Page 83 of The Broken Places

Lennon ran as silently as possible to the corner of the church and dialed the lieutenant. “Call off the officers dispatched here. Immediately,” she said. “Or you’ll kill them all. We have to keep these people calm, to distribute an antidote to those we can save. Trust me, please.” Then she hung up before the lieutenant could even respond, praying that he would do as she asked and trust her without explanation.

She met Ambrose where he was, cradling the head of a woman who was staring, her head bent back as tears slid down her face. He brought the inhaler to her nose and sprayed it, her features evening out as she sank back into her chair.

“Give me one,” Lennon said, and after he did, she moved to another table. The sobbing moans and punctuated shrieks were getting louder. In a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter if they all kept calm or not. The ones who hadn’t been already would be quickly hurled into the pit of their own mind.

Lennon sprayed the nasal spray into an old man’s nose and then moved on to another. She, Ambrose, and Myrna split up and began traveling around the tables. It was clear now who was under the influence. “Keep them calm,” she whispered to the others, their expressionsfull of wide-eyed panic. “No sudden movements. Help them. Please don’t flee. It will start a stampede.”

But when a man let out a loud bellow, coming to his feet and snatching a fork, whirling around and stabbing at the air, the people around him rose from their chairs, gasping with terror and grabbing for weapons to defend themselves.

The sounds of panic caused others to rise from their seats, twisting and punching and kicking as they fought invisible monsters that were deep inside their minds.

Lennon was driven back, ducking away from a man who swiped at her with a broken piece of glass from a bottle he’d smashed on the table. He lunged after her, and she tripped but righted herself quickly, her heart beating so harshly she could barely breathe.

They had so little time, and the sounds were increasing in volume, those who’d already descended growing in number—four, five, now six. Off to her side, a wide-eyed older man had his hands clamped over the ears of the young man next to him, who was shaking with sobs, his eyes clasped shut, trapped in his trauma. But not too far gone, not yet.

Suddenly, from above her came one monstrous, resounding howl, and she looked up to see Franco on a smaller balcony, head tipped back as he let out a demonic shriek. He’d seen that the people who had taken his poison were being helped, and he was attempting to offset that help. Lennon’s adrenaline surged, fear and panic making her lightheaded.

What do I do? What do I do?

Classical music very literally lowers blood pressure and reduces anxiety. You should remember that, Picasso.

The words streamed through her mind as though Tanner had leaned in and repeated them, and she let out a gasp of breath as she brought the inhaler to the young man’s nose and released a spray. He whimpered, his head going to the table, eyes opening as he blinked around. She handed the inhaler to the older man who’d been helping him hold on. “Help them,” she said. “One squirt in a nostril. Quickly.”

“I will.” He stood immediately and moved toward the table next to him.

The fighting near the front grew louder, and Lennon jerked her head so the petrified DJ would step aside. She turned the volume all the way down. “A slow drumbeat,” she whispered to the DJ, eyes beseeching.Hurry. Hurry.He wasted no time, pressing a button that began the slow percussion, and then Lennon put her fingers on the keyboard and began to play one of Chopin’s nocturnes. For a brief moment, she was almost shocked that the piece came back so easily, and especially under the circumstances. But it did, moving through her fingers as though the notes had been waiting there all along, trapped, but now joyful to finally be set free.

Franco howled and pounded and shrieked from above while Lennon’s fingers moved over the keys from below, the slow drumbeat keeping time.

The fighting continued, a woman launching herself halfway across the table as those who’d run began streaming out through a side door. What did they have? Three minutes? Maybe less, before so many of these souls were trapped in an eternal nightmare.

Tears streamed down Lennon’s face. She knew the people in front of her, twisting and writhing and sobbing, were fighting unthinkable battles. Alone.

But the physical fight was spreading, and soon even those who’d remained still and calm, protecting the people silently suffering, would have no choice but to abandon them to save themselves. And then they would plunge to their own internal death, too, and it would all spread like wildfire until the police had no choice but to come in and kill them all.

There were still several tables of victims clawing at the tabletop, barely holding on, as Ambrose, Myrna, and the older man Lennon had given the inhaler to made their way over. A fight had broken out in front of them, however, and a man who’d submitted to the drug wasswinging a broken chair leg around, his grunts of pain causing two women who’d been on the floor to rise and join the melee.

Oh God. Ambrose. Hurry. Hurry.

They had to save as many as possible. But not at the expense of more innocent lives. Once the antidote was out, she’d be forced to shoot the ones who were intent on fighting to the death. They were victims, too, though, and it was going to kill her to have to do it.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor appear at the bottom of the stairs. He’d dropped down from the choir balcony, leaving his vaulted place of protection and deciding instead to enter the fray.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Pounding down the door that led from the choir balcony to the stairs wasn’t an option—he wouldn’t risk even one tender psyche with the loud sound of splintering wood—and so in the end, Dr. Sweeton had jumped to the floor below. His leg was likely broken; useless, anyway. And he was bleeding out. The room tilted, but he managed to pull himself upright. Ambrose and the other two people were hurrying among the tables, administering the antidote. There was no more time left, though, and the man had turned, holding up the tiny bottle to Ambrose, gesturing that his was empty.

There were only two more tables to go, and the people there appeared to be on the brink of total mental collapse as Ambrose and the woman rushed toward them, in the direction where the doctor now stood. Next to each of them was a brave, kind soul who was taking a great personal risk to calm and soothe.Hold on. Hold on.Tears gathered in his eyes, and he felt a sob building inside. Humans could be terrible, and beautiful too. It was the only certainty he had left.

Two more tables, and Ambrose and the others would have reached all those who could be helped.

Maniacal laughter echoed from above, but Lennon’s music floated in the air. He saw a few expressions smoothing, shoulders lowering. They were caught in that beautiful song, their minds so suggestive. Shewas offsetting the horror, and he didn’t know how she’d known to do that, but she had. The music, the beautiful music, had interrupted their nightmare.Good thinking, Lennon.She played effortlessly, not a single harsh note. Not one forgotten melody. And that unceasing drumbeat, the one that mimicked a heartbeat, the first thing that grounded and comforted all humans, even before sight or touch. Lennon seemed to know exactly when to pick up the tempo of her accompanying music and when to slow it down, responding to the hellish sounds Franco was bent on making from above. He was banking on a violent free-for-all, the only thing that would allow him to escape now.

A man wielding a chair leg swung it at Ambrose, and he ducked as others rushed forward, seeking the threat, fighting the monsters in their minds.

Ambrose and the others weren’t going to make it here, and the antidote must be mostly gone. These people were already on borrowed time, the music likely the only thing keeping them from sliding into their personal torment.

He knew Lennon could only play so long. She’d have to begin shooting them, if it came to that. And if they didn’t die ... they’d live submersed in that torment forever. Or if the police came in, as they must be about to do, they’d capture and restrain them, and unknowingly sentence them to eternal hell.

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