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“Christ.”
From the stage, a police captain was asking people to move slowly and calmly to the exits.
Jason spotted Ted Fields making his way to the front of the stage. He lifted down Minerva and then The Maestro.
Sam whistled to Reynolds. Reynolds patted Devant on the arm, and Devant, looking deeply shaken, joined the officers directing people to the fire exits. Despite the instructions to stay calm, a few people began to rush. Glasses were spilled, chairs knocked over as guests scrambled to grab their belongings and push through the sea of tables. Officers moved to assist.
Reynolds rejoined Sam and Jason.
“We could be looking for a bomb,” Sam said.
Even in the muted light, Jason could see Reynolds lost color. “Where the hell would he get hold of something like that?”
“Explosives, incendiary devices are used frequently in magic shows. Not the real thing, of course, but the principles of putting a device like that together are essentially the same.”
Reynolds gave Jason a look of noncomprehension before turning to make his way through the crowd to begin directing his team to search beneath tables, chairs, potted plants, and every other place they could think of.
“Would he stay to watch?” Jason asked Sam. Sam was surveying the crowd, scanning intently for Terry. Every officer and agent had been provided with a photo of Van der Beck.
Sam gave him a quick, distracted look. “He doesn’t plan on dying in here, that I can tell you.”
There was an unearthly whoosh from a few feet to the side. A woman screamed as the black and gold draperies behind the stage burst into flames. A wave of heat seemed to roll over them.
“Move,” Sam ordered. His hands locked on Jason’s shoulders, and he thrust him into the stream of now panicking people shoving their way back through the bookcase door.
“Sam!” Jason tried to look back over his shoulder. The room was already filling with smoke. He could not see Sam. “Sam!”
He tried to push a return path through the wall of terrified people, but that was impossible. No one was about to fall back or give way. The tide of club guests surged forward, carrying Jason with them.
Someone stumbled against him. An older man with a cane. Jason steadied him. Someone knocked into him on the other side. He looked and saw Elle Diamond in a black sequined evening gown. Her blue eyes seemed to reflect the flames now engulfing the stage.
“Don’t fall. Don’t slip,” Diamond said. “Don’t lose your footing.” She was half dragging an elderly woman in a silver chiffon gown behind her. “Don’t fall. Don’t slip,” She repeated like a mantra.
The crowd lurched forward, and Jason was half-crushed against the edge of the bookshelf, but then he managed to wriggle through. When he reached the entry hall, he realized he could not go back for Sam.
His first responsibility was to make sure everyone got out safely. As agonizing a choice as it was, that had to be his priority.
He stepped to the side and began to help people through the doorway, sometimes bodily hauling them through. Smoke was billowing from the dining room, and the final people stumbling out were choking and coughing.
Jason slipped back through the doorcase—the heat on the other side was like stepping into a sauna. But it’s a dry heat, he thought crazily.
Only a step or two in, he bumped into someone slim and slight and blonde. Through the smoke, he recognized Detective Ward. She wore a blue silk evening dress and held a wad of colored silk scarves in front of her face.
I thought so. I thought you were probably a member of the community.
“You can’t go back in there,” she cried hoarsely. And then, “Agent West? Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?”
“Sam Kennedy is still in there.”
“Nobody is in there. We’re the last ones out.” She planted a surprisingly forceful hand in his chest, driving him backward toward the main entrance and the fresh air.
As they stumbled outside into the cold night, firemen brushed past them, dragging heavy rubber hoses. Red and blue strobe lights cut through the smoky darkness. The shriek of sirens drowned out the sound of voices, the crackle of radios.
The April night was so frigid, Jason felt like he was choking on it. He couldn’t stop coughing. Someone in a paramedic’s uniform slapped an oxygen mask over his face, draped a blanket over his shoulders, and asked him a bunch of questions he didn’t listen to.
Where is he? Where the hell is he? Why doesn’t he come? Why don’t I see him anywhere?
When he was able to stop coughing, he shoved the mask away and started moving through the crowd. News vans were arriving and more paramedics and more fire engines. The street outside the club was jammed with vehicles and people. Club goers stood in bunches, talking and crying. Some spoke to police officers. Some spoke to reporters.
