Forgiven (Ruined) (7 page)

             
"Willow, it's one o'clock in the morning," Emmy protests.  "
Saturday
morning."

             
"Yeah, but the engineers who volunteer to work Friday nights are suspect," I answer.

             
"What do you suspect them of?"

             
"Not having anything else to do."  I bite a thumb nail and try to make myself stop it.  I should make myself stop this, too.  I should ask her to take me home.  If I'm going to be operations manager and production person and whatever other hats I end up wearing, I should learn to delegate.

             
All the while I'm thinking that, Emmy's driving us to campus.  When she stops in front of the building, she says, "I'll go in with you."

             
"No, thanks, no need," I tell her.  "I'll walk home.  It's five minutes, Emmy, don't give me that face.  You look like a mother – " I start laughing again.  "Hen," we finish together.  Yet another bird to be blamed for something.

             
"I don't like leaving you here."

             
"I promise I'll be fine.  If I get worried, I'll take a cab back."  Though taking a cab makes the trip three times longer than just walking back along the beach in full view of all those houses.

             
"OK," Em says slowly.  "Did you have fun tonight?"

             
"I did," I tell her and I'm pleased that I'm not that surprised.  I'm making friends again.  It feels nice.

             
I step out of Emmy's car, slam the door and walk to the building with my keys out, in my hand.  Unlocking the door, I flip on the lights, old fluorescents that hum.  Turn and wave Emmy off and she waves and pulls away and for just an instant, I feel very alone as I watch her taillights. 

             
Then I take a look around the empty parking lot, just making sure, go in and make sure the door closes tightly behind me, and head to the office/multipurpose room/reception space that serves as "executive offices" at the little college station.

             
We're off the air at this hour.  Reruns of sitcoms rolled throughout early evening, followed by a couple student documentaries and a rerun of one of the forgiveness series.  Ashley or Zach would have been here at 11, doing the editing for the sports while the engineers ran tapes and videos of stories stringers have turned in.  Ashley and Zach take turns on Friday nights.  This was a Zach night, according to the log.  There's a log of the stories covered.  There's Dexter's sports log of clips run.  After that there would have been the sitcoms, canned laughter attended to by engineers on internships and then off air just a little while ago, at one a.m.  I have a feeling our market share on Friday nights is as low as anything can conceivably get.

             
Everything is in order.  I'm not sure what I'm doing here.  Maybe trying to force the idea for the next series to come to mind.  I'd love for someone else to come up with something to take the place of the forgiveness series, which is probably going to end around Valentine's Day.  Or sooner.  It's lost the freshness, but not the viewers.  Not yet.  I'm hoping to end it about the time it starts to lose ground, not when it's good and truly dead, and not while it's still bringing us a viewing audience.  It's one of the early pieces that's submitted for the Award.

             
Nothing comes to me though.  Or rather, a lot of ideas come, but none with staying power.  I don't want to do the conflicts between males and females.  In light of the Santa Barbara shootings and other recent shootings the topic is evergreen, and there are currently all the hash tag feminists and men hash tagging back Not All of Us. 

             
Maybe.  If nothing else comes to mind.  In the meantime, the station was well tucked in and needs nothing from me.  I check the log, see students will be in to start up with cartoons at 7 a.m. and I start getting ready to leave.

             
And that's when I hear it.

* * *

             
There's someone else in the building. 

             
Which is probably OK.  Right?  I didn't call out when I came in, because I assumed there was no one else here.  And whoever is here didn't call out when I came in, I tell myself a little frantically, because they didn't know there was anyone else here.

             
Right?  Only why didn't they know someone else was here?  I wasn't being quiet.  I shut the door, tried it to make certain it was locked.  I turned on lights.  I – sat quietly at a desk.

             
OK.  So maybe they just heard something and discounted it.  Maybe they were in an editing booth and didn't hear me. 

             
Relief.  That's it.  They were in an editing booth.  It's probably Dexter or Tyler or another student who has access. 

             
So why haven't I called out yet?  I should, too, because otherwise I'm going to give whoever it is a hell of a shock.  Even with the lights on, because most people don't remember whether or not they've turned lights on.  They just do it.  It's natural.

             
Except I do remember turning the lights on.  They were off when I got here.  All of them. 

             
OK.  Don't panic.  Maybe whoever it is turned all the lights behind them off as they made their way to the editing suites.  That makes sense.  It's environmentally sound. It's the right thing to do.

             
So why have I still not called out?

             
I haven't heard anything for the last few seconds.  Maybe
I
misheard.  Maybe there's nobody here.  Maybe something fell and what I heard was collateral damage from knocking over other things.  Only what made the first thing fall?

             
Before I can think that one through, more sounds.  Far end of the hall, I think.  I might be able to see if I were in the hall instead of just round the hall wall at the so-called executive desk.  Before I can over think this anymore I call out.

             
"Hello?"

             
The sounds stop instantly.  Did I scare whoever it was?  "Hello?  Who's there?  It's Willow," I call again.

             
And this time there are running footsteps.  Coming my way.  I have no idea what to do, there's nowhere to go, they're headed right at me. I've got the desk between me and the hall and can't possibly get to the door before they do. I'd crash right in to whoever it is. No point in hiding because I just announced I was here, me, Willow, a girl by herself, all alone in the supposed-to-be-empty communications building. 

             
My phone's in my hand before the footsteps reach the edge of the wall.  They don't stop.  Whoever it is hits the door and is out into the parking lot before I get there.  I didn't even get a chance to see if it was male or female.

             
"Hey!"  Now that they're running
from
me rather than
at
me, I seem inclined to give chase.  I get as far as the door before common sense kicks in.

             
I pull the door shut, make sure it's shut, turn the lever that sinks the deadbolt.  Which won't do anything to help me if I need help because first of all it was shut the first time and whoever it was, they were in here
with
me and second off, there could be others. 

             
Third, he or she probably had a key.

             
But that's not proven.  Because I haven't been through the building yet.  Could be a broken window, a jimmied back door.  I start to dial 911, because I do not want to be alone here anymore, and then pause.  I have no idea what they'll do if they come here, but the first time in my life I called 911 is a time I don't want to revisit, and don't want revisited by anyone.  If I call, will they check out any other times I called 911?  In other states?  In other lives?  Back when I was Kate.  Back in Seattle.

             
Probably not but I'm not taking the chance.  I've started a new life and I intend to keep it.  I've cut off Kate and Washington State. 

             
I'll call campus security.  I look down my speed dial and make the call. 

             
Campus security's dispatch seems to be interns too.  They're uncertain whether I'm better off waiting in the parking lot (alone in the dark where the intruder went) or in the building (alone in a closed up building where the intruder
was
).  I can't decide either, so I stay on the line with them while I wait for a security detail to arrive.  The girl sounds squeaky and unhappy with all the choices and I hope her major isn't criminal justice and her intended career isn't 911 operator. 

             
"Willow Blake?" 

             
Why are they shining the flashlight in my eyes?  I can't see past it, can't see the ID I'm being handed.  Plus, the lights are all on in here.  I put my hand up against the light and the guy apologizes and lowers the flash.

             
His ID is Ryan Ferguson.  He's with a female security guard with long dark braids.  Ryan is a redhead and a little overweight or maybe he's wearing a vest.  In light of all the campus shootings, I'd wear full combat gear every time I had a shift, I think, and then start to shake with misplaced apprehension.  It's over now, whatever it was.  Maybe that's why I feel like I have time to react.

             
"Are you hurt?" the female asks.  Her ID, belatedly presented, shows her to be a Erin Balliol.  "Do you need medical attention?"

             
"No."  It comes out shaky, like hip-hop. 
No
should only have one syllable.  "Sorry.  I just got scared."

             
"So there wasn't anybody here?" Ferguson says.

             
"What?" I frown at him.  He frowns back.  "No," I say, trying again.  "I mean, yes, there was someone here.  I mean, I got scared after he ran out."  Yes, that clears things right up, Willow.

             
"Because?" Ferguson hazards.

             
"Because the shock set in, Fergie," Balliol says.  "Don't be a jerk."  To me she says, "Take us through it, step by step."

             
So I do.  From Emmy dropping me off to coming inside, checking the door, going through the records, making sure everything with the station was in order.

             
Fergie finds this weird.  "Why'd you do all that?" he asks.

             
Balliol and I both stare at him.  "Because it's her job," she says at the same time I say, "Because it's my job." 

             
He gives us both a look like we're ganging up on him and says he's going to walk the building.  Fine by me.  The shaking is stopping anyway.  I'm ready to call it a night.  I'll take my own walk through if Balliol will go with me, and wait for morning if she won't.  I actually have the weekend off, had been thinking of asking Kellan if he wanted to go somewhere before realizing he was trapped by parole in the city.  That had made me restless and trapped despite having not really gone much of anywhere anyway. 

             
Once Fergie's gone to check out the rest of the building, Balliol walks me through events one more time. 

             
"I feel stupid for not checking out the building when I got here," I tell her.  I'm sitting on the desk now, swinging my feet.

             
Balliol shrugs, her dark braids bouncing.  "Then you might have panicked whoever it was if you'd done that.  Forced whoever it was to act.  We didn't see anything from the outside, no broken windows or anything.  Whoever it was didn't do anything to you.  Maybe it was some kid on a dare.  Or maybe it was – "

             
Ferguson interrupts her.  He's come back up the hall, carrying some damaged tapes.  "Or maybe it was someone doing this," he says.  He looks from the tape to me.  "You still use tapes here?"

             
I sigh.  "The university likes us to learn all the formats for broadcasting."  Reaching out for the tape.  "Do you need that for evidence?"  I want to at least see what it is.

             
"No.  I've taken pictures.  This is a misdemeanor, petty theft if anything.  Your equipment seems to be in place, but can you come walk through?"

             
I jump off the desk, starting to follow him.  He stops abruptly and I run into him, annoyed.  He turns back.  "It's a mess in there."

             
I sigh again.  Of course it is.  This will look great on my resume someday.  Probably the communications building has never been broken into until my watch.