“What’s wrong with it?”
He started toward the power closet behind the elevator, directly across the hall from the Map and Diplomatic Reception rooms. “This baby works just fine. But it’s ancient. I keep these things around for emergencies”-his voice rose, almost as though he were hoping for the guilty parties to hear and respond-“like when people take my good equipment who knows where and don’t bring it back when there’s a job to be done. You know?”
“Same thing in the kitchen,” I said. “My favorite mixer’s a monster from way back. Maybe even Eisenhower’s time.” Laughing, I added, “It’s huge and super noisy, but it handles heavy batter like nothing else. And I hate it when someone’s using it when I need it.”
Gene checked his watch. “I better get this done before Bradley calls me again.”
“Stop by when you’re finished. I have a couple of interesting dishes we’re trying out. I think you deserve a treat after all this.”
Gene swiped an arm across his sweaty brow. “Sounds great, Ollie. Count me in.”
Back in the kitchen, Bucky and Cyan brought me up to speed. As she’d promised, Agda had indeed completed the soup without trouble. She was currently busy with the spiced pecans.
Cyan seemed impressed. “That girl is quick,” she said. “Had everything put together in enough time to get started on the pecans for the appetizer tray. So I just handed her the next set of instructions and she was off.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Things are finally going our way.”
“How was the meeting?”
Before I could answer, the lights flashed off and on. A heartbeat later, like too-close lightning, a violent buzz seared the room.
Through it all, a scream so primal it froze all movement.
Except for the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor.
“What was that?” Cyan asked.
I was already running toward the sound. “Stay here,” I ordered the wide-eyed staff. I had no idea what I would find, but if it were bomb-related, I didn’t want all of us to be in danger.
With our kitchen so close to the Center Hall, I was the first on the scene. All the lights were out here; the passage was dim, but there was enough illumination to see the figure sprawled on his back, arms extended wide to his sides.
“Gene!” I cried, running to him.
Gene lay just outside the elevator power-closet door. His hands were empty, but one was blackened. A sudden stench of scorched flesh rose up, nearly causing me to retch. A metal stepstool had tumbled next to him, lying atop his right leg, while one of the stool’s legs remained lodged against something inside the closet. I started looking around for a tool to free Gene’s leg from beneath the metal trap. “Cyan! Bucky!” I called, enunciating to make my panicked shouts understood. “Bring me the wooden rack. Now!”
The rack kept our most-often-used spices handy. About eighteen inches wide and just a few inches tall, it was the only thing I could think of at the moment that was safe to use in the presence of high voltage.
When neither of them answered, I cried out again. Finally, I heard Cyan yell back that she was coming.
One of the laundry ladies, Beatta, came running, as I had. “My God!” she said.
She reached down to touch Gene’s face.
“Don’t!” I shouted. “He might have been electrocuted.”
Just then, Bucky arrived with the rack, Cyan running behind, carrying all the spices in a bowl. “Did you want these, too?” she asked.
I grabbed the empty rack, ignoring the question.
Cyan stepped out of my way as I pushed the rack beneath one of the stepladder’s footholds. I tried levering the contraption away from its contact with Gene, but the rack twisted, slipping out of my fingers. “Damn,” I said aloud.
“Be careful,” Bucky said.
I took precious seconds to wipe perspiration from my hands and I inched forward to try again. A buzz emanating from within the room underscored the danger. Whatever electrical charge had hit Gene was still live. I scooted closer, my left foot less than four inches from his prone form, but I had to get close enough to get the leverage I needed.
“Get me a flashlight,” I said. “And get the doctor.”
Someone said they would, and hurried away.
More people came. Secret Service agents swarmed, then worked hard to manage the gathering crowd. One of the agents stepped in to take over for me, but I was so close I couldn’t stop now. Although Gene was a big guy, it was only his foot that maintained contact with the metal ladder. I could do this. The agent must have sensed my concentration because he stepped back when I shook my head.
Amid shouts and questions and frantic babbling, I hooked the corner of the rack-the little lip at one end-under the rim of the stepladder’s top foothold. Crouching, and using two hands, I forced the ladder upward, knocking it farther into the room.
All of this took less than a minute, but I felt as though hours had passed. “I think I’m clear. But I can’t see. There’s not enough light.”
One of the agents came up with a flashlight. He shined it into the dark space.
“All clear,” he said.
I dropped to my knees beside Gene, pushing my ear close to his mouth and nose. “Quiet, everyone!”
The hall rippled to silence.
The pounding I heard was my own heart beating-frenzied with fear for Gene. My CPR training rules rushed through my brain even as I pushed my head closer, hoping, waiting, trying to-
Warm air crossed my cheek. A baby-soft hiss followed.
“He’s alive!”
I pulled my kitchen jacket off and covered Gene, hoping to stave off shock. A voice from behind the first circle of onlookers called out for everyone to make room.
The group parted. An emergency medical team raced in, the White House doctor heading the charge. Our on-staff nurse-practitioner followed two assistants, who carried a stretcher.
I was already scurrying out of their way when the team fell in around Gene, starting immediate care. The nurse-practitioner turned to me. “We’ve got him now.”
Slowly we all backed away, giving the team a wide berth. The sickening scent of cooked flesh hung in the air around us; I wondered if I’d ever be able to forget that smell. The Secret Service agents worked their crowd-dispersal magic, and I sent Cyan and Bucky back to the kitchen.
As the corridor cleared, I caught sight of Manny. His wide, lined face was pale gray, like the underbelly of a dead fish. “What happened?” he asked. Nobody answered him, so I made my way over.
“Where were you?”
He swallowed. “Me and Vince were outside.” He pointed south. “We had to get some wiring set up.”
“It’s raining.”
“Not anymore. Stopped about an hour ago. That’s why we got out there. We were waiting all morning for the big storm to clear up.” Behind us the medical personnel spoke in low tones as they ministered to Gene, preparing him for transport. Manny asked again, “What happened?”
“Gene had an accident.”
Manny shoved a hand through his thick hair, holding it there for an extended period of time. The medical team raised the stretcher, taking a moment to be sure they had everything they needed. I thought Manny might be going into shock.
“Where’s Vince?” I asked, just to snap him out of it.
Staring at Gene’s unmoving form, Manny could only shake his head.
As though summoned, Vince came around the corner, moving at his customary loping pace. About twenty-eight years old, he had a chiseled look, from his solid muscularity to his narrow face, so perfectly structured it looked to be carved of pure ebony. His smile dropped the moment he caught sight of the corridor’s activity.
“Make way, folks,” one of the technicians said. We moved out of the way, allowing them a clear path out the White House’s south entrance.
“Was that Gene?” Vince asked.
I nodded. Manny remained speechless.
In his haste to get out of the stretcher’s way, Vince nearly tripped. “Is he going to be okay?”