Nightingale (26 page)

Oh, she wanted it. Thirsted for it.

God, I want You—I don't want to thirst anymore.
The prayer—if was it a prayer, because it felt more like a cry—ripped through her.
No more thirsting!

“Yes.” She wasn't sure she actually said it—wasn't sure how, even, she'd manage to say no to the roomful of guests, to Mrs. Hahn. She'd have to move in with Caroline maybe, and— “But only if you go back to camp. Tonight. Go back before they catch you out.”

Peter blinked at her—caught his breath. Then, a smile poured over him. “You'll write?”

“Every single day.”

Peter caught her chin in his hand, and even as she smiled, he kissed her. Something sweet and urgent, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding on.

Holding on.

She kissed him because she longed for the future she saw, because he made her feel whole and wanted. Because being in his arms, for the first time, possibly ever, she knew what grace might feel like.

He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close, his body strong against hers, smelling of cotton and summer heat and strength.

She kissed him for the day when she would truly, fully, love him.

He let her go, backed away. “Is that a blush, Mr. Hess?”

He gave her a sheepish smile.

A shot sounded someplace below on the first floor of the building. Crisp and sharp, it echoed through the hospital.

“What was that?”

His eyes widened. “I don't—”

And then, a rumble shook their feet as something moved the building off its moorings. Peter grabbed her—his arms enclosing her tight against him, cocooning her in his embrace. The hospital floor rocked again.

“Get down!”

Then, even as she hit the floor, as Peter protected her body with his own, the hospital convulsed and…exploded.

War had found Roosevelt, Wisconsin.

The rumble, the eruption of sound that burrowed into his bones, swept Peter back to Germany. To huddling in the muddy troughs meant to protect them from Patton's attacks.

He heard the echo of men wailing as they held their shattered bodies together, staring into the smoky sky, begging for life. He tasted the memory of his own fear as he gathered his courage behind his teeth and found his feet, slogging through the fire, the churned dirt, searching for the living.

“What's going on?” Esther's scream brought him back to himself, to Roosevelt.

Another explosion shook the building. Behind him, the windows shattered, the building twisting on its foundation, the cement falling in fist-sized chunks into the room.

He clasped his hands over hers as the windows' glass shattered on the floor.

Esther curled into a ball beneath him, gasping in deep breaths. “What's happening?”

“I don't know.” The lights remained on in the hallway—probably a good sign—although smoke already burned the air. Faint, but the reek of it scoured the hallways.

“They did it—oh, no, they did it.” He could barely hear his own voice above the thunder of his heart.

Even as Peter had tucked Esther in close, held her against himself, heard her scream echo through him, the memory raced back at him.

“We'll finish them off and be to the border by midnight. One last victory for the führer.”

Esther rolled in his arms, her eyes wide. “Who—did what?”

“Fritz—I overheard him planning something. I thought he was just talking about his escape, but—” He sat up, ran his hands over her arms. “Are you okay?”

“Sadie. I have to find Sadie!”

She pushed away from him, scrambled to get her feet under her, wobbled, then grabbed the bed. He coiled his arm around her waist, steadied her. “We'll find her.” He took her hand.

Smoke already filled the hallway, a haze that blanketed the doorways, the nurses' desk. “Stay low and don't let go of me!”

He closed doors as he ran down the hall—the patients had a better chance of staying alive if they stayed in their rooms, waited for help. Around him the halls filled with people, coughing, frantic, shoving past him, elbows in his gut. A few wore suits, dresses—clearly Esther's wedding guests. He pulled Esther close to him, curled his arm around her, made her bend over. “Hold your breath.”

“Sadie!” Esther screamed above the crowd's chaos. “Bertha took her to the solarium!”

The smoke tore at his eyes, turned his vision to water. “Close your eyes. I'll get us there.”

From the distance, sirens blared.

“Sadie!” Esther screamed.

“Over here, over here!”

Peter pulled them toward the voice and cut into a small room—
a bathroom. The room seemed clearer, and through the veil he made out the little girl—the one he'd seen in the hall, with her burnished golden hair in curls.

She launched toward her mother, who caught her, clutched her to herself. “Shh… It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay.”

Peter shut the door behind them. A women's bathroom. He grabbed a towel and shoved it into the gap under the door.

Across from them, a dark-haired woman crouched in the shower, her hands pressed to her mouth. “Are they bombing us?”

He stared at her.
Are they bombing us?
In
German.

“Nein,” he said softly. Held out his hand. “We're going to be okay.”

She stared at his hand like it might be a grenade. Her gaze found Esther. “Linus. Linus is in the solarium. We were in here when…”

“The hospital was attacked,” Peter said, getting up, grabbing a towel, wetting it.

“So much for the war being over,” the woman snapped, something harsh in her voice. She pushed herself to her feet. “We have to get Linus.”

He turned to her. “You're not going anywhere. I'm sure the fire department is on its way.” He shoved the washcloth into Esther's hand, turned, and grabbed a towel, saturating it also.

Then he pressed his hand to her cheek. “Stay here. I'll be right back.”

She clutched Sadie to her, her makeup channeling down her face. “Where are you going?”

“I'm going for Linus.”

She nodded.

He cupped the washcloth over his mouth and edged back out into the smoke.

A thick smoke-blanketed silence, back-dropped by the growl of the
fire, filled the hallway. Screams ricocheted through the stairwells. He dropped to his knees, blinded by the smoke, and ran his hand along the wall toward the solarium.

The room's windows lay jagged in their panes, the floor erupted as if it had been punched with a fist from below. “Linus!” He coughed, lay on the floor. “Linus!”

“Here!”

He heard the voice, and it jolted inside him—of course he'd heard it before, but the darkness, the press of death in the room—he expected to find Linus lying sprawled on some rubble, his hand clutched to his torn leg, begging for morphine.

Instead, Linus lay behind the Ping-Pong table, his hand pressed to the neck of a lifeless friend—smoothly dressed in his army uniform. Blood saturated his shirt, his clothes.

Linus looked up at him, his eyes almost unseeing. “They found us. Don't you see? They found us.”

“They haven't found us yet. Are you hurt?”

Linus just stared at him. Peter did a cursory search in the wan light. “I think you're going to be okay, Linus. You can let him go.” He moved to pry Linus's hand from the dead man. Linus pushed him back. “No—get away from me. Just….” Then he stared at Peter.

Something sparked in Linus's eyes, a sort of snap as something released.

“Linus—?”

Linus took his hand away, stared at it, then at Peter. Then his face crumpled. “I don't want to die.”

“You're not going to die. Come with me, Linus.” He grabbed Linus's arm, but Linus shook him off. “Get away—”

“Linus—listen to me. You're going to be fine. But you have to come with me. Esther is waiting for you.”

Nothing registered. Linus shook his head.

“Rosie is waiting.”

That shook him. “Rosie? Where—” Linus moved toward him. “Do I—do I know you?”

Peter ignored him, draped his arm over him. “Hang on.” Peter pushed the cloth over Linus's face as they entered the hall.

He couldn't feel heat, but he kept his face low, holding his breath as they scrabbled toward the bathroom. Linus coughed, his body racking. “Don't breathe in—” But of course, then the smoke raked into Peter's lungs.

He opened the door, spilled into the room.

Bertha grabbed up Linus. “I thought you'd died.” She clawed him to herself, her breath in quick, hard gulps.

Peter shut the door behind them. He turned to Esther, noticed how her gaze poured over him first, then shot to Linus.

Then, mercifully, back. He took her hand.

“I don't know where the fire is, or what we should do. If we stay here, there just might be another explosion.”

“What happened?” Linus disentangled himself from the woman.

“I think a couple prisoners escaped from the POW camp—maybe managed to steal some ordnance from Fort McCoy—and used it on the hospital.”
One more victory for the führer.

Esther wore huge eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I think Fritz and Ernst and Hans attacked the hospital.” He stared at her. “I—I—”

“The Fritz who beat you up and accused you of trying to escape?”

She glanced at Bertha, back to Peter. “They're going to think
you did it. They're going to think—oh, Peter, you have to run. You have to get out of here. They won't send you to another camp. They'll
execute
you.”

Her words shook him. Yes, they would. He drew in a breath. “Let's get you all out of here.”

Linus was staring at him, tears running down his face—more from the smoke, probably, than any flush of emotion. “I know you. I—your voice. I know it.”

“Yes,” Peter said quietly. “You do.”

Linus seemed to want more, but Peter didn't have the time. He turned back to Esther. “Let's go.” He positioned the towel over Sadie's head. “Stay under there, honey,” he said. Then he pressed the end of the towel to Esther's mouth. “Hold on to me. Don't let go.”

“Never.”

He gave her a smile.

Then he motioned to Linus. “There's a fire escape at the end of the hall. We get there, we'll be okay.”

“Maybe we should stay until we're rescued.”

“We won't be rescued. And if the fire roars through here, we'll be trapped. We have to go. Now.”

He reached over to Linus, who surrendered his arm. Peter draped it over his shoulder, muscled Linus to standing. Bertha pressed another cloth to her mouth.

“It's dark and hard to see. Hold on to Esther. Don't let Esther drop Sadie.”

Bertha nodded.

Oh, God, please deliver…

He came for her.

Peter came for her.

He came to stop her from marrying Linus. Linus—who Peter now shouldered as they scrabbled down the murky, smoke-filled hallway. She clutched Sadie to her breast, Bertha's hand fisted into her jacket.

He came for her.

But if he didn't run, he'd be caught.

And, if people like Dr. O'Grady had their way…

The lights had cut out. She blinked against the smoky blackness, making out little. From the open windows at the front, she made out the press of wan light, heard voices shouting.

Still, as she passed rooms, she called out, listening for patients' cries. The doors stood ajar, the wards seemingly evacuated. She'd outlined a plan for evacuation months ago, for use during a bombing drill.
Please, please let it have worked.

She counted doors as they crawled—only five between the nurses' station and the fire escape. Except—

She tugged at Peter. He turned, his face so close to hers she felt his breath on her. “Charlie. His door is closed. I'll bet they forgot him!”