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 knew that 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.

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 expressions full 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 was swinging 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.