”

“Is there more coffee?”

Barbara pointed. Arla found a mug, poured herself some, and as she sat down at the table, said, “I just find out I have a brother, and find out who my father is, and then lose them both.”

Barbara reached out a hand. Arla gripped it. “You’re gonna want to talk to someone, maybe,” her mother said. “I know you’ve seen someone before.”

Arla looked into her mother’s face. “I can talk to you.”

Barbara gave the hand another squeeze.

Arla said, “I should get back to my place.”

“You sure? You can stay here as long as you like.”

“No. I should get back.” She smiled sadly. “Need to update my résumé.”

“Sure.” Barbara paused. “I’ll see you home.”

“Can you stay awake that long?”

Barbara knew, eventually, she would crash, and crash hard. But not just yet. While Arla showered, Barbara got into something slightly more presentable than her sweats — jeans and a pullover sweater. When Arla was done in the bathroom, Barbara handed her some of her own clothes she believed would fit her.

They took a cab to Arla’s. On the way, Arla leaned over and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. They didn’t speak.

Barbara paid the driver and the two of them went into Arla’s building.

When they got to the elevator, another woman was standing there. Nicely dressed, silvery hair, pearl earrings. She was carrying a Whole Foods bag.

Arla nodded at her. “Hey.”

The woman smiled politely.

Arla turned to her mother. “This is the woman I was telling you about.”

Barbara blinked, not understanding. The woman looked at Arla, who said, “You’re the book editor, right?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

The elevator doors parted and the three of them stepped on. The woman pressed the button for the tenth floor, while Arla hit twelve.

“My mom’s got an idea for a book,” Arla said, smiling. “Maybe a couple.”