One of his narco-butlers had already fetched Dr. Franklin, who entered now loose-limbed and unshaven. As he surveyed the tableau, his eyes attained a surgeon’s clarity behind round rimless lenses. He straightened out of his slouch. Instant sobriety. Despite his habits he was a man who could find the foundation in a hurry when he had to.

Two of the men rolled the girls onto stretchers. Dex entered. With a faint whistle of breath, he hoisted Joshua up off the floor and flopped him over his shoulder. David took hold of the other boy’s biker boots and dragged him along after the others as if pulling a wheelbarrow. René watched them pass, the kid’s arms windshield-wipering the floor behind him.

René felt the Need stirring inside him, awakening to the possibility of a meal.

“Ready?” Dr. Franklin asked.

René swept an arm magnanimously. “After you.”

Following the convoy of unconscious bodies down the hall, Dr. Franklin snapped on one latex glove and then the other.

21. In Trouble

21

In Trouble

A buzzing pulled Evan from sleep.

Was it in his body? The sheets? No—under the mattress, vibrating him through the fabric. The princess and the epileptic pea. Groggily, he lifted his ten-ton head from the pillow, trying to regain his bearings.

The buzzing came again.

The RoamZone? It couldn’t be.

He rolled off the bed, his knees striking the floor, hands digging the phone out from its hiding place between mattress and box spring.

Sure enough, light leaked through the shattered façade. The caller’s number flickered, carved up by dozens of hairline fractures. The TALK icon at the bottom floated in the sole section of unbroken glass. He held his breath, thumbed the icon.

He held the phone to his ear.

It took him a moment to recall the script, to remember the words he was supposed to say when he picked up. He forced them out through the drug-induced grogginess. “Do you need my help?”

“Yes.” The voice of a boy, high-pitched and scared.

Evan knew he was clear of the hidden camera, but he turned his back anyway, leaning against the bed. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, blinked hard around them.

“Where did you get this number?” Evan asked.

“A girl gave it to me. She said you help people and stuff.” The boy was whispering. He sounded somewhere around ten years old.

“What’s her name?”

“Anna something.”

“What’s she look like?”

“Dark hair. Patchy, like it’s falling out in places.” The whisper grew more hoarse, more urgent. The boy’s words were distorted ever so slightly. A speech impediment? “Look, can you help me or not?”

“I can.”

“I don’t know how much time I have till they catch me. I stole the cordless. I’m under the couch. I’m not supposed to make calls.”

“What’s your name?”