Chapter 23

“Things happen for reasons!” Jibben twitched so hard he nearly toppled out of his chair. “Real reasons! And just because we don’t know what they are shouldn’t make us devolve into believing a bunch of fairy tales!”

Everyone stared at him blankly.

“What about the Telekometer?” Jacob suggested—and, unfortunately, there were too many boxes between us for me to shut him up with a subtle kick to the shin. “Hinman’s equipment is acting up. Use Hinman’s equipment to figure out what’s wrong.”

After Hinman’s gizmo jumped when I ran it past Jacob, the last thing I wanted was to aim it there again while Jibben was looking. But refusing outright would seem suspicious. “I thought you said the Telekometer thing measured electromagnetic fields. The pendulum measures vibrations. Apples and oranges.”

“Be that as it may, additional data points can only help us analyze the situation more accurately.” Jibben’s eye ticced expectantly.

“Vic should handle the Telekometer,” Jacob announced. “The rest of us will watch the pendulum from three different angles. And Dr. Jibben will record our findings.”

Thankfully, Jibben was a team player, so he didn’t argue with Jacob’s plan. As the rest of them stationed themselves around the pendulum, I slipped the compass out of my exorcism kit and compared it to Hinman’s device. The compass needles matched, and when I turned my body one direction, then the other, they both stayed on magnetic north.

The spare needle on the Telekometer did nothing.

That was a relief.

I said, “I don’t think this actually works.”

“Let me see that.” Jibben grabbed the Telekometer from my hands before I could react—and aimed it directly at Jacob.

The needles remained steady. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Jibben’s forehead creased in confusion as he swung the device toward the now-steady pendulum. Again, no reaction.

“Curious,” he said. “I thought we might detect something in the electromagnetic field. Especially with the lights flickering.”

“Maybe it’s a different field,” I offered vaguely.

Jibben’s eye ticced again as he scrutinized the oscillating pendulum. “Clearly there are unknown factors at play.”

And if that factor turned out to be Jacob’s ability, it had better remain just that—unknown.

He began muttering about quantum entanglement as he took more notes. Our secrets, for now, were safe.

Alisha stood up with a sigh. “I gotta pee again.”

Jibben said, “You should make sure you don’t have a urinary tract infection, once we get out of here.”

“If we ever do,” she shot back.

“I’ve gotta go too this time,” I said. “C’mon. Let’s get it over with.”

Alisha and I filed out for yet another bathroom break. Crisis averted. For now.

I had the spare flashlight from my exorcism kit in my pocket, but I didn’t need to use it. Once we were out of containment, my regular flashlight beam steadied. I might not know jack about electromagnetic anything, but I knew how the FPMP operated…and electrical weirdness seemed like a logical enough explanation to me. And if some sort of experimental field had been constructed around that room—one that was currently wonky thanks to the storm—let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I told Alisha as I scanned the dark hall ahead with my light.

“For what?”

“For anything that shouldn’t be here.” We’d certainly made the trip enough times for her to get the lay of the land. Footprints don’t just appear out of nowhere…but now I was second-guessing what I’d seen. Maybe Jibben’s diatribe about scientific explanations had gotten to me. But now I was wondering if maybe there’d just been some kind of latent print there, maybe a residue of some sort that drew water up through the flooring when it was combined with whatever magnetic disturbance was going on.

Then again, Occam—whoever he was—would probably say that the most likely explanation for a footprint was a person with a wet shoe.

Given the long, empty expanse of the halls, if there was a random guy down here with us…at least we’d hear him coming.

Once we made it to the can unscathed, I handed Alisha my spare flashlight, angled toward the bathroom door, and said, “Can you hold it? I’ll be quick.”

Her eyes went wide. “But you said this was the Ladies’ Room!”

“That was before the break room sink started spewing water. Don’t worry. I did a dozen years in homicide. I won’t faint at the sight of a tampon.”

“Well, I put ’em away. But hurry up, or else there’s gonna be another puddle on the floor!”

Speaking of a dozen years in homicide…over that course of time, I’d learned a few things about human nature—and I found it pretty obvious that Alisha’s behavior wasn’t currently adding up. She hadn’t rushed me down the dark hall with the urgency of someone on the brink of imminent embarrassment. But now, suddenly, I was supposed to hurry.

Which meant there was something in that bathroom she didn’t want me to find.

And here I’d been so good at convincing myself she was someone I could trust.

I shut the door on Alisha’s anxious face and slid the lock home. The bathroom was small. I could scan it with a single sweep of my flashlight.

Nothing obvious.

Though I didn’t expect there to be.

Modern surveillance equipment is not only ridiculously small, but it’s easy to disguise as something innocuous, like an air freshener…or a tampon. But when I scanned the counter, there was nary a tampon to be found.

As I relieved myself, I bounced my beam around the small enclosed room, noting all the places Alisha could’ve stashed a small piece of tech. Light fixture. Vent. Heck, she could even have stowed something in the core of a spare toilet paper roll.

The only thing I knew for sure was that she’d been doing something she didn’t want me to hear while the water was running—and I didn’t think it was a number two.

I glanced at the toilet tank.

When you search a scene, that’s the first place to look. Why criminals think they’re so clever for hiding stuff back there is anyone’s guess, but I’ve found everything from a murder weapon to a stolen koi just by looking in the tank. So, if Alisha was a spy from National after all, reverse psychology would be the only reason she’d hide something in such an obvious place.

But in the spirit of leaving no toilet tank lid unturned, I zipped up and took a peek.

And floating there in the water was a plastic trash bag.

Alisha banged on the door. “I really gotta pee!”

I held my flashlight between my teeth and fished out the bag. It was small, about the size of a grocery bag, and it had been tied off with some air inside like a saggy balloon. But it wasn’t full of murder weapons, or surveillance equipment, or drugs.

It was full of food.

String cheese. Peanuts. That Asian mystery snack. All of the granola bars—and not just the ones she’d talked me into giving her. Every time our backs were turned, Alisha must’ve palmed something from the piles Jibben had so diplomatically rationed, then asked for a bathroom break to stash her ill-gotten goods.

On one hand, I always feel sorry for hoarders—so long as I don’t need to spend any time in their house. But right now, I just felt relieved that I hadn’t uncovered a surveillance device.

When I opened the door, Alisha managed to look both guilty and defiant, daring me with her eyes to make a scene.

“Listen,” I said calmly, “no one’s gonna starve here. Even if it takes a while for the power to come back up, just as soon as the storm blows over, I’m sure Darnell’s boss will sweep the building.”

“You don’t know that.” Alisha’s voice was strained.

“But I do. You saw how gung-ho this place is with security. Someone’s gonna check just as soon as they can—”

“Which could be five minutes from now. Or five hours. Or five days.”

“Probably not that long.”

“New Orleans. 2005. At my grandmother’s house down in Jefferson Parish. Me and Gramma got ourselves to the Superdome before the storm hit. I was so excited to see that big stadium—we never could afford to go see a game—but I had no idea we were walking straight into hell.

“Once we were inside, it was too late to change our minds. People struggling over food, getting sick from the bathrooms overflowing. The heat. The smell. National Guard giving out food, but pretty soon they ran low. I was so hungry I would’ve eaten anything. Gramma talked about Jesus the whole time to keep my spirits up…while she kept one eye on the men roaming through the crowd looking for anyone they could rape.

“We were trapped in there for a week,” she said. “So, five days? It can happen.”

I sure as hell hoped not—and not just because of the food. In five days, the lab would flood, the cadavers would thaw, and god-knows-what would happen to Clayton.

“Tornadoes aren’t hurricanes,” I said. “We’ll make it through. And, don’t worry. Your food stash is safe with me. Just…leave whatever’s left in containment for the others.”

Alisha’s eyebrows twisted up and her chin quivered.

Cripes, the last thing I needed was more waterworks down here.

“And give me back my damn granola bar,” I added sternly, though I’m pretty sure she saw right through it.

We ate, sitting there in the dark hallway with our backs against the wall, while Alisha talked. She told me about her grandmother losing everything and coming up here to stay with family in Chicago. Hating the winters—but never forgetting the brutally hot week she’d spent stewing in that reeking stadium.

There was a lull that I chalked up to the normal ebb and flow of conversation, and then Alisha cleared her throat. Once. Twice. Three times. And then she was slapping urgently at my leg.

She’d gone up on her knees, eyes huge, waving at her neck.

“You’re choking?” I demanded.

She wheezed. And since there was air going in and out, the Heimlich maneuver wouldn’t do her any good. Her knee crunched on a wrapper. I swung down my flashlight beam and saw it wasn’t a granola bar she’d just eaten, but the Asian mystery snack.

And she’d told us all she was allergic to shellfish.