Critical Condition

by CJ Lyons

  “You wouldn’t have been able to save everyone.” She kissed him on the forehead.

  “You need to go. Now.” She stood. He looked so much smaller than before, huddled on the floor. And yet . . . He raised his face to meet her gaze. “Promise me. You’ll remember.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Tears choked her vision and strangled her words. All she could do was nod and blindly rush out the door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  LYDIA MOVED IN FRONT OF TREY, PUTTING HERSELF between him and the gun.

  “Shut up and do as you’re told,” Black snapped at his partner. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to start shooting people.”

  Smith grinned, then aimed his glare at Lydia again as more blood dripped from his nose.

  “You really don’t know who I am, do you?” Black asked Lydia.

  She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she let Trey hold her against him on the couch, trying to block out the pain in her arm. She hadn’t broken her cast, but the bones inside had been rattled enough that pain twanged through her entire body.

  Black wandered around her living room, examining the artifacts of their daily lives with an interest that surprised her. Then he ended up at the mantel, fingering Lydia’s two most precious possessions: the only surviving photos of Maria.

  “Leave those alone.” She couldn’t help herself. She’d fought for eighteen years, particularly all those years in foster care, to hang on to those two photos and the only other legacy she had left from Maria: a charm bracelet that circled her wrist, hidden from sight by her sleeve.

  Black arched an eyebrow at her outburst. “She never told you, did she? Did she tell you anything?”

  Trey pulled Lydia closer, trying to restrain her temper, one arm around her back, one across her lap, holding her free hand and squeezing it tight. As he moved, the afghan that his mother had knitted them slid from the back of the couch, bunching between their bodies.

  “Do you even know your own name?” Black continued, relentless.

  Anger straightened her posture and she slid to the edge of the couch, glaring at him. “I know enough.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think you know anything.”

  Lydia leaned forward, hiking her parka up over her hips. She hoped Trey would get the message. She squirmed closer to him as if seeking comfort, pressing her back—and Sandy’s gun—against his arm that encircled her waist. He stiffened, and she knew he understood.

  “Tell me,” she said, breaking the staring match with the stranger. “Tell me who my mother was.”

  “First you tell me,” he commanded. “Who am I?”

  He stood in the full light of the fire, the yellow glow flickering over his features. High cheekbones, dark almond-shaped eyes, hair blacker than midnight.

  Beside her, Trey started, a small noise escaping him as he hugged her tighter.

  “Who am I?” the stranger repeated, the firelight making his eyes spark.

  “You’re my father,” Lydia said.

  She’d intended to speak the words in a clear, unrepentant tone, the tone of someone not frightened, a tone of calm confidence. But nearly thirty years of imagining her father as the most dangerous monster any nightmare could conjure betrayed her. Instead her voice emerged as a hushed whisper, a child trying hard not to attract the bogeyman’s wrath.

  His laughter filled the room to bursting.

  “That’s right, little girl.” Mr. Black’s voice was booming. “That’s exactly right.”

  BY THE TIME AMANDA REACHED THE KITCHEN again, she had so much dust trapped in her eyelashes that every blink brought with it a light show of rainbows along with a cascade of itching. Her eyes felt gritty, her skin grimy, and she didn’t even want to try to imagine an adjective for how bad she smelled.

  The flicker of the Sterno flame illuminating Jerry’s and Lucas’s legs warmed her, drawing her close as if she were coming home. She’d reached for the final stud, hauling herself through to the pantry, when Lucas’s hands clasped hers and she flew out of the dark, through the broken wall, and landed with her feet back on solid ground.

  “You’re okay,” Lucas said, pulling her against his body, ignoring the dirt and cobwebs and sweat-caked grime.

  Once Amanda caught her breath and pushed his arms away enough so that she could breathe, she shook her hair and invisible bits of construction fodder rained down against the floor in a sprinkle of sound.

  “I’m fine.” She looked past Lucas to where Jerry stood on a step stool, wobbling as he kept his balance with one hand against a shelf while he tore drywall with the other. Nora waved at Amanda through the hole she and Jerry had created. It was already more than twice the size of the hole below, large enough for most of the adults to be able to slide through sideways, if they ducked below the horizontal two-by-four.

  A few feet on the other side of the hole sat a chair where another hole was begun—Lucas’s contribution to the rescue efforts. He still wore his dishwashing gloves, now covered in dust and threads of gray wallboard.

  “Two holes, twice the people,” he said, waving a hand at his work like a proud father.

  “I’m going to get the children,” Nora whispered through her side of the wall.

  “What about the guards?” Amanda asked.

  “One’s asleep. I think the other one’s having a reaction to the ketamine—he’s awake but pretty out of it, talking and gesturing to people not there.”

  “Sounds like a dissociative episode,” Lucas said as he climbed back onto his chair. “Be careful. Some people get violent during those.”

  “I’ve told everyone to stay away from them. I don’t want to risk taking their guns and having something happen.”

  “Can you lock yourselves in? In case the other guards come back?”

  Nora shook her head. “No, not from this side of the doors. That’s why we need to hurry.”

  She disappeared from sight. Lucas and Jerry kept working on expanding the escape passages. The light from the Sterno can began to flicker out, so Amanda went back out into the kitchen to get a new can. By the time she returned, Jerry had gotten down off the ladder and had formed a bucket brigade of sorts, catching the children Lucas helped to squirm through the hole from the stage.

  “That’s right,” Lucas told them. “Get down on your bellies, feet first, and just come on through; we won’t let anyone fall.”

  Deon was already safe in the pantry, and his great-grandmother was trying her best to keep her skirt from flying up as she climbed through the hole on the opposite side.

  “Don’t worry about it, Emma,” Amanda told her as she helped guide her through it. “Look at how bad I look—can’t get worse than that.”

  She steadied the footstool so that Emma could plant her feet on it and hop down. Another woman immediately took her place, squirming through the hole backward on her belly, not needing the stool for the short drop.

  “Everyone gather right outside the door,” Amanda directed them. Lucas and Jerry finished with the last child, and now adults were scrambling through both openings.

  Amanda took a moment to seek out Emma, pulling her away from the children for a private word. “We heard a shot earlier.”

  Emma patted her shoulder, not making eye contact. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It was Jim Lazarov.”

  Jim? A thrill of relief, immediately followed by a stab of guilt, swept through Amanda. She’d never liked Jim—no one had—but still, he shouldn’t have died. She’d been so worried that it was someone she cared about, like Nora or Mark Cohen or even Jason. She’d never dreamed it would be Jim . . .

  “Okay. Thanks for telling me. Okay.” The surrealism of the day disoriented her. Amanda wandered back to the pantry and huddled with the two men. “Someone needs to lead them through the atrium to the tower, where we can get them as far away as possible.”

  “You do it,” Lucas said. “Wait there in the stairwell with them. Jerry and I can finish here.”

  “No. We still have the lobby
guards to contend with. Someone has to be able to provide cover fire if they’re seen.”

  “A group this big, you will be seen.”

  Jerry said nothing, frowning as more and more people crowded past them from the auditorium. Already at least twenty people were gathered in the kitchen.

  “We need a diversion,” Lucas said. “Something to keep the guards away from both the auditorium and the atrium.”

  “Me,” Jerry said.

  “No,” Amanda argued. “You can’t move fast enough. You lead the way to the tower. I’ll stand guard with the gun at this end of the atrium and cover your flank. Maybe we can start another fire, draw their attention?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  “They’ll never fall for it again. If you and Jerry are taking them to safety, that leaves me as a diversion.” Lucas stripped the long black gloves from his arms and brushed off his lab coat. “How about my absentminded professor routine?”

  Amanda didn’t like that, not one bit. Lucas was no actor. He couldn’t lie to save his soul. But absentminded? It was a natural fit. “They’ll catch you—”

  “No, they won’t. I’ll act a bit crazy, wander across the lobby, grab their attention, then disappear into radiology. That place is a maze, there are thousands of places to hide. As long as they don’t think I’m a threat, they won’t shoot.”

  “I don’t know. It’s too risky.”

  “Like you crawling into that auditorium wasn’t?” Anger threaded his tone. Lucas never got angry. Irritated, oblivious, pigheaded, yes, but not angry.

  “Wow, we’ve set a record,” she said, throwing him off balance. “Two arguments in one day.”

  Jason came in from the kitchen, interrupting. “I don’t see any guards out there right now. I’m taking this bunch to the tower before they come back. Even if we can’t leave because of the weather, we can put some distance between ourselves and them.”

  “Wait.” Amanda rushed after him, Jerry following. She pulled the gun from her sash. “Let me cover you. Just in case.”

  She and Jerry pushed through the rear cafeteria doors and peered around the corner to the auditorium entrance. Jason was right. No guards in sight. None in the lobby either.

  “Okay,” she told him and the group of women and children waiting behind him. “Move as fast and quiet as you can.”

  All the children were being carried by adults except Deon, because he was the oldest. Jerry held the door open for them while Amanda kept watch. Their footsteps rang out on the slate floor of the atrium but were quickly muffled by the snow insulating the windows.

  It was easier for them than it had been for Amanda, Jerry, and Lucas earlier. All of the lights were out now, leaving them the shelter of darkness as they crossed the atrium.

  Once they were sure the first group was safely inside the tower, Amanda and Jerry returned to inside the cafeteria, where Lucas had another group, this time all adults, waiting for them. Amanda lined them up and gave them their instructions to follow Jerry to the tower and move to the farthest stairwell. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Again they made it safely through to the tower. Amanda was just beginning to relax, to think that this would all be over soon, when she heard Jerry’s footsteps returning across the atrium.

  Two lights appeared in the lobby. One of them arced through the air, as if the person carrying it had pivoted abruptly, and then it spiked through the darkness, dancing through the atrium.

  “Who’s there?” a heavily accented voice called. The light found Jerry, hopelessly exposed, still a dozen feet to go before reaching the cafeteria entrance. He froze, holding his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.

  But that didn’t stop the man from shooting.

  GINA KNEW THAT KEN’S PLAN WASN’T PERFECT, especially the part about him dying with the bad guys. But in order for him to do that, there was still the little feat of finding the bad guys, not getting shot and killed herself, leading them back to Ken, then putting up some kind of barricade—what could she use to keep the guards locked in long enough for Ken to . . . Gina’s mind stuttered, unwilling to visualize exactly what Ken was about to do.

  She didn’t have time to prowl through every door, so she ran back to the laundry where she’d left LaRose, searching for something to use as a barricade. Not a linen cart; they were too difficult to maneuver quickly. She needed something heavy but easily moved into position once she shut the door behind the gunmen.

  Her light beam hit upon a low-slung trolley, the kind she’d seen at home improvement stores, piled high with bags of soiled linens. Disengaging the hand brake, she gave it an experimental tug. It glided readily despite its weight. Perfect.

  Gina steered the trolley back to the chemical storage room, positioning it at the far side of the door. She’d lead the gunmen here, pull the door open so they’d think she’d gone into the room, and hide behind the trolley; then, once they followed her trail into the room, she’d push the trolley into place.

  And then Ken could . . . finish his plan.

  Gina couldn’t resist one last good-bye. After parking the trolley, she pulled the door open. Ken was where she left him, his eyes closed, chest heaving in and out with each breath.

  “I’m ready,” she said. “I’m going to get them now.”

  He opened his eyes to a slit, waggled one finger in acknowledgment, and tightened his grip on the cup of water. The open jar of natrium was ready and waiting.

  “Hurry.” His voice was like sand, dispersing in the air between them, only a few harsh grains left by the time it reached her.

  “I—” Gina stopped. There were no words. And they were out of time.

  She ran back out into the hallway and headed toward the tunnel where they’d last seen the gunmen. She didn’t try to be stealthy. Instead she turned on the Maglite, not worrying about being seen—that was the idea—and hoisted the machine gun. She had no idea how many bullets, if any, were left in it.

  She felt silly running through the tunnels, trying to get caught. Surely Harris’s men would see right through her, not take the bait. But, as she rounded a corner and saw the two men a mere twenty feet ahead, facing her, it didn’t feel silly anymore. Not with their guns aimed at her.

  She turned and ran. Something must have changed; Harris no longer seemed to want Gina alive, because their aim seemed to be right at her instead of over her head like before. She careened through the tunnels, only taking the time to stop and fire back at them when she feared they would go the wrong way.

  Then the machine gun died. She threw it away, letting it clatter across the cement floor. Stopped twice to fire the pistol at the men until she emptied that as well. She shoved it into her coat pocket and ran faster—past the laundry where LaRose hid, past the door to the lab where Ken was, pausing only to wrench it open and then crouch down behind her trolley laden with its load of dirty sheets, and waited in the dark. She tortured herself with a thousand alternative scenarios: staying with Ken, hauling him out of there, throwing the water inside just as soon as the bad guys arrived. . . .

  She knew it was hopeless. It had to be done this way. And she hated that. Hated that she hadn’t been able to return Ken’s love, that it sometimes felt like maybe she couldn’t love anyone, hated even more that he was able to perform this act of courage and self-sacrifice for her . . . and she had no idea what to do to make it right, to earn it.

  Because she didn’t deserve it. Ken was a much better person than she was or would ever be. If there was any justice in the world, he should live through this night.

  Justice. Her lawyer father would scoff at the idea, say that concepts like justice, truth, and right and wrong were meaningless fantasies. Moses embraced the certainty of the law. His law. The law was about winning arguments, persuasion, being the last man standing.

  Moses would see Ken’s sacrifice as weakness—just as he didn’t consider the consequences of his actions, the lawsuit that led to the death of Ken’s family, as having had anything to do with him. Mos
es was like a duck: He quacked loud, got the attention he craved, and anything he didn’t want to acknowledge or that was inconvenient simply slid out of his life like water.

  But Gina was here. A witness to one man’s courage. And she couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t ignore it. All she could hope to do was to someday deserve it.

  Now her tears came, shaking her body. She braced herself against the trolley’s handle, was about to forget about all their plans and lead the men away, let them take her, shoot her, when they pounded down the hall, just as the door to the storage room was swinging shut.

  Two lights immediately targeted the door and before Gina could do anything, the men had yanked it open, brandishing their guns. She shoved her trolley into place, blocking the door from opening again. In her mind, she was counting. Four, three, two . . . She ran, heart tugging as if she might leave it behind . . .

  One.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” LYDIA ASKED THE stranger—her father, but no less strange to her.

  “Your mother stole something from me. Something I need to protect my future.” Black leveled his gun at Trey. “And I’m not leaving without it.”

  Lydia frowned. How the hell was she supposed to give him something she didn’t have, something she’d never known existed? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maria didn’t have anything. We lived off the streets. She never had anything worth killing for.”

  “Maria?” He rolled the name on his tongue, tasting it. “Is that what she was calling herself? You know that’s not her real name. Maria.” He chuckled. “So exotic—she always dreamed of being someone else. A gypsy princess, a lost descendant of Anastasia and the czars, a ballerina chosen by a prince to become his queen.”

  Lydia tried hard not to let him know how close to home he’d hit. Maria had often posed as a gypsy while running her fake-psychic scams, and she’d claimed to have once studied ballet in San Francisco. Even had a pair of battered toe shoes for a while, until they’d gotten lost during one of their many evictions. They’d spent a lot of time sheltering in public libraries, and Maria would pore over books about the San Francisco ballet. Used to show Lydia pictures of famous ballerinas, tell her the stories behind the ballets. In fact, one of the charms on Lydia’s bracelet was a pair of toe shoes.