She nodded. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but after issuing a soft breath, she only lowered her head.
He swiped the phone screen. He had no messages from Mallory, which he interpreted as an ominous sign.
“I need to get the chief’s attention,” he said. “It’s probably best for you to go somewhere else in the meantime. But I owe you and I won’t forget it—that’s a promise.”
Leah gathered the mop and bucket and hurried away down the corridor. Ben wedged the phone into the back pocket of his Levi’s.
He gripped the cell’s steel bars. Rattling them as violently as he could, he shouted at the top of his lungs: “Chief Norwood! Get back here and let me out, you dirty sonofabitch!”
His voice echoed through the corridor. He shook the bars again. Shouted obscenities until his throat felt sore from the yelling. Throttled his cage some more.
Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Norwood sauntered into the corridor. He sipped steaming hot coffee from his HNIC mug. His face was tight as a clenched first.
The man’s pride simply wouldn’t allow him to brush off an insult. Ben had counted on that, too.
“You attemptin’ to provoke me, friend?” Norwood said.
Before Ben could respond, Norwood flicked his mug in Ben’s face. Scalding hot coffee splashed on Ben’s skin and hands. He yelped.
“Is that how you police chiefs abuse innocent civilians in Ratliff, Georgia?” Ben wiped away the hot liquid with his shirt sleeve. “I’ve got the guts to question you for sanctioning a human trafficking network and you can’t tolerate it, can you chief?”
“I drew a line in the sand for you.” With a hard grin, Norwood stepped to the edge of the bars. “You crossed it. The fallout’s on you.”
“We didn’t know where to find the trafficking headquarters until you told us, chief. That dead end on Higgins Road, leading to Sanctuary. We should have known from the beginning that you were a dirty cop.”
“I’d say you are deliberately tryin’ to provoke me, friend.” Norwood clanked his coffee mug along the bars of the cell. Ben stepped back, braced for another scalding splash.
“The brothers and I had a chat,” Norwood said. “Decided we’re gonna have a party. A jailhouse party. You’re gonna be the guest of honor, big man. Everyone’s bringin’ their favorite toy. Mine happens to be a blowtorch.”
“You’re the chief of police, and you’re going to torture me with a blowtorch?” Ben said. “How are you planning to explain my injuries to my legal counsel?”
“You’re a piece of work, friend.” Norwood chuckled. He noted the coffee spill on the floor, pursed his lips. “Gonna have to get that girl to mop up again.” He glanced at Ben. “Still can’t believe you turned her down. She really knows how to polish that knob.” Whistling, he strolled down the hallway.
As soon as Norwood had left, Ben took his phone out of his back pocket. He switched the voice memo app out of “record” mode and played back his conversation with the cop.
I’ve got you, you crooked sonofabitch.
But if he didn’t get out of there before Norwood returned with “the boys,” it would all be for naught.
Hands shaking, he fired off text messages.
54
Mallory floated awake to brightness.
She blinked, shifted. Paper rustled as she moved. A paper bib was attached to her neck, like something put on you when you visited the dentist and settled into the patient’s chair.
Her heart rate went into overdrive as dread took hold.
She was still in Father’s office, chained to the chaise. The experience had the ultra-vivid, surreal quality of a nightmare, but it was all real.
And it wasn’t over.
The astringent odor of alcohol penetrated her nostrils. Her throat felt numb. She remembered he had injected her with a syringe; it must have contained a numbing agent, like Novocaine.
“You weren’t intended to lose consciousness, Sister Mallory,” Father said, and she realized he had been sitting behind her in his wheelchair. He pivoted into view and cocked his head as he contemplated her. “You fainted.”
She tried to turn her head. Some sort of brace, cold and metal, had been attached to the sides of her face to limit her movements.
With her restricted field of vision, she saw that she and Father were alone in the room. Her backpack, which contained her phone, lay on a chair, out of reach.
Even if it had been within reach, she couldn’t have done anything with it. They had her immobilized like an insect pinned to a board. Completely neutralized.
She regretted everything she had done that had led her into their trap. What the hell had she been thinking, coming there by herself? Why hadn’t she convinced Ben to join her?
Was there any hope for Ben now? Surely, that corrupt cop would have arrested him on fabricated charges. Probably, he was sitting in the town’s jail, full of regrets. She had dragged him into this; he didn’t deserve to suffer from her failings, from her insecurities.
She should have stayed in Atlanta. Who was she to think she could take on an investigation of this magnitude?
She should have avoided those genealogy services, too, giving them her DNA, enabling nuts like Tabitha and Father to contact her. She should have accepted the present state of her life, accepted that some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved, that every question didn’t require an answer, that the world didn’t care about your feelings and didn’t owe you shit.
The sum of her own decisions and actions had brought her there. Chained to a chair in a crazy man’s cult in a shithole of a town. It was all her fault.
Fresh, warm tears flowed down her cheeks and soaked the bib around her neck. She sniffled.
“It’s time for us to commence the procedure.” Father had slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Prepping for surgery.
“Please . . . you don’t . . . have to do . . . this.” Her words came out slurred, the effect of the local anesthetic. “Let . . . me . . . go . . . please . . .”
“It’s time for you to embrace silence, Sister Mallory.”
He had tucked her old family photo into the breast pocket of his scrubs. It peeked out from the pocket, like a symbol of mockery, as if he wanted her to ponder her family while they tortured her.
Father steered a small, wheeled table beside her. A stainless-steel tray lay on the tabletop. The tray held an assortment of glittering surgical instruments and accessories. Bandages. Scissors. Forceps. Needle holders. Retractors. Scalpels.
It’s all a sham, my lovely. Pure theater.
“It’s not . . . real,” Mallory said. Her words came out fragile as crepe paper, and she cleared her throat and spoke again, louder: “None of . . . this is . . . real. It’s a performance.”
“Oh?” A smile played along Father’s lips. “It’s quite real, sister, I assure you.”
“You’ve never removed anyone’s larynx . . . I have proof.” Her voice strengthened as she forced herself to speak despite the numbing anesthetic. “Martha Taylor, she told me. It’s all . . . bullshit.”
“A laryngectomy is the removal of the larynx and separation of the airway from the mouth, nose and esophagus,” Father said, as though he hadn’t heard her. He tented his gloved fingers. “Usually, it is done to prevent the spread of cancerous tumors. Naturally, an otolaryngologist typically would perform this surgery—an ENT surgeon. I will be performing this procedure myself, Sister Mallory. I have done it hundreds of times, don’t be concerned.”
“Smoke and mirrors,” Mallory said, but her heart pounded.
From the tray of tools, Father selected a scalpel.
The cut is real, dear . . . but it’s only for effect . . . to reinforce the illusion that he’s stolen your voice.
She clenched her fingers into fists, her palms saturated with icy sweat.
Once he opened the incision, would she still believe it was all for show? What if it was going to be real, this one time, only for her?
She almost w
ished she could pass out again, but terror kept her wide awake.
Father drifted toward her. He slid the surgical mask over his mouth. He lowered the scalpel to her flesh.
Mallory trembled so violently the chaise shook underneath her.
“Be still, sister,” he said in a tender tone. “Embrace quiet.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too frightening to avoid watching him work. Her gaze flashed to the photo peeking out of his pocket, fixated on Mom and Liz, frozen on that perfect day. God, she missed them both so much. Something shiny hung around Father’s neck that previously had been concealed by the surgical mask. A silver pendant. So familiar. A swan. Her sister’s swan.
Mallory suddenly felt as if the earth had split open beneath her and dropped her into a bottomless abyss.
“My God, it’s you,” she said. “You’re Liz.”
Father looked up from his task. He raised the scalpel. A small bead of blood glistened on the blade’s edge.
His hand shook.
“I know you remember me,” Mallory said, and she wasn’t sure where the words came from, but it felt like the right thing to say, the best words to bridge the chasm.
Father tossed the scalpel onto the tray. Pulled away the surgical mask. Lips quivering.
“I’m so sorry, sis,” Liz said.
And she rose from the wheelchair.
55
Stunned, Mallory stared at Liz.
She wasn’t often speechless, but at that moment, she didn’t have any words.
“I’m so sorry for the things he’s done to you,” Liz said. Her voice was softer than even Father’s, undeniably feminine. “Let me get these things off you, I’m so sorry, please give me a moment.”
Liz drew a ring of keys from the pocket of her scrubs. She unlatched the restraints on Mallory’s wrists and ankles. She loosened the brace that had pinned Mallory’s head in position on the chaise.
Feeling dizzy, Mallory ripped away the paper bib and started to get up.
“Wait, a bandage, for your neck,” Liz said, grabbing a flesh-colored bandage from the tray. “I’m so sorry. It looks like he made only a tiny surface cut before you stopped him, thankfully.”
Mallory let her sister apply the bandage to the small cut on her throat. That close to her sister, at long last, Mallory tipped forward and collapsed in Liz’s arms. Liz held her, shaking. Mallory shook, too, from shock and relief.
“I don’t understand,” Mallory said, finally finding words. “What’s happening here?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll have the light, Mal,” Liz said. “Oh, he’s so strong now, so powerful. But you deserve to know, sis.”
Liz stepped back. She removed the tinted glasses, and when Mallory saw those sparking brown eyes, she knew beyond all doubt that this was real.
Liz grasped the edge of her beard and peeled it off; her face underneath the fake hair was soft-edged, smooth skinned. She slid off the Afro wig, revealing her short, curly natural hair. She grasped the edge of her scrubs top and slipped it over her head. She wore a tight-fitting chest binder tailored to mask the swell of her breasts. She tore away the Velcro strap that secured the top and peeled the garment away, allowing Mallory to see her bare-chested, a fully-grown woman.
“He will be so angry about this,” Liz said, and giggled. It was the giggle of a girl engaged in a mischievous act. “The other night, when I stood at the window and watched you outside, he was so upset with me. I didn’t care, I wanted to, I had to, like I had to make that drawing for you, Princess Butterfly.”
Dissociative identity disorder. The term floated into Mallory’s thoughts as she struggled to understand what was going on. Otherwise known as split personality disorder, she believed there was some dispute in psychology circles about whether the condition was genuine, or if the subject was merely acting.
But seeing her sister’s transformation firsthand, in the flesh, there was no dispute in Mallory’s mind, and never would be. Everything about Liz was radically different from the Father personality. The cadence as she spoke, the words she used. Her body language. And not the least, her actions.
This was the Liz she knew, her sister. Kind, considerate.
But she was also Father. Her own sister was the unquestioned leader of Sanctuary. She trafficked young women for profit. She held an iron grip over the greater town. She had powerful men working on her behalf to further her insidious ambitions.
The enormity of it was too much to comprehend. Did anyone know the truth?
“Please, tell me,” Mallory said. “I want to know how this all happened.”
“I may not have much time.” Liz put on the scrub top, not bothering with the concealing garment. She glanced toward the doorway, worry in her gaze. “My children may return soon—or he will. Anyway, I guess it all started after Boyfriend Bruce killed Mom and they separated us. It looks like they put you in a good home. I wasn’t so lucky, sis.”
56
Liz took Mallory by the hand and guided her to the upholstered sofa on the other side of the office. Holding Mallory’s hand as if her sister’s touch kept her anchored to stable ground, Liz started talking.
“This foster family they sent me to already had six foster kids, all of them teenagers, and I was number seven.” Liz shrugged. “The parents did it for the money, I guess. They didn’t care about the welfare of the children they took in. I had a bedroom I shared with three other girls. They let us do whatever we wanted. Drinking. Hanging out all night. Skipping school. But the dad there, if you wanna call him that, he got interested in me real quick.”
Mallory had an intuitive sense of where this recollection was headed. Her gut clenched.
“He would take me on long drives at night, just the two of us,” Liz said. “‘Let’s take a cruise down lover’s lane, cutie pie,’ he’d say to me and wink, and I knew what that meant, all right. We’d get in his Cadillac DeVille and ride around and he’d find a quiet place to park. I mean, I sort of liked it, at first. He’d give me money after it was over.” Liz smiled at the memory, but there was a hint of sorrow in her expression, too.
“You were twelve,” Mallory said softly. “It was abuse.”
“It didn’t really feel like that at first, sis. It didn’t get bad until he started planning parties with his buddies. He would take me to someone’s house or apartment and there’d be five or six guys waiting for me there, all sweaty and so horny. He’d take me into a bedroom and they paid him to get turns with me, and after it was over and we went back home, he’d share hardly any of the money. I did all the work and he was keeping the money, my money!”
“Jesus,” Mallory said. She was stunned not only at the horrible abuse her sister had suffered, but by her perspective on it—her anger not at being rented out as a sex slave, but that she wasn’t getting her fair cut. As if, in her deeply warped worldview, rape was acceptable if one was adequately compensated afterward.
“I got sick of it, being used like that,” Liz said. “So, I saved up money and ran away.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Mallory squeezed her hand. “You’re right, my life was much different. I wish we could have stayed together.” Emotion swelled like a balloon in her chest. “I wish you had been with me.”
“You went to college, you’re a real newspaper reporter now.” Liz grinned. “I’m so proud of you. But you said you were gonna write books. Are you working on one?”
“Someday,” Mallory said. “Someday soon, I think.”
“You’d better. Grrr.” Liz glowered at her with mock anger.
“You said you ran away,” Mallory said. “Where did you go?”
“Oh, here and there.” Liz scratched her chin. “I bounced around in the city mostly. I looked for you, which was a total waste of time, but I tried to look you up in the phone book. Like a little kid would be listed in a phone book, duh. You had changed your last name anyway. I didn’t find that out until later.”
“I tried to look for you, too.�
� Mallory swallowed. “I’ve searched years to find you, Liz.”
“Here I am, in the flesh.” Smiling, Liz patted her hand. “Guys on the street tried to pimp me out. I didn’t let them—I was a free agent, you know. I did that for a while, me and a couple of other girls had a little crew, I guess, we sort of looked out for each other.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “One night it was so cold, my crew had broken up, and I had to get off the streets. You learned to stay away from homeless shelters because the folks there, they were nice, but they would call the state agency and put you back in the foster system. It was so cold that I risked going anyway. One of his scouts found me at a homeless shelter.”
“You mean Father?” Mallory asked.
“Don’t say his name!” Liz clapped her hands over her ears. Fear flashed in her eyes. “He’ll come back!”
“I’m sorry,” Mallory said, delicately. “You said a scout found you?”
“Someone he paid to spot prospective girls. I fit the profile of what he wanted: young, female, pretty, major daddy issues, from a broken home, et cetera.”
“And then he brought you here?”
“He had a safe house in the city. An outpost, sort of. The scout told me where to find it, and that’s where I met him. He seemed so nice, not like a pimp or a perv at all. Like the dad you wish you had, kind of.”
“Eventually, you came here,” Mallory said. “You were a Bride. I found that out from Martha Taylor.”
“Martha? Wow, I haven’t heard that name in a while. How is Martha?”
“She’s getting by,” Mallory said. “She found her voice.”
“Good for her.” Liz giggled. “He never did The Quieting ritual with me, but I was supposed to always stay silent around the others. He gave me a small cut on my throat, only for show. It was one of our little secrets.” She fingered the swan pendant hanging on her necklace. “Swan was special to him.”
Mallory worried that she had edged into dangerous territory. Liz suffered from severe mental illness, to a degree unlike anyone Mallory had ever encountered in her life. She didn’t know what might trigger Liz to assume the Father personality again, but mention of him had resurrected troubling signs, such as speaking of herself in third person.
The Quiet Ones Page 21