Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(110)

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 glasses 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 passed 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 passed 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.

Fuck 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 shifted 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 passed 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. Glass 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.