The curtains—plaid, in rust and avocado-green patterns—are clamped shut on all the windows. Nobody can see in. I’m looking for escapes. Besides the entry door across from me—bolted shut from the inside, and fastened with a padlock—there’s a hatch in the floor that’s probably for maintenance, and one up above with a skylight over it. No exit in the back that I can see. But options, at least.
If I get loose, I intend to kill as many of them as I need to, hijack this piece of shit, and drive to the nearest place we can get real help. If I can’t manage that, I’ll get Connor out through one of the escape hatches before I go down fighting. It isn’t much, but at least he’ll have a chance to run. Hide. Find help.
It’s not the best plan. My headache is so strong it’s making my stomach boil, but I doubt they’re going to give me a bathroom break.
“Why do you want us?” Connor asks. He directs it straight at the man with the Taser. “What did we ever do to you?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be home soon,” the man says. “My name is Caleb, by the way. The woman we’re after stole a baby. All we want is to find him and bring him home.” He treats Connor like an equal, not a captive. I get his contempt. For Connor, he busts out the warmth.
And Connor is listening. “Are you trying to find your baby?”
“No. He’s Father Tom’s son. That makes him my brother. So I want him back too.”
Jesus. He thinks Connor can be manipulated, I realize. I’d like to say the kid’s immune to that, but at this age? No. Connor’s dad played on his fears and his need to belong. Same thing cults do.
He’s vulnerable.
I can’t let this new asshole get a grip on Connor’s soul. So even though I know I’ll get punished for it, I say, “And when the babies are girls, how old are they when you marry them off to your prophet? How old do they have to be before he starts molesting them?”
That pisses Caleb right off, which is what I intend; he grabs the Taser. I see him fire it this time, and the bright pop as the electrodes hit me and start pulsing.
That’s pretty much all I see before the amps fire, and then I don’t see or feel anything but waves of mind-numbing agony as my muscles convulse. It stops for a second and I catch my breath, but then he presses the trigger again. More agony. I hear Connor yelling for him to stop. My lungs are pulsing, burning for air, but my muscles won’t unlock enough for me to fill them. I don’t think you can tase someone to death, but it feels like it.
Seems like a year until he finally runs out of juice, and the pulsing, paralyzing shocks stop coming. I gasp in a huge, whooping breath. My chains rattle from the force of the convulsions, and the metal around my wrists and ankles feels hot. Just being alive feels like a victory.
I can hear him pressing the trigger again. Nothing. He’s killed the battery. You son of a bitch. There’s a real sadistic streak in Caleb. And better I am its target than Connor.
“Leave him alone!” Connor shouts, and from the driver’s seat comes a sharp command for all of us to shut up or get gagged. I manage to nod to Connor. Give him a thumbs-up signal, even though I’m limp as a landed fish and twitching with reaction. I acknowledge the pain and focus on the man who was so quick on the trigger. He gets up, unlocks one of the cabinets with a key from his pocket, and takes out another Taser, which he shows me very pointedly before he walks back to his table.
We all go quiet. I close my eyes, because the aftereffect of being hit with a shock like that brings exhaustion; I slip almost imperceptibly into a doze for a while. No point in being hyperalert when I’m chained down and there’s nothing productive I can do. Air force pilots don’t just train on flying and fighting; we also get a serious dose of SERE education. I’ve already failed the Search and Evasion parts of that course, since I’m sitting here tied up, but the Resistance and Escape parts are definitely applicable. The cult isn’t likely to pull anything I haven’t seen and felt and experienced before, and been trained how to counter. Wasn’t fun to go through, but it’s paying off in an unexpected way now.
All I have to do is get us to the last E of that training: Escape. Future-state visualization is important in all this, and I need to start making that real not just for me, but for Connor too. I need to coach him through this and get us home safe.
Or, if that isn’t possible, at least get him home safe. Because that’s my job.
He calls me Dad, and I need to live up to that.
I snap back out of my doze. The rocking and bumping of the RV has changed to a smoother, accelerating pace. We’re on a real road, finally. It’s nearly dawn outside, from the light leaking around the curtains. Caleb’s stretched out in one of the bunks at the back. Complacent asshole.
I start methodically testing my restraints. Wherever we’re heading, we’re moving fast toward it. The U-bolt in the floor that I’m chained to is completely solid. So are the chains, of course. There’s enough slack that I can twist my wrists, winding the chain in on itself tighter and tighter. I’m hoping to find a weak spot in the links, or the manacles. I don’t. Connor’s watching me, and trying his own bonds. The captors are just a few feet away, and periodically the man sitting shotgun swivels around to look at me. He doesn’t seem worried that I’m testing the restraints, and he doesn’t bother to tell me to stop.
So I keep it up. The chair is firmly bolted down. The ropes they’ve secured me with around the waist and chest hold firm. He’s right: they know their kidnapping jobs well.
Right, I’ve done due diligence. Now all we can do is wait.
I doze while the drive continues, but I wake up at every sound, alert for anything they might try to do to Connor. But they leave us alone. When I wake up again, the sun’s up. The old clock on the RV’s wall says it’s almost exactly nine thirty in the morning, and we slow down and come to a stop with a squeal of ancient brakes. I hear voices up front—someone talking to the driver. Then the sound of metal gates rolling back with a distinctive rattle.
The RV rolls forward, but not very far—the length of a football field, at most. Then it stops, and the engine dies.
“Get your lazy ass up,” the driver yells back at Caleb, and he rolls out, yawning and rubbing his face. “We’re home.”
“Praise the Lord,” Caleb says. “Been aching for a decent meal.”
My stomach rumbles, right on cue. I could use some scrambled eggs and bacon. No point in denying that craving exists, so I satisfy it as best I can by imagining how that would taste. I let it go and focus on Caleb, who is releasing Connor. He unlocks a padlock at the bottom of the U-bolt, sliding the chains free; Connor starts to struggle, but he’s not going anywhere. Still tied to the chair. Caleb knows his job. He gets right in the kid’s face and says, “Look, I don’t like to do this, but you’re not giving me a choice. Stay still, or I’ll shock you unconscious. Understand?” He knows Connor saw what that did to me. And I hate the fear that I see on the boy’s face before he locks it down behind a calm, stiff expression. I’ve seen that look before. He gets it when he hides everything and tries to cope, but it’s less a shield than a thin Halloween mask. It won’t protect him long.
Connor locks eyes with me. I mouth, Do what he says. Connor nods slightly. I’d worry more if it were Lanny, who’d take the wrong opportunity to rebel, but Connor’s cautious. He’ll be okay.
I’ll make sure of that.
My heart’s beating too fast. I use breathing techniques to slow it down as I watch Connor get untied and brought to his feet. Caleb keeps the manacles on his wrists and ankles and leads him shuffling to the door and out. All my training can’t lock down the worry I feel, having him out of my sight. This was inevitable, I try to tell myself. They’re going to separate you. Wait for your chance.
That doesn’t help the fear I feel—not for myself. For him.
I count seconds. It’s a way to stay calm when I can’t see what’s happening. Not knowing can drive you nuts, especially when emotions run so high. When counting doesn’t stop my brain, I make it do square
roots. Anything to keep it occupied.
It takes ten minutes for Caleb to come for me. By this time the other two men have exited, and I’m left alone in the RV. Caleb uses the same routine with me as Connor. First, he opens my padlock and unthreads the chains. There’s an opportunity, but it’s not a good one—I can mule-kick him in the chest, if I’m fast enough, but that still leaves me tied up in the chair, inside a compound with a locked metal gate. Not to mention I don’t know how many of them are waiting out there armed. I’d still take the chance if I knew the keys had been left in the ignition, and if I were just getting myself out.
But Connor’s not here. And that means I need to be out there. The problem is that if this cult is as experienced and smart as they seem to be, they’ll never keep me close to him. Isolation will be part of the disorientation tactic. Isolation and fear, coupled with acceptance and support by cult members. But for Connor, I think, not for me. I’m not their primary target; I’m the control.
Being the control has certain advantages. I’m more disposable, but at the same time, killing or even seriously injuring me will impair their ability to handle Connor, so that means they probably have a hard red line of how far they’ll go. As long as I’m alive, he’ll work to please them and keep me safe. Kill me, and he’ll close up. From Caleb’s attitude toward the boy, they’d like to recruit him. He’s at a prime age. And maybe having Melvin Royal’s son in the congregation would be a perverse feather in the cult leader’s cap.
Caleb leaves me tied up in the chair and steps back, and that’s when I realize someone new is coming on board the RV; the floor dips with his weight, and when Caleb’s out of the way I see an older man with pale, almost white hair. Pale skin to match. Nothing impressive about him. He’s medium height, maybe a little thin, wearing a plain white pull-on shirt and loose white trousers. Not nearly as tanned and sunbaked as his followers, which means he spends his time indoors, not working fields. Long hair that flows all the way down to brush his shoulders. He’s going for the Christlike image, according to the popular paintings, and it works for him.
“Hey, it’s Jesus,” I say. “Is this heaven?”
Caleb’s not amused. He picks up the Taser, but Fake Jesus puts his hand on Caleb’s arm and shakes his head. He’s smiling. “Let him joke,” he says. “Brother Sam, yes, Jesus is here. Not in me, I’m not so arrogant as to think that. But in all of us. Even you.” He keeps smiling. It’s unsettling. “I’m Father Tom. I know you think ill of us right now, but you’ll come to see the truth. Everyone does eventually.”
He sounds certain of himself—not a trace of doubt in those calm, mad eyes. I don’t answer, because I get nothing if I let myself give in to my smart-ass nature. The best strategy for the rest of this, no matter what happens, is to play quiet, exaggerate weakness and injury, give nothing. I don’t know if I’m valuable to them beyond being a club to beat Connor with. But even that’s enough. I can use that to stay alive, and relatively unharmed.
Never agree. Never admit. Never ask. Never sign. Even a simple yes to something is a hook they sink into you, a crack in your armor, and it can be used in all kinds of dangerous ways. Enough hooks sunk in, and they can drag you where they want you to go.
Alert and neutral, always accept food and drink but never ask for it. The training comes back fast, as it was meant to.
I lower my gaze and say nothing.
They untie me, watching for any hint of resistance, but I don’t offer any. I go along quietly, shuffling in my leg irons like a criminal on my way to a cell. I sweep in as much as I can in a long glance—multiple buildings, fields in the distance, vehicles, barns. An open central area. Lots of people moving around.
A church situated prominently near the center of the compound.
I look for Connor, and I see him; they’re taking his ankle manacles off, which is good. It means he can run if he needs to. But it also means they want to instill a sense of gratitude in him. They’ll wait awhile for an opportune moment, then do him the additional favor of taking off the handcuffs. Little kindnesses. Maybe paired with pain, maybe not. At his age, love will work better than torture.
And that’s Connor’s weakness. He needs love the way a sponge needs water. And from a father figure, doubly true. If they spot his weak points—and they will, they’re experts at this game, predators always are—then they’ll know how to get to him. Good cult indoctrinators can pull it off in just a couple of weeks at the most. And that’s on adults.
I need to stay ready. For both our sakes.
It starts as I expected. While Connor’s getting well treated, they sink a punch into my midsection. That’s Caleb’s job, of course, as soon as Jesus / Father Tom has turned his back and walked away; it looks like Father Tom isn’t aware of it, but of course he is. Connor sees it, which is what they intend. Double incentives for him: cooperate with us, you get treated well. They’re setting him up to have him ask for better treatment for me, which puts him in their debt psychologically. And he won’t understand that. I hate that I’m the lever they’re going to pull on him, but that’s how it works.
I meet his frantic gaze for a second and smile. I give him a silent thumbs-up to let him know I’m okay, that it’s fine, that he doesn’t need to be worried. It’s all I can do to insulate him before they hustle me away in a different direction, dragging me when my shackled legs don’t move fast enough. I still manage to look back, and find him anxiously staring my direction. I try to put everything I can into that look—love, especially. Some steel too. I hope he gets it. I can’t be sure.
Then we’re around the corner of a low concrete building, and at the end of it there’s a steel shed.
They throw me in the cold, cramped, pitch-black shed and leave me there.
Step one: deprivation and stress.
I can’t stretch out; I have to try to get comfortable against cold, hard sides and a dirt floor. No blankets, of course. No water either. Not even a pot to piss in. The old lament sounds funny at the moment, but it isn’t. They’re not going to provide me with a toilet. I have to make one, and I do, digging in the hard dirt until I’ve scraped out a hole in the corner. Good enough for now. The laborious exercise also tells me that the walls have a foundation that goes down at least three inches, and probably several feet more than that. Digging out might be possible, but it’ll take time, and there’s no way to conceal the extra dirt from anyone who looks. So: probably useless effort.
I use the hole as intended, and try to stretch out and rest. I’m cold, and I’m thirsty, but I know they’ll withhold water until they get something they want. Whatever that will be.
They’ve taken my cell phone; they’re not that stupid. They probably left that on the side of the road long ago, or—if really clever—sent it on a wild-goose chase in exactly the wrong direction. I have no weapons. They stripped off my shoes and shirt too. The pants will be next. Eventually, every prisoner in a situation like this ends up naked.
I curl up in a ball, preserve what core warmth I can, and shiver until I can fall asleep.
I wake up to singing, and for a disoriented moment it sounds like a chorus of angels. It’s beautiful. I sit up, listening, eyes shut against the darkness; it feels better if I control how dark it is rather than having it forced on me. They’re singing a hymn, and the female voices lift it up to a clear, warm height. Feels like sunlight. Like joy.
When the song ends it’s just silence, and darkness, and the cold, and it feels like forever. I need to get to Connor. But I know that need is a weakness they’re going to use against me.
I’m trying not to think about Gwen, about what might have happened to her and to Lanny after I was tased out. She’s okay. These assholes cannot stop her. She’ll figure it out. She’ll point the goddamn army our direction if she has to.
That comforts me just enough to let me sleep. I dream that I’m falling into a hole so dark it swallows me up completely, but then I feel Gwen’s arms around me, and her strength at my back, and I hear her whi
sper, I’m here.
It’s a good start to survival.
19
LANNY
I don’t know why it doesn’t hit me until I’m alone in my room at the Belldene house, but it all just . . . crashes on me. I’m wearing a stranger’s nightgown because I forgot to pack one in my backpack. I’m lying on a bed that feels like it’s molded for someone else’s body. Clean sheets, clean pillows, but the room smells all wrong, and those aren’t my posters on the walls, or my books on the shelves.
And as I’m lying there, I realize that my brother’s really, really missing. He’s gone. They took him away, and I was scared out of my mind and hid behind the couch and I didn’t stop them. I’m so ashamed. I always, always thought I would fight, no matter what. I always told Connor that I’d protect him if something happened, and I meant it.
But I didn’t. I let it happen. And Mom was hurt, and Sam—
I press my face to the pillow. My skin feels hot and tight, and tears just explode out of me like my eyes hold geysers of misery. I curl up and cry into the soft cotton pillowcase that smells like someone else’s detergent, and I think about my brother’s face, about how scared he looked. Before, I was there for him. I defended him.
But he’s all alone now and I hate this. I hate feeling like a failure, and the worst of it is, I blame Mom. This is all because of her, because of her job. I thought it was cool and awesome, but it brought those men to our house, and there’s nothing good about any of this.
I hear my door open, and I gasp and throw myself upright. In my room I’d know what to reach for, but here I just look around like a dumbass. All I have to defend myself is a pillow.
But then I realize that it’s Vee. Vee, in a stupidly short nightgown that looks like it was made for a twelve-year-old. She puts her finger to her lips and closes the door behind her, then comes to sit on the bed next to me. I’m hugging the pillow tight, and she puts her arm around me and pulls me closer. It gets smashed between us until I toss it aside.
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