Chris Jordan - Torn

Not storm shutters. Blast shutters, as in able to withstand moderate explosive devices. So if they’re expecting an intrusion from a SWAT unit, where are the defenders? You’d think the place would be crawling with BK Security guards armed to the teeth. And yet as I push the Sanitair through the twilight hush-the lights are very low, but more than adequate for getting around-the place feels empty.

Maybe they know the FBI is on the way and they’ve decided to hunker down, but not to fight. They must know what happens to cults that attempt to resist law enforcement units. It never seems to end well, and from what little I know, the Rulers strike me as fanatical but practical. They’re all about self-advancement and making money, not actively defying the government. Therefore unlikely to start gunfights with the FBI.

Or that’s what I’d like to believe. In that relatively comforting scenario, we find Noah sleeping in his bed, and Shane and I protect him until his FBI pals break down the doors and rescue us. All of Ruler Weems’s paranoia proves to be exaggerated. His rivals are going to surround themselves with high-powered lawyers, not high-powered rifles, and everybody gets to live happily ever after. Except for those who eventually end up in prison, like Evangeline and Mrs. Delancey, and maybe the Barlows. I haven’t really decided on the Barlows yet. They abducted me, true, but it’s also true that they brought me very close to Noah, and that counts for a lot, even if their intentions weren’t exactly selfless.

My mind races with this and a hundred other considerations, spiking on the adrenaline rush that makes my mouth dry and my knees feel weak. Got to keep moving or I’ll fall to the floor and curl up in a fetal position.

The blueprint indicated that the guest bedroom suites are located on the second level, so that seems like the best place to start. There’s a service elevator somewhere around the corner and down a hallway, but I can’t bear the thought of getting stuck in an elevator, so I take the stairs. Not just any old stairs, either. This is a grand staircase out of an old MGM musical, fully twenty feet wide, making a majestic curve up from the ground floor. A glance at the massive but somehow elegant newel posts and balusters makes me think the stairway alone cost way more than my old farmhouse.

I’m halfway up the staircase when a shadow moves on the floor below, chilling my blood. It’s Shane. He grins, gives me a thumbs-up, and with my heart banging like a heavy-metal drum I pick up the vacuum and continue. The construction feels as solid as the Rocky Mountains, and I can’t help but wonder what a structure like the Pinnacle must have cost, having to transport all these exotic materials to this remote location. Unfathomable. As unfathomable as the folks we’re up against: rich enough to construct vast temples at high altitude, to fly in their own private jets, build whole cities in the wilderness. People who think they can blow up schools and steal children with impunity.

I’m almost at the top when a man suddenly comes striding quickly around a corner-seemingly from out of nowhere-and almost knocks me back down the stairs.

I manage to save myself, but land awkwardly on my knees, one hand clutching a baluster and the other the vacuum cleaner, a pulse of pure fear pounding in my ears.

The man mutters something in a foreign language, one I don’t recognize, and extends a hand to help me to my feet.

“Sorry,” he says perfunctorily. “Apologies.”

I recognize him from the Barlows’ security camera. He’s the cop in charge. A lean, darkly handsome guy with a neatly trimmed mustache and a dark curl of hair artfully arranged on his forehead. The movie star looks are spoiled by cold, ruthless eyes-if he’s sorry about anything, it’s that I slowed him down.

“I’m okay,” I say, glancing away from those judgmental eyes, so as not to give myself away. Pretending to busy myself by rewinding the power cord. Knowing in my heart that I’m about to be exposed. That I’ll have to start my put-up-a-fuss act, distract him long enough for Shane to slip by somehow, find his way to the guest suites.

The man with the mustache is staring at me, studying me. I can feel it.

A strong hand reaches out, lifts my chin. I find myself looking into those cold eyes, trying to keep my composure while I gather my strength.

“Is very early for housekeeper,” he says.

I shrug, back away from the hand. There’s something about his touch that makes my skin crawl.

“Is okay,” he says, nodding to himself, as if arriving at a decision. Then without another word or glance he’s turning away, heading down the staircase.

Something about the whole exchange convinces me he knows exactly who I am, but has decided not to interfere.

Why? How is that possible?

Don’t worry about it, Haley. Why doesn’t matter, not at this particular moment. The only thing that matters is finding Noah before the man with the ruthless eyes changes his mind, sounds an alarm.

Pushing the vacuum in front of me, I hurry down the hallway that leads to the guest suites, praying the layout hasn’t changed since the blueprints were drawn.

Before we were married, Jed and I once wandered through the Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan, marveling at the grandeur of the design by I. M. Pei. This has a similar feel, with a lot of light, polished stonework and a gently arched ceiling that glows with what looks like natural light, but isn’t.

To my surprise there are no security guards here, either. And although relief pours into me like warm water, I’m aware that the lack of guards is not necessarily a good thing. Surely the heir apparent to Arthur Conklin would warrant protection.

What’s going on? Where is everybody?

In the hushed silence of the deserted hallway, I stop at the first door. Unlike a hotel there’s no card-coded lock, and to my surprise the heavy, paneled door swings open at the push of the handle.

A glance reveals that the luxury suite is unoccupied, has probably been that way for some time, if the dust sheets are any indication.

There are six guest suites in this part of the building, and I despair that they will all be similarly vacant, ghostly sheets protecting the furniture. As indeed they all seem to be. Noah must be hidden away elsewhere, in some secret place not indicated on the drawings. But upon pushing open the sixth door, I detect a faint perfume. A tantalizingly familiar scent of a room that’s been lived in, slept in.

Instantly I know that a woman has been here, and not long ago. Unlike the other suites, this shows signs of recent occupation. No dust sheets, no sense of prolonged stillness-somebody slept on that oversize mattress, and left a book on the bedside table. Somebody left faint impressions on the thick carpeting. Somebody left the door to the walk-in closet slightly ajar.

I’m about to check out the closet when a strong hand grips my shoulder.

Stifling a scream, I whip around and find Shane looking down at me, a finger to his lips.

Hand on my heaving chest, I manage to regain what little there is of my composure.

He leans down so that his beard softly brushes my ear.

“That was Kavashi, the security chief. I’m sure he recognized you.”

“I don’t get it,” I whisper back.

“He’s playing at something, I don’t know what. But we don’t have much time. The blast shutters are down. They know what’s coming.”

“This is her room,” I tell him. “Irene Delancey. I’m sure of it.”

“Good,” he says. “That means we’re close.”

He’s right, and it suddenly occurs to me that these are suites, and that suites have connecting rooms, and I hurry to the wide, paneled door at the back of the room. What I had at first assumed must be another closet. And as soon as the door swings inward, revealing another, smaller room, I know, beyond a doubt, that this is where Noah sleeps.