Simon is hanging upside down in his cell, swinging gently and laughing. Did she expect Simon to do something? To save them all? What was she thinking? Simon is deranged, and this is over.

She’s escaped one sociopath, only to be enslaved and murdered by another. She should have run.

And Emma knows in her heart that she is going to die here.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Ross walks over to the desk and begins unpacking his medical pouch. Emma sees latex tourniquet tubing, syringes, plastic-wrapped needles, a large-bladed scalpel.

“Oh, this is fun!” Simon exclaims. He opens his arms wide as he swings, suspended. “All the blood is rushing to my head. Emma, you should try this, it gives you a whole different perspective on things.”

Emma pushes herself up. “I want to check on Bell,” she rasps. “Mr. Ross—”

“Did he tell you his name is Ross?” Simon wriggles in the air to steady his swinging as he faces her. “Goodness, I thought we’d already dealt with introductions.”

Clive Ross, the Pennsylvania killer, the Berryville Butcher, Siegfried, Gordon Lord—she honestly doesn’t care about true names or aliases anymore. The man in the paramedic uniform has multiple identities, but they all mean the same thing.

“His name is Anthony Hoyt!” Upside down, Simon’s grin looks demonic. “I’d say Anthony Hoyt, MD, but I’m fairly sure he faked his medical credentials so Dr. Scott would employ him.”

“Be quiet now, Simon,” Ross says.

She remembers the name Anthony Hoyt. He was one of the technicians on the MT list. The list that Bell gave Martino, in a yesterday that feels like a million years ago. She wonders if Martino ever followed up on those names, and the thought reminds her that there’s still a SWAT team outside this building.

She has no idea how long they’ve already been here; time has become elastic. But if they can survive the Butcher for thirty minutes…

“Come over and check on your friend, Miss Lewis.” Ross, or Hoyt, or whatever he’s called, is feeling magnanimous. “I need you over here anyway.”

“Yes, go on over, Emma! I can keep chatting to you both from this position,” Simon declares.

It’s quite possible that Simon Gutmunsson would talk underwater. Emma clambers to her feet, trying not to use her hands. Her palms are red and swollen, and some of her fingers have small white blisters on them. The blisters pulse with the beat of her heart. She wipes her hands carefully against her T-shirt as she staggers closer to the desk.

Bell’s head is turned, his eyes closed. His left side, from armpit to waist, is dark crimson and his lips are almost white. Emma drops to her knees in front of him.

“Travis.” She shakes his shoulder. “Travis.”

“Hmm, he’s not looking very good, is he?” Simon, ever helpful.

When Bell doesn’t respond, she slaps him, which sets her fingers alight.

“Bell. Bell, wake up.”

His eyes blur open. “Emma.”

“I’m here.”

They can’t do anything more than stare at each other. There’s a lot she wants to say, but the Butcher is watching.