William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

A beeping noise emerged from the telephone on Sanguine’s desk. Still washed with fury, Sanguine punched a button on the phone and turned up the volume on the intercom. “What the hell is it?” he shouted.

A female voice emerged from the speaker box. “Uh … I have the report on the Phoenix franchise you requested, sir.”

Ben sat upright in his chair. A sudden chill shot through his body.

“My God, we’ve got to get out of here,” Ben said, rising to his feet and grabbing his coat.

“What are you talking about?” Mike asked. “We can’t leave now. Don’t be such a—”

“I can’t wait,” Ben said, already halfway out of the office. “It may be too late already.”

40

IN HIS MAD DASH from the office, Ben neglected to have his parking ticket validated by the receptionist. As a result, he wasted nearly ten minutes before the parking guard would let him out of the Sanguine parking lot. He drove crosstown like a lunatic. Heavy lunch-hour traffic was just beginning to clog the main streets. Every light seemed to turn the wrong color at the wrong time and sometimes Ben even stopped for them. He raced through the intersection of Sixty-first Street and Riverside Drive and sped north onto Riverside. He heard an angry cacophony of horns and squealing tires behind him. He didn’t look back.

He drove his Honda beside the parking garage of the Malador Apartments and swerved sideways, blocking the only exit from the garage. He leapt out of the car, hopped over the brick wall, and ran toward the elevator shaft. How long had he and Mike been at Sanguine’s office? Almost an hour now. Damn. He pushed the UP button and waited, barely able to hold still. Come on! He would have shouted if he’d thought it would help.

A bell sounded, and the elevator doors swung open.

Tidwell was in the elevator, in front of a large, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo and an enormous purse. Tidwell saw Ben and froze. Ben stepped into the elevator. The woman standing behind Tidwell did not understand. Finally, when Tidwell didn’t move out of the way, she tried to move around him.

Tidwell stretched his left arm across the elevator, blocking her path.

“Let her off,” Ben said evenly.

Tidwell dropped his arm, and the woman stepped around him. Suddenly, Tidwell grabbed the woman by her right arm and, placing his foot at the base of her spine, kicked her toward Ben. Ben fell backward but braced himself by stretching his arm across the opening of the elevator. Tidwell tried to rush out under his right arm, but Ben grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back into the elevator. Tidwell’s head banged against the wall, and his body fell. The elevator bell rang again, and the doors closed, trapping the three of them together.

“Please don’t hurt me,” the woman said, her face washed with fear. She was crouched in the corner, trying to hide behind her purse. “I just want off.”

Ben pushed the button for the seventh floor and turned to face Tidwell, still lying on the floor next to the wall. “What have you done, you son of a bitch?” He grabbed Tidwell by the collar of his jacket and shook him.

In one smooth continuous motion, Tidwell reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a large kitchen knife. The woman screamed. It was the knife, Ben realized. Ben grabbed Tidwell’s wrist with both hands and slammed it against the wall of the elevator. Tidwell’s grip held tight.

Once more the elevator bell rang, and the doors opened.

The woman screamed and bolted out of the elevator.

“Help!” she screamed. The couple waiting to get in saw the two men wrestling in the elevator and, after a second, hurried away.

“Call the police!” Ben shouted, trying not to lose his grip. His knees were beginning to buckle under the strong downward pressure. Tidwell was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked.

Tidwell tightened his free hand into a fist and smashed it against Ben’s right ear. Ben cried out. His grip involuntarily loosened. Tidwell twisted his wrist free and brought the blade of the knife down into the soft underside of Ben’s upper right arm. Ben screamed in pain. Light bulbs seemed to flash in front of his eyes, and he felt himself falling. He fell backward, as if seating himself on the floor of the elevator. Tidwell stepped toward him and pulled back his knife to strike.

At that moment the bell rang, and the elevator doors began to close. Tidwell turned his head and, stretching his knife hand between the doors, he slapped the safety bumper and reopened the doors.

Ben didn’t waste a second. Pulling himself up by the metal rail, he rose to his feet and, while Tidwell’s hand was still outside the doors, he swung his fist into Tidwell’s nose. Tidwell yelled. Blood began to spurt from his nostrils. The elevator doors opened, and Ben raced through.

Holding his bleeding arm close against his body, Ben ran to the closed door of apartment 724. The door was unlocked. Ben ran inside and tried to bolt the door, but before he could, the full force of Tidwell’s body slammed against the other side of the door, knocking Ben back into an end table next to the sofa. A large brass lamp fell onto the floor with a crash.

Ben ran backward into the living room, combing the room for a weapon. He remembered how, years ago, Mike had tried to teach him some rudimentary jujitsu and how Ben had laughed at the macho pretense of it all. Times like this he could use some macho pretense.

Tidwell came through the door, his knife poised above his right shoulder. His face was wet and transformed into a grotesque death mask. Sweat was dripping from the dunning hair on the sides of his head. Tidwell wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, but it continued to trickle out of his nostrils. Dark shadows were forming beneath his eyes. If Ben had not already known who he was, he would not have recognized him.

Ben grabbed the brass lamp from where it had fallen next to the sofa, yanked the cord out of the wall and pulled off the shade. He smashed the end of the bulb against the table, leaving cut and jagged pieces of glass and tungsten exposed. He held the base with both hands and swung the lamp between Tidwell and himself. His right arm was weak with pain and could barely support the weight.

He gritted his teeth and held tight to the lamp. As stupid as he felt brandishing a lamp, Ben realized that the lamp had more reach than Tidwell’s knife.

Tidwell stopped creeping forward and smiled. “I could throw the knife,” Tidwell said, smiling grotesquely, with blood-smeared teeth.

“You’ll have to kill me on your first throw,” Ben said. “Because if you miss, you’re a dead man.” He realized how heavily he was breathing and tried to control it. “Where’s the nurse?”

Tidwell continued to smile. “I gave her the day off.”

“Catherine!” Ben shouted. “Get out of here!” There was no response.

The two men stared at one another across the room, both breathing with loud, heaving gasps. Tidwell ran his palm across his face again, wiping away the excess sweat and blood. The blood was beginning to dry and coagulate beneath his nose; it was turning a sickening black color.

Ben was suddenly aware of the steady flow of blood from his own upper right arm. The blood had saturated his shirt sleeve and was beginning to drip onto the carpet. His right arm was tingling and becoming numb. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold the heavy lamp in midair for long. All Tidwell had to do was wait.

And then, the sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the stalemate. A hand pushed the door open a little wider. “Ben?” a timid voice asked.

Christina stepped into the room carrying a bundle of women’s clothing. In less than a second, she had noted the overturned furniture, the bloodstained faces, the weapons. She turned, but before she had a chance to run, Tidwell had his free arm wrapped around her throat and the sharp end of his knife pressed against her face.