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. The hunched 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.