Not so lucky with the woman beside him. She too was sick.
Phone calls:
"Yes, nine-one-one, we're trapped in an elevator and nobody's doing anything."
"We're in a car, an elevator in Monterey hospital. East Wing. We can't breathe."
Somebody shouted: "Don't both call at once! Are you fucking crazy? You'll block the circuits!"
"What, were you born in the fifties? They can handle more than--"
Then an otherworldly scream filled the car; the biker had lost control, lost it completely. Screaming, he grabbed the shoulders of the elderly woman in front of him and boosted himself up onto her.
The orderly heard a snap as the woman's clavicle broke and she screamed and fainted. The biker didn't even notice; he scrabbled forward atop the shoulders and necks and heads of the others and slammed into the elevator door, breaking nails as he tried to pull the panels open. He was screaming and sobbing. Tears and sweat flowed like water from a broken pipe.
A slim African American woman--an aide, what used to be called candy stripers, in colorful scrubs with teddy bears on them--muscled her way forward and gripped him by the leather collar. "We'll be okay. It'll be all right."
Another scream from the huge man, the sound piercing.
She was unfazed. "Are you listening? We'll be all right. Breathe slowly."
The biker's red, bearded face leaned toward hers. Close. He gripped her neck. He was looking past her and for a moment it seemed as if he'd snap bones.
"Breathe," she said.
And he started to.
"You're all right. Everybody's all right. Nothing's happened to us. We're fine. There're sprinklers. The fire department's on its way."
This calmed four or five of the passengers, but among the others panic was growing.
"Where the fuck are they?"
"Jesus, Jesus. We're going to die!"
"No no no!"
"I feel the heat, the flames. You feel that?"
"It's underneath us. It's getting hotter!"
"No, please! Somebody."
"Hey!" the woman aide said calmly. "Just, everybody chill!"
Some people did. But others were still in the grip of panic. They began pounding on the walls, screaming, ripping the hair and clothes of their fellows to get to the door. One woman, in her forties, knocked the biker aside, jammed her nails into the seam between the sliding doors and tried to muscle them open, as he had attempted. "Relax, relax," the aide said. And pulled her away.
A man screamed into the intercom, "Why aren't you answering? Why aren't they answering? Nobody's answering."
Sobbing, cries.
Someone defecated.
The orderly realized he'd bit his tongue. He tasted blood.
"The walls! They're hot. And the smoke."
"We're going to burn to death!"
The orderly looked at the doctor. He was unconscious. A heart attack? Had he fainted?
"Can't you hear us? We're stuck." No response from security.
"No, no!"
More screams.
"It's not that hot!" the biker called, now more or less calm. "I don't think the fire's that close. We're going to be okay."
The nurse said, "Listen to him! We'll be all right."
And, slowly, the panicked passengers began to calm.
Which had no effect on the orderly at all. He couldn't take the confinement for a moment longer. He suddenly felt himself consumed by a wholly new level of panic. He turned his back to the people in the car and whispered, "I'm sorry." To his wife and son.
His last words before panic became something else. A snake winding through his mouth and into his gut.
Frenzy...
Sobbing, he tore the pocket from his scrubs, wadded it into a ball and stuffed it down his own throat. Inhaling the cloth into his windpipe.
Die, please let me die... Please let this horror be over.
The suffocation was terrible, but nothing compared to the claustrophobia.
Please let me...let me...
His vision went black.
Chapter 64
Listen to me!" Kathryn Dance shouted. "Listen!"
"I've got my orders."
She was on the third floor of the East Wing of the hospital, speaking to one of the maintenance men.
"We need that door open now."
"Lady, Officer, sorry. We gotta wait for the elevator repair people. These things are dangerous. It's not gonna fall. There's no fire. I mean, there was a little one but it's out now and--"
"You don't understand. The people inside, they're going to hurt themselves. They don't know there's no fire."
She was in front of the doors to Elevator Number Two. From inside she could hear screams and thuds.
"Well, I'm not authorized."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." Dance stepped past him and grabbed a screwdriver from his tool kit, a long one.
"Hey, you can't--"
"Let her, Harry," another worker said. "It don't sound too good in there."
The screams were louder now.
"Fuck," Harry muttered. "I'll do it."
He took the screwdriver and set it down then extracted a separate tool from the bag, an elevator door key. He slipped it into the hole and a moment later was muscling aside the doors.
Dance dropped to her belly, hit by a disgusting smell wafting out of the car, vomit, sweat, feces, urine. She squinted. Security lights, mounted on the CCTV camera inside the elevator, were glaring into her face. The ceiling of the car was about eighteen inches above the hospital's linoleum floor. To Dance's surprise, the passengers were fairly calm, their attention on two of their fellows: a pregnant woman, the source of the screaming. And a man in a hospital uniform was passed out, though vertical, since the car was so packed. His face was an eerie blue.
"The fire's out! You're safe!" This was the best way to convince them to calm, she'd decided. Telling them it was a prank, much less an intentional attack, didn't seem advisable.
"He's dying!" somebody called, nodding at the man who seemed to be an orderly. One passenger suddenly snapped, stepped on a fellow occupant and boosted himself up. He lunged and grabbed Dance's collar, trying to pull himself out. Dance screamed as her head was jammed against the metal frame of the car, cutting into her cheek.
"No, listen!" she shouted.
But he wasn't listening.
"Stop!"
She herself felt the growing strains of panic grip her. She began pounding the man's hand. Useless. Her head, sideways, was partway inside now, wedged completely still. She was feeling dizzy from the fumes and the dismal air. And that unbearable feeling of being unable to move. She tasted blood, dripping from the gash into her mouth.
Jesus...
No choice.
Sorry.
Dance reared her head back, wrapped her teeth around the man's thumb and, tasting blood and tobacco, bit down hard.
He screamed--a sound lost amid the pregnant woman's wailing--and he released her.
"I'm a doctor," said a pale middle-aged passenger, who seemed very groggy. "He needs a tracheotomy. Now."
"That man!" she called, pointing to the orderly. "Get him over here."
Several of the passengers grabbed the man's collar and waist and pulled him off the floor then together they all handed him overhead, mosh pit-style. Dance gestured for two medics from Emergency to help and together they got the man out.
"We'll get him downstairs." They placed him on a gurney and sprinted away.
Michael O'Neil came running up. "Fire's out in the basement. You all right?" He frowned, looking at her face.
"Fine."
Dance glanced back into the car. Brother. She shouted over her shoulder, "How long till we can raise the car?"
"Fifteen, twenty minutes, I'd guess," the maintenance man said.
"Okay, then we need an OB-GYN here. Now."
"I'll get one," a male nurse behind her called.
Dance added, "And make it the skinniest one you've got on
staff."
Chapter 65
Dance said, "I should've thought more clearly. This unsub...he's too fucking smart."
A modifier that rarely escaped her lips.
They were in the lobby of the hospital, waiting for the Monterey County Crime Scene Unit officers to report what they'd found in the elevator motor room, the car itself and the pit in the basement.
After the Honda had started to burn in earnest and the officers had raced into the inn, Dance checked two exit doors herself--found them unencumbered and then she paused. She looked over the establishment.
"No," she'd muttered. The inn was one story and, though built into a hill, the incline was minimal. To escape, all you had to do was pitch a chair through a window and step outside, safe as long as you minded the broken glass.
Then she'd noted the smoke wafting into the woods and saw, behind that, the hospital.
She'd said to O'Neil, "I don't think it's the inn that's his target."
"What then?"
"Hospital."
He'd considered this. "A lot of exits."
She'd suggested that he might hit a closed-off interior area. "Surgical suite?"
"There wouldn't be enough people for a stampede. Good security. And--"
"Cafeteria? Waiting room." Then: "Elevator."
O'Neil'd said, "That's it."
And they'd started jogging along the quarter-mile path that led to the hospital.
Now, in the third-floor lobby by the elevator, a nurse wandered up the hall. "You're Special Agent Dance?"
"That's right."
"You wanted to know. You asked earlier? The baby's fine. A girl. Mother has a broken arm--somebody stepped on it--but she'll be okay. She asked for your name. I think she wants to thank you. Can I give it to her?"
Dance handed her a card. Wondering if the newborn was about to get a different given name than Mom and Dad had originally planned.
"And the orderly?"
"Heimlich didn't work--not with cloth stuck in the windpipe. Looks like he swallowed it himself. Attempted suicide probably. But we did a tracheotomy. He'll be okay. He's pretty shaken up. Claustrophobia's his big fear."
A doctor, a tall African American, approached. He examined her cheek. "Not too bad." He offered her an antiseptic pad. She thanked him, tore it open and pressed the cloth against her skin, wincing at the brief pain. "I'll bandage it up, you want."
"I'll see. Maybe I'll come by the ER later. Thanks."
O'Neil's phone rang. He took the call. After disconnecting he said, "Downstairs. Crime Scene's released the basement. There isn't much. But I'm going to take a look. You want to come?"
Just then her phone hummed. She glanced at it. "You go on. I'll be a minute." She answered. "Mags."
"Mom."
"Everything all right?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I finished the book report. It's five pages."
"Good. We'll go over it when I'm home."
"Mom."
Of course she'd known there was another agenda. No child calls about book reports. No hurry. Give her time.
"What, hons?"
"Mom, I was thinking?"
"Yes, wonderful child?"
"I think I'll sing at the show, you know. At school. I think I want to."
Dance gave it a moment. "Do you really want to?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why'd you change your mind?"
"I don't know. I just did."
"And this's something you really want to do?"
"Cross my heart."
Those words tend to be an indicator of deception. But the fact that she was going to sing even if she didn't want to wasn't necessarily bad. It's a positive developmental step toward adulthood to take on a challenge even if you'd rather not.
"That's great, honey. Everybody'll love to hear you. All right, good. I'm proud of you."
"I'm going to go practice now."
"Don't overdo your voice. You probably know the song backward by now. Hey, honey, is Jon there?"
"No, just Grandpa and me."
"Okay. I'll see you soon."
"Bye."
"Love you."
Where was Boling? Lost in the world of supercomputers, she guessed, still trying to crack the code of Stan Prescott's computer and the mobile that the unsub dropped in Orange County. But his not calling? That was odd.
Dance turned to see her mother walking quickly toward her.
"Katie! You're all right?" She called this before she got close. Heads turned at the urgent words.
"Sure. Fine." They hugged.
Edie Dance was a cardiac nurse here. She surveyed the elevator car. The blood, vomit, metal battered by panicked hands. The stocky woman, with short dark hair, shook her head then hugged her daughter. "How horrible," she whispered. "Somebody did this on purpose?"
"Yes."
"Are--oh, your face."
"Nothing. Got scratched a little, getting into the car."
"I can't imagine what it would be like to be trapped in there. How many people?"
"About fifteen. Pregnant woman. She'll be okay. Baby's fine. One person's pretty bad. An orderly here."
"No! Who?"
"I don't know. He tried to kill himself. He couldn't take the panic. He's okay now."
Edie Dance looked around. "Is Michael here?"
"He's meeting with his Crime Scene people. They're running scenes in the basement and next door, at the inn."
"Ah." Edie's eyes remained down the hall. "How's he doing? Haven't seen him for a while."
"Michael? Fine."
Body language skill is such a blessing...and a curse. Her mother had something to say, and Dance wondered if she was supposed to pry it out of her. That was often the case with Edie Dance.
But she didn't have to.
Her mother said, "I saw Anne O'Neil the other day."
"You did?"
"She was with the kids. At Whole Foods. Or does she go by her maiden name now?"
Dance touched her sore face. Pain was growing. "No, she kept 'O'Neil.'"
"Thought she was living in San Francisco."
"Last I heard she was."
"So Michael hasn't mentioned anything about it?"
"No. But we haven't had much of a chance for personal conversation." She nodded at the elevator. "The case and all."
"I suppose not."
Dance sometimes wondered where her mother's loyalties lay. Recently Edie had been fast to tell her that Boling appeared to be moving away--without his mentioning anything to Dance. As it turned out, he only had a business trip and was planning to take Dance and the children with him for part of it--a minivacation in Southern California. True, Edie had her daughter's and grandchildren's interests at heart but Dance thought she'd been a bit too fast to relay what turned out to be a misunderstanding.
Now she was telling Dance that the man who'd once been a potential partner might not be as divorced as he seemed to be. But Edie was not a gossip. So, Dance speculated, this would have to do with protecting her daughter's heart, as any good parent would do. Though the information was irrelevant, of course. She was Jon Boling's partner now.
Edie expected her to say something more on the topic, she sensed. But Dance chose to deflect: "Oh. Maggie's going to sing in the show after all."
"Really? Wonderful. What changed her mind?"
"I don't know."
Children were mysteries and you could go nuts trying to figure out patterns.
"Your dad and I'll be there. What time is it again?"
"Seven."
"Dinner after?"
"I think that should work."
Her mother was looking at her critically. "And, Katie, I'd really get that face taken care of."
"A lift?" Dance asked.
Mother and daughter smiled.
Her phone buzzed. Ah, at last.
"Jon, where've you been? We--"
"Is this Kathryn?" A man's voice. Not Boling's.
Her heart went cold. "Yes. Who's this?"
&n
bsp; "I'm Officer Taylor, Carmel Police. I found you on Mr. Boling's speed dial list. You're a friend, a coworker?"
"Yes. Friend. I'm Kathryn Dance. Special agent with the CBI."
A pause. Then: "Oh. Agent Dance."
"What's happened?" Dance whispered. She was deluged with an ice-cold memory--of the trooper calling her after her husband was killed.
"I'm afraid I have to tell you that Mr. Boling's been in an accident."
Chapter 66
Antioch March was back in his suite at the Cedar Hills Inn.
He'd finished the workout at the inn's luxurious health club and was enjoying a pineapple juice in his room, watching the news reports of the event at the hospital.
Not a single fatality.
Antioch March was mildly disappointed but the Get was satisfied. For the time being. Always for the time being.
Somebody's not happy...
His phone rang. Both caller and callee were on new burner phones. But he knew who it was: his boss. Christopher Jenkins ran the Hand to Heart website. He gave March his assignments to travel to nonprofit humanitarian groups, who would then sign up for the site. Jenkins also arranged for March's other jobs, which were the real moneymakers for the company.
"Hi," he said.
No names, of course.
"Just wanted to tell you, the client's extremely satisfied."
"Good." What else was there to say? March had done what he'd been contracted to do in the Monterey area. He'd also eliminated evidence and witnesses and cut all ties that could potentially link the incident to the client, who was paying Jenkins a great deal of money for March's services. The client wasn't the nicest guy in the world--in fact, he could be quite a prick--but one thing about him: He paid well and on time.
"He's sent eighty percent. It's gone through proper channels."
Bitcoin and the other weird new payment systems were clever in theory as a mechanism to pay anonymously for the sort of work that March performed but they were coming under increasing scrutiny. So Jenkins--the businessman in the operation--decided to resort to good old-fashioned cash. "Channels" meant he'd received a FedEx box containing "documents," which in a way, it did, though each document would have a picture of Benjamin Franklin on it.
Antioch March had eight safe-deposit boxes around the country, each with about a million inside.
Jenkins continued, "Wanted to tell you. Found a restaurant we have to try. Foie gras is the best. I mean, the best. And they serve the Chateau d'Yquem in Waterford. Oh, and the red wine? Petrus." A chuckle. "We had two bottles."
March didn't know the wines but he assumed they were expensive. Maybe Jenkins had even poured some for him in the past. He and Jenkins had worked together for about three years and from day one, Jenkins had treated March to fancy dinners like the one he was describing now. They were okay. But the elaborate meals didn't really move March, in the same way the Vuitton and the Coach and the Italian suits didn't. He accepted the gifts but was forever surprised that Jenkins didn't even note March's indifference. Or maybe he did but didn't care. Just like March's apathy at certain other times in his connection with Jenkins.