But Mallory stared straight ahead, thinking: don’t move, don’t move, don’t move . . .
Nodding as if satisfied Mallory was still incapacitated, Tabitha murmured to her twin: “Bring her inside.”
Nimrod picked her up easily and slung her across his broad shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He smelled of sour sweat and oddly, of pine straw, and Mallory had the perhaps not-so crazy notion that he slept in a kennel with his beloved dogs.
Her backpack, which she had strapped across her shoulders, drooped alongside her arm.
Tabitha opened the stable doors. Nimrod carried her inside.
The air was cool, laced with an antiseptic odor that Mallory associated with hospitals. From her vantage point with her head angled downward, Mallory saw a white tile floor, matching white walls.
Nimrod’s rain-damp shoes squeaked across the tile as he transported her along the hallway. She saw the bottom edges of doors fashioned from stainless steel. Cells where they kept their “product?” Where was Rachel?
They made a right turn, a left turn, another left turn.
“This one will do,” Tabitha said, and Mallory heard a door whisper open. “Keep a close eye on her, brother. I’ll go fetch the doctor.”
Making a left, Nimrod brought her into a shadowed chamber no larger than a walk-in closet. He dropped Mallory onto a narrow bed, face down against a rough pillow, her limbs tangled beneath her in an awkward position. She heard his shoes squeaking as he retreated to the doorway.
Go away, she thought.
Nimrod waited nearby for perhaps a minute; she heard his slow, deep breathing. Then she heard his footsteps wander away into the corridor.
Slowly, Mallory twisted her head around. She winced. Due to the intense muscle spasms that had seized her when she’d been zapped, it hurt like hell to move.
Nimrod had drifted to the other side of the hallway, his back to her. He stared through the porthole window in a cell door. A number painted in black above the doorway stated: 57.
She would have wagered her right arm that Nimrod was gawking at a young woman imprisoned inside. It looked as if he had his hand on his groin.
Sick bastard.
Quietly, she pushed off the bed. She remembered her wet sneakers, and slipped them off, placed them on the mattress. She wore thick cotton socks and they were damp, too, but ought to make less noise than her shoes.
She slipped her phone out of her backpack and left the bag behind. She climbed off the bed.
In a crouch, she tip-toed to the doorway.
To her left, the corridor stretched for about ten yards, through an intersection of hallways, and dead-ended at a white wall. At the juncture of corridors, two color-coded directional arrows hung from the ceiling; a white arrow pointed left; a blue arrow pointed right.
She had no idea what those signs meant. But there were two other numbered doors, not including the one in front of which Nimrod had parked himself like a visitor to a morbid zoo.
On her right, she saw more doors with numbers above them, and another intersection with a white arrow pointing right, and a green arrow pointing left.
She heard people talking, their voices carrying to her from an unseen location. It sounded like Tabitha and another man.
“Where is Father?” she heard the man ask, in an annoyed tone. “I need to speak to him.”
She couldn’t hear Tabitha’s response.
Nimrod’s attention was fastened on the porthole, his hand stroking his member, his breathing loud. Mallory crept soundlessly out of the cell, turned right, and backed away along the corridor, away from the voices.
At a four-way intersection, she paused. The green arrow pointed left; she looked that way, and blinked.
The tile of the corridor in that direction was white, but the walls, including the ceiling, were painted shamrock green.
What the heck? Was this place designed by someone tripping on LSD?
She thought about the path Nimrod had followed when carrying her inside. She took a right, following the white arrow; the tile, walls, and ceiling were colored such a perfectly matched shade of white it was difficult to tell where the walls ended and the floor began.
She felt as if she was trapped in a maze from a nightmare.
61
Expecting to hear wailing police sirens and to see flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror at any moment, Ben traveled to Sanctuary with Cecil and Leah.
Cecil drove, Ben rode shotgun, and Leah was sandwiched between them. Cecil had given Ben a Louisville Slugger baseball bat that he’d pulled from the truck’s rear row, murmuring that it was an extra from the Little League team where he served as an assistant coach. Ben took the bat, and Cecil casually mentioned that he had a .357 in his glove compartment that he intended to use if necessary.
Ben offered Leah the multi-tool he carried on his key ring—it contained a small but sharp pocketknife—but she only gave him a glazed look, and he shrugged and tucked it back in his pocket.
As they tore across the rain-lashed town, Ben filled in Cecil on what had happened thus far, and what else he had done.
“I hope it all works out,” Cecil said. He sucked on his cigarette, realized it was already smoked down to the butt, and tossed it out the window with a soft curse. “For all our sakes. If it doesn’t, then I’ve signed my own goddamn death certificate here in Ratliff.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” Ben said.
“My wife says that, too,” Cecil said. “But I’m suspectin’ Vivian’s just ready to collect on my life insurance. Worth more dead than alive, you know.”
“If not us, then who?” Ben asked. “If not now, then when?”
Cecil flashed a sardonic grin. “You sound like a politician I voted for once.”
Tires screeched and the truck slewed as Cecil made a sharp turn onto the access road that led to the Sanctuary stable.
62
I’m on my way. Stay safe.
Once she had crept away from Nimrod and into an intersecting corridor, Mallory read the text message Ben had sent to her. He had sent it over twenty minutes ago. He could be almost there or far away—she had no idea. But getting near the stable entrance in case he arrived seemed like a smart plan.
Inching along the identical-looking white hallways, relying on memory to help her navigate back to the entry door, she paused to peer through a porthole into one of the holding cells. According to the black digits painted above the doorway, it was number 17.
Gazing into the dimly lit chamber, Mallory saw an unfamiliar young woman wearing a gown like a patient in a hospital. She sat on the edge of the cot, reading a thick hardcover book that Mallory recognized as the meandering philosophical text that Father had authored. The woman’s long jet-black hair flowed to her shoulders, and the gauzy material did little to conceal her ample bosom, but she had a bandage taped across the bridge of her nose and at the base of her nostrils, the bandages creating a “T” formation.
Nose job, Mallory thought. Good Lord.
The woman must have felt Mallory’s attention. She glanced toward the porthole. Her gaze was disinterested.
I’m going to get you out, Mallory lip-synced, and she gestured to support her message. The woman gave her only a flat stare.
Was she drugged? Mallory wondered. Had they already extracted her kidney, too? Were they now awaiting a buyer once her nose healed?
Mallory had the key ring in her bag, but it was no good. Beside the cell door, she saw only a numeric keypad; there was no conventional locking mechanism on the door.
She stared at the keypad, her mind racing.
In a burst of inspiration, she tapped in the numerals of Liz’s birthdate. The little light flashed red. She tried their mother’s birthdate. Red again. She cursed under her breath.
The woman inside the cell had already looked away from the window, as if Mallory’s promise to free her meant nothing.
Mallory edged away from the door. Lurking along the corridor, she saw another cell, a
lso accessed via a keypad. The door was shut, and the chamber was empty, but that didn’t ease Mallory’s fears; a pair of slippers lay on the floor, as if the cell’s occupant had recently discarded them.
If she found Rachel, she wouldn’t have been able to set the girl free, not until she figured out the passcodes or discovered some other mechanism to spring open the enclosures.
She retraced her path to the entry door. She knew it was the way out: a red “Exit” sign glowed above the doorway, the only clear directional sign she had found in the stable.
As she pushed it open, cold rain sifting into her eyes, a blue Dodge Ram swerved into the parking lot.
Mallory was so happy to see Ben get out of the truck she almost screamed.
63
Mallory gave Ben a quick hug. He had an ugly bruise on his face that she figured he had picked up during a scuffle with Chief Norwood, but at least he was there in one piece.
She hugged Cecil, too. She was startled, but pleased that he had arrived.
Mallory found Leah’s presence on their ragtag team to be the most shocking. The young woman still didn’t speak, but she had a steely gaze that told Mallory everything she needed to know about why she had come with the men.
She wanted to end this, too.
Cecil had a revolver on his hip. Ben clutched a baseball bat. He gave her his multi-tool, brandishing the pocketknife. Mallory accepted it, though she had no intention of stabbing anyone.
“There’s three of them,” Mallory said in a hushed voice. “Tabitha, Nimrod, the surgeon. By now, they’re probably looking for me. But this place is huge.”
“Where’s Father?” Ben asked.
Mallory paused. “It’s Liz.”
“Huh?” Cecil blinked.
“It’s complicated,” Mallory said. “I don’t have time to explain it. But whatever you do, don’t hurt Father if you see her . . . him.”
Ben was shaking his head. “What’s the plan then, Mal?”
“We’re here to get these ladies out of this hellhole. I have keys but the doors all have keypads. There’s gotta be a master switch or something like that somewhere.”
“Like a control room, huh?” Cecil said. “Place where he keeps an eye on ‘em all and whatnot.”
“There aren’t any readable signs in here, though,” Mallory said. “Just weird colored arrows and hallways that match the arrows. I don’t know where to find the control room.”
Suddenly, Leah stepped forward and took Mallory’s hand. Eyes glittering, she tugged Mallory down the corridor.
“Of course, you were here, too,” Mallory said. “Please, show us the way.”
64
Leah hurried ahead of them. Mallory followed close behind. Cecil and Ben brought up the rear.
Despite the physical and emotional hardships Mallory had endured that day, she buzzed with energy. She had raced through rain-drenched woods. Been injected with anesthesia and sliced with a scalpel. Discovered astonishing truths about her sister. Zapped with a stun baton. But she had never felt such resolve, about anything.
I won’t quit, ever.
Some of their shoes squelched against the tile, eliminating any ambitions Mallory had of reaching the stable’s control hub via stealth. Liz’s children had to be searching for them. But Nimrod didn’t speak, and the cunning Tabitha was unlikely to broadcast her location by calling out for Mallory.
Leah guided them on a different course than Mallory had taken earlier; she seemed to understand the meaning of the painted arrows. They left behind the white corridors and reached a blue hallway. Mallory didn’t see any holding cells in the blue section.
They passed a door marked with a simple sign, blue text against white: “Supply Closet.”
A little farther ahead, a large window covered almost the entire wall on Mallory’s right. She blinked, knowing what she was seeing but still disbelieving.
Blue walls and ceiling. White floor. A large tabletop, draped in blue sheets, lying on a platform. Hulking pieces of medical equipment.
The operating room.
As they passed the chamber, Mallory heard Leah suck in a sharp breath, bad memories undoubtedly surfacing.
Behind her, Cecil said, “What in the hell . . .” wonder and disgust in his tone.
They made a left at the next intersection of hallways; still in the blue area. Then Leah stopped, her face twisted in a frown.
“What’s wrong?” Mallory asked.
Leah tapped her temple, shook her head.
“You’re lost?” Ben asked.
Cecil swore under his breath. Tears spilled from Leah’s eyes as she nodded.
“It’s okay, honey,” Mallory said. “You had a difficult time when you were in this place, traumatic things happened to you. We’ll figure it out together.”
Leah sniffled, took Mallory’s hand. She guided them forward; they made a right at the next intersection, into another blue corridor.
“There you are,” Tabitha said.
65
Tabitha and Nimrod blocked the hallway. The blue of their robes matched the corridor, making it look as if they had materialized from the walls.
“You brought friends,” Tabitha said, sweeping her gaze over them. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve no idea what you’re up against.”
“Step aside,” Mallory said. “Let us free the girls. No one has to get hurt.”
“Brother.” Tabitha placed her stun baton in Nimrod’s outstretched hand. “Put them down.”
Nimrod thumbed on the weapon. He advanced.
Whimpering, Leah backpedaled, pulling Mallory with her so forcefully Mallory’s arm nearly separated from its socket.
“I got this, y’all,” Cecil said. He brandished his revolver and aimed it at Nimrod like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. “Go on now.”
“Cecil, no,” Ben said.
“I said go!” Cecil said, and Mallory noticed his grip on the gun quivering.
Leah, Mallory, and Ben fled in the opposite direction.
66
Cecil faced down the silent giant, fighting to keep the .357 steady.
I could be home right now, he thought. Tilted back in my big chair, feet up, sipping on a cold one in my den and watching something good on my new TV. Maybe The Good, the Bad and the Ugly or some other classic Eastwood western.
But his own life had morphed into a Hollywood movie when he’d finally decided to get off his ass and do something to help these folks. To fight back against the corruption that had long bedeviled him.
But he’d never imagined that fighting back would mean staring down a young man who looked like he could be a starting linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Jesus, the kid was huge.
Worse: there was a stony flatness in his dark-eyed gaze, as if he could rip Cecil’s guts out using his bare hands without any qualms at all.
“Stop it right there, now,” Cecil said. He heard a tremor in his voice and hated it. “I will shoot you, son. This here ain’t no pop gun.”
The man kept coming.
Cecil aimed for his leg. He didn’t want to kill the boy. He wanted only to stop him, to disable him.
His finger twitched on the trigger.
But he underestimated the young man’s reach and speed. In a flicker, the kid used the baton to bat away the muzzle of Cecil’s gun.
The .357 discharged into the ceiling, the projectile striking a tube of fluorescent light. Electric sparks rained down on them.
Thrown off balance by the young man’s cobra-quick strike, Cecil tried to re-align the gun on his intended target. But the giant shoved away Cecil’s arms as if knocking aside a child.
He laid the stun baton against Cecil’s chest, directly above his heart, oh God, his bad heart.
Cecil’s world exploded in a supernova of pain. He felt his heart seize.
He went down.
67
Running along the hallways, Mallory heard gunfire followed by a bleat of pain.
She wor
ried about the meaning of those sounds. She wanted to double back and make sure Cecil was okay.
But she didn’t dare.
“We keep going,” Ben said, but worry shone in his eyes, too.
“We’ll cover more ground, faster, if we split up.” Mallory dug her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll call you now. We keep the call open. We communicate that way, walkie-talkie like.”
“All right.” Ben switched the baseball bat to his other hand and answered the call she placed to him. “Leah, please go with Mallory. Maybe you’ll remember how to get to the control room along the way.”
Teeth gritted, Leah nodded in agreement.
68
Ben didn’t want to split up. But he knew Mallory was right—and he knew that arguing with her would be a waste of precious time.
He set off in one direction. Mallory and Leah set off in another.
He kept the call open, the phone in his back pocket. In his hands, he clutched the baseball bat.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, though the stable was cool.
He was back in a white corridor; he passed windowed doorways marked by numbers: 5,6,7,8. He looked in each one. Most of them were empty. But in a couple, he saw occupants: young women wearing hospital gowns, as if awaiting surgery, or recovering from surgery. The women were awake but had a dazed look in their eyes, a sure indicator of powerful drugs at work.
He wanted to use the bat to smash open the windows, but how far would he get before the crazies stopped him?
Another intersection lay ahead: white arrow, green arrow. He had no idea which way to go, and he feared they were running in circles. Shrugging, he turned right.
Someone lunged at him.
Ben yelped in surprise. A man in a white jacket came at him. Shiny bald head, a bowtie. The infamous Dr. Faustin.
The surgeon had a tiny knife in his outstretched hand. A scalpel.
Ben twisted away. The scalpel blade slashed across his left forearm, opening a zipper of agony, split flesh, and hot blood.
The Quiet Ones Page 23