Beyond Recognition

66

Ben pressed his face closer to the chain link fence outside the automated gate to the U-Stor-It facility, his fingers laced through the metal webbing. The Face had evidently used the keypad to open the gate, which was now closed. And although Ben was curious to find out where the guy had gone to, once inside, his eye was not on the endless rows of storage units but on the pay phone outside the door marked OFFICE.

That pay phone called to him. Up and over the fence, a quick run across the open pavement (that to Ben seemed a mile wide), and over to that phone. Call Daphne. Tell her the Face was here at the U-Stor-It on Airport Way. A hero. Back over the fence. Ride like hell. A plan. Pretty simple at that. Hardest part would be the climb over, and again on the way back, but he could climb sixty-foot trees so why not a ten-foot-high chain link fence?

He looked around for some options. Airport Way seemed about a thousand miles long in both directions, and with virtually no traffic. The industrial businesses that lined the street were closed, every one of them. He remembered passing an old rundown hotel way back there, but it looked a lot scarier than that telephone only twenty yards away.

The thing that tore at him was he knew it was wrong. He could feel it clear down in his stomach. Climbing the fence was no different from climbing into that blue pickup truck. He wondered where to draw the line between just doing something wrong and doing it in order to do good. He didn’t need any more trouble. He had plenty. He was all through with trouble.

He checked for traffic and began to climb.

It surprised him how loud the fence was. It rattled like a bunch of cans. Scared the life out of him the way it made so much noise. The more noise, the faster he climbed; the faster he climbed, the more noise. His brain told him to slow down, take his time. His legs went like mad. But the faster he went, the worse his toeholds; his feet kept slipping out from under him, leaving him dangling and scraping for purchase, his toes attempting to run up the fence, his fingers pinched against the wire and hurting badly.

Finally, he reached the very top and threw a leg over, but the fence was cut ragged along the top edge. His pants caught and the wire bit into his thigh, stabbing him, and before he could stop himself he let out a shout that cut off halfway out when his brain kicked in and told him to shut up. He threw himself over to the other side, clawed his way down a few feet, and then bailed out, letting go and dropping to the blacktop.

What a mess, he thought, sprinting for the phone. A person would have to be deaf not to have heard that. What a stupid jerk! What a mess.

It was one of those things he knew without needing anyone to tell him: He’d screwed up big time. He’d screwed up so badly that halfway across the vast sea of blacktop separating the fence from the phone, he chickened out and froze, feeling the urgency to get back over that fence and flee. But then his legs moved again and the phone drew ever closer, looking to him like an oasis to a man too long in the desert.

He scooped a hungry hand down into his pocket and came up empty. No quarter. No way to make the phone call. He punched in 911-a number he was getting kind of used to.

“Emergency Services,” a man’s voice said.

“This is Ben … Ben Santori.” He hated using that last name; his father’s name had been Rice, and it seemed more right to him. “You gotta get a message to Daphne Matthews. She’s a cop.”

“I’m sorry, fella, we don’t-”

“She’s a cop. Listen to me!” he hissed in a whisper. “She’s at my house: S-A-N-T-O-R-I.” Ben spelled it for him. “Call her. Tell her I followed the guy with the face. The face-remember that. It’s an emergency-” He broke off. It sounded like a garage door. The Face! he thought. There it was again, the same sound, the door closing maybe. He dumped the phone into the cradle and debated sprinting for the fence. The Face had heard him come over that fence; he was coming around to check it out.

The storage units were built in long rows, Ben closest to the end near the gate. He spied more fence at the far end of the units and wondered if it wouldn’t be safer to try getting over down there, somewhere away from the entrance. He sneaked off along the side of the building, in the building’s shadow, more scared than he had ever been of Jack Santori. He moved a few feet and paused, listening, looking, his heart hurting in his chest.

And then he saw a man’s long thin shadow stretch across the pavement to his right. It was the Face, out prowling the grounds.

Out looking for him.