Devil s Due Page 0,76

off, and some unspoken signal was passed. They all relaxed.

Somewhere, something terrible had happened.

"Take them into the other room," Laskins said to Gregory. "Lock them in. We'll see to them later."

He nodded and made a gesture to get Lucia, Jazz and McCarthy to their feet. The next room was an empty office, and Gregory showed them in with another of his extravagant gestures. With a gun in his hand, of course. "No lock on the door," Jazz pointed out. For her, it was a pretty mild tone. Gregory's lips grinned, but the rest of his face stayed entirely still.

"Pretty one, I'm the lock," he said. "I'll be sitting in a chair across from the door. By all means, open it. I'm a very good shot, but I can always use the practice." He pulled the door shut.

"He's bluffing," Jazz said.

"No," Lucia sighed. "He's not. Ben? You okay?"

He hadn't said a word. He didn't even look at her. "I'm fine." He didn't sound fine. He sounded - terrible. "How long you think they'll keep us here?"

"Who the hell cares?" Jazz retorted. She stalked toward him. "You want to explain now?"

His eyes focused on her, then slid away. He walked toward a window, changed course and folded himself into a chair in the corner. Eyes shut.

"Oh, no you don't," Jazz said, and followed him. She stood over him, hands balled into fists. "What they said in there. About the Cross Society getting you out of jail. That was bullshit, right? Right?"

He didn't answer. Lucia felt what was left of the strength of fear bleed away, and her muscles demanded she sit. She leaned, instead, trying to look composed. "No," she said for him. "It wasn't. The pictures exonerating you were genuine, but they'd withheld them, hadn't they? They wanted something from you. And until you agreed, they wouldn't release the evidence that would get you out of prison."

"I wasn't guilty," he said. His eyes were still shut.

"I know," she murmured. "Not of those murders."

"Wait a minute. They did release the pictures," Jazz said. "So...you agreed..."

McCarthy stayed quiet. Jazz reached down and grabbed the faded shoulders of his open flannel shirt, hauling him to his feet. "You agreed," she repeated, and her voice was deadly quiet. "To what?"

"It doesn't concern you."

"No," Lucia said. "It concerns me. Doesn't it?"

His eyes opened, and even as numbed and tired and betrayed as she was, she flinched from what was in them. Jazz kept asking the question, but Lucia knew full well McCarthy wasn't going to answer her. She walked to the window and stared out, thought about Laskins treating himself to the same view one wall over.

She dug her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Manny's number.

No answer.

The office door opened, and an older man walked in. He was slender and stooped, with mild blue eyes and thin white hair. Short, maybe five foot five at most.

He looked sweet and a little lost, and his clothes were too big for him. He smiled at them impartially, closed the door behind him and walked across the room to the bare desk. He sat down in the chair, slid open the bottom drawer and took out a duffel bag. He unzipped it and revealed four military-issue breathing masks.

"You'll need these," he said, and held one out. Nobody moved. "Tick tock, people, tick tock. Let's move."

"Who the hell is this?" Lucia asked in confusion, and she looked at Jazz for information.

Jazz was staring at the man intently and didn't answer.

McCarthy did. He stepped forward, took the gas mask and said, "Meet Max Simms."

And then he put on the mask.

Jazz took the second one. Simms favored her with a beatific smile, then turned his attention to Lucia.

"Max Simms," she repeated. "You're kidding."

"We don't have time for introductions," Simms said, and checked a watch on his left wrist. "Let's see, did I adjust it for the time zone? Yes, I think I did. You have approximately ten seconds to make your decision, Lucia. Forgive me if I don't wait."

Jazz had tugged on her mask. Simms put his on.

Lucia looked at them all, one after another, and grabbed for the last one.

She got it in place as Simm's silent finger count went to three, then to two, then to a single index finger.

Then to zero.

Nothing seemed to happen at all. She felt nothing, smelled nothing except the industrial plastic of the mask and her own sweat. Her breath was coming fast, too fast.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked. The