Trolls in the Hamptons by Celia Jerome Page B

someone’s life? Or a respirator’s plug got wet? Fuck!
    No new admissions. No usable bathrooms. No lights in the wing below except for the emergency overheads.
    Wheelchairs were directed to the other side of the building where the elevators and lights were still operating. I thought I got a glimpse of a familiar face helping a man with an IV pole, but the crowd was pushing me toward the stairs. I didn’t think there was a danger of being trampled, but the climb down wasn’t comfortable, not with water cascading at our feet, and too many bodies. At least if anyone slipped, they’d be cushioned by the crowds.
    â€œProceed slowly,” a voice called out. “There is no emergency. Repeat: the building is not in danger of collapse. There has not been a terrorist attack or a bomb or a mishap in the laboratories. Repeat, this is merely a water pipe malfunction. There is no emergency.” Unfortunately, the last message was “Repeat: all staff evacuate.”
    What, they were abandoning ship?
    Most people on the stairs kept going down, to the street. I pushed my way into the nearly deserted nuclear waiting room where I was supposed to meet Susan. It had windows, so it wasn’t as dark as the halls.
    Susan was looking dazed, uncertain what she should do, fumbling with her cell phone. Thank goodness she was done with her tests before they shut down the electricity to that side of the building.
    â€œWhat happened?” she wanted to know.
    â€œA transported bowl,” a nurse shouted, rushing past. Susan had more questions, I knew, but I pulled her down more stairs and out of the building, into a gypsy cab just as fire engines turned the corner.
    I avoided answering Susan by listening to the driver, who was on hand because his wife’s mother’s boyfriend worked in the cafeteria there and called to say there’d be a lot of business. The streets were already clogged; midtown would be impassable in ten minutes. We were lucky to be out of the mess.
    My pants were wet up to the knees. My shoes were destroyed. I told Susan to make the salad, with chicken and cheese for protein, while I showered and changed and bundled my clothes into a plastic bag for the garbage. Then I found the card Van had left with me.
    I left messages at the precinct, his private number, and his cell.
    He got back to me in minutes. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with the floods at Sloan this morning,” came before hello.
    I couldn’t say that, so I kept quiet.
    â€œShit.”
    That, too, by now, with the sewage lines busted.
    â€œBut I might have seen Lou helping someone.”
    â€œHe volunteers there once a week. Listen, we’re going crazy here. Is the invitation still open for Mrs. Abbottini’s lasagna tonight?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI’ll bring dessert. And wine. I think we all need it.”
    He brought a friend, too.

CHAPTER 8

    V AN WAS HOT, BUT HOLY HORMONES, Bat-girl, this guy sizzled. He was about forty, I’d guess, with dark hair just long enough to fall into his eyes, with a touch of silver at the sides. And what eyes! They were a clear, startling blue with a black rim. Nothing baby blue about these, not with a gaze that felt as if he was checking the lace on my scanties. He wasn’t as tall as Van, nor as broad, but you could tell he was fit by the way he stood, confident and relaxed. He was wearing a gray mock turtleneck, a loose black jacket that had to be Armani, and black trousers. Oh, my.
    â€œI think you’ll want to talk to Grant,” Van was saying. “He’s Federal now, working with us on the Manhattan incidents.”
    â€œFederal?”
    The stud spoke: “My department is actually attached to Scotland Yard, of course, but we are working with your CIA and the Office of Homeland Security.”
    James Bond on my doorstep? Was there anything sexier than an English accent? I looked to see if Susan was as