twenty-four

I felt panic rise in my chest and did my best to quell it. I looked around. A small amount of daylight filtered in through dusty windows near the ceiling. Bars covered the windows. There were no other doors. I was good and trapped and couldn’t imagine how I could get out other than banging on the door and screaming for help. That is if anyone could hear me. And for obvious reasons that was something I really didn’t want to do. Would anyone come back to this room? Today? Tonight? Tomorrow? I felt sweat break out on my forehead. I took a deep breath to stay calm.

I pressed my ear to the door and prayed I wasn’t locked into long-term storage. I examined the rest of the room for ventilator shafts, or hatches that might lead into another unused kitchen. But the door was the only way out. Surely sooner or later, someone would open it.

I moved over to the wooden crates. The cover that the workmen had dropped wasn’t tightly secured. I lifted it and saw layer upon layer of the rectangular packages secured in plastic coverings. Each package was marked with an insignia like an elongated spider. I dropped my purse on the floor and dug out my makeup case. Rummaging around, I found an eyebrow tweezer. I pulled my address book out of my purse and ripped out a blank page. Slipping off my jacket, I used it to pick up one of the bundles, fearful of leaving fingerprints on the plastic. With my tweezers I punctured a tiny hole in one corner of the package and wiggled it until a very small amount of white substance sprinkled onto the paper. Then I very carefully turned the edges of the paper in and wrapped it up, being careful not to spill any. I tucked the paper packet into my makeup case, along with the eyebrow tweezers, and replaced the rectangular brick in the crate. I made sure not to touch anything else. If I ever escaped from this storeroom, I wanted to be able to prove what I saw.

As I turned away, I spotted a workman’s glove lying on the floor next to the one of the crates. One of the men must have dropped it and forgotten to take it with him. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor. I waited. Far away, I thought I heard voices, but no one was approaching. Even if I banged on the door it was possible no one would hear me. And if I did, how could I explain what I was doing there? I didn’t dare. Not after seeing those crates. I took a deep breath, wishing I could put myself into some sort of altered state. I tried several times, but each time I managed to relax, my heart would once again start pounding against my rib cage. I couldn’t afford to panic.

I decided it was safer to return to the stainless steel cabinet. In case someone did return, I didn’t want to be discovered. I just wanted to escape. I pushed the thought out of my mind that it could be days before someone opened that door. I crawled back into the huge cabinet, leaving the door open a crack. The angle of the sunlight slanting in through the barred windows had shifted. How much time had elapsed? I checked my cell phone. Only forty-five minutes. It felt like three hours. I tried deep breathing again to quell the panic. I could call someone to let them know where I was, just in case something happened to me. Who could I call? And what good would that do? I could call 911 and tell the police I was being held captive. That was if worse came to worst. I thought of my friend Don Forrester. He was nearby, at the Chronicle—the newspaper’s star researcher who had access to all kinds of information, most of it not in print. I wasn’t sure how he’d get through the restaurant and find this door, but the thought of calling him cheered me. That would be my last resort, I decided. I didn’t want to put anyone else in potential danger if there was another way.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I heard were voices. Two men. I woke with a start. The room was pitch black. The sun had set but a tiny amount of light from the street was visible. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to adjust to the darkened room. The men were in the hallway. They were approaching the door. Half crawling, I pushed open the cabinet door and scrambled across the floor in the general direction of the door to the corridor. My foot had fallen asleep. Limping, I forced myself to move, ignoring the pins and needles. I hoped I was close to my mark. My eyes had adjusted somewhat and I was able to make out the outline of the door. It opened into the room, that much I was sure of.

I reached the door and felt along the edge with my fingers. The voices were louder now. I felt the hinges. I heard a metallic sound as a key was inserted into the lock. I pressed myself against the wall so I would be behind the door when it opened. It was my only chance.
I pressed my right foot against the floor, willing it to come back to life. If I had a chance to escape, I’d have to be able to move quickly.

The door opened. Two men stood inches away from me on the threshold. One sounded as if he was chastising the other. The second man replied in a higher pitched tone, as if explaining himself or making an excuse. Suddenly the room was flooded with light from overhead neon racks. I squinted to protect my eyes. One of the men made a final remark and walked away. The second man came into the room. I could hear his footsteps. He cursed softly and moved slowly around the crates. I took a chance and peeked out from behind the door. He made an exclamation under his breath and stooped to pick something up from the floor. It must be the heavy glove he’d left behind.

Now was my chance. I prayed my feet could move fast enough. Before he straightened, I slipped around the edge of the door and in a flash ran down the corridor. At the bend, I turned and kept running. The hallway was empty. As I passed the first kitchen I heard several people talking at once and smelled something delicious, but I didn’t dare head out that way. The restaurant must have opened by now. Even if the front doors were unlocked, I didn’t want to alert anyone to my presence. I headed straight for the end of the corridor where the door led to the small pier. I pushed it open, stepped outside and quickly closed it behind me. I leaned against the wall of the building, praying I hadn’t been spotted. My heart was thudding and adrenaline was coursing through my veins. Fear was causing me to hyperventilate.

Inky water lapped several feet beneath me under the pier. I peeked around the corner of the building. No path or walkway gave access to the street. Had I escaped one trap only to find myself in another? I heard the clinking of dishware and glasses, then voices and laughter from somewhere above. I looked up. At a neighboring restaurant, perhaps eight feet above where I stood, was an outdoor dining area, the railing outlined in small white lights. A wooden ladder ran up the side of the Macao building. I wasn’t sure it would hold my weight, but I had no choice. I wouldn’t last long out here in the freezing wind coming off the bay. The motorboat I’d heard earlier could return and I’d be discovered.

I hung my purse around my neck and started climbing. When I reached the level of the neighboring restaurant, I clung to the far side of the ladder and leaned over. The distance between the buildings was about six feet. Close, but still a risk. I’d have to take a chance. I’d have to let go of the ladder and leap, hoping to reach the other railing. If I made the jump, I knew I could easily clamber on to the deck. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the black waters below. If I fell I might not be able to swim to safety. Even in the sheltered part of the Bay, people have been washed out to sea if the tide is turning. I had to make it across.

I closed my eyes, imagining myself making it successfully across the gap. Just stay focused for those few seconds, I thought. Taking a deep breath, I launched myself from the ladder, reaching out with both hands.

My foot hit the edge of the wooden flooring. I slipped. Panicking, I grabbed for the railing. It creaked loudly, as if about to break in two. I looked up. I’d missed the heavier top rail. My feet were flailing below me, searching for something to stand on. Splinters had lodged in the palm of my hand. Painfully I clung on, grasped the top railing with my right hand, and pulled myself up. I struggled to get one foot on the edge of the deck, then the other.

A group of diners were seated around a large table, wineglasses raised, about to make a toast. One woman’s eyes grew wide. She pointed at me. The others turned to stare. They didn’t utter a sound. I ignored them and climbed over the railing onto the restaurant’s deck. I pulled a small piece of wood out of my palm, brushed myself off, and, managing a weak smile, walked through the restaurant and out to the street.

Once on the sidewalk, I jogged back to my car, passing the front entrance to Macao, half afraid someone there would see me and sound an alarm. With shaking fingers, I managed to get my car door open and fell into the driver’s seat. I hit the door locks and took deep breaths until my heart rate returned to normal.