Page 12 of The Shadow Friends

She walked down the second-floor hallway to Room 212, where a Do not disturb sign hung on the doorknob. She knocked. “Dr. Maslov?” she called out. “It’s after nine! Your panel’s already started!”

There was no answer.

She knocked again, harder. “Dr. Maslov?”

Either the man had left his room, or he was sleeping so soundly that he couldn’t hear her. Behind her, the elevator dinged, and she turned as the door slid open. A hotel housekeeper emerged, pushing a cart laden with towels and toiletries. The woman was nearly as old as Maggie, yet here she was, laboring at a job that required lifting and bending and scrubbing. The workday had just begun, and the woman already looked weary from effort. Perhaps weary of life as well.

“Excuse me,” said Maggie. “This guest isn’t answering his door. Could you check if he’s in the room?”

The woman hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to disturb a guest if there’s a sign on the door.”

“He’s supposed to be downstairs right now, giving a presentation. Could you just peek inside the room and see if he’s there . . .” Maggie glanced at the woman’s name tag. “Hannah?”

Reluctantly, the woman approached the door and knocked. “Housekeeping,” she called out. “Hello?” No answer. She slipped in the master key card and opened the door. Managed to take only one step into the room before she halted and backed out again. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”

Maggie pushed past her into the room, where the air stank of sickness and vomit. On the floor, near the foot of the bed, a man lay sprawled on his back, dressed only in his undershorts. He appeared to be in his seventies, an age when any number of ailments might cause a man to collapse. Maggie dropped to her knees beside the motionless body and pressed her fingers against the man’s neck. A pulse was there, faint and rapid. Or was it her own racing pulse she felt bounding in her fingertips?

“Call 911!” she yelled. “Get an ambulance here!” As the housekeeper made the call, Maggie gave the man a shake. “Dr. Maslov! Dr. Maslov, can you hear me?”

He wasn’t breathing.

She grabbed a corner of the bedsheet and wiped the saliva from his lips. Fighting the overwhelming urge to gag, she pressed her mouth over his and blew in three breaths. Felt his neck again to check for a pulse. It was still there, but thready.

She glanced up at the housekeeper. “The ambulance?”

“The operator says it’s coming.”

“Do you know CPR?”

The woman stared down at Maslov. “Is he—is he alive?”

“Hannah, do you know CPR?”

“I don’t know how to!”

“Go down to the ballroom. There are two doctors, up on the stage. Tell them there’s a medical emergency. Go.”

The housekeeper finally shook off her paralysis and ran for the stairs.

Maggie bent over and gave Maslov three more breaths. The hospital was only two miles away. She needed to keep the man alive just long enough for the ambulance to arrive, and then she could hand him over to the professionals.

Three more breaths.

She no longer registered the foul smell of the room; her only focus was on filling Maslov’s lungs with air. She lost track of how much time had passed, how many breaths she’d delivered.

She heard the wail of an approaching ambulance.

Keep going. Keep him alive.

The siren screamed closer and abruptly shut off.

Just a few more minutes.

She heard the ding of the elevator, the clatter of a stretcher. Voices.

“Stop!” someone commanded. “Don’t go in the room yet!”

She looked up to see Dr. Cornell Stamoran standing in the doorway, his arms spread out to prevent anyone from entering the room. Behind him in the hallway stood two paramedics, looking confused.