‘Ah, ah, ah. Thanks. My husband’s on his way.’ Gasp. ‘Oh, my.’
The orderly had been on duty since five a.m. He was beat. Sundays were the days of rest for almost everybody – but not hospital workers. He eased the wheelchair a bit closer to the door, through the group of eight or nine visitors and medicos waiting for the car. He didn’t think there’d be any problem with getting on the next ride. They weren’t about to deliver.
The blonde, in her late twenties, was sweating fiercely. The orderly was happy to see a wedding ring on her finger. He was old-fashioned.
She grimaced in pain.
Come on, he thought to the car. A glance at the indicator. Second floor.
Come on.
‘Where is he? Your husband?’ Making conversation, putting her at ease.
‘Fishing.’
‘What’s he fish for?’
‘Ah, ah, ah … Salmon.’
So he was on a party boat. Four hours minimum. Was he out of his mind? She looked like she was ready to pop at any minute.
She glanced up. ‘I’m two weeks early.’
The orderly smiled. ‘My son was two weeks late. Still’s never on time.’
‘Daughter.’ A nod toward the impressive belly. She gave another assortment of gasps.
Then, the car. The doors opened and people streamed out.
‘Like one of those funny cars at a circus, all the clowns.’
The woman in labor didn’t laugh. Okay. But he got a smile from a nurse and an elderly couple, carrying a balloon reading, ‘IT’S A BOY!!!’
After the car had emptied one person pushed on first – a doctor, natch. Then the orderly wheeled his passenger – well, technically, two passengers – on and turned her, facing out. The others walked in as well, jockeying for space. As in all hospitals, the elevators were large – to accommodate gurneys – but with the other car out, this one filled up fast. Several said they’d wait. A dozen, fourteen people climbed on. The orderly looked at the maximum weight. How the hell helpful was that? He supposed the buzzer would sound if it was too heavy; it had a safety system like that, of course.
He hoped.
It was really packed, stifling. Hot too.
‘Ah, ah, ah …’
‘You’ll be fine. We’re three minutes away and the staff’s all ready for you.’
‘Thank y-aaaah.’
The door closed. She was in the far right-hand corner of the car, the orderly behind her, his back to the wall. He was extremely claustrophobic but, for some reason, being in this position, having no one behind him, kept the discomfort at bay.
A businessman looked around. Frowned. ‘Shit, it’s hot in here. Oh, sorry.’
Maybe directed to the pregnant woman, as if the fetus might be shocked. But, the orderly thought, shit, it is hot. Prodding the claustrophobia to squirm.
The elderly couple was discussing their granddaughter’s choice of a name for the boy who’d just been born. The orderly heard the beep of phone keys. The doctor, natch again, had pulled out his mobile.
‘I’m confirming a reservation …’
Blah, blah, blah.
The restaurant apparently didn’t have a particular table he’d requested earlier. And he wasn’t happy.
The car stopped at the second floor.
Three people got off. Five got on. Net gain. Ugh. And one was a biker. The Harley-Davidson variety. Black leather jacket, boots, stocking cap. And chains. Why did anybody need to wear chains? There was protest in the form of sighs and a glare or two (he could’ve waited) and the doors closed and the car rose slowly, bobbing under the weight. Not because he looked dangerous, which he did, but at his size. They were completely packed in now, belly to back. Man could’ve waited for the next trip.
This is hell.
Shit.
‘Ah, ah, ah …’ the woman gasped.
‘Almost there,’ the orderly said, reassuring himself as much as the pregnant woman.
Not that it worked.
As the car climbed toward floor three, conversation slowed, except for the complaining doctor, who was abrasively asking to talk to somebody in charge. ‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe the restaurant manager? Is that so very hard to figure out?’
Almost there …
Seconds unreeled like hours.
Jesus Christ. Get to the floor. Open the fucking door!
But the door didn’t open. In fact, the elevator didn’t even make it to the third floor. It bounced to a stop somewhere between two and three.
No, no, please. He believed he thought this. But the prayer or plea might have been uttered aloud. Several people looked his way. That might, however, have been from the look of encroaching panic on his sweaty face.
‘It’s all right. I’m sure it’ll get moving soon.’ It was the doctor, slipping his phone away, who’d offered this reassurance to the orderly.
And the pregnant woman in the wheelchair wiped abundant sweat from her forehead, tucked stringy hair behind her ears and tried to steady her breathing.
‘Ah, ah, ah. I think it’s coming. I think the baby’s coming …’
CHAPTER 62
In surgical scrubs, cap and booties, Antioch March left the engineering room on the top floor of Monterey Bay Hospital, where he’d just cut the power to east wing elevator car number two. Twenty minutes earlier he’d done the same to car one, when it was empty. That drove the passengers to the second car, which guaranteed it would be packed when disaster struck.
Which it was. He was watching the video image of the interior from the camera inside. Of particular interest was the pregnant woman, whose head was tilted back and who was gasping. Her face wincing in pain. Even better was the expression of the orderly accompanying her. Panic starting to form. Exquisite.