ONE

The Black Box

La Jolla, California, 2009

The day I fell out of the sky, I landed inside the enigma of my father’s death.

The wind was too strong for paragliding that afternoon, but high winds never stopped a hotshot like me. I’d known this day would be difficult, as it was every year on April 10th. But instead of calming my unstable mood in the safety of home or my hermetically sealed office, I was running toward the edge of Torrey Pines Bluff, fear clutching my chest.

Would I plummet into the sea three hundred feet below?

I leapt into space, my yellow wing sweeping me up high in the air. Hallelujah, I can fly.

Turning south, I rode the ridge lift along the sandstone bluffs whiskered with dark green patches of chaparral. No longer Dr. Kate Devlin, the gray-suited psychologist, I was an exotic, yellow-winged bird soaring in the sky. The wind gusted, and a cold blast knocked me sideways. Even in Southern California, April was the cruelest month, and this day—the anniversary of my father’s death—always felt the harshest.

The sky darkened, the gusts more frequent. I sensed a storm coming. Or my thunder-voiced father, Opera’s Greatest Villain—his restless ghost haunting me still. I could hear his deep

baritone in the roar of the wind and feel my wing shuddering. Would I never be free of him? I’d managed to forget almost everything, but not the dark thrill of his world-famous voice. Tears in my eyes, my hands trembling, the glider about to spin out of control.

Focus. Hands steady on the controls. Increase speed.

Raising the control toggles, I zoomed higher and a strong lift sent me soaring way up. Below, the ocean spread out like a giant sheet of metal. The sky was turning an ominous gray. I glanced overhead. Holy Mother of Shite! A monster cumulus cloud loomed right above my wing, sucking me into the swirling mist. In moments I’d be a ragdoll, tossed around blinded.

I plunged into steep spiral turns. The icy air whipped around me, tore at my jacket, numbed my hands. Spiraling faster, I lost my bearings, sky and sea merging, a blur of gray-white light.

Slow your turns. My hands froze on the controls.

Whirling down. Seconds to impact, the crash fatal on water-turned-rock.

Stop the spiral.

Which control, left or right? Total confusion, the slate sea rushing up. On pure instinct, I eased up on the left control toggle and the spiral slowed, slower…stopped, the world still reeling in my head. Water, water, everywhere, and my mouth dry as the desert.

Sinking fast. Gliding close to the water, I angled toward the shore, feet skimming the waves. The surf coming up, I laser-focused on a patch of beach, willed more speed. It would be close. “One, two, three, four,” then my feet hit the wet sand.

I shed my harness and packed my gear, wired on adrenaline. I’d beaten the death spiral. I was invincible. The high fueled my hike halfway up the bluff then sudden spasms of shaking forced me to sit on the steps. The sea surged below, and I imagined my body crashing, shrouded in yellow, the sharks circling. Blocking out this scene, I checked my watch, now worried about getting back to my office to meet my 4:30 client. Plenty of time. I resumed climbing, wondering why I froze in the spiral. Something more than fear had disabled me. What was it?

One step from the top, a nightmare image shot up from the deep—my father crumpled in a pool of blood on his dressing room floor and ten-year-old me running away.

***

The elevator doors were an inch from closed when a pale, manicured hand reached in and gripped one door. I jabbed the Open button, and a tall blonde slipped through the opening. Two beefy men in suits followed, then a busty matron swathed in pink velour. The doors rumbled shut, and I stifled a gasp, my chest a block of cement. Nine hundred pounds of air-sucking flesh packed in a five-by-seven-foot box. I always took the stairs, but the stairwell had been locked. I was a daredevil in the sky but trap me in an elevator and I could die of fright.

“Second floor,” said the suit behind me, spewing garlic-breath. No other requests. I punched two, and then number seven for my floor at the top. The car creaked into motion like an old arthritic man lurching from his recliner. My pulse rate quickened. The decrepit car often stalled, and I tracked every jerk and gut-rolling sway.

At the second floor, the elevator rattled to a stop and the bodies fled.

The car staggered upward. I stepped back surprised to see the blonde still standing in the corner across from me. Her furtive glance triggered a sense of déjà vu. Had we met before? I didn’t think so, but I felt an instant visceral dislike. She looked like a snooty fashion plate, her hair precision cut in an asymmetrical bob. A gold blouse shimmered under her tapestry vest and a matching purse hung from her shoulder. Her lips pursed as she eyed my out-of-style pantsuit, and I frowned at her artsy getup from a pricy boutique.

Picking on Fashion Plate kept me sane on the crawl to the third floor. Then my perceptions warped—the fake walnut walls creeping in, the ceiling pressing down, the floor a magnified chessboard of black and white tiles. I stood stiffly on a white square, and the blonde’s gold sandals gleamed on a black square. She shot a sidelong glance. I countered with a stony stare.

The ding sounded like a gong. Three miles to go.

The blonde’s lily-scented perfume cloyed the air. Sudden quiet. The air-conditioner had stopped wheezing. My heart rate spiked.

Ding. Number four glowed red above the brass.

The box heating up, sweat oozed in my armpits. I shed my jacket. She rifled in her bag. Glancing toward the doors, I saw something streak across the polished brass like the flash of knife. I froze. She shook out a handkerchief, an emerald-cut diamond winking on her finger. Innocuous. The blonde intended no harm, but my prickling antennae said that she did.

Passing the sixth floor, the elevator slowed, hiccoughing. I watched the doors, begged them to open. Then the car shuddered and jolted to a stop. Dead silence.

“I think we’re stuck,” she said in a breathy voice.

The lights went out. Pitch dark. I throttled the scream rising in my throat.

Inside a black box, my heart pounding. Gypsy music pulsates, clicking castanets. Cymbals crash. Footsteps circling. A menacing voice whispers, “Katie, Katie, you can’t hide from me.” The scrape of metal, the hasp latches. I’m locked in! I beat on the lid. All sides closing in…

“Are you all right? You’re gasping.”

Her voice brought me back to the present, my throat too constricted to speak. The dark felt alive, strangling. I started the drill to abort panic. Slow breathing. Imagine the wide-open sea.

“Are you hyperventilating?” she asked. “I have a paper bag in my purse.” Sounds of crinkling paper. “You might want to breathe into it, get a little carbon dioxide.”

“I’m fine now.” The cloak of darkness was not enough. I wanted to sink through the floor.

“Would you like some water? I have a bottle in my purse.”

My throat was so dry. “Yes, thanks. Do you have dinner in your bag as well?”

Her low chuckle, then the bottle arrived in my hand. I gulped the warm water.

“Are you claustrophobic?” she asked.

“So it would seem.”

“I hyperventilate from anxiety, too,” she said, as if we in a Woody Allen movie.

This was getting weird. I groped along the wall searching for the control panel.

“I already pressed all the buttons,” she said, sensing my purpose. “Nothing lights up. There’s no emergency line, and my cell died on the way here.”

I felt inside my jacket pockets—keys, wallet, but no cell. I’d left it in the car. Sounds like rats scuttling. What was she doing? I peered into the dark, the blackness more opaque than my closed eyelids at night. Jingling noises. She was digging through her magic bag.

I leaned back in my corner, the flashback cycling in my mind—the footsteps, the creepy voice, an orchestra playing. Since my father’s death I’d been claustrophobic and had nightmares of suffocating, symptoms that no type of therapy could cure. Severe childhood asthma was considered the cause, but this wasn’t a flashback to an asthma attack. Someone had locked me in a box. I didn’t recognize the voice, but the music was familiar—the rhythmic beat, the castanets. I hated that foot-tapping music. What the hell was it? Dizziness hit, and I grabbed the railing.

“Would you like a mint?” Her sticky fingers touched mine on the railing.

I dropped my hand. “No, thank you.” My tone sounded sharp.

Her sandals clicked on the tile as she drew back. I regretted my rebuff. She couldn’t know her offerings just aggravated my shame. I felt so vulnerable in this situation I was bristling like a porcupine. Trained as a singer the first ten years of my life, I still had my musician’s ear and the cadence of her voice struck a chord deep in my aural memory.

I heard her sniffing. “It’s so stuffy in here. I can hardly breathe.”

Her plaintive tone awakened my take-charge self. “This is an old elevator. We might be able to open the inner doors and determine where we are.”

We felt our way to the brass panels, hooked fingertips into the crack, and pulled. It took five tries to open them. The minor success empowered me, and the dark seemed less dense. Light was leaking in. I ran my hands up the rough concrete wall and hit smooth metal at chin level.

“I feel the bottom of the seventh-floor doors,” I said. “Let’s try to open them.”

Again, we pulled, grunting with the awkward effort. The doors wouldn’t budge.

“My nails are broken and my fingers hurt,” she whined.

What a wuss she was. “Let’s try one more—”

“I suggest we bang on the doors and yell for help,” she said.

“Act like helpless women?”

“Exactly.”

I faced the door and squeaked, “Help.” She started laughing, then the motor sputtered. The lights came on. The car lurched up a few feet, bumped to a stop, and the doors trundled open.

“You see, it worked,” she said, as we rushed into the refrigerated foyer.

We stood blinking at each other under the harsh glare of the ceiling fluorescents.

“I’m Kate Devlin.” I offered my hand.

“Yes, I know.” Smug smile. “I’m Elise Devereaux, your 4:30 appointment.”

I stared at her, speechless. This possibility hadn’t occurred to me. Clients never came to my office a half-hour early. Fashion Plate knew who I was all along and had never let on. A remarkable performance. She grasped my hand, and a familiar dread rooted me—the sensation of walls closing in. Then the elevator doors clanged shut.