The Face in the Window

The SUV’s doors slammed. The sound cracked through the cold night air like a gunshot, echoing off the trees.

I dropped the binoculars. They hit the forest floor with a dull thud.

I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just ran.

I tore through the undergrowth, branches whipping my face, thorns tearing at my clothes. I scrambled up the embankment, slipping on the wet leaves, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I had to beat them to the room. I had to get to her before they did.

I reached the service yard. The SUV was parked by the loading dock. The driver was still inside, the engine idling.

The other two men were gone.

I sprinted for the fire exit. The door was still ajar, propped open with a rock I had placed there earlier.

I slipped inside.

The stairwell was silent. I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs burning.

*Fourth floor.*

I burst onto the landing. I peeked through the small window in the door.

The hallway was empty. But the elevator at the far end was dinging. It was coming up.

I pushed through the door and ran.

*401.*

*402.*

I reached the door. I punched in the code. *1-9-8-7.*

My fingers slipped on the keys. Sweat. Panic.

*Error.*

"Damn it," I whispered.

I tried again. Slower. *1... 9... 8... 7.*

*Click.*

I threw the door open and stumbled inside.

The room was exactly as I had seen it through the binoculars. The bed. The window.

The chair.

She was there.

She didn't turn. She didn't flinch at the sound of the door crashing open. She just kept brushing her hair.

*One stroke. Two strokes. Three.*

"Margaret," I gasped.

I ran to her. I fell to my knees beside the chair.

"Margaret, we have to go. They're coming."

She stopped brushing. She turned her head slowly.

Her eyes were blue. Arthur’s blue. Julian’s blue. But they were empty. Vacant.

"Elena?" she whispered. Her voice was rusty, unused.

"Yes," I said. "It's me. We have to go."

"I can't," she said. "The door is locked."

"It's open," I said. "I opened it. Come on."

I grabbed her hand. It was cold. Bone thin.

She pulled away. "No. He gets angry when I leave."

"He's not here," I said. "It's just us."

"He's always here," she said. She looked at the door. "He watches."

I heard the elevator ding down the hall.

"They're here," I said. "Margaret, please. We have to move."

I stood up and tried to pull her out of the chair. She was frail, but she resisted with surprising strength.

"My brush," she said. "I need my brush."

"Take it," I said. "Take it and come."

She clutched the silver-backed brush to her chest. She stood up. She swayed, her legs weak from years of atrophy.

I put my arm around her waist. "Lean on me."

We moved toward the door.

But we were too late.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway. Voices.

"Room 402. Check the vitals. Then prep for transport."

I looked around the room. There was nowhere to hide. The bathroom was too small. The closet was too shallow.

The window.

It was reinforced glass. Unbreakable. But it was our only view of the world.

"Back," I whispered. "Get back."

I pushed Margaret toward the corner, behind the heavy blackout curtain.

"Stay there," I said. "Don't make a sound."

She nodded, clutching the brush. Her eyes were wide with fear.

I looked for a weapon. There was nothing. Just the bed, the chair, the table.

The door handle turned.

I grabbed the heavy metal lamp from the bedside table. I ripped the cord from the wall.

I stood behind the door, the lamp raised high.

The door swung open.

A man stepped in. He was big. He wore a dark suit and an earpiece.

He didn't see me. He looked at the empty chair.

"She's gone," he said into his lapel mic.

"Check the bathroom," a voice crackled in his ear.

He took a step forward.

I swung the lamp.

It connected with the back of his head with a sickening *crack*.

He crumbled.

I didn't wait to see if he was unconscious. I grabbed the door and slammed it shut. I engaged the deadbolt.

"Open up!" a voice shouted from the hall. Someone threw their weight against the door.

It held. But for how long?

I turned to Margaret. She was peeking out from behind the curtain.

"We're trapped," she whispered.

"No," I said. "We're not."

I walked to the window. I looked down. It was a forty-foot drop to the ravine.

But there was a ledge. A narrow stone cornice that ran along the side of the building. And ten feet away, the fire escape.

I picked up the chair. It was heavy, solid wood.

"Move," I said to Margaret.

I swung the chair at the window.

The reinforced glass spiderwebbed but didn't break.

The door shuddered under another blow. The wood frame cracked.

I swung again. Harder. Screaming with the effort.

*Crash.*

The glass shattered. Cold wind rushed into the room.

"Come on," I said.

I helped Margaret to the window. She looked down at the drop. She shrank back.

"I can't," she sobbed.

"You can," I said. "Or you can stay here and die."

I heard the door splinter.

"Go!" I screamed.

I pushed her out onto the ledge. She clung to the stone, her nightgown billowing in the wind.

I climbed out after her.

And then I saw it.

The man on the floor. The one I had hit with the lamp.

He was groaning. He was trying to get up.

And in his hand, he held a radio.

"Subject is armed," he wheezed. "And she has the package."

He looked up at me. His eyes cleared.

And he smiled.

"You're not going anywhere, Mrs. Hawthorne," he said.

He wasn't talking to Margaret.

He was talking to me.

I looked at the door. It burst open.

Julian stood there.

He wasn't wearing his suit. He was wearing tactical gear. And he was holding a gun.

He looked at me, perched on the ledge with his mother.

He raised the weapon.

"Step back inside, Elena," he said. "Or I shoot her."

He aimed the gun at Margaret's head.

I froze.

My husband. The father of my children.

He wasn't a coward. He wasn't weak.

He was the cleaner.

And I had just walked into the slaughterhouse.