Bell holds himself carefully. Patience and low voices. “You want us to go into a situation like this with no weapons?”

“Sir.” Pradeep’s dark beard and mustache are the background against which his eyes glitter. “You are here only to observe, correct? And Mr. Gutmunsson cannot think there is an opportunity to gain access to a weapon. The result could be very bad. Very bad. You cannot go through the door with the weapon.”

Bell’s frustration gnashes at him. Surrendering the Colt seems about as good an idea as cutting off his hands. Then Emma gives him a look that seems to say, I need you more than I need the gun. Bell sighs.

He unbuckles the gun belt. “This was my father’s.”

“I will be careful with it,” Pradeep promises. He holds the gun belt correctly, a man familiar with weapons. This reassures Bell a little.

They file through the open gap—Bell goes last. There is a significant moment of transition: The room they enter is much colder than the one they’ve just left. The girls stick to the wall. Bell turns to thank Pradeep.

“Sat Sri Akaal,” the man says. “I wish you good fortune.”

The door closing behind them feels very final.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

It was a shame about Hannity.

Hoyt arranges the man’s head off to the side of the control desk, so the blood doesn’t foul the switches, and tries not to feel bad. He hasn’t ever killed someone he’s worked with before, and sometimes Hannity spoke about his grandchildren.

But then Hoyt reminds himself that he’s about to visit Simon Gutmunsson in his cell, and the concerns go away.

For a moment, his anticipation of the evening’s upcoming events blots out even the chirps and buzzes of the radio handset on the floor. Awareness returns and he collects the handset, switches it off. He turns off the cameras and monitors, too. Now the FBI has no vision inside the asylum.

He felt stymied, at first, when he heard about the FBI operation, but then he realized: Why not use this? He’s comfortable with all the nooks and crannies in the asylum, he knows the back-end processes of security, and he’s had plenty of opportunity to familiarize himself with the workings of the control desk during his last four months’ employment here. He’s perfectly placed to take advantage of the FBI-created change in routine.

Now he’s about to enact the final step in his arrangements. He stands over the desk, surveying the dials and switches, then leans forward and—with his finger covered by a tissue—presses a single red button. It’s marked CENTRAL EXTERNAL: ALL CLOSE.

He’s just locked all the external doors for the center building, including the doors from either wing.

His Kleenex-covered finger dances over other buttons, to a button that locks the door from the old asylum kitchen into the great hall. He presses that. Now those four SWAT officers are locked behind the massive kitchen door. Another switch opens the metal gate in the hall—he flicks that, too. He imagines the steel-barred rollers sliding open, smiles in delight.