Critical Condition (19 page)

Holding her shears at the ready, Amanda plunged through the swinging door to the cafeteria.

Only to run headlong into another guard.

 

 

THERE WAS A COMMOTION OUTSIDE THE AUDITORIUM doors. Harris and the blond guard rushed out, the guard returning a few minutes later and sending another gunman out in his stead.

“What’s happening?” Nora asked. Information was the best way to stave off panic.

“None of your concern,” the guard said. His accent was thick—not quite English or Australian—South African, maybe? “But you should know that the power will be cut off in a few minutes. Prepare your people.”

“Why cut off the power? You’re not going to find Lydia any easier in the dark, and there are patients in the ICU depending on equipment.”

He looked at her placidly. No expression, no remorse, not even a shrug of indifference.

Nora sighed in frustration. She couldn’t help the people up in the ICU, but she could help the patients and staff down here. She gathered everyone in the front of the auditorium. “I’ve just been informed that the power will be cut off in a few minutes.”

A babble of voices rose up at her announcement. She gestured for silence and got it a few moments later. “Melissa, you take three people and gather all the flashlights we have. Bring them up front here.”

“We also have a few battery-operated work lights,” Melissa said.

“Great, set them up.” Nora considered. Only a minute or two left. What else? Food, they had. Water, they were good there. The IV pumps had their batteries charged. “Jason, please gather all the blankets and distribute them. You all will need to share; patients take priority.” Another murmur of protest. “No arguments. We’re all in this together and we’ll all get through this together.”

She wished she were half as confident as she sounded.

Mark Cohen beckoned to her from where he lay on a stretcher. She joined him, bending low, and he whispered, “It’s all my fault.”

“What is?”

“I knew Harris thought Lydia was working today and I wanted to buy time to find out what he wanted, so I told him she was with a patient, had taken them for a procedure, and couldn’t be disturbed. And now—” He gestured helplessly to the people huddled in the seats in front of the stage. “Nora, whatever happens, we need to protect them.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Do you think it would help if I told Harris I lied before?”

Nora stared at the guards with their machine guns. They looked like they wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who crossed them. “No. They’ll never believe you. Besides, we’ve seen their faces—”

Pain flashed across his features. They both knew the implications of that: These men weren’t planning to leave any witnesses left behind.

“I’m so sorry.”

Nora wished she had words to comfort him. Wished she had a way out of this nightmare for all of them. Leaving Mark with Melissa, she made her way back down off the stage, trying to ignore the dread fear plummeting like a rock in her stomach.

Harris returned, this time with Tillman. He was scowling. He nodded to the South African, who pulled Nora and Jim Lazarov from the crowd and marched them to the front of the auditorium where they joined Tillman. “I’m tired of these games. One of you knows where Lydia Fiore is, I’m sure of it.”

He held his wrist up, watch facing him, counting the seconds, staring at each of them in turn. “Where is she?”

Nora couldn’t speak, even if she’d known the answer to his question. She stood, her gaze fixed on the gun and the man holding it so nonchalantly on them, and shook her head.

Harris appeared disappointed and shifted his attention to Jim. “Where is Dr. Fiore?”

Jim made a small, choking sound, sucked in his breath, and said, “I don’t know.”

His voice emerged as broken and high-pitched as a teenager’s, but Nora could have hugged him for protecting Lydia. Maybe there was hope for Jim after all. If they made it through tonight alive.

This time Harris clucked his tongue. He aimed the gun at Tillman. “Where is she?”

Tillman didn’t even pretend to be brave. He held up his hands, pleading. “I’ve told you, I don’t know where she is.”

GINA THREW HERSELF FORWARD THROUGH THE door Ken held open. Behind her she could hear the shouts of the guard, the sound of running footsteps, followed by voices of other men.

She tripped over LaRose’s feet stretched out in the wheelchair and slammed against the opposite wall. She felt ready to heave her guts out, grabbed her belly as she caught her breath.

“Get ready,” Ken said, keeping watch at the window. He moved behind LaRose’s chair, in position to push. Gina hauled in a breath and took his spot at the door.

“I used the radio to make contact with one of the surgical residents up in the ICU,” Ken whispered. “They’re trapped up there. The exits are all blocked.”

Which meant using the elevators might only draw attention from the bad guys. Or they might sneak past, make it to the eighth floor and across to the tower before anyone noticed. Either way, it was risky. But now that the bad guys knew someone was running free on the main floor, they had to leave. No choice but to stick to the original plan.

She glanced through the window in the door. The first guard had been joined by two others, who were trying without success to conquer the fire with a handheld extinguisher. Apparently the wall covering behind the brochure rack had been flammable, because flames crawled up the wall, bright orange ribbons taunting them from above. Every squirt of the extinguisher seemed to create more smoke and reveal a new area of fire. Soon it was difficult to see the men, consumed by billowing clouds of chemicals and smoke.

“Now,” Gina said, opening the door. Ken crouched low behind the wheelchair handles, putting his entire body into propelling the chair. LaRose hugged her arms to her chest, her eyes wide, lips sucked in, jaws clenched. Her usually meticulously coiffed hair had succumbed to events— Medusa’s would appear more tame—and her expression was one of anticipation and . . . exhilaration?

Surely she was mistaken? Gina had no time to think about it as she ran after them, keeping one eye on the men in the lobby while also searching for anyone coming from the direction of the auditorium. They made it to the elevator bank, where all three cars were waiting with their doors open.

Ken pushed LaRose across the threshold of the nearest one. Gina ran past to the other two elevators. These elevators had a door hold button to help with patient transport. She disengaged the hold and pushed random floor buttons on both elevators, hoping to further confuse the situation, then returned and squeezed past LaRose to man the controls of their elevator. She jammed the door close button, but nothing happened. Then she hit the button for the eighth floor. Still nothing.

The men in the lobby were shouting now—they must have found the oxygen tank and realized it was a diversion. Any second and they’d be pouring bullets into the elevators. Sweat streamed down Gina’s back, her turtleneck stuck to her like a second skin. She stabbed the buttons repeatedly, trying to force the doors closed with her will if nothing else. No way some damn button was going to get them killed.

Finally the doors surrendered and slid shut. The car began to climb upward. Gina craned her head up, hurling silent expletives, trying to make it move faster. The elevator moved as slowly as ever—maybe even slower. Gina bounced on her heels, urging it to speed up. That didn’t work either. Ken pivoted LaRose’s chair so that she faced forward. She tugged at Gina’s lab jacket until Gina tore her attention from the indicator lights and glanced down.

“Good work.” It was hard to tell, but LaRose seemed to be smiling—her lips had moved to bare half of her teeth, but the other half of her face still slumped as if overdosed on Botox. LaRose never smiled. It was undignified.

Gina didn’t know what to say—she wasn’t used to responding to praise from her parents. Ken jerked his chin at her, insisting that she say something, and she muttered, “Thanks.”

The elevator indicator showed that they were at the fourth floor. Gina’s nails dug into her palms, and she couldn’t stop her bouncing. Jerry had to be okay, he just had to be. And Lucas Stone would take care of LaRose, get her started on the TPA, and Amanda would be there, smiling just like always, and they could wait out the storm, and . . . her thoughts hit a dead end. What to do about Harris? And his threat to burn down the hospital—maybe he’d been bluffing?

Gina’s stomach dropped as if the elevator had gone into freefall. She had the awful feeling that Harris wasn’t the kind of guy who made idle threats. The indicator light for the fourth floor died. A new one came to life. Fifth floor. Almost there.

Harris’s voice came over the elevator’s intercom. “I’m tired of playing games, Dr. Fiore. If you don’t respond in the next ten seconds, someone dies. And I will begin to shoot hostages, one every five minutes until you give me what I want.”

“That’s crazy,” Ken said. “Surely he’s not serious?”

“He seemed serious enough to me when he shot those guards.”

“But you said Lydia isn’t even here—”

“Doesn’t matter. He thinks she is.”

The intercom buzzed again. “Time’s up.”

The sound of a loud crack followed by the sound of screams filled the elevator car.

AFTER SECURING THE FIRST TWO PENGUINS IN THE front of Bessie, Trey grabbed a blanket from one of the rear equipment compartments, and he and Lydia joined Zimmerman over where the other ten penguins had burrowed partway into a snow pile and were huddled together. From a distance the birds looked kind of cute—even Lydia had to admit that. And the first two she’d encountered hadn’t gone Hitchcock-crazy-mad on her. Still, she was happy to let Trey take charge of this rescue.

“Zimmerman, you get on the other side,” Trey directed, handing the truck driver two corners of the blanket. “Lydia, you stand back, watch out for any escapees.”

“Great, let the lady with one working arm chase after the rabid penguins once you get them all riled up.”

“Penguins don’t have rabies,” Zimmerman said.

“How would you know? I thought you only cleaned their cages.”

“Habitats, not cages. And it’s a known fact.” He seemed to feel better about his long-term job prospects now that they’d located the wayward birds.

“Just throw the blanket and get ready to scoop them up,” Trey said, unfolding his end of the blanket and holding it like a fishing net. “Ready? Go!”

The men flung the blanket over the birds and rushed to pin down the sides. “Be careful,” Zimmerman shouted. “Don’t hurt them.”

“They’ll be fine,” Trey assured him. “Just roll the blanket under them and we’ll bundle them in it.”

Lydia watched, unable to restrain her laughter. What she wouldn’t give for a camera—better yet, a TV crew from one of those nature reality shows. The two men were down on their knees, butts aimed up in the air as they reached their arms out, trying to corral the penguins. The penguins obviously weren’t too thrilled with the idea—disapproving honking filled the air as they hopped around under the blanket. One bird got his head out and flapped his beak as if affronted by Trey’s lack of civilized manners.

As Trey scrambled to push the bird back under the blanket, two more escaped. Lydia followed them, slipping and sliding across the snow in a mad scramble to keep them in sight.

She cornered the two wayward birds against the snowbank on the opposite side of the road. “I’ve got them,” she called to the men, who were hoisting the blanket and hauling its squirming contents toward Bessie.

One of the birds was larger than the other and decided to attack. It stopped squawking and instead opened its beak and bit her on the shin. She didn’t feel anything puncture her skin; it was more like getting her leg caught in a vise—but the damn thing wouldn’t let go.

She shook her leg gently, trying to dislodge the penguin without hurting it. No good. The two birds had obviously been plotting their escape together because while the first kept her busy, the second made a run for it.

Lydia lunged for it, but it was too fast and it skidded right past her outstretched hand. She concentrated on the big one—the one clamped onto her leg—instead. As soon as its mate escaped, it let go and tried to waddle off as well. She caught it from behind, scooping it up with her good arm and trapping it against her chest, beak pointing out. It banged its beak against her arm in the cast, which hurt a bit, but not half as much as her leg did.

Trey joined her. “I got the little one. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “The zoo owes me a new parka.” The bird in her arms had succeeded in tearing her sleeve, releasing down feathers into the wind. “Told you I don’t like birds.”

Trey just laughed as he opened Bessie’s driver’s door. Zimmerman had the other birds trapped in the passenger-side wheel well. Lydia handed him her bird, as did Trey, and then she climbed up and slid across the bench seat. She had to pull her legs up to her chest because the center console was filled with equipment charging and the radio.