Angel Food and Devil Dogs (6 page)

In the next moment Connie Robinson leapt over her desk to help me. Georgia was no longer on fire but she was screaming in agony. Her legs were hideously black. I couldn't tell what parts were skin, but I could smell the intermingling odors of smoking plastic and burnt flesh. In the few seconds of flame, some of Georgia's synthetic no-iron clothing had melted onto her body. Thank the long dead Persian carpet makers that their rug was silk and not polyester too.

The fire alarm was blaring. I jumped up and looked around. Smoke was billowing into the reception area from the conference room. The crackling sound of burning became a roar.

Daniel Cohen was using a fire extinguisher at the entrance of the conference room. In a second he was joined by Max Bouchet who had his office extinguisher. The room was filling with an acrid black fog. The synthetic fibers in everything from the drop ceilings to the last-forever-wall-to-wall were giving off a horrible choking stench. Flaming globs of molten acoustical tile were falling from the ceiling like buckets of burning mud. Wherever they landed, the carpeting burst into flame.

There were pools of fire all around the room, mostly at the far end. And then I saw Bart Edgar's body on the floor partly under the distant end of the oval table.

I could see through the dark smoke that much of the floor area around the table was burning. At that instant a glob of ceiling tile fell to the floor inches from Bart's body igniting the carpet next to him. Cohen and Bouchet had managed to put out the fire nearest the door, but the area around Bart was too far for their extinguishers to reach.

Miranda Juarez was running from her office carrying another small extinguisher. Connie Robinson had produced a bucket of ice from somewhere and was sliding it on Georgia's legs while trying to pull her toward the stairs. The electrical system failed, the lights went out, but emergency lighting blinked on in seconds.

I grabbed the small extinguisher from Miranda and pulled the release in the handle to activate it. I yelled, "Get out!" at Miranda who turned toward the stairs. Skylar Carvelle peeped out of the men's room. Without hesitation Miranda grabbed him and pulled him toward the exit.

I pushed my way between Cohen and Bouchet and threw myself through the doorway under the table. It was the only area not in flame. I commando crawled under the table keeping my nose to the floor where the freshest air was supposed to be. As it was, the air was a terrible mass of stinking roiling smoke and scorching heat. I held my breath.

I reached Bart and sprayed him with the extinguisher. I grabbed his collar and dragged him the rest of the way under the table, dodging a piece of flaming ceiling tile as it fell on his shoes. I sprayed him again with the extinguisher putting the tile out. He still wasn't moving.

I dragged him most of the way to the door by crawling backward and pulling his arms. My lungs felt about to burst and my eyes stung. Bouchet crawled up beside me as Cohen covered him with his extinguisher. A glob of molten ceiling tile hit my shoe, bounced, and set the hem of my jeans on fire. Cohen bent down and put me out with his extinguisher. Then he crawled forward to help us.

Just as Bouchet, Cohen, and I got Bart to the edge of the table near the door, the sprinkler system went off. The flames died down in seconds and the air quality cleared a tiny bit. We dragged Bart out and Cohen slammed the door to the room. Spray from the ceiling system and my own stinging tears ran soot into my eyes and made me shake my head like a Labrador retriever.

I rolled Bart flat on his back and leaned my ear to his mouth. "He's not breathing," I shouted. I heard Daniel Cohen yelling... then a deafening crash of shattering glass. Fighting off the urge to cough, I pulled Bart's chin down, pinched his nose, and blew with all my might into his mouth. Daniel Cohen crawled over to compress Bart's chest. Bart took a big gasp, coughed and sputtered, then began to breathe on his own.

Fire truck sirens filled the air. There must have been dozens of them outside. I was coughing now, unable to stop. Firefighters and EMTs began to flood into the space. I rocked back out of the way so they could work on Bart. Others were helping Georgia. The next thing I knew, I was outside in a truck with an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth.

My face was hot and my hair singed, but I figured I wasn't burned or they would have rushed me to the hospital. Other ambulances were driving away. I was sure Bart and Georgia must be in them. I desperately wanted to know if they were going to be all right. All sorts of people stood around asking what happened in what sounded to me like incredibly stupid voices. Paramedics were questioning me about my condition. I let them. I answered by nodding or shaking my head.

I saw Max Bouchet. He was refusing to get in an ambulance, pushing off the EMTs. I took off the oxygen mask and stood up. The paramedics didn't want me to, but I told them I had to talk to that guy. I pointed at Bouchet.

When he saw me, he smiled. I did too. We were OK, and we were both happy about that. Bouchet's pinstriped jacket and power tie were gone, his shirt, beard and hair were thick with soot. His handmade black Gucci shoes were whitish gray with ash. I probably looked pretty bad too. I looked down and saw that my black suede mocs were in the same condition. Of course these shoes had cost me $19.50 on sale at Sears while Bouchet's had probably cost him about what I'd paid for my first car.

I pointed to the ambulance truck and said to him, "Get in, we have to talk... right now."

He scanned the chaotic scene, nodded once, and got in.

President Bouchet and I couldn't say much on the way to the ER. In the ambulance we'd been tossed around like dice in a Yahtzee cup all the way to the hospital. Luckily it was only twelve blocks.

They rushed us into separate examining areas with a curtain between us, to wait. They'd do a few tests, monitor our vitals, and a doctor would come in, take a look at us and tell us to go. Then they'd charge our insurance companies a thousand dollars each... probably more.

In the curtain-walled room on my other side was Georgia Smith, she was screaming in pain. In between screams she was refusing the painkillers. I opened the curtain and made my way around to her head, keeping out of the way of the emergency workers, I leaned and spoke evenly in her ear. "Georgia, let them give you the drugs. It will allow you to reach a different level of consciousness. That's where you need to be right now."

She heard me and it registered. She bit her lip and nodded. Her lip began to bleed. I turned to the nurse with the needle and said, "She'll take the drugs now."

Max Bouchet had frantically tried to call his wife on his cell phone, but inside the hospital he couldn't get a clear signal and they wouldn't let him go outside to make a call. It was making him a basket case. I could hear him arguing. I yanked open the curtain to his space and said, "Max, chill," like a dog command...
Rex, sit
. Bouchet's expression of anger and frustration broke like a cloud and he smiled.

I said, "By the way, from now on, after what we've been through, I'm calling you Max. You can call me Maggie. I insist. And if my insurance doesn't cover all this, I'm putting it on my expense sheet." Which reminded me that I still had Bouchet's check in my shoulder bag, but I didn't know where the hell my shoulder bag was. I didn't even want to consider what might have happened to my laptop.

"Maggie," he said simply.

"Don't tell the medical staff, but I must have passed out for a few minutes, because I don't know what happened between getting Bart Edgar out of the room and ending up outside with an oxygen mask on. Can you fill me in?" I asked quietly.

Now that he had something to do, he seemed less agitated. He took a deep breath. His voice rumbled up like he was telling a theater of people a bedtime story. "Well, let me see... yes I think you did lose it for a while. I think you held your breath for about two minutes while you were dragging Bart out and that must have made you light-headed." His rich tones were carrying all over the place. People in the waiting room could probably hear him.

I hissed insistently, "Will you keep your voice down... geez, they'll hear you!" I paused to listen but no one came in. "OK, go on, but keep it down." I made one of those palm down pushing gestures. And then put my finger to my lips, making the international symbol for
Shhhh!

We sat in two chairs, he said in a whisper loud enough to hear across a ballpark, "You were sitting on the floor breathing well, but I noticed you had a glazed look. The medics pulled you aside. One talked to you and you stood up and walked out with him. If you were
passed out
then, you did a great imitation of someone who was fine."

"What happened to Bart?"

"The EMTs took him and Georgia downstairs on stretchers. Georgia was talking, well, screaming really. Bart wasn't talking, but he was alive. They put an oxygen mask on him. I'm sure they rushed him to the burn unit... Damn, I want to call my wife... what if she hears about this on the news!" Bouchet punched his hand for emphasis.

To get him focused again I asked, "What about Daniel Cohen?

"Oh, Daniel's fine. Just dirty and tired. They may have him here to check him." Bouchet looked around as if he might be somewhere in this examining enclosure with us, but we just hadn't noticed him. Stupidly, I looked around too.

He continued, "Oh, here's something else... just seconds after the EMTs took over for you on Bart, Daniel yelled that we needed fresh air in the reception area. He picked up one of those chairs by the window. He yelled, 'Stand back!' Then threw the chair at the glass, but it just bounced off. So get this..." Bouchet was smiling shaking his head, "Connie Robinson runs in out of nowhere and grabs that marble stand that was next to her desk. The damn thing must be close to two hundred pounds. She hefts it in the air and hurls it five feet into the window. Smashing the glass completely... All our jaws dropped open." Bouchet chuckled, "Oh man, you should've seen the look on Dan Cohen's face. It went from incredulity to total admiration in one second. And before that, did you see her with the ice for Georgia? When we got outside, I asked her how she knew what to do and she yelled that she was a Girl Scout! You know, I'm gonna have to give her a raise."

Something was going on at the nurse's station. I opened the curtain. It was Miranda Juarez. In a tone of concern and relief Miranda called, "President Bouchet, are you all right? I am so glad to see you." There was genuine emotion in her voice, as she walked toward us. "And Ms. Gale..."

"Miranda, are you all right? I need to know what's happening," said Bouchet emphatically.

Miranda Juarez snapped into her efficient assistant role immediately. Her hair didn't even seem mussed. She actually took out a small steno notebook and flipped it open. "First, I want you to know that I called your wife."

"Thank God," sighed Bouchet rubbing the back of his neck in relief.

"She was on her way here when I got her. I told her you had not been seriously injured in the fire because I had seen you standing and talking with the EMTs outside. I hope it was all right to say that to her?"

"Yes, yes, I really appreciate it. Thank you so much, Miranda."

Miranda nodded and went back to looking at her notes, "The news people are outside. They want a statement, and I think you should speak because if you do not, it will be... harder for you to..." she hesitated.

"It will be harder to keep media speculation out of the story. Yes, I see," finished Bouchet.

Miranda merely nodded.

"All right, I'll speak to the press, but first I need to know if there is any information on Bart or Georgia's condition."

"Alive, but very serious. I have contacted Georgia Smith's husband Adam Smith already and he is here. I found that Bart listed Alicia Wellington as his Aunt. I contacted her, she is in Palm Springs." There was a note of surprise in Miranda's voice. She didn't bother to ask if this was the same Alicia Wellington the new library wing was named after.

"Very well, tell the TV crew I'll go on the news live, and then let me know when they want me. I need to get cleaned up and I need to speak to Ms. Gale for a minute." Miranda Juarez didn't have to be told anything twice. She left the emergency area to return to the press.

Bouchet immediately faced me and said, "What do you think? What was this?"

I said simply, "I think it's related to Carl Rasmus's death, but I don't have any idea why."

Max Bouchet said, "Well I can't say that to the press but yes, it could be. I'm doubling your bonus. Find out who did this and stop him..." then as an after thought he said, "or her?"

Miranda came back in to say the press people were ready. She had a clean suit jacket for Bouchet.
Where the heck did she get that, does she carry his clothes around in her car?

"Oh, and Ms. Gale," said Miranda, "I brought your shoulder bag." She had my brown leather bag under her other arm. She handed it to me. I could see that my laptop was in it. I could have kissed her, but I was too dirty.

Someone burst into the emergency room. It was an attractive African American woman in a business suit with a look of distress so palpable it hurt my heart. She began to say something to the desk nurse but then she saw Max Bouchet standing next to me.

"Oh, Max!" She rushed to him. They hugged and kissed for a full minute. She was so overcome she couldn't speak except to cry, "Oh, Oh."

Bouchet made consoling noises then looked into her eyes and said in a strong direct voice, "I'm all right Shanna, really." Then he said to me, "Maggie, this is my wife Shanna Allen." He turned back to Shanna and gestured at me, "Maggie's a hero."

I shook hands with her and said, "Max is too, but he has to go on TV right now so he can tell a thousand parents their kids weren't hurt."

It was the right thing to say. Shanna Allen nodded and went into the waiting area with Bouchet. Miranda followed. I heard Max talking to the press. He was in his element. He managed to convey that everything was safe and well at Irwin. Anyone watching would be completely confident that President Max Bouchet was in control. This guy should be the president of a country, I thought, he should be the President of this country.