Chapter 43
Glen Jeffers knew something was wrong the moment he woke up that morning. It was a feeling that flooded not only his brain, but his body as well—a feeling that although he was wide-awake, his mind was only half conscious; that although he’d slept through the night, his body was still exhausted. How could he possibly be so tired when he hadn’t done much of anything except rest since coming home from the hospital?
The reality was that he was just plain bored. He’d spent his life being active, rising early for his morning jogs with Anne, putting in long days at the office—days that were often broken only by a fierce lunchtime game of racquetball with Alan Cline—then coming home to work in the evening at the drafting table in the den, or, if it was summer and the evenings long, going up to the park to throw a ball around with Kevin.
What he wasn’t used to was inactivity, and this morning, after Anne and the kids had finally left, the house had begun to close in around him. Part of it, he reflected as he set about cleaning up the kitchen, was simply cabin fever. But there was more to it than that. It seemed to him that everything was getting tangled up in his mind. Just before he’d come fully awake this morning, he’d had a dream—one of those half-waking dreams in which you are unpleasantly aware that you’re dreaming, but are powerless to stop the unwelcome images parading before you.
This one had been a jumble of scenes: Joyce Cottrell, and Kumquat, and Mark Blakemoor staring at him as though the detective thought he’d killed not only his daughter’s cat, but his next door neighbor as well. By the time Glen came fully awake, he felt as surrounded by death and violence as he had when Anne was spending so much of her time on the Richard Kraven story.
That was another thing that was starting to get to him. The whole Kraven thing should have ended when the killer was executed, but it seemed to be rising up all over again. Anne was already looking for a connection between Kraven and the two new killings, and if he knew Anne, she’d find one, no matter how implausible it might seem.
Finished in the kitchen, Glen wandered into the den: maybe he’d just spend a few minutes at the drawing board, not working, really, but just sketching and thinking, seeing if any new ideas came to him. Before he even reached his drafting table, however, his eye was caught by the thick file on Anne’s desk.
The Richard Kraven file—the one he’d made Kevin bring to him when he was still in the hospital.
Why had he done that? Now, he couldn’t even remember having read the stuff. He leafed through a few pages of the file, but none of the articles struck him as something he’d read recently. And he certainly wasn’t interested in reading the pieces this morning.
The mood of restless boredom that had been gathering around him since the moment he’d awakened coalesced into an oppressive claustrophobia. Suddenly he had to get out of the house, had to escape the confines of walls that suddenly seemed to be closing in on him. But where should he go?
A walk?
Forget it. Despite his promise to Gordy Farber, he’d always hated walking just for the sake of walking. What he needed was a destination to give the exercise purpose.
The office?
Forget that, too. If he so much as showed up there, Rita Alvarez would not only send him home, but call Anne, too.
But what about the Jeffers Building? He hadn’t been to the construction site since his heart attack. A quick look at its progress, he thought now, would be the perfect antidote for his mood, and unless Alan happened to be there, no one on the job would even know about Farber’s orders that he stay away from work. His mind made up, Glen pulled on a jacket against the chill of the overcast morning, locked the house, and set out.
A little less than an hour later he was standing on the sidewalk across the street from the soaring skeleton of the Jeffers Building. Even the quickest glance told him that the work was on schedule despite his not being there to supervise it. He felt a twinge of insecurity that they seemed not to need him at all, but then decided the signs of progress were actually something of a tribute—obviously, he and the huge design team working under him had done a good enough job that Jim Dover hadn’t needed to call him.
The building—his building—drew him like a magnet. Crossing the street, he let himself through the door in the fence around the site, and headed for the office, a large trailer that would become unnecessary as soon as the ground floor had been enclosed and could be properly lit and heated. The young woman behind the desk, whose name was Janie Berkey, glanced up from the purchase orders she was working on, looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled.
“Mr. Jeffers!”
“Back among the land of the living,” Glen said. “Thought I’d have a look around. Jim here?”
“Mr. Dover won’t be on site until after lunch today,” Janie told him. “If you want to wait for him—”
“Actually, I’d just as soon poke around on my own a little.” Glen gave her a conspiratorial wink. “How can I find out what he’s doing wrong if I only see what he wants to show me?”
Janie’s eyes darkened. “Mr. Dover doesn’t have anything to hide,” she began, in a voice that made Glen wonder exactly how close a relationship the receptionist had with her boss. “He’s the most—”
“Joke!” Glen interrupted. “It was just a joke.”
Janie looked uncertain, then uttered a small laugh. Glen seized the opportunity to pick up a hard hat, put it on, and slip out of the office before she could insist on calling someone to escort him.
He spent a few minutes touring the ground floor, then climbed the temporary stairs to the mezzanine level. But even as he began inspecting the structure, he found himself being drawn toward the elevator.
What would happen if he went up?
Would the acrophobia that had overcome him the day he’d had his heart attack engulf him for a second time, or had his unexpected panic just been some kind of crazy fluke? As he stood in front of the metal cage considering the wisdom of going higher up in the structure, the elevator clanged to a stop and one of the workmen looked at him inquiringly.
“Great to have you back, Mr. Jeffers,” he said, with a wide smile. “You going up?”
Glen hesitated, then made up his mind. It was like falling off a horse, he decided. If he didn’t get on the elevator right now, and conquer the fear that had nailed him a couple of weeks ago, he might never be able to overcome it at all. “Thanks,” Glen said. He stepped into the cage, the man closed the door, and a second later the machine came to life, rattling upward.
Instantly, Glen felt the first stirrings of apprehension in the pit of his belly. But he said nothing, determined that today the acrophobia would not get the better of him. As the machine continued to rise, Glen forced himself to look straight down, through the heavy grating of the elevator’s floor, to the steadily receding mass of concrete upon which the steel skeleton of the skyscraper stood.
With every floor they passed, with every twelve feet added to the distance of the drop, the queasiness in his stomach increased. Suddenly the elevator jerked to a stop, and Glen felt a moment of pure terror.
Stuck! They were stuck! Trapped. A wild desperation seized him, blood pounding in his ears. He heard the workman’s voice distantly.
“Utility floor,” the man announced. “This is where I get out.”
The utility floor. Only thirteen stories up, Glen realized, on the floor he’d set aside to hold part of the mass of equipment that would run the huge building’s systems. Only a second ago he would have sworn they were much higher.
This was ridiculous!
“I think I’ll go on up to the top,” he said, forcing himself to sound matter-of-fact, hoping his nervousness wasn’t reflected in his voice.
The hard hat hesitated, and Glen instinctively knew the man was remembering what had happened the last time the architect had visited the site. “You want me to go up with you?” he asked.
Glen shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” But as the construction worker got out of the elevator and it began creaking upward, he wondered if he’d told the truth. When the elevator finally rattled to a stop a few minutes later, he knew he hadn’t.
Determined to overcome the fear that was congealing in his gut, Glen opened the door and got out. The platform around the open shaft of the elevator had been expanded since the day he’d had his heart attack. A wide path of rough-cut four-by-twelves extended all the way to the edge of the framework. If he stayed in the center of that path, he would be perfectly safe.
Taking a deep breath, Glen moved forward, telling himself it didn’t matter that there were no handrails, that there was, indeed, nothing at all to steady himself with. When he was still five feet short of the edge, he stopped.
His stomach felt queasy, and he was finding it a little difficult to breathe.
His heart was beating quickly, but not quite pounding, and there was none of the pain he’d felt in his chest and left arm before the heart attack.
All he had to do was take a few more steps.
Fixing his eyes on one of the steel girders that would soon support the outer skin of the building, knowing that if he could just get to it—touch it—he would be all right, he started forward.
One step, then another, and another.
Reaching out, his fingers touched the cold steel, then closed on one of the thick ridges of the I beam. He edged closer to the girder.
And to the edge.
Now he was starting to feel dizzy, but he struggled against it, determined not to give in to the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him.
All he had to do was look down. Just one look, down to the sidewalk forty stories below, and he would have done it.
He edged closer and looked down.
Instantly, the chasm yawned open, drawing him outward, pulling him down. He felt himself leaning over, and an insane urge to jump blossomed inside him. Now he could feel it, feel the wind rushing past him as he dropped, feel the weightlessness of the fall. If he just let go …
He felt his fingers loosen on the girder, felt himself begin to lean out over the precipice, felt the dizziness take control of him.
No!
The single barked command came out of nowhere, slashing through the panic that had fogged his mind. Instinctively spinning around, Glen swept the platform with his eyes, searching for the person whose voice had broken the terrible trance of the acrophobia.
He saw no one.
But the voice spoke again: Down. Now.
Obeying the command, Glen started back toward the elevator. But as he crossed the platform this time, there was no trace of uncertainty in his step, no feeling of dizziness in his head, no hard knot of fear in his stomach.
And no consciousness of what he was doing.