‘It’s a great city. I’m sure you’ll come to love it.’
‘I hope so.’
‘There’s lots of cool things to do – Primanti’s, Mount Washington, all the art spaces. Kennywood amusement park is really fun …’
He keeps talking about the delights of Pittsburgh like some kind of bizarre tour guide, and she notices how his voice is pitched a little lower, forcing her to lean forward to hear. The details of what he’s saying are blurred, but the cadence is hypnotic.
‘… could go together to Light Up Night, what do you say?’
‘Uh, sounds good.’ What did she just agree to? Some of whathe’s saying got lost. She finds herself horrifically transfixed by the shine on his lips as he wets them. Sweat pops at her hairline, under her fake fringe. ‘Gosh, it’s hot in here.’
‘Take off your gloves,’ Peter suggests.
Sounds sensible. Emma peels off her fingerless gloves and immediately feels better.
Wait.
‘Hey …’ Peter raises a finger, like he’s just had the thought. ‘Would you like to go someplace else to dance? Someplace a bit quieter?’
Emma makes a helpless little shrug. ‘I would, but my brother …’ She nods toward the dance floor. ‘We could dance right now?’
Peter grins. ‘I’d like that.’
He stands, and Emma realizes he is tall.
No – that’s the drug.That small moment of altered perception gives her a jolt of terror, yet she’s unable to do anything but comply.
Peter extends his hand, and Emma finds herself reaching up and taking it. His hand is soft and powder-dry. His fingertip brushes against her palm gently, like a wriggling worm, and she feels an indescribably powerful revulsion.
Breathe. Travis, where are you?
She stands, knees wobbling.Whoa.This isn’t … She tries to steady herself on the table, sees one of her gloves, the bottle of Evian. There’s something she has to remember – it’s not coming to her. As Peter leads her to the edge of the dance floor, Emma slips her right hand into her jacket pocket. She’s surprised to find a hard cylinder there, curls her grip around the baton absently.
Walking is far more complicated than she anticipated. Her legs are watery. Around her, people are lurching and lunging in slow motion, bumping into her. Only Peter’s hand feels solid.
He turns back and frowns at her, almost theatrical. ‘Come on, Kelly. What’s the matter?’
Emma focuses on his lips.Whaaat’sss the maaatterrr…Her head is really foggy now. Very strange indeed.Travis – where is Travis?She looks back, can’t see him. All the purple lights look like crystals.
Everything is slow, slow, slow, and Emma flicks her right hand behind herself, feels the baton extend with a comicalshloop.
When the flash-bangs happen, they look like part of the strobe pattern. But they’re not coordinated with the music – the timing is off. And they’re white, not purple, not red. People are screaming, teeth gleaming, sparks arcing in the dim light. Staccato movement around her.
Peter’s breath is sour, his grasp tight on her wrist. He casts around, alarmed. ‘What the—’
Somewhere in the stratosphere, voices yelling, ‘Freeze! Everybody stay where you are!’ and some garbled words she can’t make out.
Emma looks at the College Killer mildly. ‘What’s the matter, Peter?’
In one smooth, slow action, she brings her baton down on his hand, and his hold breaks.
The crowds around them surge. She doesn’t see whether he’s surprised at her, and it doesn’t seem to matter now. He melts away into the mass of screaming, panicked people.
Emma’s mind is hazy, and her legs no longer support her – she sinks down onto the dance floor. Brief flashes of pain as people stepon her. But the pain is transient, and it’s cooler on the floor, and she’s so heavy. Maybe she’s dreaming all this.
‘Emma. EMMA.’
That’s her name. The realization is somehow important. Then strong arms are scooping her up, carrying her, and all she can think of isParadise Lost, in which Milton said that the mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven.
