Shock Wave. Dana Mentink

her mouth as she gasped for air, panic bringing her back to the war zone, filling her gut with black despair. There was a heavy pressure and then silence.

      Sage was not sure in that moment if she was alive or dead. Her own rasping breath confirmed that she was indeed living and conscious. Though the box was bathed in darkness, a weak light came from the gaping hole in the ceiling where the balcony above had come crashing through. A thick layer of dust drifted downward.

      Just breathe, take it slow.

      She coughed out a mouthful of plaster dust and took stock. Aside from general aches, she did not feel any lancing pain. Gingerly, she wiggled her legs and arms, turning her neck slowly to one side. She struggled to sit up but something heavy lay across her shoulders, pressing her down. She quelled the panic.

      A few more deep breaths and she worked again on wriggling her legs, propelling herself forward since she had no hope of lifting the thick beam. Fortunately, it had fallen across the span of two seats, leaving a small spot of clearance. Sage scooted forward again, her feet scrabbling for purchase.

      Maybe it was a whisper of movement, or the slow exhalation of breath, but in a sudden wash of fear, Sage knew she was not alone.

      “Antonia?” she whispered.

      No one answered. Perhaps she had imagined the presence. Her doctor would say it was a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. She caught sight of the lantern, which had tumbled down the aisle and now lay a few feet away.

      She pulled herself forward, her efforts only netting her a few inches before she had to stop for breath, face bathed in a combination of sweat and grime.

      The sound of quietly placed footsteps caused her to freeze. They were made by someone heavy and solid, not by the willowy Antonia.

      “Who is it?” she hissed. Whoever it was came closer, but try as she might, she could not twist herself into a position to look up. Some part of her, the deep-down place where instinct lay, told her whoever was in that box had not come to help.

      “People know I’m here,” she said quickly. “People are coming.”

      The feet moved closer. Sage could feel the boards shifting and bending under the stranger’s weight.

      She could see only the shadow in her peripheral vision, someone watching, thinking. The gloom that settled over her pressed fear deep into her pores. She was immobilized, trapped and in darkness as this person closed the gap between them.

      Her blood pounded in her veins. She would yell, but who would hear her?

      In a scrabble of noise, something hurtled into the box, knocking over the lantern.

      She screamed as the thing streaked at her, eyes glowing.

      Then a wet tongue swabbed her face. She batted at the creature, which her brain finally identified as a dog. The exuberant tongue was attached to a wiry animal with a head that seemed too small for its lanky body.

      Shoving him away, she tried to get a glimpse of the stranger.

      She realized she was alone again. Whoever had left her trapped there was gone.

      Relief made her shiver, and she reached out to finger the dog’s velvety ears, which started out erect and then flopped over at the tips.

      “Where did you come from?” she managed. He licked her again and sniffed her hair. The dog stopped midsniff, cocked his small wedge of a head.

      “Hear something, boy?” she whispered, skin prickling. Was the stranger coming back?

      After another moment of listening, the dog took off through the doorway.

      She wanted to call after him, to bring the friendly, warm animal back. Instead she applied every ounce of her strength into freeing herself from her entrapment. Inch by painful inch she yanked herself out, scraping her legs in the process. Anger rippled through her like a shock wave. The stranger hadn’t gotten far and Sage was going to find out who it was.

      She heard the rumble as she ran, the faraway sound of a door being slammed, or a heavy box being dropped onto a cement floor. She reached the bottom stairs and collided with a man heading up. He was big, over six feet and solidly muscled, and her five-foot-four-inch frame bounced off his chest like a tennis ball hitting a racket.

      The man’s flashlight tumbled down and landed at his feet with a soft thunk.

      He picked it up, holding it with one hand, the other hand readied in a fist in front of him as if he was expecting an attack.

      Sage shielded her face from the light. “Who are you?”

      There was a moment of hesitation. “You want my rank and serial number, or will the name suffice?”

      Shock settled over her in a numbing blanket. She didn’t need him to repeat the question. The Southern lilt of his voice, the smile she heard hidden in the words. There was no one else it could possibly be. He looked odd in civilian clothes, and the flicker of uncertainty on his face was definitely out of place.

      She took the hand he offered and got to her feet, legs gone suddenly shaky. He pulled her up and close to him, one hand grasping hers tightly and the other cradling her shoulder with the gentlest of touches. For a moment she could not summon the strength to balance on her own and she pressed close, her heart swimming with a tide of memory that threatened to drown her. “Thank you.”

      Something in her voice must have sounded familiar enough. He lowered the light to play it across her face, and in doing so illuminated his own, the planes of his cheeks and forehead and the look of complete shock that materialized on his face. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

      She heaved in a breath and stood up as straight as she could manage. “Do you want my rank and serial number? Or will the name suffice?”

      * * *

      Trey was not a man comfortable with conversation, and in that moment, words failed him utterly. He stared at Sage in disbelief. Her heart-shaped face, dusty though it was, those blue eyes, were unmistakable. He felt like turning on his heel and marching away to give himself time to think. Instead he forced out a glib remark. “Well, ma’am, this is better than the last place we met.”

      It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression grew distant and shuttered. He stumbled on. “Are you hurt? I heard a crash.”

      She waved a hand. “Part of the balcony fell. I’m not hurt. Just dirty.”

      “Why are you here in this old relic?”

      She hesitated and he got the sense she was weighing how much of the truth to give him. “Taking pictures for my cousin Barbara. Her husband owns this theater.”

      Trey shook his head in disbelief. “Mr. Long hired me, but I didn’t realize his wife was your cousin.”

      “So you haven’t seen her recently?” There was something akin to hope shining in her face as she spoke the question.

      “No.”

      The emotion seemed to drain from Sage and her shoulders slumped. He wondered what he’d said, or hadn’t said.

      She gave him a hard stare. “Was there... Did you see anyone else here?”

      Odd question. “No one. Why?”

      “I thought...” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve been watching too much TV or something. I’m sure it was just my imagination.”

      He looked her over and noted the latent fear circling under her calm expression. He decided on an oblique approach. “Kinda late in the day to be taking pictures.”

      She eyed him with that gleam of determination and shrewdness that always saw right through any smoke screen he’d ever tried to float by her. “Late for you, too. And late for the painter. Her name is Antonia, and I happen to know she’s inside the Imperial now. So what’s your reason for being here?”

      Wally scampered up the stairs, his whip