Dude,
The door actually split down the middle and, with judicious shoving, I freed myself . . . and promptly tripped over two unconscious devil worshippers.
Sinclair was a whirl of activity; I could only get the occasional glimpse of him when he managed to knock a bad guy away from him. And I realized why the door had been broken—he’d thrown someone into it so hard, the flimsy closet door had cracked.
I tried to figure out who to help. Calling the cops was out, for obvious reasons. Getting between Betsy and Laura would be a quick and painful way to commit suicide.
So when a hooded jerk ran past me I caught him by the back of his robe, yanked him back, and smashed my elbow into the hinge of his jaw.
“That’ll teach you to mess with a licensed physician,” I told the unconscious Satanist.
Then I ran to see if I could give Sinclair a hand.