The Tin Man

Wendy McLanahan was too exhausted to register any reaction except to close her eyes as another contraction began. Patrick’s jaw dropped open. “Doc, you said she was three centimeters eight hours ago. Wendy has had a contraction every three or four minutes since three P.M.! What’s going on?”

“It’s a difficult delivery, that’s all, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “We’ll go ahead and give her some oxytocin to speed things up. That might help.”

“I’m not on a timetable here, Doc, but she’s already exhausted-she’s shaking, she’s sweating like crazy but she’s shaking and white as a ghost and complains of being cold. It looks like she’s going into shock. What are we going to do?”

The obstetrician studied the monitor readouts. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “Wendy seems strong, and so does the baby. It’s important that she not push…”

“She’s too exhausted to push, Doc,” Patrick protested. “What about an epidural? Something to reduce the pain?…”

“Normally we don’t do an epidural until she’s dilated at least five centimeters,” the doctor said. “We can give her something to take the edge off, but an epidural at this stage would be asking for trouble. She may not be able to push when the time comes. We’ll start the oxytocin-that’ll get things moving a little more quickly-and I’ll give her a mild painkiller in her IV. As soon as she’s at five centimeters, in one or two hours at most, we’ll…”

“One or two hours?” Patrick exclaimed. “It’s almost twenty hours now!”

“I don’t think she was in active labor when you brought her in, Mr McLanahan,” the obstetrician said. “In any case, we have to let things take their course. We want to avoid too much intervention. Accelerating labor is a big enough step. We want to avoid having to do a cesarean if at all possible.”

“We can’t do a cesarean at all, Doc,” Patrick said. “Wendy had wanted this to be as natural a childbirth as possible, with minimum drugs and maximum mobility…”

“I know that, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said, “but things are obviously not going as planned. We may have no choice…”

“Read the records, Doc,” Patrick said. “She can’t have a cesarean.”

“I read the records Dr Linus faxed to me, Mr McLanahan, and I read his annotation about abdominal injuries and damage to her circulatory system. I also read that Dr Linus recommended terminating the pregnancy because of the severe risks to Wendy’s health if there were complications during delivery.” The doctor saw the guilt that spread across Patrick’s face and felt sorry for him. They obviously wanted a child badly enough to risk the life of the mother. He looked at the chart and frowned, then studied Patrick warily. “I’m a little confused about a few things, Mr McLanahan,” he said. “I see evidence of scarring, perhaps burns, and damage to her lungs, abdomen, and heart, but no cause listed. How did your wife get injured? A car accident?”

Patrick swallowed hard, obviously conflicted and apprehensive. “I… I can’t tell you,” he responded.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t give you any details, Doc,” Patrick said. “I thought Dr Linus was going to include a note with the medical records explaining…”

“There’s a note saying something about sensitive and classified government information,” the obstetrician said, “but I need to know what has happened to your wife before I can treat her and the baby. You’re asking me to work in the dark, Mr McLanahan, and that’s dangerous. Do you want that for your wife and new baby? Which is more important-national security or the lives of your wife and child?”

“My family, of course,” Patrick said resolutely. “I’ll tell you anything you need to know. What about this oxytocin stuff, about speeding up labor?”

“The drug will supplement, then eventually take over, the frequency and intensity of her contractions-we’ll have better control,” the obstetrician said. “Things will happen fast after that. If they don’t, we’ll start considering our options…”

“Not a cesarean,” Patrick said emphatically.

“If you won’t consider a cesarean, then you risk the health, even the life, of the baby…”

“I said no C-section,” Patrick said, his voice hard, his eyes piercing the doctor’s. “I’m not going to risk Wendy’s life. Period.”

The doctor nodded. He saw the pain on Patrick’s face. “All right, I hear you. We’ll make that decision later-that probably won’t be for a few hours. But first, we need to talk. Sit down…”

Seventh and K Streets, Sacramento

the same time

The complex was called Sacramento Live! and it was the biggest thing to hit the downtown area in years: ten night-clubs and ten movie theaters, all in one location on K Street. Everything was in one place, from quiet, elegant, relaxing steak houses that served fine wine and cigars, to pizza places with games and cartoons for the kids, sports bars, jazz, rock and roll, funk, country-western, and Generation X. Patrons could do one-time parking or take Light Rail right to the mall, see a movie, then spend an evening in one place, or circulate among all of them, and never go outdoors. The place was packed all year long, but during the holidays it was shoulder-to- shoulder, with mall-weary shoppers taking refuge in the movie theaters and then enjoying dinner and a drink before heading home.

The doors closed at midnight. It normally took the small army of cleanup crews less than an hour to straighten up, but during the holiday season they needed extra crews, and it took the seasonal workers longer to do the job of cleaning up the huge complex. The night managers of the clubs were usually finished counting the receipts, checking the time cards, doing a closing inventory, and preparing the books by one A.M., so several cleanup crews were still inside when the day’s receipts were boxed up in large locked steel containers by each club’s manager and an armed private security officer and wheeled over to the bookkeepers and general manager in the cash room on the second floor of the complex.

Security was tight inside Sacramento Live!, especially when the cash was on the move. Off-duty Sacramento Police Department officers patrolled the complex when it was open, but all but one of them went home at midnight, leaving only private security forces on duty. A private elevator, guarded on the first floor by an armed security officer and controlled by the chief of security from the second floor, took the steel cash bins upstairs to the cash room. Other security officers monitored cameras mounted throughout the complex, keeping watch over the area around the private elevator while the cash bins were in motion. Watchmen armed only with radios and flashlights patrolled inside and outside until all the regular employees had left the building and the cash was secure. The lone off-duty police officer was stationed with the chief of the private security company on the second floor during the receipts transfer; the radio he carried was a standard-issue police radio, linked to Central Dispatch. The private security officers and watchmen were connected to each other via radio, as well as to the chief of security on the second floor.

The elevator could only take three cash bins and their escorts at a time, so five boxes were left waiting on the first floor as the first group of three went upstairs; and three boxes had yet to come out of their respective clubs. The first three boxes had already made it to the second floor when the main lights dimmed, then flickered out. The battery-powered emergency lights immediately snapped on.

“Power failure procedures, power failure procedures,” the chief security officer announced over the emergency public address system. One guard blew a whistle, and the cleanup crews on the first floor instantly stopped what they were doing and headed to the front door, escorted by an armed security guard. He had the easy job. The other guards groaned, because the alarm meant that the elevator was shut down-and that meant they would have to lug the heavy cash bins up the stairs to be secured in the cash room until the main power was restored.

“First floor, all secure?” the chief of security radioed.

“Secure,” came the reply from one of the guards, signaling that the cleanup crews had been escorted outside and the doors were closed, locked, and checked. The chief of security opened the stairwell door on the second floor, which locked behind him, and walked downstairs. The door to the first floor was locked on the other side, so that occupants of the second floor could use the stairwell as a fire escape, but no one on the first floor could walk upstairs unless it was opened by security. The chief security officer knocked on the door three times, received two knocks in response, then gave one more knock before pushing it open. Carlson, one of the newer security officers,