The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  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 I-5 headed north or south, I’d recommend taking I-205 and bypassing downtown entirely. Traffic is being allowed to travel in some outbound lanes on I-5, I-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 block away, 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 O. 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 against my 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 if you 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 the facts, 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?”

  Mrs. Lofland’s eyes opened. “A part of me is always praying. But yes. I’m praying for the people out there. And for you.”

  “But I think you and I are safe,” Nic said.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t use a prayer.” Mrs. Lofland’s smile held a hint of mischief. Then she closed her eyes again.

  Twenty minutes later, Nic was just picking up a doughnut when Leif ’s blue eyes appeared in the window of the conference room door.

  Calling his name, she jumped to her feet. He tried to open the door, but only managed an inch before it caught. Mrs. Lofland scooted her chair forward, leaned down, and pulled out Nic’s rolled-up jacket.

  “Is it safe?” Nic asked, feeling her heart beat in her throat. He wasn’t wearing a mask.

  For an answer, Leif pulled Nic into his strong arms.

  CHAPTER 9

  Northwest Portland

  Forty blocks. That’s how far it was to Good Samaritan Medical Center, yet it was still the closest hospital. But Allison would walk all day if she had to. She would walk until her feet fell off. Dear God, she prayed, protect these two precious innocents. And everyone else caught in this nightmare.

  At first she half ran, half walked, the child wailing and clutching her coat collar. Every block or two, Allison made herself stop and turn in a circle, her eyes looking for anyone searching for a lost child. She saw dozens of panicked people, but no one who seemed to belong to the little girl clinging to her. She spared a thought for Nicole and the juror. Loving God, watch over us . . . words that were part of the grace she and her husband Marshall said every evening and that she had never meant more than now.

  Allison’s breath was coming in gasps, forcing her to slow to a fast walk. For a moment, she pressed one hand against her belly, checking in with that little hum she had been feeling for several weeks, the hum of connection. Still there. She shifted the little girl from one hip to the other. The child was finally quiet now, her face wet with tears. Her black hair fell to her shoulders, and in her ears were tiny sparkling stones. Her dark-green coat was a little too big for her, the sleeve edges frayed.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Allison tried.

  The girl’s dark eyes stared into hers, but she didn’t make a sound. Was she in shock? Or something worse?

  “My name’s Allison. What’s yours?”

  She still looked blank. What was the Spanish word for name? Something like yah-ma?

  “Yah-ma Allison,” Allison ventured, pointing at her chest, still moving along as fast as she could. She had managed to put ten blocks between them and what was happening. At least here most people were on their feet. “Yah-ma Allison,” she repeated, then turned her finger to point at the girl and raised her eyebrows. “Yah-ma?”

  “Estella,” the girl answered. At least it sounded like that. She patted her own chest.

  “Okay,” Allison said. “Estella.” Her mood lightened a little. If only she could ask Estella where her mother and father were. If only the girl were old enough to reel off a phone number or an address. Or at least say if she felt sick.

  When she came to the freeway overpass, Allison’s mouth fell open. Interstate 5 in both directions was bumper-to-bumper as far as the eye could see. A person could have walked down the river of cars and never touched the ground. And they weren’t moving at all. Ambulances, cops, and the desperate were using the shoulders, but there were already places where these were choked off too.

  By the time they were a half mile from the hospital, Allison was overwhelmingly thankful that she had worn flats. One of Estella’s small feet rested just where the bulge of her pregnancy was beginning to show. The weight had been nothing when she had begun her mad dash from downtown. Now her hip and shoulder ached with each step. The girl’s head drooped against Allison’s shoulder. Either she was used to strangers, or she was tired, or—and Allison didn’t want to think too much about this—she was getting sick and no longer had the energy to fuss. They were in Northwest Portland now, an older part of town where the roads were notoriously narrow. Today they were gridlocked, filled with cars whose panicked drivers were convinced they had only a few minutes before they would die. Ambulance drivers cycled through various siren tones and even squawked out orders on their speakers, but there was no place for people to go.

  One ambulance simply took to the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians before it. It didn’t seem like the sidewalk would be wide enough, but the ambulance scraped between the building and the parking meters with less than an inch on either side, and then forced its way back into traffic a block later.

  By the time Allison reached the hospital, it had been more than an hour since the alarms had interrupted the trial. Thinking about the Bratz Bandits seemed absurd and unreal. Reality was slogging forward with a child like a deadweight on her hip. Reality was looking at the frightened faces around her and wondering if any of them would make it.

  Allison had expected the emergency room to be crowded, but what she saw shocked her. Dozens of people stood, sat, or lay in the parking lot and next to the sidewalk. A lucky few were on gurneys. Some children or small adults were even doubled up. The rest sat or lay on their coats or right on the blacktop. Some coughed and moaned; others were silent or talked quietly. One well-dressed woman who leaned against a brick planter called, “Nurse! Nurse!” over and over, but didn’t seem to be suffering.

  Among them moved a dozen people in scrubs and street clothes, taking pulses, blood pressures, and temperatures. The faces of the doctors and nurses were calm and determined, and just looking at them made Allison feel a little better. They moved quickly, but they didn’t appear panicked. And although most wore latex gloves, they didn’t seem to be worried about contamination. Here there were no face masks, no moon suits.

  And then Allison caught sight of a familiar face—Dr. Sally Murdoch, a pediatrician she occasionally consulted about crimes she was prosecuting. Sally wore an open black leather jacket over green scrubs.

  Allison waited until Sally straightened up from talking to a middle-aged woman and then said, “Sally, this child and I were both—”

  A hand yanked her back. “Wait your turn!” growled a man in a business suit.

  On any other day, she thought, he would have held a door for her, graciously waited for her to get off the elevator, offered her a nod and a smile as they passed on the sidewalk. But this was not any other day.

  Allison realized that a half-dozen people were waiting in a ragtag line for Sally. She had the baby to think of, and Estella, but she didn’t think even that argument would hold any sway. Sally gave her a sort of smile and a shrug, and Allison joined the end of the line.

  Sally spoke to each person in turn, her words a soft murmur, putting a stethoscope to their chests, looking at their eyes and throats, laying a consoling hand on their arms. The businessmen took whatever news she delivered stoically, but the woman ahead of Allison burst into ragged tears. Allison’s heart lurched. She didn’t want to imagine what the message had been.

  When it was Allison’s turn, Sally said, “Who’s this?”

  “Estella. I think. I found her downtown, crying. I don’t think she speaks English. And Sally, you need to know that we were only a block from whatever happened. So we were exposed. Can you help us?” She hesitated, and then said in
a rush, “And you should know that I’m— I’m pregnant.”

  Sally shot Allison a quick glance, then murmured, “Hey, baby girl.” She gently touched Estella’s knee before she slipped her stethoscope inside the girl’s coat. Estella’s arms tightened around Allison’s neck.

  Sally listened intently, and then shook her head. It had to be bad news. Allison felt like her heart would crack.

  But then Sally said, “This child is fine. And just from looking at you, I can tell you’re fine too. Just like all these people here are fine, except for the ones who got hit by a car trying to run across a street or who ended up with a heart attack from the stress. But everyone else is fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Fine,” Sally said definitely.

  “How can you say that?” Allison protested. “I was downtown. I saw it. People were falling to the pavement all around us, gagging and coughing. And we were right there. We were breathing in whatever they did.”

  An old man tugged Sally’s sleeve. “Please, miss, please, I was downtown. You’ve got to help me.”

  Sally turned and pointed at the line. Allison now saw how tired she was.

  “Go wait over there with those people. I’ll be with you soon.” She turned back to Allison. “We’ve run dozens of blood tests, and they’ve all come back negative. This has overwhelmed all the hospitals, not just Good Sam. And they’re all reporting the same thing—nothing.”

  “What?” Allison took a step back, startling Estella, who began to cry. “That can’t be right. I was there. What are you saying—that all these people made it up?”