Hand of Fate (5 page)

They were in a typical office space, fuzzy, blue, head-high walls making a warren of cubes. Mrs. Lofland leaned against one of them. Her face was pale. "Don't we need to evacuate?"

"I don't think we would survive if we kept trying to go down." Nic's thoughts whirled. Going--staying--which choice was right? And which choice could kill them?

The old lady's blue eyes were shrewd. "You mean you don't think I would survive."

"There's that," Nic admitted. "But those people might be right. There might be poisonous gas outside. If it's the type of gas I think it is, we're better off not being close to the ground--the gas is heavier than air." As she spoke, she pulled out her BlackBerry.

Leif had sent her another message, but she must have been too distracted to notice it. It said: WHERE R U?

Her thumbs flew over the tiny keyboard. 7 FLR. 2 CROWDED 2 LV.

A second later, she had his response. COMING 4 U.

When she looked back up from the tiny screen, Mrs. Lofland was staring up at the ceiling. More specifically, at the square air vents set in the acoustical tile. "But doesn't the building bring in air from outside?" she asked.

"Yes," Nic said, unholstering her Glock. "Which is why I am going to do this."

Chapter
7

Downtown Portlan
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Cassidy's IFB, the earpiece that had been specially molded for her ear, Eric's voice said, "You're on!" She and Andy were standing on a sidewalk, two islands in the middle of a swift-running stream of people.

Cassidy took a deep breath. In the back of her mind, she monitored how the air tasted, how it smelled, and registered nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. At the same time she said in measured tones, "This is Cassidy Shaw, reporting live for Channel 4 from downtown Portland. The scene here this morning is one of panic."

In any disaster, the media served as a conduit for information. You told victims what to do, you provided facts to the general public, and you informed everyone about what was needed and how they should respond.

And of course, ratings would never be higher--which would make the suits happy. Even if commercials had to be temporarily suspended.

Cassidy concentrated on speaking as smoothly as if she were seated behind the anchor's desk instead of watching an entire city melt down around her. On 9/11, people 'had turned to their TVs for reassurance, listened to Mike Wallace calmly explain what was known and what was not, watched Peter Jennings, his sleeves rolled up an
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is demeanor unflappable, as he did his best to inform them for hour after endless hour. Cassidy could do no less, no matter that people were tearing past her, running in a blind panic, sirens shrieking all around them.

As a reporter, you had to put up a wall between yourself and the situation. You noted who, what, when, where, why, and how--but at the same time you kept your distance from it, the way a doctor could joke in the emergency room even as the blood of a dying man soaked his scrubs. Cassidy's job was to make sure that the information she gave out was at least of some help to a terrified city.

"We are hearing that KNWS on Salmon Street is the epicenter of the event. There are reports that some kind of gas leak or possibly a deliberate release of poisonous gas occurred there, and we have unconfirmed reports of at least one fatality. People in the downtown core are complaining of dizziness, shortness of breath, and nausea. As you can see on your screen, the ambulance crews and firefighters are working as fast and furiously as they can, trying to get to these people and put them on stretchers and get them to the hospital. It is really a chaotic situation. People are frantically trying to find friends and coworkers."

The images around her were sharp and indelible, but at the same time everything was a blur. Cassidy was working on instinct, trusting her thoughts to organize themselves as she opened her mouth and let the words pour forth.

"Just from where I stand, I can see five ambulances, as well as innumerable fire trucks and police cars. Sirens are wailing, and people are running out in the street, which is completely gridlocked as everyone tries to follow the mayor's earlier order to evacuate downtown. Folks are leaving their purses and their personal belongings behind, just clearing out of the buildings and getting away from the area as fast as they can. Some people are crying, some screaming in panic, some madl
y d
ialing cell phones that are no longer working. Some people are coughing, gagging, and stumbling in a daze, but with no evident injuries."

Brad's voice broke in, higher pitched than normal. Viewers might attribute it to excitement, but Cassidy knew it for what it was: fear.

"Cassidy, are you sure it's safe for you and your cameraman to be there?"

She made a show of taking another long breath, even though deep down, part of it was not for show. Still, no alarm bells went off in her brain as she inhaled. The air smelled familiar, if not exactly fresh. "So far, so good. Even so, we still must advise everyone to stay away from downtown. All the major egress routes are jammed." Cassidy was secretly pleased that she could summon up the word egress when part of her was screaming that she should just turn tail and get out of there.

Brad said, "Is there any way of knowing if this is a terrorist attack, Cassidy?"

"It could be, Brad. We just don't know. It could be an isolated incident. It could even be some kind of accident. The exact nature of what has happened we're not clear about at the moment. Right now, the police and other emergency personnel are focusing on getting people to safety."

Cassidy saw someone running toward them, dodging cars. A policeman. Andy watched Cassidy's head swivel to the left, and he swung his camera, guessing it was worth the shot.

"You can't be here!" the cop yelled. He was young, his face red and sweaty despite the cold.

Cassidy pulled herself up to her full height, wishing she were still wearing her four-inch heels instead of Jim's Nikes. "We have to be here," she told him in a voice that brooked no arguments. "This is history. We are keeping hundreds of thousands of people informed."

The policeman stared at them for a moment, considering. "Okay;' he said and left--again on the run.

Andy gave Cassidy a nod, and she knew that she had earned his respect.

Even though the adrenaline was pumping into her veins at full force, Cassidy made herself continue to speak slowly and clearly. "We want to tell our viewers some things not to do. We'll see if we can put these up on your screen.

"First of all, stay away from downtown. If you are on 1-5 headed north or south, I'd recommend taking 1-205 and bypassing downtown entirely. Traffic is being allowed to travel in some outbound lanes on 1-5, 1-405, and surface streets. Some people are simply abandoning their cars in the middle of the road, making an already nightmarish traffic situation worse.

"In addition to the streets being gridlocked, cell phone traffic is jammed and landlines are overloaded. If it's not an absolute emergency, please stay off the lines."

Eric had passed some of the information that Cassidy relayed along to her; some came from Andy's sources.

"We are hearing that the hospitals have been overrun with people who have been exposed to whatever this is. There are also injuries from trampling and fender benders as people are fleeing the area. If you are a doctor or a nurse, you should report to the nearest hospital. We will keep you updated with further reports as we get them. This is Cassidy Shaw, reporting live from downtown Portland."

Cassidy let her shoulders droop. She knew they would be back on in a minute or two, that she would need to keep broadcasting until they were forced to leave or this thing sorted itself out. In a second, she might look around for someone to interview, but for now, she just let the chaos wash over her. She realized she was trembling. A bloc
k a
way, she saw a man pushing his way through the crowd, fighting upstream. The only reason she picked him out was because he was well over six feet tall and seemed to be all muscle. The build and the red-gold hair were familiar--it was Leif Larson, the FBI agent, and her friend Nicole's . . . question mark. Boyfriend, friend, friend with benefits? Cassidy didn't know.

Right now he looked like a man on a mission, every inch the Viking warrior.

Chapter
8

Mark 0. Hatfield United States Courthouse

Why do you need a gun?" Mrs. Lofland asked in a calm voice. Nothing so far today had seemed to fluster her--not being questioned by a judge, not being forced to evacuate, not even seeing a gun in Nic's hand.

"Here's our problem. There could be poisonous gas at ground level, because it's heavier than air. But if we stay here, then as the building's air system sucks in fresh air from ground level, it will spew it right back out at us. So we're probably not safe here either. I'm thinking if we could break out a window, we could bring in fresh air that's not contaminated."

Nic walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down. The sidewalk was full of panicked people. Bile rose in her throat when she saw that a few were prone or on their hands and knees, already overcome. Were these the same people who had been on the stairway a few minutes earlier?

She focused on the glass itself. Now that she was away from the chaos, away from the immediate danger of being trampled, her thinking felt slow and muddy. Finally she holstered her gun.

"I can't do it. It's against Bureau policy to fire at anything but an armed suspect who presents an immediate threat. And it's also agains
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y better judgment. The streets out there are just too crowded. The window would deflect the trajectory of the bullet, so it's hard to predict where it would end up. I can't take the chance of injuring someone else." She rapped on the glass. It made a heavy, hollow sound. "This glass is so thick anyway--I'm thinking the chances are good we'd only end up with a little round hole to show for putting other people at risk."

Going back on a floor had seemed like such a good idea, but now Nic could see it was worthless. "If only there was a way to get fresh air in here without hurting someone else." She spun around and looked at the desks behind her. Staplers, telephones, tape dispensers, computers. What she needed was something heavy and pointed. "Maybe we could use something else to break the window. If we started in a corner and compromised the integrity, we might be able to work out from there." She pressed her cheek against the cool glass. Could the resulting shards be fatal to a pedestrian or first responder below? From seven stories up, it seemed possible. A wave of despair swamped her. They couldn't get out, but staying in might be just as bad.

Mrs. Lofland's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Maybe you're looking at this the wrong way, dear."

"What do you mean?" Nic felt an irrational surge of hope. "Maybe what's needed is not to get the good air in but to keep the bad air out."

In a flash, she saw what the older woman meant. "We could try to find the thermostat, see if that would shut down the air, or at least slow it down. And put something over the vents."

Mrs. Lofland nodded. "The plastic bags in the wastebaskets. We could use them."

Nic looked around. Under every desk, a wastebasket. "Yes. See i
f y
ou can find scissors and any tape heavier than Scotch tape. I'll look for the thermostat."

She found it around the corner. Ignoring the handwritten DON'T ToucH! note stuck underneath it, Nic thumbed it to OFF. Would turning off the heat also turn off the fresh air? She had no idea.

On the other side of the space was a small conference room. It was eerie to push open the door and see the papers in front of every seat, the plate of doughnuts, the abandoned cups of coffee, the half-eaten pastries sitting on napkins. Then she looked up. Just two vents. And both of them conveniently located directly above the table.

Nic thought of all the other people crowded into the stairwell. Was she letting them rush toward their deaths? Should she go back out there and try to persuade them to join her? But there was no guarantee that getting back in the building might save them. This scheme of hers was untried, unproven. And the room was too small to hold anyone else and still provide enough air for any length of time.

Nic hurried back and saw that Mrs. Lofland had found a roll of duct tape as well as a pair of scissors. Back in the conference room, Nic stood on the table and taped a double layer of wastebasket liners across each vent. Then she took off her jacket and stuffed it and some of the paper napkins in the crack under the door.

Mrs. Lofland was sitting with her eyes closed and her hand pressed against her chest. Her breathing sounded soft and fast.

"Are you all right?" Nic asked. "Should you put your feet up?" Mrs. Lofland's skin was pale, but when her eyes opened, they were as sharp as ever. "It will be okay, dear."

By the time she closed her eyes again, Nic realized this wasn't really an answer. And that she wasn't likely to get one.

Nic tried to slow her own breathing, her eyes lingering on the woman's serene face. Was it just a simpleminded refusal to face th
e f
acts, or was it a gift that Mrs. Lofland could be so calm in the midst of chaos? She surprised herself by asking, "Are you praying again?"