the glow from Diane’s apartment, dim lights began to turn on one by one over Diane’s head. Mike wasn’t sure how many lights flashed on up above him as he climbed on and on; he didn’t have to count them to know it was a lot.
“How far does this thing go?” he wondered aloud, beginning to feel a little weakness in his forearms. When nobody answered, he said, “Are we going to the roof?”
“Be quiet,” Diane hissed from above. “The walls are thin.”
It wasn’t long, though, before Mike’s question was answered. Diane stopped abruptly and reached a hand over her head, where Mike could now see there was a ceiling. She pulled on a latch and then swung open a door; through it were the stars in a cloudless night sky. After Diane disappeared through the open hatch, Mike scrambled up the last few rungs, pulled himself over the top and found himself standing in a lonely corner of the uppermost roof of the Plaza—behind the helipad, in fact. Wind riffled his hair and fluttered his partially unbuttoned shirt as it moaned languidly around the top of the tower, parting the silence of the air far above the city with a whisper of a howl. He went over to stand beside Diane and, following her dreamy gaze, looked down at the vast array of neon colors that brilliantly shone through the gloom saturating the streets of Dallas. Was this why they brought him here? For the view? The climb had left him too tired to be afraid and now he was starting to get impatient.
By the time Carl had joined them, Mike decided he’d had enough. “Why did you bring me here?” he demanded. “What do you want from me?”
“We could kill you, you know,” Carl said, in a perfectly level voice, catching Mike completely off guard. “Make it look like an accident. No one would have any trouble believing poor, drunken Mr. Torres finally had enough of the world and leapt off the roof.” He looked at Mike’s horrified face and laughed.
“The elevators,” Mike said, backing himself up until his legs hit the raised platform of the helipad. “They have cameras. And guards. People would know I got up here some other way.”
“Calm down,” Diane said. “And get away from the helipad. It’s a minute till 10:04 and Garrett’s never late.”
Mike stepped away from the platform but maintained a good amount of distance from the other two, whose eyes were turned upward to the sky. Terrified now, Mike said, in a half-whimper, “ Are you going to kill me?” They said nothing, continuing to look up. Mike followed their gaze and saw blinking red and white lights approaching, growing larger and larger as they slowly descended towards the Plaza roof. In another minute, a large helicopter—one of those that had ferried them to and from work before the skyways were finished—touched down on the platform, and the door opened. Standing there, silhouetted from the light inside and waving, was the pilot named Garrett Thurman. Mike suddenly recalled a mysterious message the man had sent him just after he was promoted, congratulating him on the new job before he had even told his wife about it. If all he had heard tonight was true, then things were starting to make more sense.
“Let’s go,” Diane shouted over the tremendous racket of the blades.
“We don’t have to force you,” Carl yelled slowly, “but we can. If we need to.”
What other option did he have but to go with them? He could make a break for the trapdoor, which was still open, and probably start climbing down before they could catch him. But what if in his haste he slipped? He would fall a long way, probably hitting his head several times in the narrow space: certain death, or at least permanent severe injury. He still wasn’t sure Carl and Diane weren’t going to kill him, but he didn’t think they would. He seemed to recall, through the fogginess of alcohol, they had said they wanted him as a friend. In fact, he remembered the pilot, Garrett, telling him something of the same
“How far does this thing go?” he wondered aloud, beginning to feel a little weakness in his forearms. When nobody answered, he said, “Are we going to the roof?”
“Be quiet,” Diane hissed from above. “The walls are thin.”
It wasn’t long, though, before Mike’s question was answered. Diane stopped abruptly and reached a hand over her head, where Mike could now see there was a ceiling. She pulled on a latch and then swung open a door; through it were the stars in a cloudless night sky. After Diane disappeared through the open hatch, Mike scrambled up the last few rungs, pulled himself over the top and found himself standing in a lonely corner of the uppermost roof of the Plaza—behind the helipad, in fact. Wind riffled his hair and fluttered his partially unbuttoned shirt as it moaned languidly around the top of the tower, parting the silence of the air far above the city with a whisper of a howl. He went over to stand beside Diane and, following her dreamy gaze, looked down at the vast array of neon colors that brilliantly shone through the gloom saturating the streets of Dallas. Was this why they brought him here? For the view? The climb had left him too tired to be afraid and now he was starting to get impatient.
By the time Carl had joined them, Mike decided he’d had enough. “Why did you bring me here?” he demanded. “What do you want from me?”
“We could kill you, you know,” Carl said, in a perfectly level voice, catching Mike completely off guard. “Make it look like an accident. No one would have any trouble believing poor, drunken Mr. Torres finally had enough of the world and leapt off the roof.” He looked at Mike’s horrified face and laughed.
“The elevators,” Mike said, backing himself up until his legs hit the raised platform of the helipad. “They have cameras. And guards. People would know I got up here some other way.”
“Calm down,” Diane said. “And get away from the helipad. It’s a minute till 10:04 and Garrett’s never late.”
Mike stepped away from the platform but maintained a good amount of distance from the other two, whose eyes were turned upward to the sky. Terrified now, Mike said, in a half-whimper, “ Are you going to kill me?” They said nothing, continuing to look up. Mike followed their gaze and saw blinking red and white lights approaching, growing larger and larger as they slowly descended towards the Plaza roof. In another minute, a large helicopter—one of those that had ferried them to and from work before the skyways were finished—touched down on the platform, and the door opened. Standing there, silhouetted from the light inside and waving, was the pilot named Garrett Thurman. Mike suddenly recalled a mysterious message the man had sent him just after he was promoted, congratulating him on the new job before he had even told his wife about it. If all he had heard tonight was true, then things were starting to make more sense.
“Let’s go,” Diane shouted over the tremendous racket of the blades.
“We don’t have to force you,” Carl yelled slowly, “but we can. If we need to.”
What other option did he have but to go with them? He could make a break for the trapdoor, which was still open, and probably start climbing down before they could catch him. But what if in his haste he slipped? He would fall a long way, probably hitting his head several times in the narrow space: certain death, or at least permanent severe injury. He still wasn’t sure Carl and Diane weren’t going to kill him, but he didn’t think they would. He seemed to recall, through the fogginess of alcohol, they had said they wanted him as a friend. In fact, he remembered the pilot, Garrett, telling him something of the same
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