Brigitte gets on her knees, shining her flashlight on the steps until she finds what she’s looking for.
“You see? Here.”
Her light illuminates several feet of monofilament line stretched across one of the stairs. It hangs loose where Paul stepped on it.
“It’s a trip wire,” says Vidocq.
“Thank you,” says Paul. He looks a little shaken. No. He doesn’t know he’s a machine. He thinks he’s going to live a long and productive life, marry and have a pack of little toasters to bounce on his knee.
I say, “From now on, we don’t all shine our lights in the same spot. Move them around. Look for other traps.”
“I guess we’ve officially lost the element of surprise,” says Candy.
Paul runs his light over the next few steps and starts up again. The rest of us follow.
“Glad you came along, Father?” I say. “What’s the story about Jonah getting swallowed by the whale?”
“I was thinking more about Dante,” he says.
Vidocq says, “But when Dante went up he was ascending to Heaven.”
“I don’t think we’ll find Heaven in here, up or down.”
By the tenth floor we’re sweating like pigs. By the eleventh we’re sweating like filthy pigs. It’s a relief to hit the last staircase until it stops halfway up. There’s at least a fifteen-foot gap between where we are and the top of the stairs.
Lights come on overhead. Flashlights shine down into our eyes with more lights blinking on in the hotel level above.
“Stay where you are.”
It’s a raspy male voice. A whiskey voice or just someone who took a hit to the throat hard enough that it never healed right. There are six other guys behind him. All are armed with homemade blades, morning stars, and slings.
“Who are you?”
Paul takes half a step forward, right to the gap.
“We’re friends. We’d like to speak to Hattie.”
“Would you? Why would Mama Hattie want to speak to you?”
“We have offerings.”
“What kind?”
“Special. But they’re only for Hattie.”
The guy turns and chats away with a couple of other members of the welcoming committee. They’re wearing a ragged assortment of designer robes and furs. From what Delon said, I’d guess a mix of family heirlooms and things they looted from the stores below.
Candy whispers, “Who’s Hattie?”
“The family matriarch,” says Delon.
The group above breaks up. The rasper comes back to the front.
“Go away. We don’t need your offerings. We get what we need just fine.”
“Not this you don’t.”
“What is it?”