The people in white stood only about twenty feet away, their blank stares facing forward. None of Dunk’s people were on this level, safer on higher ground.
Nobody would find us here. That’s what mattered.
I pulled the Ruger from my waistband, ready to use it if I had to.
“Where are you, Jack? We should discuss this face to face, not like this.”
Stella doubled over.
She yanked her arm from around my shoulder and clutched at her chest, her stomach. Her face grew red, her eyes pinched shut.
From my radio, through the headphones, came a blinding, loud burst of static followed by a high-pitched squeal, like a dagger jabbing at both my ears. I reached up and yanked off my headphones and threw them to the ground. I wasn’t alone. I saw several pairs come flying off the roof of the steel mill and shatter on the concrete outside the window.
When Stella screamed, when she pulled her knees up into her chest and let out a shriek, the sound came again. Loud enough that it blared through the headphones at my feet.
Like the radio in the cemetery when I was a kid.
Like the Mercedes stereo right before the incident at the lake.
I knelt down and wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tight.
Stella clawed her headphones off, too, dropped them to her side.
Outside our window, a series of shots rang out and when I looked, three of the people in white were dead.
I didn’t know if David had kept talking while we had the headphones on, but I heard him now, shouting.
“Those guns are awfully hot, aren’t they?” David yelled out from somewhere among the crowd of white. “It’s got to be tough to hold onto them. That burning hot metal. Like pressing your palm to a skillet. Sizzle, crackle, pop!”
At first, my Ruger only felt warm.
I loosened my grip slightly, but I didn’t let go. When that got too hot, I slid my hand around on the butt of the gun. The movement bought me a few more seconds. I couldn’t hold the trigger. I tapped a finger against it.
Then I smelled it.
Burning flesh.
I knew it was a trick.
I told myself it wasn’t real.
But about ten seconds after David Pickford said the words, I found myself dropping the handgun to the ground and rubbing both my palms against my jeans.
All around the mill, I heard the similar clatter of weapons dropping along with mixed cursing. People shouting, too. Yelling to each other. I wondered if anyone still had the headphones on. Then Stella cringed again, and static burst from my discarded headphones and I knew the answer—there was no way anyone kept them on, not if they were hearing that, too.
I unplugged the headphones from my radio. A moment later, I heard Preacher.“Anyone got a clue as to where he is?”
“North yard, I think. Came from that way.”
The people in white shuffled again.
When they stopped moving, the entire group had gained more ground, at least four feet closer to the building.
“This is so wonderful! Everyone finally together! Like some ragtag family reunion,” David said. This time, his voice came from the front, somewhere between the Pontiac GTO and the entrance to my building. “And Cammie, I believe congratulations are in order! I saw the girl’s room at your house in Carmel! A daughter, that’s wonderful news! What’s her name?”
“Darby!” Cammie shouted out from somewhere above me. Possibly on the roof, maybe a level below. Unable tonotanswer him.
The barrel of a shotgun appeared from the coat of one of the people in white about ten feet from the GTO. He took aim and fired off a thunderous round. Glass shattered as a window blew out.
