Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,35

of all—”

“Look!” Lamar finishes for him, pointing at something behind me.

I lift my head and follow his gaze to a small sign posted beside the front steps.

The Georgia State Capitol is open to the public for self-guided tours from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday, and is closed on weekends and holidays.

I turn back to face Quint. “I don’t even know what day it is. Do you know what day it is?”

“Let’s go find out.” He smiles. “The worst they can do is tell us no.”

“Actually, the worst they can do is shoot us in the dick,” Lamar corrects.

“Boy, shut up.”

I swallow my panic, along with a mouthful of saliva, and follow them up the imposing staircase to the even more imposing guards waiting for us at the top.

“Mornin’, sir,” Quint says to the cop blocking our entrance at the top of the stairs, cranking his Southern accent all the way up to eleven. “We’ve been watchin’ the executions on TV and came all the way from Franklin Springs to see one in person. I noticed on your sign down there that y’all allow folks to tour the capitol. Is that right?”

The cop shares a glance with his buddy and then nods once.

“Well, ain’t that a treat!” Quint slaps his knee.

“Leave all weapons and personal belongings with the officer inside before going through the metal detector. Enjoy your visit,” he deadpans, eyeing my Bony sweatshirt. Then, he opens one of the heavy front doors and holds it for us.

The moment we walk over the threshold, it’s like stepping through a portal into the late 1800s. The foyer is three stories high with a sweeping marble staircase right in the center. The floors are marble. The columns are marble. The statues and busts of old white men are marble. But the doors lining every wall on all three floors? Those are dark and wooden and least eight feet tall each.

“Ma’am.” A woman’s voice snaps me out of my daze. “You need to check all bags, weapons, and outside food with me, please.”

I stare at the female officer in disbelief. It’s been so long since I’ve been somewhere with rules or uniforms—or employees for that matter. It’s actually kind of … nice.

I tuck my gun into my duffel bag and hand it to the cop. She gives me a ticket in return and motions toward the metal detector.

We walk through and get the okay from the male officer on the other side, and as we wander aimlessly into the foyer, tears begin to blur my vision.

For the first time in months, I feel safe.

Protected.

Secure.

There are rules here.

People follow them.

No weapons allowed.

No outside food or drinks.

There are business hours.

And little yellow claim tickets.

This place has been spared from the anarchy raging outside.

And I hate how much I like it.

How good it makes me feel.

Especially when there is a twenty-five-foot-long banner hanging from the third-story railing with Governor Steele’s face on it staring down at me. The quote, There is only one true law—the law of nature, is printed above his jowly scowl. It reminds me of the banners from the nightmares—the ones with the four horsemen of the apocalypse and the date April 23. Only this banner is even more terrifying.

Because this monster is real.

Then, I notice along the bottom of the banner, in a tidy little row, are the logos for half a dozen local businesses—Buck’s Hardware. Huckabee Foods. Pizza Emporium. Lou’s Liquor Superstore.

It makes me sick.

“What now, Rainy Lady?” Lamar asks.

I scan every floor, but all I see is wooden door after wooden door, the names stamped in bronze next to each one announcing which distinguished member of Congress works inside.

Or worked inside, I guess.

No laws probably means no congressmen. No senators. No secretaries answering phone calls.

No wonder they allow the public inside—this place is nothing more than a museum now.

“Nobody’s here,” I mumble as the dead eyes of every life-size portrait stare straight through me.

Nobody … including Wes.

“’Scuse me,” Quint says, turning toward the officer stationed at the metal detector. “Can you point us in the direction of where the, uh, accused are bein’ held?”

“They are in a secure, off-site location, sir.”

“Off-site? Like, in another buildin’?”

“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Well, shoot. We was hopin’ to see one up close and personal.”

“Then, I suggest you come back for the Green Mile execution event tomorrow afternoon. There are spectator stands on either side of Plaza Park, but if you get a seat on the right side, the