Trembling With Fear 6-11-23

Elevator, by Ron Capshaw

Before pressing the button for the 58th floor, the reporter kissed the crucifix he wore around his neck.

I used to laugh at people who did that, Ely Jones thought.  But that was back when I was a cynical reporter.

With a shaky hand, he pressed the button – but still jumped when the elevator began going up.  

As was the building, the elevator was modern,but for some reason it went up in jerks rather than smoothly. Pages of translations and sketches fell out of the reporter’s shoulder bag, and he knew if he kneeled to pick them up the jerking would feel worse.

I may not get there, he thought. Then he said a prayer: Please let me get there. Let me at least see him in the flesh. Please grant me that.

The elevator now ascended smoothly.

He gathered up the pages and put them in order as if he was a lawyer preparing a summation to a jury.

Jones drew a deep, shaky breath before the elevator door opened. He stepped out and into yuppie America circa 1985. Everyone in the lobby was dressed the same – as if a power lunch would break out any minute. All the men wore midnight black double-breasted suits with red ties and white button-down shirts. The women either wore equally dark pantsuits or a white shirt and red tie and ankle-length black skirts. Even the frames of their glasses were black, and he thought most wore them to appear thoughtful.

The outer office secretary was professional enough not to wrinkle her nose at Jones’ very brown, very wet trench coat. She smiled with even white teeth and said, “Mr. Bolt is expecting you.”  

A man that could only be security – who had shoulders and biceps so broad they threatened to burst through his black suit coat – came over. Please don’t let him frisk me, Jones thought. Because if he does, it will all have been for nothing. But the security man didn’t, and politely escorted him into the outer office of Alan Bolt, the 32-year-old head of Bolt Enterprises, a nuclear power company with offices from London to Nairobi.

Before the secretary buzzed Jones in, he took a deep breath and thought, Even if this doesn’t go my way, at least I tried to do one good deed in an otherwise sordid life.

The reporter opened the door and knew.

Alan Bolt had black, almost pupil-less eyes, and arched eyebrows under a jet black widow’s peak, like the one the pulp hero Doc Savage wore on those paperback covers. Seated behind his desk, his well-manicured hands flat on it, Bolt radiated a tigerish energy despite looking like he had been poured into that black business suit.

“Mr. Jones,” he said in a voice like thunder rumbling. “I’m glad we finally met. I loved that profile you did of me in Vanity Fair last year.”

Jones looked at the hand Bolt extended.

I can do this. I was once taken hostage by the Khmer Rouge.

Nothing happened when Jones shook Bolt’s hand, just skin to skin contact. With his other hand Bolt gestured for Upshaw to sit, while he sat down and leaned courteously forward.  Jones finally found his voice.  

“About a year ago,” Jones said,” I was covering an archaeological dig in Iraq.”

Jones handed Bolt the photo of the archaeologist running the dig, and asked: “Do you know Dr. Jules Cresson?”

Bolt shook his head politely.

Oh you know him, you fuck. I’m sure you “felt” every freak accident the moment they happened.

Jones reached into his shoulder bag, past the corked vial, and took out some photocopied pages then handed them to Bolt.

“Cresson mailed these copies to me, between the time he unearthed those lost pages of Revelations and when those wild dogs ripped him apart. Cresson knew I couldn’t read Latin but he told me who could translate the documents and verify their authenticity.”

Bolt kept smiling courteously.

“The scholar said they were genuine. He died soon afterward too – a hit and run that somehow decapitated him. I won’t bore you with all the details of the ‘accidents’ over the years. I have to admit I would have dismissed Cresson’s discovery myself since I never believed in the Bible. But when I saw the sketches John the Elder found time to draw during those Apocalyptic visions, I believed what was among us.”

Jones’ hand was inside his bag poised between the vial and the sketches.

“Do I really need to show them to you? All that is missing is your business suit.”

Bolt pressed the intercom button and said, “Now.”

The psychiatrist – the one from the New York State mental asylum who was treating Jones – came into the room along with the security guard. Before they could get to him, Jones pulled a gun and pointed it at Bolt.

Bolt held out his arm to the doctor and the massive security guard, saying: “It’s ok. Let him leave.”

Jones back-walked out of Bolt’s office, past the startled people in the lobby, and into the elevator. Before the elevator door shut, he saw Bolt’s eyes tightly closed.

As the elevator descended, the guard asked Bolt if he should alert security in the lobby about Jones.

“No need,” Bolt said, and walked back to his office.

They felt the crash of the plummeting elevator car even on the 58th floor.