Arrogance is not a crime, he tells himself. But it should be.
He knows this is an extreme response. Yet, he cannot look upon this name and image without experiencing a crashing wave of fury. He understood the desire for power—he even understood the beneficial uses of power. What he could not abide was the abuse of power. He recognized that everyone possessed dark spots in their souls, and that power had the potential to corrupt, but they had free will—the free will to choose how they used the power that they possessed.
The printer stops humming and he reaches down and removes the papers from the tray. They are still warm. He stacks them neatly and slides a paper clip over the top left edge. He ponders the large box containing the bag, trying to determine the appropriate color to use. Sometimes it comes to him, sometimes not. It is, he realizes, an ultimately meaningless decision, but he relishes the moment of decision nonetheless.
He selects one with yellow panels and white trim. He does not know what why this is the correct choice, at least not consciously, but it feels right. He removes the merchandising tags from the outside the bag and then opens it. Reaching inside, he pulls out the crumpled kraft paper used to help the bag somewhat keep its shape during shipping. He removes those with the neat stack of printed sheets and pulls the zippers closed. He looks around, frowning when he cannot locate the shipping box, and then remembers that it is still stacked, unassembled, with the other ten of them.
It takes him only a few minutes to unfold and assembled the box. He slides the bag inside. It fits perfectly, of course. Sealing it closed with clear packing tape, he sets it aside and prepares the label. As with the first two packages, and will be for the remaining ones, this is perhaps one of the trickiest parts of the plan. Still, he feels up to the challenge, having carefully thought through this from the beginning.
With the label completed, he sets the package aside.
#
Leanna Hartford walks through the vacant corridors, aware that they were empty, but giving the fact no real attention. She has worked much later than is usual for her, so is not surprised to find that most the cubicles and hallways are unoccupied. She approaches the door, absently waving her badge at the security panel, and then nearly runs hard into it when it fails to unlock and open.
Frowning, she waves her badge over the panel again. The indicator light blinks from red to green, but she does not hear the locking mechanism disengage. Releasing her grip on the raised handle of her rolling briefcase, she tugs at the door handle. It does not open. She tries her badge again with the same result.
Cursing under her breath, she turns around, surveying the other interior doors. This is the one she almost always uses. She is not certain where the other exit routes are on this side of the building. She tugs angrily at the handle of her briefcase, and then turns and heads toward the main corridor that runs along the inner perimeter of the building complex. There will be maps mounted along the walls there, and they should show alternate routes and exits to the parking garage that she wants. With that, though, she tries to remember exactly where she had parked her car. She had not taken notice of it, as she picked in nearly the same location every day. This time, though, as she will be coming at it from an unaccustomed direction.
Light filters down on her as she passes through the glass-lined corridors. It is nearly dark outside, but the interior lighting refracts outward, giving the world a gray, murky look. She makes her way up the incline of the passageway, and then stops when she reaches T-shaped intersection at its end. Glancing both left and right down the lengths of the connecting corridor, she sees no one else. She might have caught a brief glimpse of someone exiting through one of the security turnstiles, but she is not certain.
Studying the map, she sees that there were two possible routes to the parking garage she wants. She sees two additional exits marked along each route, all of these closer to her, but they are all locked down this late in the evening. One of the routes, although it was not marked on the map, she knows is under construction. The company is reconfiguring the space in an attempt to pack more employees in the same number of square feet. She had not given it any consideration before, as it did not impact her in any real way. In fact, she had rather thought that the employees who had complained about it should find something more productive to do with their time—such as focusing more on keeping their jobs. Now, though, it served as a major inconvenience.
Crafting the message that she plans send to Facilities in her mind, she heads down the corridor to the nearest accessible exit. The corridor continues to slope slightly upward, adding to her growing fatigue from the long day. Along the way, she passes a maintenance employee pushing a large wheeled garbage cart without acknowledging them. She continues onward, relieved when she spots the security turnstile.
Letting her case coast to a stop behind her, she waves her badge in front of the panel. The glowing indicator flashes from red to green. She reaches out to push the turnstile blades. It does not budget. She pushes harder, knowing that sometimes it takes a little momentum to get it moving, but it remains locked in place. She tries her badge again, with the same results.
Her considerable annoyance rises toward full-blown anger. The other accessible door is an entire building over from where she is now. In addition, she realizes that she will need to walk the length of two buildings across the parking garage in order to reach where her car is parked. Out of frustrated desperation, she tries both her badge and the gate again without success. She resists the urge to slam her hand against the turnstile blades, but just barely. Turning and dragging her case behind her, she continues along the perimeter corridor to the next door.
It is fully dark outside the windows now. She cannot see more than few feet out into the night. Small yellow-white lights dotted the outside of the building at regular intervals, but they provide little visibility outside their immediate vicinity. She pays little attention to them, focused on her goal—and trying not to think about how tired she is and how her feet are really beginning to hurt.
Reaching the second security gate takes her much longer than she anticipated. She begins to wonder whether she read the map wrong, or if perhaps the map itself did not reflect the current configuration of the buildings.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she grumbles aloud.
She nearly considers turning around and heading back, stopping to use of the internal lines mounted along the walls to call Security and ask them to escort her out.
Should have thought of that in the first place, she chastises herself. They could have opened those damn gates for me.
Just before she decides to turn around, she spies the translucent spines of the security turnstile. She quickens her pace slightly, and then realizes how slowly she had been moving. She can see it ahead and forces herself to finish the small ascent to it.
Why does every damned hallway here go uphill?
Breathing harder now, she pauses at the gate for a moment to gather her breath before reaching for her badge. She is definitely upset now, but too winded to feel truly angry. Still, she waves her card savagely before the security plate, blowing out a loud breath when the light switches from red to green. She grips the edge of one of the turnstile blades and shoves it, hard. There is a sound, but it is one from the locking mechanism holding tight as she presses against it.
She snarls, releasing her grip on the handle of her case. Pressing her card flat against the scanner, she pushes at the same time at the turnstile. She stares at the indicator light: green. Her card has been accepted, but the gate refuses to move.
Stepping back from the gate, she breathes hard with unfettered anger.
Don’t tell me they lock all the gates now!
She wants to scream. If that is so, then the only available exit is through the main lobby—all the way across the complex from where she stands now.
Gripping the gate, she shakes it hard, hearing its mechanisms rattle. She knows that will do her no good, nor does it help ease her frustration. To make it worse, she sees the telephone resting on the security desk within the alcove between her and the outer door to the parking garage. It seems to taunt her with its very presence.
Swearing aloud this time, not caring whether anyone is around to hear her. Or, perhaps, hoping that someone might be, for they might be able let her out of this rat maze of a building.
Grunting with unreleased frustration, she realizes what she must do next. Her only option remaining is to take the alternate route that passes through the construction zone. To say that she is less than thrilled by the idea would be an understatement.
At least it’ll take me near the lobby, she realizes, should she be unable to leave the building through the other exit as well.
She checks her watch, suddenly aware of how much time this has taken her so far. It makes her feel more tired than furious, but anger simmers just below that surface.
Beginning the trek back, she realizes just how much all of the corridors look alike. They all have the same base of dull gray carpeting. The walls of each building are supposed to be painted a different color, but they are all done with such muted hues, that they blur into one another without remaining in one’s memory. During the day, she realizes, when the outside world is visible, it probably provides landmarks to help identify each building and each section. At night, there is nothing but an even blanket of darkness.
At least I seem to be going downhill this time, she realized, belatedly wishing that she had taken this route the first time.
The interior also seems darker now as well. She recognizes that it is likely due to there being fewer lights being used in the areas under construction at night. She hopes that at least some of them are operating. That could be bad, she realizes, for if there is no power for lights, there might not be any for the doors and their security systems.
She enters a wide area that used to overlook a warehouse floor. Now, enormous sheets of translucent plastic hang from the rafters, dividing the space into work zones, she guesses.
The glass doors at the end of the walkway allow her to pass through. She is surprised at how relieved she is by that.
At least some of them are working . . .
It does increase her confidence that the ones leading to the parking garages at this end of the complex might actually let her through. To her right within the enclosure is a set of stairs. A small flight of them lead downward, toward the area where the factory operations had once been. Above them are steps that lead to the upper levels of the building. Ahead of her is another glass door, also secured by a security access panel. She waves her badge before it. She hears the door unlock.
Almost hurriedly, she pushes her way through it, as if afraid that it might change her mind, locking her within the tall glass alcove. The door closes and locks behind her. The sound is loud in the empty hallway, echoing sharply against the bare panels of plywood and metal. She moves quickly down the corridor, her eyes on the next door ahead.
The space is open and dark. Only a handful of small, widely spaced banks of emergency lighting illuminate the area. She wonders whether she should even be there at all, particularly at night.
There wasn’t a sign . . .
She continues moving quickly, careful of the chunks of lumber and other debris that litter the floor. Her bag catches on something as she drags it behind her. When she turns to pull it free, her shoe collides with something, knocking the unseen object into the darkness. Her bag freed, she walks on until she reaches the next door.
This door, like nearly all of the others within this complex, is also locked. The small red indicator on the security is a bright point of light. She looks beyond the door into the corridor beyond. It appears to be dark, or at least even less illuminated than the space she just traveled through. She swipes her badge tests the door, hoping that its glass is tinted. The door opens.
She pauses in the doorway, peering into the dimly lit space beyond it. There appear to be few lights within the space, but some light trickles in through the immense windows. She believes that she can see the door at the far end. The interior of space is filled with shadows; she can make out few, if any, of its details.
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