Page 113 of Chaos

Hank is asleep in a chair beside her.

I let my gaze rove the lobby, searching for anything out of place, still tapping into that strange animal awareness of mine.

It doesn’t feel right—beyond the unsettling emptiness of having half the population away for the mission to the bullet factory.

Mitsy’s standing in the hallway that leads toward Sheila’s infirmary where she spends most of her days. She’s talking to one of the soldiers, doing her stupid simpery eye-lash flappery, but as I watch, her back stiffens and her gaze swivels to mine, with a reptilian creepiness to match my own.

Her face sours and she tightens her grip on the purse she’s always got on her.

A chill washes over me.

She was alone in the suite with Yorke back when his shoulder was injured, in our suite, touching his bare skin. She was alone with Shane later, touching his hand. She was there when Yorke was shot, and she tried to get him to go back to her room with her. God knows what she did while I was in the cellar.

Everyone always wondered who Nando would trust enough to turn his back on them like that.

No one would turn their back on Ben or Renata.

But a tiny little eye-flapping blonde?

Maybe they fought in the kitchen. Maybe she found him there and started pressing for a commitment out of him, and he turned his back in exasperation and she saw the knife, grabbed it, stabbed him. Maybe he slumped over the counter. Maybe she acted fast enough to get him on a nearby room service cart before he could hit the ground.

All she’d have to do then is roll him into the freezer, shut the door, clean up any blood, and run.

And we’re not talking about a forensics team here. Sheila and Len could tell Scraggle asphyxiated, but there was no autopsy, no fingerprint dusting.

Across the room, Mitsy cocks her head at me.

I swear she knows that I know.

“I don’t hear anything from in there, but …” Shasta says, notes of unease coloring her voice, as she turns her back on the door, pivoting so she’s facing out. This office and several others break off behind the check in desk, along with the armory.

The long hall leading to the spa and the ballroom runs to the left, more guest rooms in the floors above it. Then the lobby itself, with the War Room and a series of conference rooms at the back. Another hallway stretching into the distance leads to the infirmary, the greenhouse, the promenade, and more guest suites.

People are milling around, but there’s something unnatural about it all. The sound is off.

Even blind, Shasta senses the same thing I do. The offness of it all.

Across the lobby, soldiers stir around, a cluster of them, talking to an ex ex-townee, one of the men I frequently see with Duane.

There’s a series of chatter, voices growing louder, more agitated.

And then Duane’s voice, rising above the rest. “What the hell do you mean Ephie’s got contraband?” he shouts, and immediately I look for Shane.

“She’s just a kid,” Duane keeps going. “How the hell could she get contraband into Thornewood? You pigs all but cavity search us every time we come back from a scavenge.”

I flinch at the wordscavity search.

The soldier he’s shouting at doesn’t speak, but does continue on his way, moving around Duane who steps right back into his pathway.

I remember this feeling, this sense of offness.

I felt it long ago when Jimmy and I tried to escape DC and we ran into a roadblock and an angry mob. It’s anelectricity rippling as people’s energy congeals with joint ugliness.

“Step aside!” the soldier shouts.

Behind Duane, ex-townees ripple like a flock of sharks when chum hits the water.

“No, you can’t go searching people’s beds at random. She’s just a kid!” Duane shouts louder, and others join him. “There have to be rules about search and seizure. Where’s Barbara Walters?”

---