Algorithm - Book 1 - The Medallion

Chapter 11

The sergeant spoke up again. "We are so sorry to have disturbed you. I'm sure there must have been a misunderstanding."

He turned to the door and waved to his younger partner. "We'll be on our way then. Good afternoon, Mr. Borman."

Herman stood. "It is no trouble. I understand you are doing your job, and if there is anything you need from me …" 

He left the statement unfinished as he walked over to the backdoor and held it open. The two uniforms emerged, turning back to tip their caps, and entered the cruiser astride the limo. Herman threw them a cheerful smile and returned their farewells with a wave of his own.  He flicked on the office light as he shut the door.

Once inside the cruiser the sergeant's smile faded.  He stared straight ahead as he spoke.  "There's a wide area near the mouth of this road. Let's park there for a while. With the sun setting, these folks should be leaving soon. I just want to be sure everything here's copasetic. Something's not quite what it seems."

*

Seeing no obvious exit, Adam continued upward, jumping two and three stairs at a time, occasionally breaking through a tread board. He paused on the fourth flight, but had trouble hearing the scuffling steps from below through his heavy breathing.

A rhythmic wheezing drifted up from the dark in syncopation with each foot step. It slowed as it neared. His pursuer appeared to be running out of steam.

Adam shouted, "What do you want with us?"

The reply was a rasp. "We just want to talk with you." 

"About what?  Why the chase?"

"Mr. Borman wants to discuss the artifact."

To Adam, the circumstances suggested that more than a discussion was afoot. This chase was serious. Adam jumped when he heard a wooden plank creak halfway up the staircase. He turned to start up the next flight of stairs, but stopped short at the sight of a wide, empty maw separating him from the floor above.

Parts of a wooden gangway dangled from the corrugated metal wall. He sidled to the narrow walkway and edged along its entrails, careful to stay close to the wall where the metal bracing seemed strongest. It took all his concentration to focus on each step, avoiding broken slats and missing boards. He heard a voice uncomfortably close by and almost pleading. "Hey. We just want to talk to you. Come on, be reasonable."

Adam looked back. The owner of the voice was partially visible in the darkness. He caught a flash of blue.

A police uniform.

"I don't think I can trust you. You're not a real officer are you?"

The uniform jumped to the balcony, precipitating series of metallic groans accompanied by popping sounds. Adam pictured the heads of corroded rivets decapitating, tearing loose from their moorings. He choked on a plume of loosed coal dust. The walkway swayed and Adam heard several planks land on the floor below. There was no more time for talking. From below he heard choking.  At the far end of the narrow set of boards he could see a protruding structure,  a caged room. He moved toward it as his world began to sway again. The planking ended several feet short of the cage. Chain-linked fencing made up its walls. A quick backward glance confirmed the uniform was getting closer, almost within arm's reach. Adam sucked in a breath and leaped across the dark void. One hand struck was deflected by an unseen metal cross-bracing, while his other reached the fencing. His fingers penetrated the links while momentum swung his body into the bottom of the cage. His loose hand groped the air, frantically seeking purchase. He cried out when his legs crashed into the base of the cage; both shins smashed into something solid. His legs were numb, presaging excruciating pain at any moment. His free hand found the wire fencing, and he turned his head, trying to size up options. He was four floors up, twisting above a bottomless black hole filled with the sharp-edged remnants of machinery and tangled scraps of broken wood and steel, all obscured in shadow.

… and all patiently waiting to impale my helplessly flailing body.

At precisely that moment and entirely out of context, he found himself recalling a very pleasant fishing trip that he had taken as a child with his father. Their row boat was gliding silently over a deep, smooth portion of a lake when he happened to glance down at the vague outlines of sinewy and ghostlike shapes in the water beneath them, the vestiges of rotting tree limbs passing beneath. They were calling to him just like the ghostly shadows below were whispering to him now.  He felt his grip weakening. His shins began to burn.

 Imagination was a bitch.