At precisely six-twenty, the small Motorola two-way radio clipped to Benjamin’s belt crackled to life, breaking the low, rhythmic rumble of the air-handling units overhead. “Waste pickup needed on forty,” a clipped, feminine voice announced through the static—one of the catering coordinators managing the temporary staging areas near the ballroom. Benjamin paused, looking down at his cart, which was currently only half full of shredded paper and cardboard packaging from the basement offices. He reached down, keyed the side of his radio, and spoke in a deep, steady baritone. “Copy that. On my way.” He loaded several fresh, heavy-duty black trash bags onto the lower rack of his cart, wheeled it toward the freight elevator bank, and swiped his master access card against the digital reader. The heavy steel doors slid open with a smooth, oiled whisper, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the fortieth floor. The ascent was swift and silent, the modern hydraulic system lifting him through the guts of the tower with barely a sensation of movement save for a slight pressure in his inner ears. When the heavy metal doors parted on the fortieth floor, the first thing that hit him was not the smell of cleaning supplies or cold concrete, but a rich, complex wave of sensory data: the heavy, cloying scent of expensive French perfume, the sharp aroma of roasted prime rib and baked brie, and, above all, the vibrant, swelling strains of the string quartet echoing from down the hallway.
Benjamin paused for a fraction of a second, his hands resting lightly on the push-bar of his cart. Through the heavy, wire-reinforced glass window of the service door that separated the back-of-house corridors from the grand ballroom, he could see a sliver of the festivities. Hundreds of wealthy, well-dressed people were mingling beneath the colossal crystal chandeliers, their laughter and animated chatter rising in a steady, glittering crescendo. A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of Benjamin’s mouth—a quiet, fleeting expression that held neither bitterness nor envy, but rather the detached amusement of a man watching a play from behind the dusty curtains of the back-stage. He turned his eyes away, shook his head slightly, and pushed his cart forward into the service corridor. He had no personal interest in the party, the champagne, or the high-society posturing; he was simply there to do a job, maintain the cleanliness of the perimeter, and ensure the building ran smoothly while the city’s upper crust patted themselves on the back for charity. As he steered his cart past the primary service junction near the eastern wall of the ballroom, his eyes caught something hanging on the wall just inside a recessed alcove where the management kept its commemorative historical displays. It was a large, heavy-framed black-and-white photograph mounted beneath non-glare museum glass, commemorating the structural milestones of Pinnacle Tower’s construction era.
Benjamin stopped his cart entirely. He stepped closer to the wall, his boots making no sound on the commercial-grade industrial carpeting. The photograph had been taken in the autumn of 1989, nearly four decades ago. It captured a group of young, rugged men standing proudly at a raw, unfinished construction site on the forty-second floor, surrounded by naked steel I-beams, tangled orange extension cords, and towering stacks of drywall. The skeletal frame of downtown Chicago rose up behind them in the hazy distance, a city of smoke stacks and ironworkers laying the foundations for the modern financial age. Right near the center of the group stood a younger version of Benjamin himself. He was twenty-nine years old back then. His shoulders were impossibly broad, encased in a heavy canvas work jacket covered in chalk dust and weld splatter; his dark hair was thick and untamed, swept back from his face; and his mouth was curved into a sharp, confident, fearless smile that looked as though it could stare down a hurricane and win. He had been the lead structural project manager for Pinnacle Tower back then—the man who had personally overseen the pouring of the core concrete foundations, the tension-testing of every primary steel cable, and the engineering marvels that allowed the skyscraper to withstand the punishing winds roaring off Lake Michigan. Benjamin stared at the young face in the photograph for a long, silent moment, tracing the contours of his own long-lost youth with his eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate blink, he stepped back, gripped the handle of his cart, and continued walking down the corridor. Nobody noticed him; nobody ever looked at the old construction photos anyway.