Round Midnight (Coleman Shaw Book 1) by Elwood Hemingway

Author:Elwood Hemingway [Hemingway, Elwood]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grilled Cheese Labs
Published: 2021-11-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

We take the elevator from the first to the third. It needs a special key to unlock the button for the floor. The foyer is lavishly decorated, it reminds me of an old theater lobby. Plush velvet chairs, mahogany end tables, art deco wall sconce lighting. The moonlight illuminates the stained-glass dome ceiling sporting an intricate portrait of an angel descending into the room, surrounded by different symbols I don't recognize (except for the Seal of Belial, which I spot immediately). Large French doors open to an expansive balcony overlooking the back courtyard. Four doors to one side, each with multiple deadbolts on the outside. The implication is disturbing. They're not guest rooms. They're jail cells.

Now I know why the door to this floor is locked. Tyler drags me to the first room, closest to the elevator. I’m not making it easy on him, refusing to cooperate, instead keeping my body limp. Dead weight. He curses as he drags me across the polished floor. He slips and drops me twice. I let myself sprawl out motionless. Like a toddler refusing to go to pre-school.

He finally gets me into the room, and locks me in, like some sort of damsel in distress. If said damsel is nursing a black eye, busted lip, bloody nose, and probably bleeding internally. I wince as I feel my tenderized ribs. I got off lucky. Tyler pulled his punches. He refrained from breaking anything. He purposely missed any vital organs that might rupture from a good kicking. The beating was for show. To let David know he's still on his side, but light enough to let me know he's sorry about it.

The room is small, maybe 12 feet by 12. It’s decorated simply, a queen-sized bed with an antique brass bedframe rests centered against the far wall. Porcelain lamps with painted blue flowers sit atop simple wooden night tables on each side. A vintage wooden vanity with a large round mirror and small stool sits against another wall. An olive-green velvet armchair (circa 1950s) rests in the corner. There's a taste of mold in the air.

I check and double-check the door. It’s locked up tight. The only window is located on the western-facing wall. It's a sheer drop of about forty-five or fifty feet straight down onto a pile of rocks. So, while I'd probably survive the fall, I'd most likely break my damn legs. Then freeze to death in the cold eastern shore rain.

I shoulder the door a few times, but my battered body screams out in agony with each attempt. I suspect the door wouldn’t budge even if I was in tip top shape. I think about busting the doorknob right off the door, but the locks are deadbolts. It would stay locked with or without the doorknob.

I search for anything I might be able to use as a crowbar, try to pry the door off its hinges. The keyholders must have thought of, or been confronted with, all these possibilities, there’s nothing in the room I can use to open the door.

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