Trapped

TWENTY-FOUR

Marianne walked slowly and warily up the stairs, her heels off, making not a sound.

She wasn't sure how long it had been by the time she had climbed twenty-six stories to her office. What she did notice was the piece of white tape on the catch to the door. She walked across the landing and quietly opened the door.

She peered out carefully and slowly removed the tape, closing the door with barely a click. She put her heels back on and navigated carefully through the broken glass off the K&D main doors.

Once inside she went straight to the key cubby on the wall beside the secretary desks. She opened the box and swiped all of the keys off their hooks inside, pouring them into her purse. She should have done that to begin with, back when she had only grabbed the penthouse key.

She glanced at the wall clock—4:35—and then went over to the doorway of her darkened office, wondering if there was anything else she needed. She turned to leave.

"Marianne."

She froze.

Slowly she turned back around.

John was sitting behind her desk.

He leaned forward in the chair, coming out of the shadows, muted city light offering the barest of illumination.

The smile that broke across her face stifled a cry of relief as she walked through the door into her office. John even had a soft smile for her. Gentle John had returned, his face dripping with a mixture of worry and relief himself.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Marianne nodded several times, unable to speak.

"I was hoping you'd come back here," John said. There was a heaviness to his words, his breathing labored.

"Thank God you're alive," Marianne said. "I was afraid..."

John nodded slowly. "So was I." He exhaled. "But you, you did good. I wish your aim had been about six inches back toward the center, but...I owe you."

"Are you hurt?" she said.

"Yeah." His voice was strained, body wincing with each movement. "He broke my arm."

Marianne could see the pain in the way he held his arm, the tightness in his face whenever he moved.

"We've got whiskey," she said.

"I'll be all right," he said. With his good hand he took a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it, taking a few puffs. The orange ember at the end glowed in the dark, smoke swirling over the city lights coming through the window.

"I need your help now," John said. "I can't go after him alone."

Marianne's voice broke: "I can't. I'm sorry."

John looked at her softly. Slowly and painfully he rose from the chair and stood leaning with his one good arm against the window, the cigarette in his fingers. "You never had a husband who beat you? A cruel teacher? A dangerous neighborhood? You're not used to violence, are you?"

Marianne shook her head slowly.

John went on, his voice soft, barely a whisper, mesmerizing: "Yes, you are. It surrounds us. Fear and violence. You just don't think about it. But you do lock your doors at night. And tonight, on the other side of that door..."

"We can still hide," Marianne said.

"So can he. He can get away if he wants to."

"I know what he looks like."

"You've got to find him," John said. "There're a lot more places to hide out there. And maybe...he'll try and find you first."

Marianne let this sink in. She recalled her purse left in the elevator all that time. Her license that the killer may or may not have seen.

"I'm not hiding with you," John said.

"Please," Marianne said. "We're sort of a team, aren't we? Just for tonight?"

John stared at her.

"Sometimes," Marianne said, "I feel I could do anything, would do anything...just not to be alone anymore."

"Well?" John said. He whispered again, that whisper that seemed to put her in a trance: "Think about it. You've done things tonight you never would have thought possible. Not in a million years." He stared at her for a long time, then began walking to the door.

"Don't leave me," Marianne said. Maybe she was being pathetic, but she didn't care.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I just don't hide. It's not my nature. Some people do. Most people do. One way or another."

He walked out the doorway. Marianne watched him leave, like every other man in her life. She stood there for a while, then stepped out.

"John."

He was at the busted doorway to the lobby, about to leave. He looked back at her. Now out of her darkened office she could see his broken arm in full light. His hand was tucked into his pocket, the lower half of his sleeve soaked in blood.

"Is this it?" she said. "I mean, aren't we going to at least say we're going to call each other? On the outside?"

John stared at her. "There's this place, the south side. Danny's. It's a diner."

Marianne had to smile. In fact she had to laugh. Of all the places in all of Chicago. "I know it. There all the time actually."

John looked at her strangely for a second, as if surprised she would frequent such a greasy spoon in such a neighborhood. But then he just nodded.

"Okay," he said.

It would never happen. But she knew he knew she needed to hear it.

"Thanks," Marianne said.

They shared a long look.

Then John stepped over the broken glass and was gone.