Their Child?. Karen Rose Smith
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club’s manager hovered at the back of the line, herding everyone forward. At the opposite end of the room, up on the stage, Lena’s wedding cake waited, alone in a spotlight, surrounded by band equipment.
Lori demanded, “Tate. Please. Brody—have you seen him?”
Tate had already rushed past them. He sent her a bleak look back over his shoulder, but he didn’t break stride. “Sorry. I haven’t. But we tried to send the kids down first. Come on. Get in the line.”
“We have to find Brody,” Lori insisted. “Brody!” she called, pulling her hand free of Tucker’s, racing for the stage, as if the boy might be hiding up there, behind that big cake. When no answer came, she paused, pink skirts swaying and put her hands to her face. “Oh, God. Oh, God…”
Tucker caught up with her. “Lori.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him.
“No. No…” She shoved at his chest. “Let me go.”
He held on. “Steady. Don’t panic. Tate said he’s probably safe in the basement.” She stared at him, terrified, her slim body shaking. He grabbed her hand again. “Come on. We’ll find out where he is.”
She let him lead her. They edged through the door to the kitchen. He apologized as they went, reassuring the worried guests who’d been waiting their turn in line that they weren’t trying to cut ahead.
Beyond the doors, amid the steel counters and industrial-sized appliances, Molly, Dirk and Heck had taken charge of the crowd.
“That’s right, folks,” said Molly, at the head of the line, near the inside wall where a door opened onto cellar steps. “Keep it calm and keep it moving.”
“Easy,” Dirk added. “There’s room for everyone.”
“Two at a time, now,” Heck instructed. “No need to push.”
One of the guests cried, “But there’re hundreds of us!”
Another demanded, “Yeah. How can you say there’ll be room?”
“No problem.” Tate, who’d taken a station between Dirk and Molly, spoke up. “I’ve been down there. The cellar’s as big as the ballroom. Lots of storage, several rooms. Plenty of space. Room for everyone…”
It looked to Tucker as if they had maybe two-thirds of the guests below ground already. The line was moving amazingly fast—because the club’s manager, and Molly, Heck, Dirk and now Tate, as well, were keeping everyone calm and moving forward.
Lori pulled her hand free of Tucker’s grip and rushed to her father. “Daddy, did Brody already go down there?”
Heck frowned. “I thought he was with you…”
“Mama? Lena?”
Heck looked ahead, to the front of the line. “They’ve gone on downstairs.”
Lori spun on her heel and dashed over to Molly. “Did you see Brody go down there?”
Molly continued to wave the line of guests forward as she shook her head. “No. I don’t think I’ve seen him. I could have missed him, but I’ve been watching for the kids I know…”
Right then, the lights flickered and went out. A collective gasp rose up from the people in the ever-shortening line. Shadows engulfed them, though gray light still bled through from the open doors to the ballroom.
Someone let out a low, terrified whimper. “It’s happening. It’s coming…”
Tate said, “It’s okay, folks. There’s enough light to see by. Just keep moving, nice and steady…” The line had cleared the door to the ballroom. In no time at all, they’d have everyone down the stairs.
“Oh, God…” Lori whirled for the other set of double doors, the ones that led out to the dining room.
Heck called, “Lori—girl. Wait. You’ve got to get—”
She didn’t break stride. “I’ve got to find Brody…”
Heck started to follow her. “Lori!”
Tucker slid in front of him. “Watch the line. They need you. I’ll look after her.”
“My grandson. Dear God. We have to—”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find him.” He said it with a lot more certainty than he felt. Damn. Who could say where the boy was now? He could already be safe underground.
But there was no stopping Lori. She was moving and moving fast. Tucker rushed to catch up with her, not waiting to hear Heck’s reply.
She raced around a jut of steel counter, headed for the dining room doors. When she got there, she yanked a door open just wide enough to slide through. Tucker caught it and followed, into the deserted dining room with its now-bare tables and stacks of crated dishes.
“Brody!” Lori cried. “Brody, where are you?”
“Lori. Wait.”
She ignored him. Pink skirts lifted high, she zipped under the arch that led to the foyer. “Brody! Brody!”
Impossibly, that time, there was an answer. “Mom!” The kid came running from the shadowed hallway that led to the Cottonwood Room. “What’s going on? It’s dark! We were playing hide-and-seek. I was it. I found this sweet hiding place and I waited and waited and—”
Lori was all at once calmness personified. She put up a hand. “Brody. We’ve got to move, now. Come on, come on.” She reached out, wiggling her fingers. The boy ran to her and took her hand.
Outside, there was the strangest sound. Like a train racing toward them, bearing down.
Brody’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “What’s that?”
“This way.” Tucker grabbed Lori’s free hand. He ran, pulling Lori who pulled Brody, past the main desk at the back wall of the reception area, down a short hall to another door, a single one, that led into the kitchen. He shoved that door open and held it, ushering Lori and Brody in ahead of him.
The sound was louder than any train by then. It roared around them, engulfing them. Glass shattered, walls of it, a series of sharp explosions, seeming to come from everywhere at once—the windows busting inward—in the dining room, the ballroom, all over the clubhouse.
The roaring, impossibly, grew even louder.
Tate stood alone at the open door to the cellar, urging them forward. “Come on, hurry up!”
And the twister was on them.
The shut doors to the dining room flew outward and blew off their hinges into the other room. Simultaneously, the doors to the ballroom banged shut and then open—twice. Then they too ripped away and blew off.
Fury engulfed them. Pots and pans and any number of sharp objects rose and went flying. Tucker herded Lori and Brody ahead of him, fighting every inch of the way, as the whole world broke loose from its moorings and the roaring became a monster that swallowed them alive.
It was all so slow after that. A minute—two, maybe—stretched into an eternity of terror, of sudden hard blows and noise.
The wild monster of roaring wind lifted Brody straight up off the floor—and threw him directly at Tate. Tate, miraculously, caught him.
“Go!” Lori shouted. “Go down, now!”
Tate turned and descended, as Brody cried, “Mama!” his young hands reaching, grasping, over Tate’s broad shoulder, as if he could pull Lori to safety with him by sheer effort of his ten-year-old will.
Tucker had Lori hard by the waist. He pushed her forward. Things kept hitting him—a knife handle, a wooden bowl; a dish shattered against his shoulder. It didn’t hurt. None of it hurt. He felt each blow as if it had been delivered with intent. The