The light moved like nervous fish, then steadied as more people copied the troopers, lifting their screens high.
Dean didn't raise his voice. He moved close to Martha, not touching her, just placing his body between her and the nearest surge of strangers.
"You keep that folder," he said quietly. "Tight."
Martha had already pinned it against her chest with one arm, tin box in the other hand. Her cracked phone glowed in her palm, recording light still on.
She could feel her own heartbeat in her throat, but she forced her feet to stay planted.
From the front, Trooper Ellison barked, "Lights on the aisles. Hold them up. Aim forward."
People obeyed because the voice belonged to something bigger than the sheriff now. A dozen screens lifted, creating a dim corridor of light down the center aisle.
Barnes moved in that corridor like a silhouette with purpose, scanning faces, scanning hands, scanning the stage.
"Deputy Rusk is secured," Ellison called, and in the swinging phone light Martha saw Rusk's outline being guided toward the side doors, cuffed wrists held tight.
Rusk's head was down. The phone he'd grabbed from Martha was no longer in his hand.
Halverson was still on the stage, now just a shape behind the microphone stand. Without the overhead lights, the authority he'd worn like armor looked thinner.
He raised his voice, trying to reclaim the room. "This is exactly why we need order. Everyone remain calm and..."
Barnes snapped, "Sheriff, quiet."
Hearing Halverson fall silent so abruptly made the crowd hush for a beat. Then a new sound cut through the murmurs, heavy, metallic, echoing from somewhere outside the building.
A deep thump followed by a brittle crack, like a breaker exploding or a transformer failing.
It was not the wind. It was not random.
Barnes's head turned toward the side exit. "Ellison, outside. Now. Find the source."
Ellison gestured to another trooper. They moved toward the doors at a fast, controlled jog, keeping hands visible, flashlights angled down to avoid blinding the crowd.
Martha felt Dean's voice near her ear. "That wasn't an outage," he murmured. "That was a message."
Martha didn't answer because her mouth had gone dry. She watched Pell.
In the dim aisle light, Gordon Pell was already moving, slipping sideways through the front row toward the side exit, head down, jacket collar up, taking advantage of the confusion like a man who'd rehearsed it.
He wasn't running. He was disappearing.
Dean saw him, too. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't break the trooper's instruction. He didn't chase.
He lifted his phone higher and turned his camera to track Pell's path. Barnes saw it a second later.
"Stop him," he ordered, voice slicing. "Mr. Pell, remain in place."
Pell didn't stop. He turned his head just enough to find Barnes in the dark and called back, smooth even now.
"Trooper, I'm trying to help coordinate generators. People are frightened."