In Death 05 - Ceremony in Death

breath coming fast and short, he poured more scotch, stared at himself in one of the ornately framed mirrors. He saw a man who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't seen his family in days.
    He was afraid to sleep. The images might come more clearly in sleep. He was afraid to eat, sure the food would clog in his throat and kill him.
    And he was mortally afraid for his family.
    Wineburg had been at the ceremony. Wineburg had stood beside him and had seen what he had seen.
    And Wineburg was dead.
    Wineburg had had no wife, no children. But Louis did. If he was in danger and went home, would they come for him there? He had begun to understand during those long, sleepless nights, when liquor was his only company, that he was ashamed at the thought of his children discovering what he had participated in.
    He had to protect them and himself. He was safe here, he assured himself. No one could get inside the suite unless he opened the door.
    Possibly, he was overreacting. He mopped his sweating forehead with an already sodden handkerchief. Stress, overwork, too many late nights. Perhaps he was having a small breakdown. He should see a doctor.
    He would. He would see a doctor. He would take his family and go away for a few weeks. A vacation, a time to relax, to reevaluate. He would break off from the cult. Obviously, it wasn't good for him. God knew it was costing him a small fortune in the bimonthly contributions. He'd gotten in too deeply somehow, forgotten he'd entered into the cult out of curiosity and a thirst for selfish sex.
    He'd swallowed too deeply of wine and smoke, and it was making him imagine things.
    But he'd had blood under his nails.
    Louis covered his face, tried to catch his breath. It didn't matter, he thought. None of it mattered. He shouldn't have called Eve. He shouldn't have panicked. She would think him mad; or worse, an accessory.
    Selina was his client. He owed his client his loyalty as well as his professional skill.
    But he could see her, a knife gripped in her hand as she sliced it across exposed flesh.
    Louis stumbled across the suite, into the master bath and, collapsing, vomited up scotch and terror. When the cramps passed, he pulled himself up. He leaned over the sink, croaked out a request for water, at forty degrees. It poured out of the curved gold faucet, splashed into the blindingly white sink and cooled his fevered skin.
    He wept a moment, shoulders trembling, sobs echoing off the shining tiles. Then he lifted his head, forced himself to look in the mirror once more.
    He had seen what he had seen. It was time to face it. He would tell Eve everything and shift his burden into her hands.
    He felt a moment of relief, sweet in its intensity. He wanted to call his wife, hear his children's voices, see their faces.
    A movement reflected in the glass had him whirling, had his heart bounding into his throat. "How did you get in here?"
    "Housekeeping, sir." The dark woman in the trim black-and-white maid's uniform held a stack of fluffy towels. She smiled.
    "I don't want housekeeping." He passed a shaking hand over his face. "I'm expecting someone shortly. Just leave the towels and..." His hand slid slowly to his side. "I know you. I know you."
    Through the smoke, he thought through the cracked ice of fresh terror. One of the faces in the smoke.
    "Of course you do, Louis." Her smile never wavered as she dropped the towels and revealed the athame she held. "We fucked just last week."
    He had time to draw breath for a scream before she plunged the knife into his throat.
    Eve strode out of the elevator, bristling with annoyance. The reception droid had kept her waiting five full minutes while he checked her ID. He'd given her a hassle over taking her weapon into the club. She'd been considering just using it on him to shut him up when the day manager had bustled out full of apologies.
    The fact that they'd both been aware he'd been apologizing to Roarke's wife rather than Eve Dallas had only irritated her.
    She'd deal with him later, she promised herself. See how the Luxury Club would like a full-scale inspection by the Department of Health, maybe a visit from Vice to check out their LCs. She had strings she could pull to insure the management a couple of days of minor hell.
    She turned toward 5-C, started to punch the buzzer under the peep screen. Her gaze flickered over the security light. It beeped green for disengaged.
    She drew her weapon. "Peabody?"
    "Here, sir." Though her voice was muffled