~ Trading Faces ~

by

Michaeline Della Fera

At the end of the hall, she stopped and peered up the long stairwell. Her knee throbbed and her ankle hurt even worse, but she knew she had no choice. She grabbed the banister and began a slow but steady climb up the stairs. About midway up, she stopped to take a breath. She was only half way, and already she felt her breath coming in long gasps. This must be what climbing Mount Everest was like.

Using the banister as a pulley, she yanked herself up, step-by-step, until she reached the top. She stopped to catch her breath while sticking her head around the corner. She stayed that way a minute or two, like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. Spotting no one, she leaned her back against the wall and began inching down the hall, much like a combat soldier. She was beginning to feel more positive about the evening. Why was she such a worrywart? No one even knew she was here.

The walls of the hallway were painted white and had a myriad of large, black scuff marks marring the sides. There were no pictures or identifying memorabilia of any type. She still had no idea what was going on or what this building was.

She continued her slow, step-by-step movement until she reached two swinging doors with an opening about the size of a small window at the top. They reminded her of the doors leading to the operating room she had seen on ER. Slowly, she pushed the left side open and seeing no one, entered. She found herself in a large alcove with no windows, but there was a door several yards in front of her. Clutching her pack close to her chest, she pushed open the door and stepped inside and gasped.

She was in an operating room. In the middle of the room was a table with a large overhead light. Machines, on either side of the table, blinked constantly. She couldn’t name any of them, but some she recognized from ER. From the blinking red and green lights, she guessed they were on. On the right side of the operating table was a smaller table draped with a large white cloth that held several implements she guessed were surgical instruments, or some very interesting instruments of torture. At this thought, she began to sweat and her heart began beating a very rapid pattern in her chest. She recognized the tachycardia-like rhythm and now wished that she had let her mother and Ginny come along. What if someone caught her here? She had no backup.

"May I help you?" the man about the size of a linebacker asked.

He was dressed in a black tee shirt, black pants and shoes. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for several weeks and even though his black hair was thinning, he looked about thirty-five and in fabulous shape. He definitely worked out every day. "Huh?" she finally managed to mumble.

"You appear to be lost. No one is supposed to be here without authorization. And I don’t know you." His eyes darted back and forth from her to the door and the material around his pectorals strained as he kept clenching and unclenching his fists.

The beating in her heart intensified and Cecce thought that the area around it felt like the waves crashing against the coast during a Nor’easter. She wondered how long her chest wall could withstand the strain. This six foot, several inches tall man standing in front of her was clearly trying to restrain himself, and Cecce’s knees began to wobble when she noticed the blood pulsating in his neck. She wondered how long she had before he lost it completely.

She backed up one step and when he moved a step closer, she stopped. "I’m lost," she finally mumbled. "I was supposed to meet the director. I have an appointment." She tried to smile but knew her face was frozen in fear-mode.

"You’re the one who was here last night. You look the same as on the tapes." He broke into a grin as he pointed at the camera almost hidden high in the corner of the room before he took a step closer to her.

The sweat began to trickle down Cecce’s back, stopping only at her waist. She already felt as if she had been swimming. "Tapes? Last night? I have no idea what you’re talking about." She slipped one foot backwards and then as surreptitiously as she could, dragged her other foot backward and stood still.

"You can’t go anywhere," he said, as he pulled a chair from the corner and straddled it cowboy style, leaning his arms and chin on the top rung while never taking his eyes off of her. "You might as well get comfortable. You’re going to be here a long time. A very long time."

His laugh sounded loud and gusty to Cecce. "People know I’m here," she stammered. "They’re waiting for me and if I don’t return, the cops will be here. I only have…" she raised her arm and pulled her sleeve back far enough so she could see her watch. The sweat dripped down her forehead and her eyes were so blurry that she had to bring her arm almost to her nose before she could see the time. Her forty minutes were up, and she hoped her mother and Ginny wouldn’t come storming in unless they had the cavalry with them.

She cleared her throat and said as much of her cop’s prayer as she could remember. What was God doing? Now was the time for some miraculous intervention in her life. She stood and closed her eyes, but nothing happened. After what seemed like eternity, she continued, "Only ten more minutes until they’ll begin looking for me." She heard the tremor in her voice and wondered if she had him fooled with her bravo impersonation.

"Think what you want," he said, tapping his right foot against the leg of the chair.

Suddenly, he shot up so fast, the chair fell over and Cecce never had time to brace herself. Another man came running through the doors, slamming them against the wall and causing her to cover her ears. The sound the doors made as they slammed against the wall and then crashed closed again was deafening, but the two men didn’t seem to notice.

The second man, dressed also in black, with light, blond hair, a square determined jaw and with football sized shoulders about the same size as the man straddling the chair, signaled to the first man and the two of them formed a circle around her. "Grab her," the blond man said.

He reached over and put his massive hand around Cecce’s upper arm. She felt as if she was being squeezed in a vise. "Hey, you’re hurting me," she cried, pulling back. When she couldn’t move, she began trying to pry his fingers off, one by one; but they held like Epoxy. A vision of her mother, looking like John the Baptist or some other prophet from the Bible, crying in the desert about this evening flashed before her, and she decided she’d better do something or this would be the first time her mother’s words would be an empty prophecy.

Taking a deep breath, she swung her foot and took deadly aim at his shins. After her first kick, he laughed, so she swung with more determination and with more accuracy, landing several swift, sharp, deadly kicks to that soft part of his ankle between the anklebone and his Achilles tendon. This time he let go. She felt pleased with herself, but still had no idea what was going on or what she should do.

"Listen, gentlemen." She had to pause until they stopped laughing. Apparently no one had ever referred to them as gentlemen before. "What’s going on?"