“It could be a false alarm.” Jane kept her voice low. Out in the corridor, bells and alarms still clanged.
“One two three. One two three.” The robo-voice broadcast repeated the meaningless words in its unnervingly neutral tone. “One two three.”
Isabel crouched beside her in the narrow dark confines of what seemed a linen closet. The tiny room smelled of bleach and lemon soap. Folds of terry cloth and cotton pressed against Jane’s bare arms. The lights were off, but the door wouldn’t lock.
“One two three,” was all she heard on the hospital’s loudspeakers, some sort of code, obviously, but Jane had no idea what it meant. Certainly something not good—that she knew from Jake’s drawn weapon and his barked command for the two of them to hide. She knew it, too, from the anguish on his face.
“Really, this stuff happens all the time,” she lied. Might as well try to reassure Isabel. Poor thing. “I’m in news, you know? It’s hardly ever anything.”
“Can you see out?” Isabel whispered. “Is anyone there?”
Jane inched up, flattening herself against the pitted metal of the door until she could peer through the tiny window. She felt around inside her tote bag for her cell phone. If she couldn’t see out, maybe someone on the outside could tell them what was going on. Plus, whatever the outcome, as a reporter she had to call the assignment desk. Let them know something was up at BCH. She tried to envision herself reporting the story, whatever it was, not someone else reporting her and Isabel as tragic victims of it.
But the sliver of glass in the door was frustratingly narrow. She thought she could see white coats racing by, but when she tried to follow the action, the blur of whatever it was continued out of range. She had an inch, that was all, and all she could see was nothing.
She blew out a breath, sank to the floor again. Hit speed dial. “Nothing,” she said, as the phone rang on the other end. “We’ll be fine, though, I’m sure.” She smiled, trying to convince herself as well as Isabel. “Probably a mistake, or some sort of drill.” She gestured in the almost-darkness. “And I have almonds in my purse. So we won’t die.”
As long as it’s not anthrax or a bomb, or terrorists, she didn’t say. The Channel 2 assignment desk phone was still ringing. Why didn’t someone answer? The morning news was certainly on the air. But the desk coverage was notorious—the chatty desk assistants always went for coffee at the same time.
“Jane?” Isabel’s voice fell even softer, barely audible.
“Hang on, I’m calling the station.” Jane put a confident smile in her voice, all intrepid reporter. “They’ll know more than we do.”
“I guess,” Isabel whispered.
“News 2.” At last.
“It’s Ryland. Jane. Who’s this? You got anything going at BCH?” She draped one arm across Isabel’s shoulder, both of them sitting on the floor, knees to chest, backs against a metal shelf of folded linens. Hot in here now, stifling, but the least of her worries.
“It’s Wu, noon producer,” the voice said. “Going on? Like what?”
Jane bullet-pointed the whole thing: alarm, code, running white coats, closet. Wu was a veteran, thank goodness. He’d figure it out. At least they’d know where she was. Fiola would freak, but she’d get over it.
“Wanna go live?” Wu asked. “You’re breaking news, and exclusive. Awesome. We’ll patch your call through to the control room, do the whole thing as a live news phoner.”
Go live? From the closet? In the dark? With no information on an unknown incident that could turn out to be nothing? Hardly “awesome.” But Jane heard the news-lust in Wu’s voice. Welcome to local TV.
“Can you find out what’s going on first?” Jane asked. “We—” She stopped. No need to mention she was with an Adams Bay student. “I can’t see anything. I don’t know anything. That wouldn’t be much of a story. Right?”
“Don’t hang up,” Wu ordered. “I’ll get Marsh. He’ll decide. We got BCH PR on the line, and she’s talking. We’re sending a crew, but it’s gonna take twenty to get there. Probably longer. If it’s something, you’re all we got. Hang on. Don’t move.”
“But—” Don’t move? She shifted in a vain attempt to keep her already-prickling legs from falling asleep. As if.
“Jane?” Isabel’s fingers encircled Jane’s arm, clutching.
“It’s okay,” Jane said. “They know we’re here. Detective Brogan knows, too. Cops on the way, press on the way, a metal door between us and the outside world. It’s all good.”
“Sending you a photo.” Wu’s voice in her ear.
“Of what?” Jane asked.
“Hostage situation, active shooter, so says hospital PR,” Wu said. “And it’s ‘of who.’ One guy. We’re sending you a picture of the apparent shooter. And ‘who’ is exactly what we’re trying to find out.”