Chapter 4

           Iclockedinthatnight—inmanywaysthestrangestnightofmyentirelife—attwentypastsix.IthoughtIcouldstillsmellthefaint,lingeringodorofburnedfleshontheair.Ithadtobeanillusion—thedoorstotheoutside,bothontheblockandinthestorageroom,hadbeenopenmostoftheday,andtheprevioustwoshiftshadspenthoursscrubbinginthere—butthatdidn’tchangewhatmynosewastellingme,andIdidn’tthinkIcouldhaveeatenanydinnerevenifIhadn’tbeenscaredalmosttodeathabouttheeveningwhichlayahead.

           Brutalcameontheblockatquartertoseven,Deanatten"til.IaskedDeanifhewouldgoovertotheinfirmaryandseeiftheyhadaheatingpadformyback,whichIseemedtohavestrainedthatearlymorning,helpingtocarryDelacroix’sbodydownintothetunnel.Deansaidhe’dbehappyto.Ibelievehewantedtotipmeawink,butrestrainedhimself.

           Harryclockedonatthreeminutestoseven.

           "Thetruck?"Iasked.

           "Wherewetalkedabout."

           Sofar,sogood.Therefollowedalittlepassageoftimewhenwestoodbythedutydesk,drinkingcoffeeandstudiouslynotmentioningwhatwewereallthinkingandhoping:thatPercywaslate,thatmaybePercywasn’tgoingtoshowupatall.Consideringthehostilereviewshe’dgottenonthewayhe’dhandledtheelectrocution,thatseemedatleastpossible.