Chapter 8 - THE VOICE FROM THE CORNERSTONE TAPE
The ground beneath us shuddered violently.
The sound of twisting metal and cracking brick was deafening, drowning out the screams of pedestrians running for cover. Dust billowed from the east wing of the Hawthorne Grand Hotel like smoke from a battlefield.
“Andrew!” I screamed, bolting toward the trailer door.
My father grabbed me around the waist, hauling me back. “Rebecca, no! You can’t go in there! You have the baby to think about!”
“He’s my husband!” I sobbed, fighting against his grip. Another sharp, agonizing contraction ripped through my abdomen, doubling me over. I gasped for air, clutching my stomach.
Margaret was standing frozen by the window, staring up at the fracturing building she had spent her life trying to protect. She looked entirely broken. The empire she had murdered for was literally crumbling before her eyes.
Suddenly, Miller, the site manager, burst back into the trailer. His hardhat was gone, and a gash across his forehead was bleeding freely.
“The east wing lobby doors are jammed!” Miller shouted, frantically digging through a metal lockbox on his desk. “The frame shifted. There are people trapped inside, including Andrew!”
Margaret whipped around, the shock shattering. “My son is in there?”
“He was trying to get the last of the guests out when the glass buckled,” Miller said, pulling a heavy crowbar from the box. “I’m going back. But if that crane drops the concrete load on the roof, the whole wing is coming down in minutes.”
“Stop the crane!” Margaret screamed.
“The operator bailed!” Miller yelled back, sprinting out the door. “The rig is stuck!”
Margaret looked at the crowbar Miller had left behind. She looked at me, doubled over in pain, and my father holding me up.
Then, she did something I never expected.
Margaret grabbed the heavy crowbar, her designer heels slipping on the muddy floor, and ran out of the trailer toward the collapsing hotel.
“Margaret, stop!” my father yelled, but she didn't turn back.
We stumbled out of the trailer after her. The scene was pure chaos. Firetrucks were screeching to a halt on the street, sirens blaring. Police officers were screaming at people to push back behind the barricades.
Through the massive, dust-covered windows of the east wing lobby, I could see shadows moving frantically. People were banging on the jammed glass doors.
Among them was Andrew.
He was holding a terrified little girl in his arms, using his shoulder to repeatedly ram against the shattered but unyielding safety glass.
Margaret reached the doors. She swung the heavy steel crowbar with a desperate, primal strength I didn't know she possessed. The glass spider-webbed further, but the reinforced frame held.
“Andrew!” Margaret screamed, swinging again. “Hold on! I’m getting you out!”
Andrew saw her. He yelled something, but the sound of the groaning building swallowed his words. He pointed frantically upward.
I looked up.
The massive yellow crane, abandoned and swaying in the rising wind, was slowly tilting. The multi-ton bucket of wet concrete it was holding swung dangerously close to the fragile roof of the east wing.
“Dad,” I cried, gripping his arm. “The crane.”
My father didn't hesitate. The 71-year-old farmer, who had spent his life repairing tractors and old machinery, sprinted past the police barricades and climbed the metal ladder of the crane base with terrifying speed.
“Dad, no!” I screamed, another contraction dropping me to my knees in the wet dirt.
I was helpless. My husband was trapped behind glass. My father was climbing a falling crane. And Margaret Sterling was frantically swinging a crowbar to save the son she had manipulated his entire life.
I dragged myself up, leaning against a concrete barricade.
“Somebody help them!” I screamed at the firefighters rushing past me.
Two firefighters reached Margaret, grabbing the crowbar from her bleeding hands. They drove a specialized hydraulic wedge into the doorframe.
With a deafening screech, the metal frame gave way. The glass shattered outward into a million pieces.
Dozens of terrified guests poured out, coughing on the thick white dust.
Andrew stumbled out last, still carrying the little girl. He handed her to a waiting paramedic and turned back to the building.
“Andrew!” Margaret sobbed, throwing her arms around his dust-covered neck.
Andrew held her for exactly one second before gently but firmly pushing her away. He looked around wildly until his eyes locked onto me.
He sprinted across the chaotic construction site, sliding to his knees right in front of me.
“Rebecca,” he gasped, his hands hovering over my stomach as I groaned through another contraction. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“My dad,” I cried, pointing up.
Andrew looked up.
My father had reached the operator’s cab of the crane. He was yanking frantically on the levers.
With a loud, hydraulic hiss, the massive boom of the crane slowly began to swing away from the hotel roof.
Just as the concrete bucket cleared the edge of the building, a massive section of the east wing’s brick facade violently detached.
It crashed down into the street below, crushing the spot where the lobby doors had been just moments before.
A cloud of impenetrable dust washed over us.
When the dust finally began to settle, the hotel was mangled, but standing. The east wing was a ruined shell, but the main structural collapse had been averted.
My father slowly climbed down the crane ladder, coughing and covered in grease.
I let out a sob of pure relief, collapsing against Andrew’s chest.
But the nightmare wasn't over.
Through the settling dust, a group of police officers was walking toward us, led by a detective holding a silver key in an evidence bag.
Behind them walked Caroline. She pointed a shaking finger directly at Margaret.
“That’s her,” Caroline cried softly.
The detective stepped forward, his expression grim.
May you like
“Margaret Sterling,” he said loudly over the din of the sirens. “You are under arrest for fraud, reckless endangerment, and the murder of Eleanor Bennett.”
TITLE: The Rescue In The Marble Lobby
