Alex Bobl - Memoria

Maggie appeared in the doorway. Pale, she threw the spent nail gun on the floor and recoiled from it. Her scream flooded the hallway when she saw the man’s arm — his blood splattering the wall, dripping from the many nail holes.

It gave Frank enough time to roll aside, grab the attaché case and with a swing slam it into the agent’s legs. The man cried out but stayed on his feet. Dazed, he stepped forward and tried to kick Frank in the shoulder but screamed with pain from his nailed arm. Frank got to his feet and wacked the attaché case against the small of his back.

“Run,” he croaked and, holding his stomach, staggered toward the conference hall.

Maggie didn’t move. She stood there staring at the man sliding down the wall. Frank came back and grabbed her.

“Run! Now!” Suddenly he stopped and bent over the other shooter lying in the doorway. He pulled at the motionless man’s shoulder turning him face down. “Help me,” he started pulling off the man’s jacket.

The right arm slid out of the sleeve easily. The left one got stuck but Maggie promptly helped him release it.

Behind their backs, voices mixed with the growing tramping of many feet.

“Now run.”

The jacket was biggish. As he ran, Frank pulled the tie off his neck and slid one hand into the loop. Wincing with the pain in his stomach and cuts on his fingers, he wound the attaché case handle to his wrist with the tie. Now he wouldn’t lose it.

“There!” Maggie grabbed his hand, pushed a door and dragged him into a room.

“Lock it, quick.”

The lock clicked. Maggie led Frank through a maze of desks to an adjacent office behind a glass partition. It looked as if it could lead them to the other side of the hallway they’d just left.

Maggie stopped by the door and pulled the handle.

“It’s locked.”

“Step aside,” he motioned her away from the door and stepped back to take a kick at it. Then he changed his mind. There could be more security there. “Where does this door lead to?”

“To the other wing. There’s a utility hallway behind the conference hall.”

“And then?”

“If we turn right, we’ll come across the service elevator. We can use it to go down to the parking lot.”

“That’ll do,” Frank pressed his ear against the door.

He could barely hear voices. And they came from the right, of all places. Not good. He crouched and opened the attaché case. Before starting for Memoria, Barney had packed it with everything he needed: the camera, the chargers, the leads, and also a tool box. Frank found a flathead screwdriver, placed it against the lock and slapped his hand against the handle. The flat head sank about an inch deep between the frame and the lock. He slapped it again burying the screwdriver in the hole exactly halfway through and jerked it to prise the steel tongue of the lock open. The hinges creaked. The plastic around the keyhole burst and the door opened.

Frank peered into the crack. At the far end of the hallway stood four men and two women. Their clothes didn’t give a hint as to who they were, although one of them in a dark business suit looked like a security agent. He stood with his back to the door. Two of the men had cameras hanging from their necks. Reporters. How did they get here? Were they late for the press conference?

Frank turned to Maggie sizing her up and down. She had no shoes, but if he went first with her behind him, this fact might go unnoticed. As long as they made it to the elevator.

“How do I look?” he asked.

Maggie buttoned up his jacket, took his hand in hers covering the cuts with her fingers, and nodded.

“You walk behind me,” Frank said. “There are six people at the end of the hallway, six journalists, but one of them is wearing a dark suit. He could be a Fed.

“But what if he-” Maggie didn’t finish.

Someone jerked the door handle in the adjacent room, then knocked; someone else shouted a few words, their meaning perfectly clear. They were about to break the door down.

Frank took a deep breath and walked out into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” he started as he strode toward the reporters. “Did you hear the shots?”

The man in the dark suit looked back at him.

“We were busy working,” Frank chattered not allowing him time to find his bearings. “And then it all started…”

He came close to the group. To demonstrate his fear, he swallowed and opened his eyes wide, looking about. Around the corner he saw a spacious hall with large automatic doors — apparently, leading to the conference hall, — shut close. Opposite it was the service elevator. The screen over the call button displayed the number 60: the elevator was about ten stories below.

“We hid under the desks when it all started,” Frank flapped his hand to show his excitement. “And now it seems to be quiet…”

“Stand here by the wall, sir,” the agent pointed him to some free space to his left. “Try to calm down. Are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” Frank shook his head. “Nor is my secretary. We just want—”

“Sir? Can I see your bracelet, please? Stand by the wall and give me your name.”

The agent reached under his clothes for his gun, and Frank buried his knee into his crotch. The reporters winced. Frank lowered his fist onto the doubled-up agent’s head. A woman screamed.

“Stay where you are!” Frank shouted to them. He grabbed Maggie’s hand and dragged her to the elevator.

The seconds of waiting turned into minutes. It felt as if the elevator would never come.

“That is Shelby,” he heard a worried whisper.

“Who?”

“Frank Shelby,” a bearded reporter said, readying his camera.

“No way!” the first one answered. “Are you sure?”

“It can’t be,” a woman flapped.

“I tell you!” the bearded man raised his camera.

Behind Frank’s back, the elevator’s steel doors opened with a groan.

“Don’t move!” he stuck out his hand, sheltering himself from the lens. Then he knew what he had to tell them. “I didn’t kill Kathleen Baker,” he lowered his hand.

Maggie pressed the button for the parking level. The doors started to close. Cameras flashed, filling the hallway with loud voices and the hurried footsteps of his chasers.

“I didn’t kill her!” Frank lifted the attaché case. “Here’s the evidence!”

With a judder, the cabin moved down. Overhead, the hoist machines hummed.

“You think they believed me?” Frank turned to Maggie.

She was looking at the ceiling. On the display over her shoulder, the numbers of the floors went down.

“Hello?”

She motioned him to wait. Frank glanced at the display: the elevator had reached the 40th floor. The light overhead blinked and went out. Something clicked, then they heard a bang. With a screech, the cabin shook and stopped.

“They’ve blocked us,” Frank pressed button after button, but nothing happened. The display read, Emergency Stop .

He walked into the corner under the ceiling hatch, jumped up and pushed the hatch open.

“Frank Shelby! Don’t try to escape!” a voice rattled. “Stay where you are.”

“Get lost!” It took Frank a second to realize the voice was coming out of the elevator’s intercom.

“Otherwise we’ll be forced to shoot. Stay where you are.”

He loosened the loop on his wrist, placed the attaché case onto the floor, pulled himself up and squeezed his body through the hatch. The fresh injuries reminded him of themselves. His muscles and ribs started aching. Frank spat, annoyed. He leaned down into the hatch and held out his hand,

“Give me the attaché case.”

Maggie did.

“Get up here,” Frank commanded.