trouble?
" "I've already seen to it, sir."
"It's time to finish up, then." She heard the others moving back into
the lobby, their heels clicking against the floorboards with the
precision of telegraph equipment. One of them was snickering.
The man in charge had turned away from her, but she could see the
others clearly now. All of them stood behind the circle of captives.
While she watched, they removed their bandannas and tucked them into
their pockets. The leader took a step forward, then put his gun away
so he could carefully fold his bandanna and put it in his vest
pocket.
He stood close enough for her to see his long fingers and his carefully
manicured nails.
Why had they removed their masks? Didn't they realize that Franklin
and the others would give the authorities their descriptions . . . Oh,
God, no . . . no . . . no . . .
"Is the back door open, Mr. Johnson? " "Yes, sir, it is."
"Well, then I expect it's time to leave. Whose turn is it? " he
asked.
"Mr. Bell hasn't taken a turn since that little girl. Remember,
sir?
" "I remember. Are you up to it today, Mr. Bell? " "Yes, sir, I
believe I am."
"Then get on with it, " he ordered as he drew his gun and cocked it.
"What are you going to do? " the president asked in a near shout.
"Hush now. I told you no one would get hurt, didn't I? " His voice
was horrifically soothing. MacCorkle was nodding when the man named
Bell fired his shot. The front of the president's head exploded.
The leader killed the man in front of him, jumping back when the blood
from the wound he'd inflicted spewed out.
Franklin cried, "But you promised . . .
The leader whirled toward him and shot him in the back the head.
Franklin's neck snapped.
"I lied."
The ceremony was unique. The guest of honor, Cole
Clayborne, slept through it and the celebration that followed. An hour
after most of the guests had departed, the effect of the unnatural
sleep was wearing off.
In a stupor, he floated somewhere between fantasy and reality. He felt
someone tugging on him, but he couldn't summon enough strength to open
his eyes and find out who was tormenting him. The noise was making his
head ache fiercely, and when he finally began to wake up, the first
sounds he heard were the clinking of glasses and loud, rambunctious
laughter.
Someone was speaking to him, or about him. He heard his name, yet he
found it impossible to concentrate long enough to understand what was
being said. His head felt as though there were little men inside,
standing between his eyes, pounding his skull with sharp hammers.
Was he hung over? The question intruded into his hazy thoughts. No,