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

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.

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 shield.

“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 helluva 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. Fucking 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 assessment unit. Where do they exit for one of these drills?”