More Twisted

secretarial school. It was a ghost town at night. Violent crime had increased in the past couple of yearsand Sandra hated driving to the area alone in the evenings to meet Ron after work.
    But even though NeDo was starting to catch on, the move didn’t work out financially for his company the way Ron had hoped. It seemed that a number of his clients preferred the old neighborhood (which offered uncongested streets, ample parking and restaurants that weren’t noisy and pretentious). He’d lost a half-dozen clients, and though he’d picked up a few new ones he was still hurting from the dip in business and the cost of the move, which had been more than he’d figured on.
    The money was a problem, especially to Sandra. She was more ambitious—and had more expensive tastes—than her husband, and their income had taken a hit when she’d been laid off from her job as an engineer with an energy company six months ago. He knew she would’ve liked him to get a steady job with a big ad agency, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Ron Badgett had always been open with his wife about the fact that he had other goals than amassing money. “I have to work for myself. You know, I need to follow my creative spirit.” He’d grinned ruefully. “I know that sounds stupid. But I can’t help it. I have to be true to myself.”
    Ultimately, he believed, Sandra understood this and supported him. Besides, he loved being in NeDo and had no desire to move.
    As the Badgetts now followed the speeding police car, these thoughts about the neighborhood and their fiscal situation, and personalities, however, were far from his mind; all he could think of was Tonya Gilbert, Tunnel Girl, lying beneath the collapsed building.
    Ahead of them they saw the bustle of the drama: scores of emergency workers, fire trucks, police cars, onlookers kept back by yellow police tape. The press too, of course, a half-dozen vans with their station logos on the sides and crowned with satellite dishes pointed skyward.
    Ron skidded to a stop in front of his building—under a prominent No Parking sign—and, with Sandra, jumped out. They followed the detective to the front door of RB Graphic Design, where several somber police and fire officials stood. They were big men, and solid women, some wearing jumpsuits and belts encrusted with rescue equipment, some in business suits or uniforms.
    One of them, a white-haired man in a navy-blue uniform that had ribbons and badges on the chest, shook the Badgetts’ hands as Perillo introduced them. “I’m Fire Chief Knoblock. Sure appreciate you coming down to help us out. We’ve got ourselves some situation here.”
    “My Lord, she’s underneath all of that?” Sandra asked, staring through the alley beside Ron’s building at a huge pile of rubble. The remaining walls of the building hovered precariously above gaping holes in the ground. They seemed ready to tumble down at any minute. A cloud of dust from the recent collapse hung in the air like gray fog.
    “’Fraid so.” The chief continued, “She’s down about twenty-five, thirty feet in a section of an old tunnel they used to make deliveries in when these were working factories and warehouses. Miracle she’s alive.” The tall man, with perfect posture, shook his head. “All to save a couple blocks’ walk.”
    “They should’ve had warning signs up, or something,” Ron said.
    “Probably did,” the chief responded. “I’d guess she just ignored ’em. You know kids,” Knoblock added with the air of a man who’d seen a lot of tragedy caused by teenage foolishness.
    “Why did it collapse?” Ron asked.
    “Nobody quite knows. The inspectors said a lot of the support beams were rotting but they didn’t think it was in danger of coming down anytime soon, otherwise they would’ve fenced it off.”
    “Well, come on inside,” Ron said. He opened the door and led Knoblock and the others into the building, then down into the basement. The developer hadn’t spent much time renovating this part of the building and it was musty and dimly lit, but clean, thanks to Sandra’s hard work during the move.
    Detective Perillo asked, “One thing I was thinking, Chief. Did she have a cell phone? Maybe you could call her. She could tell you how bad she’s hurt or maybe something about how we could get to her.”
    “Oh, she’s got a phone,” the chief said. “We checked the records. She made a couple of calls last night as she was leaving school—just