Live To Tell Part 41

His mouth formed a soundless Oh. It made me feel better about things. But then Greg narrowed his gaze, studying me intently.

"Think you'll really be saner?" he asked. "Think the dust really will have settled?"

"Hope so."

"Why don't you let go, Danielle? It's been decades for you and, speaking strictly as a friend, each anniversary you get worse, not better. Is it that you ask too many questions, or not enough?"

"I don't know. Maybe ..." I sighed. The nanny detective still seemed preoccupied. What the h.e.l.l. I bent my head closer to Greg's and whispered: "For the longest time, I didn't ask any questions. I was angry and content to stay that way. But this time around ... I've starting thinking about that night. Remembering. I was the one who brought my father's gun to my parents' room. I was fed up. My dad was ... doing things. I wanted it to stop. My mother forced me to give her the gun. She said she'd take care of things. She promised me.

"Next thing I remember is my father standing in the doorway, blowing out his brains. I always thought it was my fault. I had confessed to my mother. She had confronted my father. He had gone berserk. Had to be my fault, right? But now ... I don't know. My aunt says there were problems in the marriage, things that had nothing to do with me. And I'd swear the clock read ten twenty-three when I left my parents' room. The police didn't arrive until one a.m. That's two and a half hours later. What happened? My parents fought? My mother confessed to an affair, tried to kick him out? Two and a half hours is a long time. Two and half hours ..."

I shook my head, confused. "I always thought the central question of my life was whether my father spared me because he loved me that much, or because he hated me that much. Now I wonder if my entire life doesn't boil down to two and a half hours when I was hiding under the covers of my bed."

"Danielle-" Greg began.

"Remember the deal: no pity."

"And dinner in two weeks."

"Yeah, dinner in two weeks. No roommates."

He grinned. It eased the tightness in my chest, made me want to touch the bruise I'd left on his jaw.

"I'm not good girlfriend material," I reminded him. I heard the edge in my voice. "I'm gonna try. It's time to forgive. Time to forget. But this is new territory for me. I'm better at being angry."

"Danielle-"

"My family's dead. I'm still alive. I need start doing something with that."

"Are you done?"

"Okay."

"Danielle, how long have we known each other?"

"Years."

"Five, to be exact. I've only been asking you out for the past two. You can be angry, Danielle. It's nothing I haven't seen. And you can be sad, because it's nothing I won't understand. And if you want to learn to forgive and forget, I'm happy to help with that, too. Maybe I'll even learn something along the way. But you don't have to change, Danielle. Not for me."

"You're a brave man."

He smiled. "Nah, but I'm solid. Just am. And solid's not glamorous and it's not for every girl. But I'm hoping it will be enough for you."

"I've never done solid. For me, solid will be glamorous."

"So two weeks-" Greg began, then stopped. He sat up, sniffed the air. "Do you smell smoke?"

I paused, sniffed. At first, I smelled only cheese and pepperoni, but then ... "Yeah, I do."

Suddenly, the smoke alarm split the air. I covered my ears, pus.h.i.+ng back the chair.

Greg was already climbing to his feet, the detective, as well.

"You two, stay put-" the detective began.

Greg cut him off. "Not a chance. After that episode earlier this evening, most of these kids are heavily medicated. They're not walking out of here. We'll have to carry them."

Greg headed for the door, placing his hand against it. "Cool to the touch," he reported. He flung it open. Tendrils of smoke were wafting down the hall and we could hear the rapid patter of running feet.

Definitely not a drill. Greg and I looked at the cop. The cop looked back at us.

"First kid you see," I informed the detective, "grab him or her and get down the stairs. Fourteen kids to go, and we'll be right behind you."

We got to work.

Karen led the charge. We found her positioned before the ward's front doors, checklist in hand, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses askew on the tip of her nose. I still couldn't see the cause of the smoke or feel any heat, but the hallway was noticeably hazy, smoke curling around Karen's feet as she read off each child's name in a firm, tight voice.

Ed stood nearby, preparing to take the first group of kids, a groggy trio Cecille was herding down the hall. She had them walking single file, their hand on the shoulder of the child in front of them, just as we'd practiced. The kids, still wearing pajamas, stumbled along, too tired to do anything other than what they were told.

Then a door flew open, and Jorge and Benny bolted out. They charged into the trio, knocking Aimee to the floor before leaping onto the sofas, hands clasped over their ears, each boy screeching louder than the alarm itself.

"You," Karen ordered Greg. "Round up Benny and Jorge. And you," she glanced at me, "you'll take-"

"Evan," Greg interrupted. "The new kid. We gave him a double dose of Ativan just two hours ago. Kid's zonked out of his head."

"All right." Karen marked Evan's name, turned back to me. "You get Evan. You"-she pointed at Greg-"you're still on monkey duty."

Greg headed for the leaping Benny and Jorge. I raced down the hall.

I pa.s.sed by two open doors, small faces with large eyes peering out at me. I wanted to grab each child, carry them personally to safety. Not gonna work. Had to stick to the plan.

"Single file, into the hall. Ed will come get you," I told them, keeping on mission.

The smoke was thicker at the end of the hall, making my eyes sting. I started coughing, holding one hand over my mouth as I entered Evan's room. Despite the noise, the boy was pa.s.sed out cold, curled up in a ball, with a blanket over his head.

I grabbed his shoulder, shook him, hard. Nothing.

The smoke made me cough again. I yanked off the blanket, lightly slapping Evan's cheeks. Still nothing.

More smoke. My eyes burning. My chest, getting tight.

f.u.c.k it. I dug my hand under his shoulders and propped him into a sitting position. Evan's head rolled back against my arm, his mouth slack-jawed. I braced my legs, counted to three, then heaved him up, like an overgrown baby.

I staggered back, gritting my teeth. Right before I toppled, I found my balance, getting my legs beneath me as I s.h.i.+fted Evan's deadweight in my arms. The boy wasn't too heavy but a long, awkward shape, with his scrawny limbs flopping about.

Coughing harder, I put one arm around Evan's shoulders, the other around his hips, then stumbled into the hall.

The hall was growing darker, harder to see, harder to breathe.

I tripped, almost going down. At the last instant, I caught Evan by the waist of his pajamas, and forged ahead. Vacant rooms loomed on either side of me. One, two, three, four, five.

The team had done their job. I pa.s.sed the common area and arrived in front of Karen.

"Evan," she triumphantly checked off. "That's a wrap. Into the stairwell, Danielle. I'll bring up the rear."

The smoke alarm was still shrieking. Karen held open the door for me. The lobby area was clear of smoke, allowing me to draw a deeper breath as I made my way toward the emergency exit. Evan felt heavier now. My arms burned. Lower back, too. I needed to hit the gym. Lift weights. Something.

I got the fire door open. One flight at a time. Help awaited at the bottom of the stairs.

I rounded the seventh-floor landing with my shoulder leaning against the wall for support. Above me, I heard the fire door clang shut: Karen, beginning her own descent.

Eight-year-olds are heavy. Seventh floor down. Then the sixth. One foot, then the other.

I made it to the third-floor landing, paused to catch my breath, then the door burst open. I blinked against the sudden infusion of light.

Andrew Lightfoot strode into the stairwell.

"Perfect," he said. "And you brought Evan. Makes my life even easier."

"Andrew? Shouldn't you be recovering-"

I never finished. Andrew stepped forward, two slender black wires flew through the air, and I felt a zap wallop my chest.

Evan dropped to the floor. I was right behind him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

By the time the fire engines roared up to the front entrance of the Kirkland Medical Center, D.D. and Alex had already spent fifteen minutes fighting their way through the growing throng of overworked staff and confused patients. There were nurses directing wheelchairs with attached oxygen tanks, interns guiding hospital beds bearing patients, and security guards trying to keep the exits clear. Gla.s.s doors opened. People poured out. Firefighters rushed in. Alarms continued to shriek.

The whole episode had D.D. troubled. First Andrew Lightfoot was poisoned. Then, according to one frazzled nurse, he hopped off the gurney and walked out of the emergency room. An hour later, the smoke alarms sounded, and now the entire hospital was being evacuated.

What were the odds?

Standing in the parking lot, peering up at the seven-story building with her hands clasped over her ears, D.D. couldn't make out any sign of flames. Smoke, however, drifted up from rooftop vents. A fire in the walls? Electrical issues?

She turned to Alex. "Real or fake?" she asked him above the din.

"Smoke seems real enough."

"And where there's smoke ..." Screw it, it felt wrong. D.D. went in search of a fireman.

First one she spotted was standing next to the fire engine, chattering on his walkie-talkie. He didn't look happy to be interrupted by a civilian, but responded to her detective's s.h.i.+eld.

"What's the situation?" she asked, shouting to be heard.

"Reports of smoke on the eighth floor. Seems to be coming from the ventilation system."

"Fire?" she asked.

"No heat," the fireman said with a frown. "Generally means we got a sleeper fire somewhere in the walls. Gotta watch how we vent, or we can create one h.e.l.luva backdraft. Crew is climbing all over the building now, still can't find the source."

"Mechanical room?"

"Working on accessing."

"Thanks. Keep us posted."

D.D. turned away from the fireman, went back to Alex. "My Spidey-sense is tingly," she muttered.

"Mine, too."

"Cops do know woo-woo. f.u.c.king Lightfoot. It's about the psych ward. He rigged something, did something to force the evacuation. Question is, why, and did he get what he wanted?"

"Where are the kids?" Alex asked, peering around the crowded parking lot. Bedridden patients, standing patients, and wheelchair-bound patients. No kids.

A nurse raced by. D.D. grabbed the man's arm, forcing him to pause.

"Hey, Boston PD!" she yelled. "I need to know: the kids on the eighth-floor a.s.sessment unit. Where do they exit for one of these drills?"

The nurse blinked at D.D., obviously caught between multiple tasks. Then he pointed to the side of the ma.s.sive building, his words rushed as he bolted for his next patient. "They evacuate over there, the playground." He raced off.

She and Alex hustled their way through the dense crowd to the other side of the building.

"It's Lightfoot," D.D. muttered, hands back over her ears. "I know it. But why him? And how?"

"We need his name," Alex said. "That's the problem. We don't even know who the h.e.l.l he is."

"Someone does."

"Gym Coach Greg," Alex said.

"Actually, I was thinking Danielle."

When D.D. and Alex made it around the building to a gra.s.sy clearing, they discovered fourteen huddled children and seven frayed adults. The noise from the fire alarms was quieter here. The noise from the howling children louder. D.D. headed for the nurse manager, Karen, but Greg got to them first.

"Where's Danielle?" he demanded, his face tight.

"Funny, that's what we were going to ask you."

"Karen sent her to get Evan. I haven't seen her since."