CHAPTER 1

October 30, 6:30 p.m.

Brooke Madison watched the numbers on the LED display descend slowly—eight, seven, six—moving closer toward her destination in the lower level of the parking garage. Four, three, two…the closer the elevator got, the more nervous she became. Sweat popped out along her upper lip; her body reacting to the nervous tension, firing throughout every nerve ending. She felt ashamed that she couldn’t control the physical reaction.

The beep sounded, signaling her arrival, and it made her jump. She blinked and refocused on the LED display. B-3, it showed. Her level. She blinked again, drawing in deep shaky breaths, as the doors parted with a gentle whoosh; but she didn’t move. As usual, she couldn’t move. Paralytic fear set in, and her shame intensified, for she knew she would move—eventually.

She felt absurd and mentally berated herself.

You’re behaving like a dog on the Fourth of July, afraid of the fireworks—quivering and shivering, hiding. You should be more than able to come and go from a parking garage elevator without having a near heart attack. Get a grip girl! You are strong and capable, so start acting like it!

She should be more than ready to move on—to move out of the elevator without her knees knocking loudly; without her heart pounding as if trying to flee her chest; without her lungs fighting for every breath. She shouldn’t be worried that there was a bogeyman lurking in the shadows; but she was.

The doors began to slide closed, and she instinctively reached out to punch the open-door button. The door quietly obeyed the command and Brooke took a determined step toward the portal, glancing about in a manner that was borderline paranoid. If anyone observed her behavior, she could care less if they snickered because she felt justified in her abnormal fear of parking garages.

Justified because of Sandra McIntyre.

She’d always been a bit nervous over the dark, dank, enclosed levels of parking structures. It was a nervousness bordering on phobia, but she managed to curb it by moving to and from her vehicle at a rapid clip. She chose to continue parking on these levels instead of the open airy levels above because she was determined to conquer her fear.

But that was before Sandra McIntyre. Now she doubted she’d ever feel able to conquer this fear. It was the thought of tomorrow, parking on the upper level, which gave her the strength she needed to break her paralysis.

She took another deep breath and stepped tentatively just outside of the elevator, her hands slightly behind her, ready to stop the doors should she find herself unable to continue. Of course, she would continue; knew she had to if she was to get to her car and leave this place; a place that no longer represented a mere structure for automobiles, rather invoked an irrational dread and uncertainty. Still, she shouldn’t have to stand at the ready: ready to prevent the elevator doors slipping closed, ready to leap back into the safety offered by that chilly metal box—but she did, all because of Sandra McIntyre.

She just wished her mind would stop inventing illusions of horror. She knew that she had only herself to blame for the paranoia that now gripped her, and her shame turned to anger. She took a tentative step forward, cringing as she finally permitted the doors to slide closed behind her.

Perhaps, she thought, the garage would seem less daunting if the lights were all in working order. She was certain that the owner would be eager to replace the bulbs, after what happened to Sandra. She glanced up at the ceiling and counted the number of non-functioning or empty sockets between the elevator and the space where she knew her car to be: twelve, by her count; twelve out of thirty. That was far too many in her estimation. The dimness leant a sinister air to the cool, pervasive dampness of the garage.

With a deep breath, she took another step away from the elevator, moving toward her parking slot, her stilettos clicking off each rapidly increasing step across the oil-stained concrete flooring.

Breathe and just remember what to do if you are attacked, she said tacitly, mentally reviewing everything she’d learned in her self-defense classes; classes she’d started taking on the recommendation of Sandra McIntyre.

She stumbled, and her hand shot toward a nearby beam to prevent falling.

“Fat lot of good those classes had done her...” She started cursing aloud, but then stopped. “No! I can’t think like that. I can’t believe that I am defenseless. The classes didn’t fail Sandra; she simply hadn’t been alert. That’s it. She simply hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings. ‘Always know what’s happening around you’ had been the instructor’s first dictate. Well, I haven’t yet made that mistake. I’m as alert as anyone can get.”

She was so alert in fact that every nerve in her body jumped at every single noise, which caused it to tingle in a most uncomfortable fashion; much like the painful tingling feeling when a sleeping foot begins to waken.

She spotted her red Ford Mustang sitting nestled between a gray BMW and a burgundy Hummer. Her breathing eased a bit the closer she got until she was fairly laughing with relief when she reached the front of the car. She sighed deeply. If she didn’t bring her insane irrationality back down to her customary, rational anxiety soon, she’d go completely bonkers.

“I may have to seek out a therapist, because my fear is getting out of hand,” she conversed with herself, as she plopped her purse atop the hood and began rooting about in the large interior for her keys. This habit she hadn’t yet changed as the self-defense instructor suggested.

“One of the biggest mistakes people make,” he intoned during class, “is that people assume they will be able to get into their cars quickly; that they will be able to get to their keys and the safety of the car’s interior before an assailant can attack.”

Although she had made a mental decision to heed the instructor’s warning, she had yet to latch her keys to her purse’s exterior as he’d suggested; hadn’t even purchased a carabiner yet. Now, with a sigh of frustration, she yanked the purse open wider, glaring inside, daring her keys to continue hiding beneath her wallet, umbrella, and other sundries.

“I think it’s time to clean this out,” she muttered, as she resorted to pulling out items one at a time, “and it’s also time to downsize this monstrosity.”

“Trick or treat,” a voice whispered near her ear, and she jerked violently, knocking her purse to the ground, scattering the contents across the oily gray surface.

Her hands flailing, she spun and quickly struck a martial art pose: stance wide to provide balance, and her fists raised and ready to strike. The sight was so comical that the man who’d startled her chuckled. That pissed Brooke off, and she swung a fist and hit him hard in the upper arm and then swung the other fist and hit his shoulder. He backed away, but otherwise showed no outward sign of offense.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she snapped, bending to start picking up her belongings.

“At least you found your keys,” Christian laughed, rubbing his upper arm. “You hit like a girl.”

“Oh, that’s not something we girls hear every day,” Brooke snapped sarcastically. “What are you doing going around scaring people like that, anyway?” She asked in a tone that spewed fear and hostility. “And for your information, Halloween isn’t until tomorrow.”

When she realized that he hadn’t stooped to assist her, she glared up at him, “This was your fault you know, so you could do the decent thing and help me collect my stuff.”

“That’s okay; you seem to have everything covered.” He leaned against a nearby column and crossed his arms, his eyebrow raised as if in annoyance over having to wait for her. “Besides, I like these trousers, and don’t want to pay to have them cleaned again so soon.”

“You’re a real gentleman, aren’t you? What are you doing here anyway?” Brooke asked, reaching beneath her car to retrieve a extravagantly expensive tube of lipstick, cursing under her breath at the man for causing her to destroy a perfectly good pair of pantyhose.

“I happened to be in the neighborhood, preparing for an experiment that I’m going to be conducting. Anyway, I need a volunteer to help with that experiment. I knew you worked in the Bank of America Plaza, so I thought I’d stop by to see if I couldn’t talk you into lending a hand. Thought it might do you some good since you’ve missed quite a few classes of late.”

“I haven’t thought of whether to continue the classes,” she said, sliding further beneath her vehicle. She grabbed her lipstick and hairbrush, and then scooted from beneath the car, “I’m just not certain they are doing me any good.”

“You were ready to take me on,” Christian encouraged. “Would you have been able to do that much a month ago?”

Brooke shook her head, but it wasn’t in response to his query, rather regarding her decision to drop the classes, “I’m sorry, but I’m not certain those classes are what I need right now.” She stopped short of reminding him how futile those classes had proven for Sandra. “I’m sure that there are others in the class that can assist in your experiment.”

“Oh, I have already elicited assistance from Consuela, and I could really use one more person to make it work.”

“What kind of experiment?” Brooke asked politely, while she finished packing up her purse. She still had no intention of helping, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.

“The kind that will help save lives.”