The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(87)

One of the Fire Medic One vans sped past with lights flashing and sirens blazing. Okay, so it’s not a sprained ankle. Madison pulled up, parked on the grass, and ran the rest of the way. She smelled it before she saw it: a dark, acrid scent that found its way into her throat and squatted there. Smoke. She reached the end of the lane, and, once out of the canopy of the trees, she saw the beautiful red-brick building. Fire. The building is on fire. Dozens of people had repaired to the lawn: staff in scrubs, patients in their pajamas and bathrobes, some already lying down and strapped to gurneys with IVs connected to their arms.

The firefighters were tackling a blaze that had taken hold of the east wing and was crawling up and down the floors like something alive and angry. It was concentrated on that side of the clinic, but some bricks on the ground floor had been scorched black; the windows were shattered, and the water was dripping where the hoses had waged their war.

Madison tried to remember what Dr. Eli Peterson had said the first time they’d met. Thirty-nine patients who would have been asleep, plus the medical staff who took care of them, the night cleaning team, and the security guards. That was a lot of people to get out of the building in a hurry.

A couple of people dashed out the main door: a firefighter with his arm around a woman in nurse’s scrubs. People were still coming out. Madison swore under her breath and headed toward a group of staffers and patients, hoping to see Peterson among them.

Firefighters hollered instructions at one another as they directed hoses at the blaze; a police officer and the fire chief were trying to get a head count from one of the nurses to know for sure exactly how many people had been in the building at the time. Some patients were wailing, and others sat quietly on the cold ground, hugging their knees.

“Where’s Dr. Peterson?” Madison yelled above the din.

“Over there.” A nurse pointed.

Peterson was kneeling next to a patient and injecting him with something. He looked up and spoke to his deputy, who was with the fire chief: “Thirty-two here, three taken to Harborview, two to the Swedish, one unaccounted for.”

“What about the staff?” the fire chief asked.

“One unaccounted for?” Madison asked Dr. Peterson, dropping to her knees and helping him wrap an elderly lady in a blanket.

“Two staff members are still missing: one orderly, one nurse. Everybody else is out.” Peterson looked pale under the smudges of dirt on his face. He was going from patient to patient, checking heart rate and temperature.

“One patient unaccounted for?” Madison repeated.

“Your staff is all out,” the fire chief said, and he pointed at the front entrance. Two of his men were bringing out two women in scrubs.

“Where’s Vincent Foley?” Madison asked Peterson, looking around at the group gathered on the lawn.

“We have one patient still missing,” the fire chief told one of his team, who started at a trot toward the fire engines that took up most of the parking lot.

“Vincent is missing,” Peterson said to Madison. “He should have been evacuated with all the other residents on the fourth floor, but he’s not with them. They’re all here. The head count said we had everybody when we left the floor . . .”

“Dr. Peterson,” she said, “look at the fire.”

He turned.

“It’s on the opposite side from the patients’ rooms, right? It’s where you have all the offices, right?”

He nodded. Madison pointed at the windows on the opposite corner on the fourth floor.

“Is that the day room?”

He nodded.

“What does Vincent do when he’s scared?” She stood up.

“He hides,” Peterson replied after a beat.

Madison lifted his ID card from around his neck. He didn’t object.

“Officer?” Madison approached the uniformed officer who had been talking to the fire chief. “Detective Madison, Homicide. There’s a real strong chance that this is arson and the men who set the fire are still on the grounds. They’re after one particular patient, and right now he’s missing.”

“What’s going on, Detective?”

“There could be people here who are looking to harm somebody.” She looked at staff members running around, patients, other officers, firefighters. “Watch out for anyone who doesn’t belong, who’s not emergency services.”

She started moving toward the entrance. “Call my boss, Lieutenant Fynn, Homicide. Tell him what’s going on.”

“Hey . . . where the hell . . .”

“Seattle PD.” She waved her badge to the firefighters, but they were too far away to stop her, and in seconds she had entered the building. It was eerily intact, just dark and empty, and the carpet felt soaking wet under her boots—the odd drop of water still dripped from the sprinklers. The air held the bitter tinge of smoke. It would have to do.