"Because, Ba," she told him. "Just because."
___46.___
At the Foundation
Ba had a bad feeling about tonight as he pulled into the curb before the Foundation building. His initial plan had been simple: one man moving stealthily through the halls. Now it had been complicated by the Missus.
He was still recovering from the shock of the Missus' insisting on coming along tonight. He had planned to take his AMC Pacer, but now he was driving the Graham, and the Missus was in her usual place in the rear seat.
During the drive, Ba had argued strenuously to limit her to the most marginal involvement, such as waiting at the wheel of the car while he went inside, but she had flatly refused. She wanted to be there.
So he had reluctantly given the Missus a safe assignment: Go to the front entrance and make a scene—create a diversion.
"That's my specialty," she had said. "Making scenes."
As he put on the emergency brake, Ba heard the top twist off a bottle. He turned and saw her pouring liquor into a short glass. She took some in her mouth, rinsed it around like mouth wash, then swallowed with a grimace.
"Ugh! How do people drink scotch?" She breathed into her palm. "At least I'll smell the part. Let's go. It's showtime." Her eyes were bright with excitement.
Ba got out and stepped around to let her out, then watched as she walked up to the brightly lit front entrance, glass in hand, staggering just enough to look like someone who had had more than enough to drink.
He took a small duffle bag from the front seat and left the car under the lights at the curb. It would be safe there for a while, and he had decided that the best way to bring Dr. Bulmer out was straight through the front door.
He hurried off toward the side of the building.
It was 9:20 and he could wait no longer.
Senator McCready had rested all day. Sleep in other than short dozes had been almost impossible due to the excitement and anticipation of tonight. But he had resolutely stored up his strength, all but screaming at the clock for the unbearably slow caress of the hands across its face.
Now the time was almost here. He was going to Bulmer. At first he had intended to have him brought up here to the top-floor residence, but had dropped that idea in favor of one with more psychological appeal. He would go to Bulmer, thus appearing to be a humble supplicant rather than someone expecting a command performance.
Yes, this was the better approach. And after he was cured, Bulmer would have to be discredited. Try as he might, McCready could think of no alternative solution. That small, almost forgotten part of him let out a faint cry of protest. He turned a deaf ear to it. He couldn't relent now. He couldn't ignore the polls or the computer projection. A vindicated Dr. Alan Bulmer would be too much of a liability. McCready had to ruin him. There was simply no other way out.
The doors slid open and Rossi wheeled him into the elevator. They headed for the seventh floor.
The guard spotted her from his marble-enclosed guard station and was moving toward her before she was halfway through the revolving door.
"Sorry," miss," he said, holding out his hands in a "Stop" gesture. "We're closed to all visitors now."
Sylvia took a deep breath and launched herself into character.
"Wanna shee my doctor."
"None of the staff doctors are here now. Only a few resident physicians. Who's your doctor? We'll leave a message for him."
She had decided to be a belligerent drunk. She had seen enough of them at her parties—she hoped she could be convincing.
"I'm not talkin' 'bout one of your goddamn staff doctors! I'm talkin' 'bout Dr. Alan Bulmer. He's a patient here!"
"Visiting hours ended at seven. They start again at one tomorrow."
"I don't give a shit about your visiting hours! I'm here now… and I wanna shee Bulmer now!" She started toward the elevators. "What floor is he on?"
He grabbed her gently but firmly by the arm and guided her back toward the door. "Tomorrow, lady. Tomorrow."
Sylvia snatched her arm away. "Do you know who I am, you… you lackey?"
"No. And I don't care. Git!"
Sylvia had to hand it to the guard—he was keeping his cool. But it was showing signs of wear.
"Call the senator!" she cried as he grabbed her shoulders from behind and firmly propelled her toward the door. "He'll tell you who I am!"
It was time to play her ace card. She lurched away from him and leaned over the front of the guard station. There was a large panel of green and red lights there. Only the green were lit; they glowed steadily. She let her knees buckle.
"I'm gonna be sick!"
"Not there you ain't!" He pulled her away and eased her onto a bench a few feet away. "Sit here. I'll get you some water." He reached for her glass of scotch. "And you've had too much of that already."
"Doncha touch that! Just get me some water."
As he stepped over to the water fountain and filled a paper cup for her, Sylvia took a breather. So far, so good. She glanced at her watch.
Almost time.
She stood up again and staggered over to the guard station.
"Hey! Get away from there!" the guard cried as he returned with her water.
"You're right," Sylvia said, holding up her glass of scotch. "I don't need any more of thish." She placed the glass carefully on the marble rim directly above the control panel, then she made sure to hit it with her elbow as she swung around to return to the bench.
The guard's cry of "Oh, shit, no!" mixed with the tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a chorus of electrical pops and hisses accompanied by acrid white smoke rising from the control board as twelve-year-old scotch leaked down into the printed circuits.
As buzzers and bells began to sound, Sylvia moaned. "Oooh, I'm gonna be so sick!"
The small aluminum grappling hook had caught the ledge of a darkened second-floor window on the third try. Ba hauled himself up the length of the attached quarter-inch nylon cord until he could grab the ledge and pull himself up and balance there. He repeated the process with the window directly above.
This was as far as he would go on the outside. Dr. Axford had said that the administrative offices were on the third floor. As Ba had hoped, they were deserted at this time of night, and there was no sign that the windows were hooked up to the alarm system. A brief flick of his flashlight revealed that the floor inside was carpeted. Good. He pulled the duffle bag up to the ledge, withdrew Dr. Axford's white lab coat, and wrapped it around his right hand. Turning his face away, he struck the window a hard backhand blow. A splintering crash was followed by a softer clatter of the shards falling against each other as they hit the carpet, then silence.
Ba hooked his grapple inside the frame and waited, ready to slide down to street level at the first sign of anyone coming to investigate. No one showed, so he climbed in. He donned the lab coat, which was far too short in the arms, and waited until it came: a cacophony of bells and beeps. It sounded as if every alarm in the building was going off at once.
Ba checked his watch: 9:32. He bowed his respect to the Missus. His old friend Sergeant Nash had chosen well for a wife. She was as resourceful as she was compassionate. He stepped into the deserted hall and from there made his way to the fire stairs near the elevator alcove. He was on the third floor; the senator's domain was on the twentieth.
He began to climb.
He was breathing hard when he reached the top level, so he stopped and rested a moment, peering through the small rectangle of wired glass. There was only one elevator door at this level, and one doubtlessly needed a key to travel this far. He checked the latch on the door. It was unlocked. A warning sounded in his brain. It would be senseless to lock a door to a fire stair, but if the senator was as security conscious as Dr. Axford had said, this door would be wired with an alarm. The security system, however, was in chaos now, so it might be safe to open it and check around for any other possible entry to the top floor besides the single elevator.