Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(57)

Carefully I pulled out the cell phone and flipped it open. I used it as a makeshift flashlight, shining the tiny glowing screen at my surroundings to see where the water was coming in.

Oily-looking water was spurting through the seam of the closed elevator doors. That was bad enough. But as I moved the glow of the cell phone upward, I saw that it wasn't just coming in through the bottom of the doors. It was coming through the top.

As if the entire elevator car were submerged.

But that wasn't possible. There was no way the shaft could be filled with eight or nine feet of water . . . wouldn't that mean most of the lower garage was flooded? That couldn't have happened in the time since I'd arrived at the building. But shit . . . an elevator shaft full of water would explain why all the electrical systems seemed to have short-circuited.

"This is crazy," I muttered, my heartbeat picking up anxious speed as I dialed the building's main number. It rang twice, and then a recorded message began to list extension numbers from the main directory. As soon as I heard the three digits for the security office, I punched them in. Another two rings . . . and then a busy signal.

Swearing, I redialed the main number and tried Kelly's extension. An answering machine picked up. "Hi, this is Kelly Reinhart. I'm away from my desk, but if you'll leave a message at the tone, I'll return your call as soon as possible."

I left a message, trying to sound professional but urgent. "Kelly, it's Haven. I'm stuck in one of the elevators on the garage level, and water's coming in. Do me a favor and let security know that I'm down here."

Water kept pouring in, swirling around my ankles.

As I ended the call, I saw that the low battery signal on my phone was flashing. With hardly any juice left, I wasn't going to take any chances. I dialed 911, watching my finger as if it belonged to someone else. And I listened, incredulous, as the line was picked up and directed to a recorded message. "We are currently experiencing a high volume of calls. All circuits are busy. Please remain on the line until a dispatcher is available." I held, waited for a minute that seemed to last a lifetime, and ended the call when it was clear nothing was going to happen. I dialed it again with excruciating care . . . 9-1-1 . . . and this time I got nothing but a busy signal.

My phone beeped to let me know the battery was almost dead.

With the water now midway up my calves and pouring in continuously, I stopped pretending that I was anything close to calm. Somehow I managed to bring the list of recently received calls to the phone screen. I pressed the return on Hardy's last call.

It rang. Once . . . twice . . . I gasped with relief as I heard his voice.

"Cates."

"Hardy," I choked, unable to get the words out fast enough. "It's me. I need you. I need help."

He didn't miss a beat. "Where are you?"

"Buffalo Tower. Elevator. I'm in an elevator stuck in the garage and there's water coming in, lots of water — " The phone beeped again. "Hardy, can you hear me?"

"Say it again."

"An elevator at Buffalo Tower — I'm stuck in the garage, in an elevator, and it's flooding, and I need — " The phone beeped and went dead. I was left in darkness once more. "No," I half screamed in frustration. "Damn it. Hardy? Hardy?"

Nothing but silence. And gushing, splashing water.

I felt hysteria welling up, and I actually considered whether or not to give in to it. But since there was nothing to be gained by it, and I was pretty sure it wasn't going to make me feel any better, I shoved it back down and took deep breaths.

"People don't drown in elevators," I said aloud.

The water had reached my knees, and it was biting cold. It also smelled bad, like oil and chemicals and sewage. I pulled my computer from my briefcase, opened it, and tried in vain to get any kind of Internet signal. At least with the glowing screen open, it wasn't completely dark in the elevator. I looked at the ceiling, which was covered in wood paneling and tiny recessed lights, all out. Wasn't there supposed to be an escape hatch? Maybe it was concealed. I couldn't think of any way to get up there and search for it.

I waded to the side of the door and tried the phone panel again, as well as all the buttons, and nothing happened. Taking off one of my pumps, I used the heel to bang on the walls and shout for help for a few minutes.

By the time I got tired of pounding, I was submerged up to my hips. I was so cold that my teeth were chattering and the bones in my legs were aching. Except for the water pouring in, everything was quiet. It was calm everywhere except inside my head.

I realized I was in a coffin. I was actually going to die in this metal box.

I'd heard it wasn't supposed to be a bad way to die, drowning. There were worse ways to go. But it was so unfair — I had never done anything with my life that was worth putting in an obituary. I hadn't accomplished any of the goals I'd had at college. I'd never made peace with my father, not in a real sense. I'd never helped people who were less fortunate. I'd never even had decent sex.

I was certain that people facing death should be occupied with noble thoughts, but instead I found myself thinking about those moments in the stairwell with Hardy. If I'd gone through with it, at least I would have had good sex for once in my life. But I'd blown even that. I wanted him. I wanted so much. Nothing was finished in my life. I stood there, waiting for my eventual drowning not with resignation but milling fury.