Mall, page 5
“Have you … been here before?” she asked politely.
His eyes slid back to her face, making her vaguely uncomfortable. She hadn’t really gotten a good look at them earlier in The Eatery, but now she could see how narrow and dark they were, his brows resting low across them. Wyatt looked as though he never missed much of anything.
Now he nodded. “A few times.”
“Have you worked at any of the other restaurants around town?” Nita spoke up.
He stared at her with that curiously blank look of his—calm and totally unreadable. Nita tried again.
“I just wondered if you’d worked at any of the other eating places besides the mall.”
“Oh. That. Well …” He seemed to be thinking. “I don’t just bus tables.”
“No?” Nita leaned forward, interested. “You go to school? You have another job somewhere?”
Again his eyes darted quickly around the room. Trish had the sudden impression that he was committing the whole deli to memory.
“I do maintenance work.” Wyatt shrugged. “Around the mall. I’ve just been … you know … filling in for someone.”
“What kind of maintenance work do you do?” Trish asked politely.
“Oh, you know.” Wyatt’s eyes flicked to the front door—to the front counter—toward the rear of the room where part of the kitchen was visible through a pass-through window. “General things. Repairs. Upkeep. Letting people into places when they forget their keys.”
“Oh!” Nita raised an eyebrow. “You pick locks?”
“I can.” Wyatt glanced at her quickly, then his eyes slid away. “When I need to.”
The waitress brought their food, and for several minutes all of them concentrated on eating. Finally Nita nudged Trish in the side and laughed.
“Just think what fun we could have if we could pick locks! We could come to the mall after hours and do all that shopping!”
Wyatt picked up his hamburger, studying it with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t like being there after hours.”
“I don’t know,” Trish joked. “You’re talking to two professional shoppers here. We’re pretty dedicated.” She waited for him to answer, but he was staring out the window, his jaw set in a tight line. “Wyatt?” she said gently.
His head came around, his eyes sliding from the outside view back to her face. He lifted his right hand … touched the fogged glass … made small, slow circles with his fingers. Trish could see his dirty fingernails, and the way they’d been bitten down to the quick.
“The mall’s different then.” His voice hesitated, lowered. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said again quickly. “It’s not what you think.”
“What do you mean? It’s just a bunch of stores and food places.” Nita laughed, but she sounded unsure. “It’s just a place to have fun.”
“Fun?” He was silent for a long moment. “It can be fun. But nobody really knows that mall. Not really.” Again his voice drifted off, sank to a whisper. “It has … life. You know? Like … thoughts. Like … a weird kind of … mind.”
A long, uneasy silence settled down. Nita turned her attention back to her coleslaw. Trish sat there staring at her plate, her appetite suddenly gone.
“Well,” Nita announced at last, and Trish looked up in relief. “I’ve got to get home. I’ve still got an English paper to write tonight.”
“Tonight?” Trish shook her head sympathetically. “You won’t get any sleep at all.”
“I know. So what else is new? I wish I had someone to keep me company.”
Wyatt finished wiping his mouth and tossed his napkin carelessly across his plate. He stared over at Trish.
“So where do you live?” he asked casually.
“Me?” Trish glanced up at him, caught offguard. She tossed a quick look at Nita and said, “Or did you mean both of us?”
“Not too far from here,” Nita spoke up. “Why?”
Wyatt shrugged. “I just wondered.”
“Is there someplace else you’d like me to drop you off?” Trish asked, sliding out after Nita, slipping into her coat.
“Don’t forget, I have to go pick up my car,” Nita reminded her.
“Where’s your car?” Wyatt asked.
“Back at the mall,” Trish said. “But what about you?”
“Well …” He ran one hand back through his hair and glanced once more around the room. “I was just thinking then … since you’re going back that way … how about … Mayfair. The drugstore on May-fair.”
“Mayfair?” Trish sounded puzzled. “But that’s right behind the mall, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nodded slowly, as if trying to sort out explanations in his mind. “But … I just now remembered I have to pick up some things before I go home tonight.”
“So you actually live on Mayfair?”
“Well … not really. A buddy of mine does. Around there. He can take me home.”
“Then you didn’t really need a ride. You could have walked to your friend’s house,” Nita said accusingly.
“No. He works nights. He wouldn’t have been there.”
“Well, do you think he’ll be there now?” Trish asked worriedly.
“He should be. He’s supposed to be.”
Still puzzled, Trish drove straight to Mayfair. As she pulled up outside the drugstore, Wyatt got out on her side and closed the door.
“So … you’re going back to the mall now?” He leaned over, peering in at them through her window.
Trish nodded. She took her foot off the brake and eased the car forward. “I hope you find your car. See you later.”
“Yeah.” He stepped back onto the curb, but Trish could still see his eyes, dark and narrowed, watching them. He reached out and ran one hand slowly, slowly, over Trish’s side of the Mustang. “You can count on it.”
He’s weird.” Nita glared at Trish as they went slowly through the mall parking lot. “The more I’m around him, the weirder he gets.”
Trish shook her head. “That’s only because he hasn’t fallen under your spell. Any guy who doesn’t fall head over heels in love with you, you think is weird.”
“I know,” Nita sighed. “So what do you think—did I make any progress?” She looked hopeful, but Trish shook her head.
“Not one bit. I think this one’s invincible.”
“Hmmm.” Nita frowned. “What am I doing wrong? I must be losing my touch.” She leaned her head back against the seat and groaned. “Why do I care anyway? I don’t even think he’s cute!”
“Oh, sure you do. I think he’s cute. In a quirky sort of way.”
“Quirky?” Nita echoed. “Oh, that’s quaint, Trish. Very quaint. Quirky …”
“Okay, different then. Intriguing.”
“Weird,” Nita insisted. “What a crazy night. We almost get mugged, and you invite him to dinner.”
She stared at Trish as her friend stopped the car and lowered her head onto the steering wheel. “You’re too softhearted,” Nita added, reaching over to hug Trish. “You want to be suspicious of people—but you just think they’re all basically good and they all have honest motives.”
“I’m not that naive, Nita. Someone out there planned to terrify me today—and they did a pretty good job of it.”
“Yeah, well, remember that next time you go giving people a ride.”
“You were as bad as me! You were the one who kept coming on to him!”
“I know. I’m hopeless.” Nita hugged her again and climbed out. “This fog is really awful—and I still have to pick up Imogene clear on the other side of town.”
“Have your folks do it.”
“They’re not home. Too bad they only make themselves scarce on weeknights—otherwise we could have some great three-day parties.”
Trish chuckled. “Be careful going home.”
“You, too.”
Trish waited while Nita got in and started her car, then sat for several more minutes, watching her disappear into the fog. She leaned over and rummaged in the glove box for some CDs, then stuck one in, smiling a little as the first strains of classical music washed over her like a soothing balm. Imogene … she’s been switching my CDs again.
She put the car into gear and started off, heading toward the main exit. To her alarm, the car sputtered and began to jerk, and as she gripped the wheel with both hands, she felt the momentum fading beneath her.
“Oh, no—what now?”
She floored the gas pedal, but the car wouldn’t go. With one last shudder, everything seemed to die, and the car coasted slowly to a halt.
Bewildered, Trish pumped the accelerator. Nothing happened. She turned off the heater, the CD player, and even her headlights, and pumped again.
Nothing.
Her eyes swept over the dashboard, over the needle on the gas gauge.
Half full.
“Dammit,” Trish muttered. “What’s wrong with this thing?”
Groaning, she beat her forehead gently against the steering wheel, then looked forlornly out her window. The parking lot was a black smoky hole around her, and as she lifted her eyes slowly to the windshield, she could swear that the fog had thickened in just the last two seconds, swirling on and on forever.
“What am I going to do?” She was whispering, angry at herself, yet trying to stay logical. The pay phones in the parking lots were scattered few and far between, and she knew she wasn’t close to any of them. The last thing she wanted to do right now was to go wandering around through the fog trying to find one that worked. “Stay calm,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Stay calm … calm …” She pressed her hands to her face and realized that her whole body felt chilled.
It came to her then that she really had very few choices—either take a chance walking back to the drugstore in the fog or go back to the mall and try to find a security guard to help her. She imagined what it would be like walking all alone to the drugstore and opted for the mall.
The streetlights weren’t much help at all. The fog was so dense that they barely showed through the darkness, and as she began walking, she realized that Nita had taken her flashlight. She walked quickly, her shoes making staccato sounds on the pavement. She’d always hated those sharp, stabbing sounds—in the movies those sounds always meant that you were totally alone, and very frightened, and they echoed around you, and sounded ten times louder than they really were.
For one moment Trish actually tried to pretend she was in a movie, and her frightened footsteps were being made by someone offstage, and she was only on a make-believe set, not in any real danger at all.
But of course I’m not in danger—why should I be in any danger? That phone call today was just a sick joke and it’s over with now—completely over with. What am I thinking? This isn’t anything too scary—I’ve been in worse situations. People have car trouble every day—nothing to worry about—I’ll just be glad it happened close to the mall where I can get help.
Trish stopped, her heart leaping into her throat.
Was that a scraping sound?
She remembered how Nita had heard something, too, when they’d walked out here together from work tonight—a footstep, she’d thought? But look around you, Trish argued to herself. Look around you—there’s no place for anyone to hide.
Except in the fog.…
Trish halted midstride, jamming her hands nervously into her pockets. She strained her eyes through the clammy darkness, searching in vain for cars, people, some sign of life. The theaters had let out hours ago, emptying what few lots had still been occupied, and the pale shimmer of the mall lights in the distance seemed almost like a dream. She knew she was probably just imagining it, but all around her she felt as if the fog were inching in, closing her off a little more. Like it’s trying to keep me here … like it’s trying to keep me away from the mall.…
Trish began to run. Ducking her chin into her collar, she squinted against the mist and hurried in the direction of the theaters. From far, far off into the night strange noises drifted out to her, raising goosebumps along her arms—that scraping sound again? … the slam of a car door?—but she refused to stop and look, and only went faster. As the mall entrance came into view at last, she put on a final burst of speed and threw herself against the glass doors.
“Hello! Is anyone there! Can someone let me in!”
There was no answer.
Pressing her face against the glass, she tried to see deep into the shadowy interior, but nothing seemed to be moving. There has to be someone here … there has to be …
Another entrance. There had to be some other entrance where a security guard might be patrolling. Trish felt her heart sink at the thought of running clear around the mall, trying every set of doors, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice.
“Damn! Why couldn’t this have happened at home!”
She backed away from the doors, not watching where she was going, and felt her foot come down on something hard. As it rolled out from under her, she twisted and fell to the pavement. There was a rip of cloth, and as she tried to stand, a warm gush of blood oozed over one of her knees. Wincing from the pain, she stumbled a few steps, then looked down, spotting the broken bottle she’d tripped over. Great … as if things weren’t bad enough already.
More frustrated than ever, Trish started along the side of the building, keeping close to the wall beneath the sidewalk overhang. As she came to each new entrance, she banged on the doors with her fists and tried to look inside. Every view was the same—wide, dim corridors; floors patterned with thick shadows; empty escalators, their steps frozen in place; uneven tiers of closed shopfronts and deserted counters and darkened window displays.
“Please!” Trish shouted. “Is anyone in there? Can anyone hear me? I need help! Please!”
She rattled the bars on the doors and searched desperately for a guard. But the only people who looked back at her were the mannequins, mocking her with painted smiles.
“Please!” Trish cried again. “Someone! Please help me!”
Where are those security guards? She wasn’t exactly sure just where the security offices were located—wasn’t sure which entrance would be closest to any of them.
“Please!” Trish screamed again, trying yet another door. “I need help—will somebody please let me in!”
She stepped away from the doors and continued on around the building, hesitating when she realized where she was. The dingy alleyway ran behind the south wing of shops on the main floor and was cluttered with dumpsters and piles of old litter. Some smaller deliveries were often made here, and a line of doors opened from the backs of the stores onto the narrow lane. I couldn’t be lucky enough for someone to have left one of them unlocked … could I?
And then she saw a light.
For a moment she thought she was imagining it—the soft glow slanting out from the door at the end of the alley. But as Trish held her breath and slowly approached it, she heard the creak of old hinges, saw the door swing outward, and stopped in her tracks as someone came out onto the stoop. For a long moment he stood there, as if listening, and then he propped the door open and disappeared back inside.
“Hello?” Trish ran forward, relieved when the figure reappeared in the doorway. “Hey—can you help me? I work here, and I’m having car trouble.”
She stopped again, several feet from the doorway. The figure hadn’t moved as she’d come closer, and now, as she peered into the soft light, she could see his security uniform, the brim of his cap low on his forehead, the faint flicker of cigarette ash dangling from one of his hands. He was wearing black gloves, and as Trish continued to stare, he took a step backward and reached slowly towards his belt. Trish automatically held up her hands.
“Really—look—I have an ID! My name is Trish Somerfield and—honest—I’m really having car trouble—”
She could see him more clearly now. He was wearing a pair of dark-tinted glasses that completely hid his eyes, and his face registered no emotion of any kind.
“My car,” Trish said again, lowering her hands to her sides. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it—I can’t get it to start.”
She saw him nod, and as he took a keyring from his belt loop, his other hand absently pulled the brim of his cap still lower over his forehead. He stood aside and motioned her to come in.
“Oh, I thought nobody was here!” Trish threw him a grateful smile as she passed. “I was really getting scared—I didn’t know what I was going to do!”
It was all she could do not to grab the guard and hug him. Now that she was up close, she could see the thick black hair curling wildly out from beneath his cap, and across his right cheek a jagged scar sliced down from his earlobe to his chin. Trish stared at it, morbidly fascinated, then turned her head in embarrassment. She couldn’t tell if he’d seen her staring or not.
“Where’s your car?” he muttered. He had a strange voice, she thought—a low, guttural sort of growl—and she had to strain to really hear him.
“In Z lot—near the main highway. It was running fine, and then it just quit. I can’t believe this happened.”
“You should … shouldn’t be walking out there all by yourself. You should … be more careful.”
“I know—only this was the closest place—” Trish broke off as the guard turned away.
He walked off several feet, started to turn around, then stopped with his back to her. “You … you shouldn’t really be here. Not now.”
“Well—I just thought I could use your phone. I was so scared—”
“Of course,” he said slowly. “Of course I can do that for you. The important thing is that … that you came. That you … found me.”
“Yes, that’s how I feel, too.”
“Your knee,” the guard interrupted. “It’s bleeding. Let’s take care of you first. Then we’ll worry about … about the phone.”
Bewildered, Trish looked down at her leg. Her jeans were ripped over her left knee, and there was a large smear of blood clotting across the torn, dirty material.
