Chapter 6 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING IN THE DARK
The shrill scream of the fire alarm echoed off the brick walls of the small office.
Grant rushed to the heavy green door and grabbed the brass handle. He hissed in pain, yanking his hand back.
"It's burning hot!" Grant yelled over the alarm.
I shoved him aside and pressed the back of my hand against the wood. It was warm, but not blistering. The heat wasn't coming from the door itself; it was coming from whatever had been ignited in the hallway right outside.
"Richard," I growled, coughing as the smoke began to fill the room, smelling strongly of accelerant and burning carpet.
"But he was in handcuffs!" Maya cried, clutching the child's drawing to her chest.
"He owns half the politicians in this city," I said grimly. "He probably paid off the responding officers the second they got him to the patrol car. Or he had a contingency plan."
Richard didn't just want me out of the way. He wanted the evidence in the safe destroyed, and he was willing to burn down his own restaurant—with us inside—to do it.
"We can't go out that door," I said, my eyes scanning the dusty office. The smoke was thickening quickly, banking down from the ceiling in a toxic gray cloud.
"There's no windows!" Grant panicked, pacing rapidly. "We're trapped!"
"Get down!" I ordered, dropping to my hands and knees where the air was still clear. "Keep your faces near the floor."
Maya dropped down beside me, coughing into her sleeve. Grant hesitated, then followed suit, his pristine uniform ruined by the dust.
I crawled toward the far corner of the room, behind the leather armchair.
"Elias, what are you doing?" Maya coughed, her eyes watering.
"This building was built in 1920," I explained, running my hands along the wooden baseboards. "During Prohibition, this office was a speakeasy manager's room. There was always a back way out."
I found the small, recessed groove in the floorboard. I jammed my fingers into it and pulled with all my strength.
With a loud crack, a section of the floorboard lifted away, revealing a dark, narrow service shaft that dropped down into the basement. A rusted iron ladder was bolted to the brick wall.
"Go," I told Maya, pointing down the hatch. "Climb down. The basement connects to the alley loading dock. You can get out there."
Maya didn't hesitate. She swung her legs into the dark hole and began to climb down.
Grant went next, his arrogance completely replaced by raw survival instinct.
I grabbed the manila folder from the desk, shoving the evidence and the silver bracelet into my coat pocket. As I turned back to the hatch, the heavy green door splintered.
Flames licked through the cracked wood, illuminating the smoke-filled room in a terrifying orange glow.
I swung down onto the iron ladder, pulling the heavy floorboard shut above me just as the door gave way entirely, engulfing the office in fire.
The service shaft was pitch black and smelled of damp earth and old grease. I climbed down quickly, my old joints screaming in protest, until my boots hit the concrete floor of the basement.
Maya and Grant were waiting for me, using the dim flashlight from Grant's cell phone to illuminate the massive storage room. The basement was filled with towering racks of expensive wine, spare tables, and dry goods.
"The loading dock is this way," I said, taking the lead.
We moved quickly through the labyrinth of shelves. The roar of the fire above us sounded like a freight train, and the ceiling rained a steady stream of dust and ash.
We reached the heavy steel door that led to the alley.
I pushed the crash bar.
It didn't budge.
I threw my shoulder against it. Nothing.
"It's chained," Grant said, shining his phone light on the gap between the doors. A thick steel padlock was wrapped tightly around the exterior handles.
"Richard locked it from the outside," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He made sure we couldn't get out."
"Elias," Maya whimpered, pointing her own phone flashlight toward the far end of the basement.
Thick, black smoke was pouring out of the ventilation ducts, filling the basement at an alarming rate. The fire above was sucking the oxygen out of the lower levels. We had minutes before the air became completely toxic.
"Help!" Grant screamed, banging his fists against the steel door. "Somebody help us!"
I stepped back, my eyes sweeping the room for anything heavy enough to break the door. But the shelves were bolted down, and the wine bottles would just shatter.
Then I saw it.
Sitting in the corner, covered in a dusty tarp, was an old, industrial cast-iron meat grinder. It had to weigh over a hundred pounds.
"Grant! Help me lift this!" I yelled, running toward it.
Grant rushed over, and together we hoisted the massive piece of iron. My back screamed, muscles I hadn't used in fifteen years tearing under the strain.
"On three!" I grunted, aiming the heavy iron base squarely at the crash bar of the steel door. "One... Two... Three!"
We swung it forward.
The cast iron smashed into the steel door with a deafening CLANG.
The door dented, but the chain held.
"Again!" I yelled over the roar of the fire.
We swung it a second time. CRASH. The steel frame buckled slightly.
"One more time!"
We hurled the iron grinder with everything we had.
With a loud, metallic snap, the heavy padlock outside shattered.
The steel doors burst open, and we spilled out into the freezing, rain-soaked alley, gasping for the clean, cold air.
I collapsed against the wet brick wall, my chest heaving, the rain washing the soot from my face.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second. Fire engines and police cruisers were swarming the front of the building.
Maya crawled over to me, coughing, and wrapped her arms around my neck.
"You saved us," she cried into my wet coat. "You saved us, Grandpa."
Hearing that word—*Grandpa*—broke whatever armor I had left. I held her tightly, tears mixing with the rain on my face.
But our relief was cut short by the sound of slow, mocking applause.
Standing at the end of the alley, holding an umbrella to shield his immaculate suit from the rain, was Richard Bellamy.
And standing right beside him were the two police officers who had "arrested" him ten minutes ago.
"Very resourceful, Elias," Richard smiled, stepping out of the shadows. "But I’m afraid it won't do you any good. The officers here caught you trying to escape the scene of the fire you just started. What a tragic end to a disgruntled former employee."
May you like
Richard pointed a finger at me.
"Shoot him," Richard ordered the officers. "He's resisting arrest."
