Vertical Run (9 page)

The older man, probably one of the senior partners, answered in a voice reminiscent of Orson Welles, “The reason, as our more insightful partners will allow, is that in the final analysis the consultant’s profession is not dissimilar from that of the common prostitute—the competitor we must always fear most is the enthusiastic amateur.”

The younger man guffawed a little too loudly. The older shot him a look. Dave recognized his movie star profile. It was Elliot Milestone, one of McKinley-Allan’s best-known partners.

You’ve only met him once. He probably doesn’t remember you. Be careful anyway
.

Another voice, this one behind him. It spoke a language only heard in boardrooms and executive suites—mellifluous multisyllabic corporate executive-ese: “… tell Bernie that we ought to seriously consider moving the company out of New York.” Dave jerked. The speaker was Mark Whiting, Senterex’s chief financial officer. “The taxes are horrendous, the commute is unspeakable, and who the devil needs to put up with walking down forty-five flights of stairs every time some lunatic decides to phone in a bomb threat?”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.” It was getting worse and worse. The answering voice belonged to Sylvester Lucas, vice chairman of Senterex. “We’ve received development proposals from Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, New Hampshire, and Ohio.… ”

“Forget Ohio.”

“Most assuredly. Nonetheless, they all afford appreciable benefits in taxes, labor costs, and other expense categories. Accepting any one of them would drop better than one additional point of margin to our bottom line. At the current P/E, that would bump our market cap by an appreciable sum.”

“The P/E would go up too.”

“Just so. Those of us whose compensation package involves a healthy spicing of stock options would enjoy certain gains.”

“Well, hell. Why don’t you bug Bernie? Bring it up at the next Board meeting.”

“Indeed. I would be bugging Bernie, as you put it, at this very moment, were it not for this unfortunate business with Dave Elliot.”

“Em. Yes. I was told—strictly on the QT, you know—that it was some sort of flashback episode. Vietnam, I gather it is not unknown among those who had the misfortune to serve.”

“Oh? That would explain it.”

“And some other things as well. This Ransome chap told me quite a lot about our good colleague. It was not a pleasant story. Apparently there have been other episodes. I intend to bring the whole matter before the Board.”

“Ah. Well, Bernie has called for a meeting later.… ”

The eighteenth floor landing was just ahead. As Dave reached it, he drew back, facing the wall and fiddling with his belt until Whiting and Lucas passed. He was having trouble breathing, although he was not at all out of breath.

The closer the evacuees came to the ground floor, the less they spoke. Many were winded and gasping. A handful slumped against landing walls, massaging out-of-shape thighs.

David Elliot’s legs felt fine. His runner’s muscles could take more punishment than forty flights of stairs could dish out.

There was a door just ahead of him—dull, matte green, and dented. A large “2” was painted on it. Just in case someone missed the point, a sign overhead read
SECOND FLOOR
.

This is it. Last stop coming up. All off, please. Please be sure to check the overhead bins for your personal belongings.…

The worst that could happen was that Ransome would be waiting on the ground floor, standing next to the door from the fire stairs, scrutinizing every face that passed. If he was, then someone was going to die. Ransome wouldn’t have his gun out. Dave was sure of that. But he also was sure that Ransome’s hand would be close to his pistol, that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it, and that he’d make his apologies to the witnesses later. If Ransome was waiting, Dave would have only a second or two to …

Kill him
.

Right.

With a screwdriver
.

Through the heart.

Then you run
.

Then I run.

Dave tightened his hand around a long Phillips screwdriver. He drew it out of his tool belt, holding it flat against his leg. The muscles in his right arm coiled, tense and ready.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. Ahead of him the crowd shoved through the fire door and into the ground floor lobby. Dave pushed behind them, his eyes flicking right and left, his screwdriver ready.

Ransome was elsewhere. Dave wiped his palms against his trousers. He could feel the dampness through the fabric. That was bad. The screwdriver could have slipped out of his fingers.

So far so good. You really didn’t want to shiv him anyway. You’re out of the shivving business
.

And have been for a long time.

Dave took a slow, deep breath and tried to concentrate on what was going on around him. Something was wrong. The lobby was packed. No one was moving. The crowd was pushing forward, but not getting anywhere. And tempers were rising.

It does not matter whether he or she is a Harvard-trained lawyer or a Queens-born cabby. New Yorkers are New Yorkers, and when their voices are raised in the very special anger that only frustrated New Yorkers can muster, all speak with the same accent. “Come on, move it, toots.” “Who you calling ‘toots’?” “Whadsdamatta up dere?” “You think I’m in charge of this Chinese fire drill or something?” “Hey, jerk, get yer hand off my butt.” “It wasn’t me, lady.” “My ass, it wasn’t.” “Let’s go up there!” “Put out that cigarette before I put it out for you.” “Try it.” “Quitchyershovin’.” “Look, youse, some Ay-rab is plannin’ on torchin’ dis joint any minute now, so get the lead out.” “Who you callin’ a Ay-rab, you wop?” “In your ear, guy.” “Yeah?” “Yeah!”

The bottleneck was at the bright, glassed front of the lobby. Four of the six revolving doors leading to Park Avenue were out of order. That left two sets of revolvers and a pair of regular doors as the only exits.

I bet those doors didn’t jam by accident
.

The crowd surged forward across the lobby. Dave was still at the rear, and still a long—too damn long—way from the street and from safety. His height was sufficiently above average that he could see over the heads of the packed mass of bodies in front of him. He searched across it, looking for points of danger.

There they are
.

Four teams of men stood clumped by the exits, off to the
side where the crowd wouldn’t jostle them. They were big, like Ransome, and wore the same kind of off-the-rack suits as he. Each man’s arm was bent at the elbow, resting across his chest, ready to reach beneath his jacket.

Pushed from behind, Dave had no choice but to move forward. He kept his eyes fixed on the watchers. The watchers kept their eyes fixed on the faces of the evacuees nearest the exit.

The man beside Dave growled, “Goddamned landlord can’t maintain the goddamned doors in the goddamned building. Welcome to goddamned New York goddamned City.” Dave ignored him.

Just behind him a woman yelped, “Ouch, you’re on my foot!” Dave lifted his shoe. “Sorry, lady.”

“Geez, some people …” Dave tuned her out.

Now he was at the rear elevator bank. The building was served by two sets of elevators, one for the top twenty-five floors and one for the lower twenty-five. Each bank was set in its own dead-ended corridor off the lobby. Between them was a third, shorter corridor housing the building’s newsstand.

He heard something. At first it didn’t register on him. It was just another voice in the crowd, albeit a little louder than most. He almost missed it. His attention was focused on the men by the door. If she hadn’t repeated herself, he would have ignored her.

“There he is! Over there! Look! Over there! Look!”

Then it registered. He turned his head. He saw … he was confused … he couldn’t believe …

“That’s him! There! There he is! Get him!”

In every boy’s life there is, or should be, a pond. Ideally, this pond is to be found in a remote and private place, far from the eyes of adults. It should be deep (for diving), cool (for the heat of summer), and surrounded by tall, leafy trees (for meditative loafing).

In the best of all possible worlds, it also will be a little dangerous.

Dave’s pond is perfect, a nonpareil. It lies beyond a low string of hills—just steep enough to be spared plowing and planting—and down a shallow valley. Three miles of bicycling among tall corn and toasty blowing wheat brings him to the hills. Fifteen minutes more, straining and pushing his bike every step of the way, and he is standing by its shore.

It is three quarters of a mile wide, and a half mile across. Most of it is fringed with green-brown cattails and pussy willows. A wobbly, ill-built raft—no more than planks and rusty fifty-gallon drums—drifts in its center. No one but boys of a certain age ever visit it.

Perfect.

Dave first was invited to its sacred precincts when he reached the age of ten. It is understood that those of younger years are not welcome at the pond. And it is understood that those older than fifteen are, in their growing maturity, expected to find other summer recreations. It is a place for boys, and intended to remain eternally thus.

Not that the adults don’t know of it. Far from it. They all are aware of its existence, and all, to a man and to a woman, forbid their offspring to go there. “That pond—you’ll get tetanus if you swim in it. Besides, it’s full of cottonmouths, and the bottom is nothing but quicksand.”

Great! Quicksand! And snakes! Wow!

Although, in truth, Dave and all his friends have never seen so much as a grass snake in the hollow. And as for the quicksand … well, the boys know that if any of their number had ever been lost to quicksand, the story would have resounded for a hundred miles around, and lasted for a hundred years. Since no such story is current, the quicksand theory can be discounted.

Except …

Except that one of the most notable allures of the pond
is its depth, which is very great indeed. Try though they might, none has ever dived deep enough to reach bottom. Thus, the existence (or lack thereof) of quicksand cannot be confirmed. Maybe the peril is real after all. Maybe the bottom of the pond is treacherous muck that will grab hold of your legs like a gigantic, slimy octopus and suck you screaming and thrashing down, down, down …

Or, maybe there is something else at the bottom of the pond. Something alive. Something that gets you and leaves no trace. Something with teeth and appetite that gives rise to rumors about quicksand, but in reality is a gigantic …

 … pike, with fangs …

 … squid like in that movie …

 … clam like in that other movie …

 … dinosaur, an ichthyo-whatchyamacallit …

 … snapping turtle, five hundred years old and so big …

Well, they have to dive, don’t they? It is essential It is the done thing. No boy can resist it. One of them will succeed. Certainly. Someday, someone will. And when he does, his heroic name and brave achievement will ring down the ages.

Dave dives. The other boys do cannonballs off the raft, or push off its side, or plummet in a deadman’s fall. Dave dives. He works on it, perfecting his spring up, his fold over, his straightening into a perfect jackknife that slices down through the water, deep, and deeper still.

One day he triumphantly makes it to the bottom.

The pond water is brown, thick, muddy. You can’t see your hand before your face. The deeper you swim, the darker it becomes. Eventually, there is nothing, no light at all except for a dull bronze glow way away and far above you.

On the day he reaches the bottom, even that bronze is gone. Dave has passed beyond where the light can penetrate. He claws downward blindly, knowing that he has
made it farther than anyone else, into a realm no boy has ever reached. Satisfied at this accomplishment, and despite the fact that he knows he should turn back, he pulls another stroke, straight down, cocking his arms forward. His hand brushes something.

Slime. Slippery. His heart is in his mouth.
The squid!
No, strands of something. What? Weeds. Weeds on the bottom.
I made it!
He wraps his hands around them and pulls himself down. Careful now, it really could be quicksand. No, just ordinary mud. He jerks at the weeds. He wants evidence, proof that he, David Elliot, has finally done the thing to which all aspire. The weeds come away easily.

Time to go now. Been here too long. Need air.

He kicks up. He has pushed his luck going so deep, staying down so long. His face feels red with the strain of it. Saliva fills his mouth. He really needs air. The surface can’t be far, can it?

He swims harder, taking long powerful strokes. This is getting bad. There is a sharp pain around his sinuses. His lungs are aching.

He can see the bronze glow. Brighter now. Not far to go.
Everyone on the raft is going to go nuts when they see what’s in my hands
. Red spots, match flames in the dark, dance before his eyes. Bright. Very bright. Any moment the air …

His hands smash into something. If he hadn’t been pulling into a stroke, he would have cracked his head into it. He does anyway. But not hard. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that he needs air now.
Now, please, God, now!
And something is holding him down, keeping him from the air, trapping him in the cold dark water, killing him, drowning him. Brass bands tighten around his chest. He has never known anything to hurt as much. Any moment now his mouth will open, water will rush in, his lungs will fill, he will drown and die. He pushes and struggles against the thing holding him in the water, in the dark, away from life and air. It is malevolent and active and evil and hatred personified and it wants him
to die and he can’t get past it and he will open his mouth and scream and …

It is the raft. He is beneath the raft. He shoves away and bursts gasping, blue-faced and empty-handed, into the air.

Until he reached the age of forty-seven, that moment beneath the water marked the greatest despair that David Elliot had ever known, and the greatest fear. He could not imagine anything more horrifying or more blackly agonizing than to be utterly out of breath, and held prisoner beneath some—God knows what—thing in the water. The immediacy of death paled in comparison to the sickening, hopeless, and bleak terror involved in knowing that fate has set its hand against you and there is
no
escape.