Is there anything he’s missed? The old-fashioned doors to some of the small internal rooms off the great hall are still unlocked, as well as the foyer door under the stairs, but he will remedy this manually.

He looks around at the blinking lights and the dead monitors, the dead man on the padded swivel chair, the quiet radio handset. The FBI will be wondering what the hell is going on. Time to move.

He turns and leaves the control room.

CHAPTER FORTY

Pradeep has sent them into an old lobotomy and autopsy theater.

There is a stink of mildew in the small room. Emma sees a tile floor, stainless steel shelving, peeling paint on the walls. Wire-covered windows let in moonlight that glints off a steel surgery table bolted to the floor’s center.

Kristin has a hand pressed over her mouth.

“It’s okay,” Emma whispers. “We’ll be out of here soon. Bell?”

Bell steps carefully around old surgical lights, past the horrifying table to a set of skinny double doors on the right. He tries one of the doorknobs for give, nods.

Kristin points, whimpering. “There’s… there’s…”

At the opposite side of the room, the square hatches of the steel body lockers—six in a row—are set into the wall. Emma wishes fervently that Kristin hadn’t noticed that. She wishes she herself hadn’t noticed that.

Emma screws her nerve in place. “Come on, let’s move.”

But when they pick their way over to Bell, he’s frowning. “Hear that?”

“What?”

He cracks the door a scant half inch, closes it again. “The big jail gate in the great hall just slid open.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Kristin whispers. She’s tense as a plucked wire.

“Wait.” Emma turns back to Bell. “Maybe they’re setting up a direct access path for the Butcher?”

Bell’s frown deepens. “I thought they were gonna open the gate later.”

“Maybe they changed strategy.”

“Maybe.” Bell’s expression says he finds this doubtful.

“Let’s just worry about one thing at a time,” Emma says. “First, we get the Butcher’s identity from Simon.”

She lifts her chin and Bell opens the door properly, wide enough for them to slip through. The great hall is dark and echoing. She and Kristin huddle by one of the giant columns while Bell closes their point of exit. Emma can see the line of steel bars behind them; over Kristin’s shoulder, the chapel entrance. Even from here, it’s very obvious that the reinforced oak door has been left open by the FBI.

Simon’s room is always guarded and always locked. That it is no longer either of those things feels so fundamentally wrong that it kicks off a warning siren in Emma’s brain, starting low and getting more strident with each passing second.

Kristin sees the line of Emma’s eyes, turns. Her gaze fixes on the oak door, and her face is yearning. She tugs in that direction; Emma holds her fast.

“Wait for Bell.”

“I’m here.” His face is dim in the dark hall, only the whites of his eyes showing clear. “Let’s go.”