The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [165]
The big man shook his palms at her. He still held the knife in one hand. “Wait, wait. There are a lot of people trying to hurt you.”
“No shit.”
“The people in this house.”
“I know about them.”
“Your mother.”
“I know about her, too.”
“Wayne.”
“Steve Rhodes sent him to kill me.”
“Mr. Rhodes has been trying to protect you. He knows about these people who want to hurt you. He wants to stop them.”
Knowing who was lying and who was telling the truth seemed impossible without her spider at full strength. “Why would he want to do that?”
“He feels responsible. He’s trying to do the right thing.”
Nada squeezed the grip of the gun. It felt so right in her hand. None of this made sense. “I can’t think,” she said.
“You don’t need to think. But we need to run,” the big man said. “Hand me the gun and follow me out of here. I know how to get us out.”
“Peter,” she said. “That’s your name. Peter.”
“Just give me the gun and we can get out. It’s a mess down there. Rioters are running all through the downstairs. We’ll slip out in the commotion.”
“I’m not giving you the gun.”
“They’ve been putting poison in your food, Canada. You’ve been having seizures, right? They’ve been making you sick so they’ll have an excuse to slice you open.”
The doctor had almost admitted as much. She tried to remember, tried to think if that were possible. Poison in my food?
“You’ll never get down three floors by yourself,” Peter said. “Jameson was expecting thirty guests tonight. Most of them arrived before the riot. Every single one of them wants to slice you with a scalpel.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Mr. Rhodes brought me here. He’s been involved with these people, with your mother, too, but he wants to do the right thing. He’s betraying his own people to save you. I can explain it all later, or Mr. Rhodes can explain if you like, but we need to leave right now.” He put out his hand for the gun. She drew it back.
“I can protect you, keep you safe, but I need you to trust me,” Peter said. “It’s fucking Lord of the Flies out there. There’s no law. No cops. It’s every man for himself.”
“Yeah,” Nada said, holding the revolver with both hands. “That’s true in here, too.”
Commotion all around them now. Shouts from the floor below, from the yard outside. Nearer, she heard men barking. Boot steps. They were close.
“We can’t just walk out there,” Peter said, blinking and gasping between words. “Even if they’re checking every room, they’ve got to be almost on top of us by now. They’ll see us if we go out. And Wayne’s out there somewhere, too. I guess you know about him. He’s gone crazy. God knows what he wants to do to you.”
She ignored the last bit. “Do you have a phone? We can call the police.”
Peter scoffed. “You aren’t listening. There are no cops. It’s jungle law now. Riots and fires. Even if cells were working, you couldn’t get through to 911 in a million tries.”
Nada climbed back onto the folding chair and looked again at the labels on the bottles she had set aside. She limped down and pulled some sheets and socks and other whites from a basket. She uncapped each bottle and soaked the linens. Loose from their bottles, the chemicals burned her nose. Glancing around, she scooped up the fireplace matches.
“Let’s go.” She noticed the doctor had left the remote on the counter by the door, the keys to her spider. She picked it up and tried to examine the inside of her head for signs of herself. Clearly, she wasn’t whole yet, still confused, still uncertain, but she could feel parts of her returning, the anger receding. Nada set the remote on the counter and smashed it with the grip of the gun and then swept it to the ground, crushing the circuits with the heel of her bare foot. She retrieved all the pieces and shoved them between folds of the soaking-wet sheets.
Peter pinched his nose. “What’s that stink?”
Nada said, “Alcohol,