“That’s right, he is,” Ryan said. “Because he wasn’t good enough. He said it himself, when he was talking to Larry in my house. I have it recorded.”
Carter averted his gaze, lowered his chin, and curled in on himself, as much as the vest would allow.
“You’re wrong,” Lincoln declared.
“Prove it.”
“Let them go,” Lincoln said with a tilt of his head toward the congregation. “You may be trapped here, in this cycle, in this town, in this life, but they don’t need to be.”
Surprise flashed in Ryan’s eyes, then hardened. “They’ll escape when I do.” Lincoln’s stomach sank, then sank further with Ryan’s next words. “And they need to be here if you’re going to conquer your fear.” He held up the phone. “Play it again, the exact same, and the first of these two triggers deactivates.”
“And the second?” Lincoln asked.
“You’ll find out when you deactivate the first.”
“I’ve already played it once. They don’t need to be here.” His fingers itched for his weapon again. He didn’t intend this. He’d thought they’d be able to escape, that Ryan’s focus would be on him and Carter. Not on the people who’d welcomed them into their town. He could end this with a shot, except would it really end? He had no idea what Ryan had programmed that vest to do. The fear for the lives of those around him clogged Lincoln’s throat. “This isn’t about them,” he forced out. “Let them go, please.”
“Play!” Ryan demanded.
He lifted his hands again, not wanting to do anything to jeopardize the lives of his partner or the townsfolk further. He stepped back, repositioned himself on the stool, and swung his guitar up, resting it on his thigh. He needed the extra steadiness, afraid the tremors coursing through him would knock off a note otherwise.
But with each note of “Hallelujah” he replayed, each word he sang again, he lost himself in the song. And in Carter’s eyes, which had lifted and locked with his. An audience of one. That’s what Carter had said, that’s all Lincoln needed to do. Play and sing for Carter, the man he trusted with his life and his fears. The tremors ceased, and he finished the song four minutes later, not a note out of place.
Lincoln breathed out, Carter with him. One light blinked out. He glanced over at Ryan. “What next?”
“Nothing.” Dr. Fear smiled, and there was no joy in it—for him, for Lincoln, for Carter, or for the church full of people. “He already failed. There’s nothing you can do.”
Carter summoned his wrecked voice and spoke. “I disagree.” Then spun and rammed his forehead into the chancellor’s face, aiming for his nose and mouth, determined to punish the man for putting that hopeless look on Lincoln’s face, that hopeless “Carter!” in his voice.
Bone crunched and blood splattered Carter’s face. Direct hit. Ryan staggered backward, dropped the phone, and brought his hands up to his nose, tipping forward.
Carter hiked up his knee, another direct hit to the face, then swung forward the rest of his leg, a third hit with his foot to Ryan’s middle. The chancellor bent farther forward, trying to protect his injured middle. Even with his hands tied behind his back, Carter was able to swing his leg in a sweeping arch, delivering a roundhouse kick to Ryan’s head. Lights out for Dr. Fear, the unconscious man toppling over.
Unfortunately for Carter, his momentum, combined with his lack of balance and lack of energy to summon it back—having already expended everything he had to drag himself out from under the fog of whatever sedative Ryan had pumped him full of—sent him toppling after Ryan. He was saved from face-planting by a pair of strong, familiar arms wrapping around him from behind. Lincoln hauled him the opposite direction, the two of them landing in a heap of tangled limbs, Carter howling as pain shot up his broken right arm.
And hot on the heels of pain was fear, blasting through the small comfort of being in Lincoln’s arms again. “The vest! Watch the vest!” He scrambled out of Lincoln’s embrace and backed up against the wooden pulpit. “Get everyone out of here!” he shouted.
“I’ve got the phone,” Jo said from where she stood at the bottom of the stage steps. “There’s a clock.” She held it up. Three minutes and counting down. “We can try to unlock it. Stop it.”
“You can’t! Just get out of here!” Carter yelled. “Get everyone out of here!”
He caught the worried gazes of the townsfolk he’d one day hoped to call friends. Susanne, Jennifer, Lydia stood together in their row, Jeremiah in a different one, and others he’d met in town over the past week, all of them wide-eyed and scared, still processing what they’d witnessed. They didn’t have time for that; not yet. “Please,” he begged. “Just go!”
Susanne got on board fast and the rest of the town fell in line, following Drake’s and Jo’s orders and hustling out the main doors.
Carter collapsed with relief until Lincoln appeared in front of him, hands hovering near his face. “Hey there, let me get a look at you.” He peeked over his shoulder and winced. “I’d say let me get a knife and cut you loose, but it’s probably best to stay tied and minimize movement.” He righted himself, hands drifting lightly over Carter’s shoulders. “I’m sorry about the fall.”
Carter tried to shake off the too-tempting touches. “You have to get out of here, L.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” He tilted to the side, stretching to grab the phone.
Two minutes.
“Even if I get into this,” Lincoln said, futilely tapping at the phone screen, “it’s not going to turn it off, is it?”
Carter shook his head and winced, the earlier anvil back with a vengeance.
“Okay then, let’s take it off.” Lincoln reached for the straps of the vest.
