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I set down the suitcase to look at the can closely, cradling it in both my hands. The colors and the design made the cylinder look like a Dr Pepper can in almost every respect, but it just wasn’t. The elevator doors whooshed open again, and Batanya stepped off, a strange-looking gun in one hand, a sword in the other. Looking over the bodyguard’s shoulder into the elevator car, I saw the King of Kentucky, who looked back at me curiously.

Batanya seemed a bit surprised to see me standing there, smack-dab in front of the door. She scanned the area, then pointed her gunlike weapon carefully at the floor. The sword remained ready in her left hand. “Could you step to my left?” she asked very courteously. “The king wants to visit in that room.” Her head nodded toward one of the rooms to the right.

I didn’t move, couldn’t think of what to say.

She took in the way I was standing and the expression on my face. She said in a sympathetic way, “I don’t know why you people drink those carbonated things. They give me gas, too.”

“It’s not that.”

“Is something wrong?”

“This isn’t an empty can,” I said.

Batanya’s face froze. “What do you think it is?” she asked very, very calmly. That was the voice of Big Trouble.

“It might be a spy camera,” I said hopefully. “Or, see, I’m thinking it might be a bomb. Because it’s not a real can. It’s full of something heavy, and that heaviness is not fluid.” Not only was the tab top not on the can, but the innards didn’t slosh.

“I understand,” Batanya said. Again with the calm. She pressed a little panel on the armor over her chest, a dark blue area about the size of a credit card. “Clovache,” she said. “Unknown device on four. I’m bringing the king back down.”

Clovache’s voice said, “How large is the device?” Her accent was sort of like Russian, at least to my untravelled ears. (“Hau larch . . . ?”)

“The size of one of those cans of sweetened syrup,” Batanya answered.

“Ah, the burping drinks,” Clovache said. Good memory, Clovache, I thought.

“Yes. The Stackhouse girl noticed it, not me,” Batanya said grimly. “And now she is standing with it in her hand.”

“Tell her to put it down,” advised the invisible Clovache with the simplicity of one who was stating an obvious fact.

Behind Batanya, the King of Kentucky was beginning to look very nervous. Batanya glanced over her shoulder at him. “Get a bomb team up here from the local policing unit,” Batanya said to Clovache. “I’m bringing the king back down.”

“The tiger is here, too,” Clovache said. “She is his woman.”

Before I could say, “For God’s sake, don’t send him up,” Batanya pressed the rectangle again, and it went dark.

“I have to protect the king,” Batanya said with an apology in her voice. She stepped back into the elevator, punched a button, and gave me a nod.

Nothing had scared me as much as that nod. It was a good-bye look. And the door swooshed shut.

There I stood, alone on the silent hotel floor, holding an instrument of death. Maybe.

Neither of the elevators gave any signs of life. No one came out of the doors on the fourth floor, and no one went into them. The stair door didn’t budge. There was a long, dead time in which I did nothing but stand and hold a fake Dr Pepper can. I did a little breathing, too, but nothing too violent.

With an explosion of sound that startled me so much I nearly dropped the can, Quinn burst onto the floor. He’d taken the stairs in a huge hurry if his breathing was any indication. I couldn’t spare the brainpower to find out what was going on in his head, but his face was showing nothing but the same kind of calm mask that Batanya wore. Todd Donati, the security guy, was right on Quinn’s heels. They stopped dead about four feet away from me.

“The bomb squad is coming,” Donati said, leading off with the good news.

“Put it down where it was, babe,” Quinn said.

“Oh, yeah, I want to put it back where it was,” I said. “I’m just scared to.” I hadn’t moved a muscle in what felt like a million years, and I was becoming tired already. But still I stood looking down at the can I was holding in both