Page 82 of The Broken Places

Franco turned back toward him, his smile growing.

“Clean clothes,” Franco said. “New deodorant. It’s been drummed into them. Good hygiene is important. Present yourself well tonight. Our funding depends on it.” Franco laughed as the doctor stared in horror. “Like they’re toddlers. They’ll eat the mints, Doctor. Or at least most of them will. While I’ve been up here talking with you, enough already have. You don’t want to upset them now, do you? The slightest provocation to their nervous system—rushing blood, rapid heart rate—and it will act that much quicker. Specific triggers aren’t necessary. Most anything will do. Eventually, they’ll attack and trigger each other.”

The doctor lurched forward, moaning as he grabbed the rail, overlooking what would almost certainly be a savage melee in mere minutes. He couldn’t shout. It would only make the toxin take effect thatmuch sooner if he panicked the crowd. He sucked in a breath as he felt Franco’s body heat as the man drew close, and then something sharp sliced into his lower back. “I can’t let you report me, Doc,” Franco said close to his ear. “But I do want you to last long enough to watch.” The doctor sucked in a staggered breath as Franco pulled the blade out of his skin, the agonizing pain where he’d been stabbed making the room below him spin. He felt the warmth of his blood saturating the back of his shirt. Behind him, he heard a door close softly and latch. He was locked on the balcony, losing blood quickly. He couldn’t yell for help, and in moments, he would be forced to watch a violent mass murder. If the police had been alerted, they’d ensure it was that much bloodier if they came in guns blazing. There was little hope of stopping this. Franco was right: it was just beginning. The doctor leaned over the ledge and waved his arm, trying desperately to get Ambrose’s attention.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Ambrose spotted the doctor from above just as Lennon approached the DJ to ask if she could use his microphone to address the crowd. The doctor’s face was bright red, and even from a distance, Ambrose could see he was sweating profusely. As he met Ambrose’s eye, he mouthed “No” and pointed to Lennon.

Ambrose didn’t understand what was happening, but he reached for Lennon’s hand anyway, pulling her back and directing her gaze to the doctor. Their attention was diverted momentarily by the sight of a man appearing on a higher platform to their right and peering from the edge. Franco Girone. He stood gazing down, as though waiting for a show to begin.

“What the hell is going on?” Lennon asked. The doctor was gesturing now to his pocket and then pointing at the coatrack.

“There’s something in his jacket pocket?” Ambrose murmured.

The DJ raised his microphone and smiled over at a woman standing next to him who appeared to be about to say some welcoming words. The microphone let out a high screech, and several people at the table next to her shrieked in response, covering their heads as if under attack. Eyes widened, and a low murmur took up. A woman next to one of the cowering people put her hand on the other’s back in comfort. Thehunched woman lifted her head and punched her would-be comforter in the face. Several gasps of shock sounded around the room.

“What’s going on?” Lennon asked, her head moving left and right.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Something’s wrong with them.”

Another man let out a bellow, wrapping his arms around his waist, his face scrunching as if in pain. Were they sick? “Oh my God, Ambrose. Do you think Girone has spiked their drinks? Or put a pill in their food or something? Would that be possible?” Lennon asked.

“Maybe.” Ambrose’s gaze hit on another woman, who was whimpering and rocking to and fro. They looked both pained and ... drugged. And not just one or two, but many. How, though? And so suddenly? But then he noticed several uneaten mints sitting at place settings in front of people at a table that identified them as Rays of Hope staff.The mints.

He whipped his head to look at another table, this one with a placard for Oceancrest Sober Living. His heart sank when he saw only empty wrappers. The mints were laced with the mix of hallucinogens; he was certain of it.

His gaze flew back to the doctor, who had his finger to his lips. “I think he’s put his drug in the mints. We have to keep them calm,” he whispered. His heart was racing, and a cold sweat broke out over his back. “Go,” he said to Lennon. “Turn the microphone off.”

Lennon darted forward, and Ambrose turned, heading to the coatrack and beginning to tear through the coats. Moans had started up, and voices rose in volume, attempting to calm the confusingly distressed people and asking questions.Shut up, shut up, shut up,he chanted in his head as he ripped a jacket he thought he’d seen the doctor wearing off the rack. He searched the pockets, but they were empty. He threw it aside and continued the hunt.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Trinity’s feet were encased in mist, fog swirling in slow circles as she tried desperately to figure out where she was. She took one hesitant step forward, then another, and then a crack sounded behind her, the outside world where she’d just been falling away into nothing. She screamed, leaping forward and landing on her belly on the floor of her father’s church. She knew it—oh God, she knew it. The smell. The feel.No. Oh no. How?

She gasped, her head whipping back and forth, her fingers gripping the tile floor beneath her as her body slid forward. She was flipped sideways, and then back on her belly, a scream caught in her throat, and she was pulled, her shirt riding up as the cold travertine met her ribs.

You’re a whore, aren’t you? Little whore who likes that.

Some unknown force was pulling her like a magnet. She took one hand off the floor and used it to grip a leg of one of the pews and sit up, her hair flipping in the direction of that unknown force as she turned to see what it was.

A gaping hole. Black and somehow undulating. It swirled and pulsed, and Trinity turned her head away, tears streaking down her cheeks. It was horror. It was grief and pain and shame and loneliness and all the things her father had made her feel. It had a name, and sheheard it whispered, and she didn’t know the language. But she knew what it meant:unloved.

Trinity leaned over and vomited on the floor, the puddle of sickness moving and swarming and hatching and then becoming insects that burst into her face and screamed, “Whore!” She twisted away, the magnetic horror whipping her onto her stomach and dragging her again. The thing that was the opposite of all goodness had come to life and was trying to suck her inside it.

Shh, shh, shh.The soft sound somehow rose above the others. Soothing. A lifeline in the mist. It gave her the strength to resist that incessant pull, to turn her eyes away from the black hole from which she could hear shrieks emanating. She grunted with effort, her body being dragged ... dragged ever forward. Those shrieks, they curdled her blood and made the slow tears turn to breathless sobs.

Her father appeared suddenly, standing at the front of that sunless chasm leading to the lowest depths of despair. His hand was raised to the heavens, and he was ranting, speaking of judgment he proclaimed came from the Lord, his voice drowned out by the sucking, swirling void. The screams and shrieks emanating from the blackness became louder, a merciless howl that beckoned Trinity ever closer. And though she tried, she was helpless to resist.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Lennon grabbed the microphone from the DJ just as he was raising it to his mouth. Less than thirty seconds had elapsed since the woman had punched her tablemate and Ambrose had realized the mints were laced. “Hey!” the DJ said, causing another chorus of pained yells to sound behind him. Lennon shook her head dramatically, her eyes widening as she put her finger to her lips. She turned to all the startled people looking around in alarm, some beginning to stand, and Lennon put her arms out at her sides, pushing her palms down in a plea to keep quiet, keep calm.

Ambrose approached slowly, opening his hand to show three nasal inhalers. “Doc was working on an antidote,” he whispered so softly she could barely hear. “But his last batch was weak. It won’t work once they’ve descended too far.” He looked around. The moans were rising, and it was obvious those who’d initially thought a food poisoning situation or something similar was unfolding had realized it was far more worrisome and were backing their chairs away from the tables, creating distance between themselves and the moaning, squirming people around them. “Panic makes the toxins absorb faster,” he said, talking rapidly. “Keep them calm. I’d estimate we have less than ten minutes.”

Her limbs began shaking. She remembered the woman from the psychiatric ward, the one who’d “survived” the crime scene, and knewthat once the drug had fully taken hold, the people around her would become savages who had to be kept in permanent comas. But before that ... before that ... ready-made weapons.Knives. Forks. Glass. Chairs.So many potential weapons. And Franco had ensured they’d use anything and everything they could, even if that only meant their hands and teeth. “The police are on the way,” she said, the words soft and breathy, filled with panic. “I have to warn them not to bust in here.” These people would attack—viciously—and the cops would have to open fire, which would result in more panic and so much death.

“Go,” he said, pointing to the front of the church, where there was a quiet corner. Then he turned to a woman attempting to soothe one of the sobbing, howling men, speaking to her and handing her one of the inhalers.Myrna Watts.Lennon recognized her as Myrna Watts from the Gilbert House.

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