was warm and had the smell of creamed coffee, and he aimed it directly at Mark’s eyes. “Do you understand me?” he sneered with a nasty smile.
The elevator stopped, and the man was on his feet by the door with the switchblade hidden by his leg. Although Mark was paralyzed, he was able to hope and pray that someone would get on the damned elevator with him. It was obvious he was not getting off at this point. They waited ten seconds at the sixth floor, and nobody entered. The doors closed, and they were moving again.
The man lunged at him again, this time with the switchblade an inch or two from Mark’s nose. He pinned him in the corner with a heavy forearm, and
suddenly jabbed the shiny blade at Mark’s waist. Quickly and efficiently, he cut a belt loop. Then a second one. He’d already delivered his message, without interruption, and now it was time for a little reinforcement.
“I’ll slice your guts out, do you understand me?” he demanded, and then released Mark.
Mark nodded. A lump the size of a golf ball clogged his dry throat, and suddenly his eyes were wet. He nodded yes, yes, yes.
“I’ll kill you. Do you believe me?”
Mark stared at the knife, and nodded some more. “And if you tell anyone about me, I’ll get you. Understand?” Mark kept nodding, only faster now.
The man slid the knife into a pocket and pulled a folded eight by ten color photograph from under the lab jacket. He stuck it in Mark’s face. “You seen this before?” he asked, smiling now.
It was a department store portrait taken when Mark was in the second grade, and for years now it had hung in the den above the television. Mark stared at it.
“Recognize it?” the man barked at him.
Mark nodded. There was only one such photograph in the world.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and the man moved quickly, again by the door. At the last second, two nurses stepped in, and Mark finally breathed. He stayed in the corner, holding the railings, praying for a miracle. The switchblade had come closer with each assault, and he simply could not take another one. On the third floor, three more people entered and stood between Mark and the man with the knife. In an instant, Mark’s assailant was gone; through the door as it was closing.
“Are you okay?” A nurse was staring at him, frowning and very concerned. The elevator kicked and started down. She touched his forehead and felt a layer of sweat between her fingers. His eyes were wet. “You look pale,” she said.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled weakly, holding the railings for support.
Another nurse looked down at him in the corner. They studied his face with much concern. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, and the elevator door suddenly opened on the second floor. He darted through bodies and was in a narrow corridor dodging gurneys and wheelchairs. His well-worn Nike hightops squeaked on the clean linoleum as he ran to a door with an EXIT sign over it. He pushed through the door, and was in the stairwell. He grabbed the rails and started up, two steps at a time, churning and churning. The pain hit his thighs at the sixth floor, but he ran harder. He passed a doctor on the eighth floor, but never slowed. He ran, climbing the mountain at a record pace until the stairwell stopped on the fifteenth floor. He collapsed on a landing under a fire hose, and sat in the semidarkness until the sun filtered through a tiny painted window above him.
PURSUANT TO HIS AGREEMENT WITH REGGIE, CLINT OPENED
the office at exactly eight, and after turning on the lights, made the coffee. It was Wednesday, southern pecan day. He looked through the countless one-pound bags of coffee beans in the refrigerator until he found southern pecan, and measured four perfect scoops into the grinder. She would know in an instant
if he’d missed the measurement by half a teaspoon. She would take the first sip like a wine connoisseur, smack her lips like a rabbit, then pass judgment on the coffee. He added the precise quantity of water, flipped the switch, and waited for the first black drops to hit the canister. The aroma was delicious.
Glint enjoyed the coffee almost as much as his boss did, and the meticulous routine of making it was only half-serious. They began each morning with a quiet cup as they planned the day and talked about