I was certain that there must be bags of powder on the premises, but it wasn’t a search I wanted to make alone and in the dark. I looked in Frenada’s office for the Mad Virgin shirt I’d seen on Tuesday. When a quick inspection of the tangled heap of cloth and paper didn’t reveal it, I moved to the hall. I’d see if Frenada was in the john or at the back by the freight elevator; if he wasn’t on the premises I was out of Dodge.

The toilet was in the hall that ran outside Special–T’s door. A supply closet was next to it; the freight elevator was at the end farthest from the stairs. I had looked inside the closet and found nothing more disgusting than a mop that needed a good bath in disinfectant, when I heard the scuffling sound of a door opening, of many feet trying to sneak silently up concrete stairs. A second later a train began to wheeze and crank its way up the track: if they’d waited only a heartbeat longer I’d never have heard them.

Chapter 23: A Run to O’Hare

23 A Run to O’Hare

I slid out of the supply closet. No cover there. Where? No way to scale the wall, no way up to those windows. I ducked into the freight elevator. The train rattled the walls, drowning any sound of my pursuit. If they’d started up the stairs, it wouldn’t take them long to look in here. Even if I had a key to start the elevator, while it toiled downstairs a dozen men could wait outside the door and pick me off like a duck in a crate.

Fool. Damned cocky fool to plunge into this building when the whole evening was painted with red warning signs, stay away, don’t touch. Someone knew me too well, knew that I’d weigh the risks and take them anyway. Set the tiger trap. If I was a real tiger I could have leapt from shop floor to window and been on my way.

I looked around the elevator cage. The service hatch stood open. I measured the distance: about four feet over my head. I wasn’t a tiger, and I’d get only one chance on these forty–plus muscles. A light bounced off the hallway wall. I crouched, swung my arms, and jumped. My hands clawed at the edge of the opening. Left hand on a nail, grab hard with my right while I move the left, claw for purchase, fingers digging into splintery wood, biceps bulging as they hoist my weight. The freight train screeching past covered my scramble through the hatch, my rasping breath.