Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  What if he never saw her again? What if he returned home tonight to find both his wife and daughter gone?

  Vanished?

  “We have to go there,” Andrea said, taking Sarah into her arms and planting a hard kiss on the girl’s bald head. “To that town. With or without these prisoners. I’ll have her show me. Then you can come find us, or you can stay here.”

  The gate began to creak open. Keagan heard a truck start up on the other side.

  “What are you saying?” he asked. “You would leave without me and, what, take my daughter away, too?”

  Her expression firm, no sign of tears now, Andrea nodded.

  “I would,” she said. “So, make your decision.”

  “And what if they don’t take us in, Andrea? I’m the bad guy, remember? I’m the one torturing these men. Locking them up. Why would they take me in?”

  The truck rolled to a stop a few feet away. Keagan quietly shushed Andrea.

  “Not here,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Simon,” Andrea said, as if the answer were obvious. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re not the bad guy. You’re the solution.”

  7

  Lately, Halsidier had been a ghost.

  Feeling enormously relieved by the general’s absence in daily affairs, Keagan was concerned, nevertheless. How much longer could the man stay cooped up in his office, injecting Selarix poison into his veins, before his anger and paranoia drove him out of his mind?

  That evening, Keagan crossed paths with a soldier carrying a duffel bag toward headquarters. The bag was obviously heavy, forcing the man to take quick, awkward steps.

  “Private Paulsen,” Keagan said.

  Paulsen stopped dead in his tracks. Turning his head slowly, eyes taking in his commanding officer, his next word came out in a nervous mumble.

  “Um, sir?” he said.

  “What’s in the bag, Private?”

  Normally, Keagan would have no reason to be suspicious. Soldiers constantly hauled bags of supplies across camp. But something about the man’s hurried stride, the way he’d kept his neck bent, eyes on the ground, seemed off.

  He could be under their spell, Keagan considered, aware of how far-fetched the thought might have seemed under regular circumstances. But he had to think like that now.

  “It’s nothing, sir. Just supplies o-ordered by the general.”

  “What kind of supplies?” Keagan approached the man, then stopped and released a tired sigh. “Look, Paulsen, you’re not in trouble. We’re all under the gun here. I’m just making sure I stay aware about what’s going on.”

  “I know, sir,” Paulsen said, turning the front of his body toward Keagan—a good sign and a show of trust. “It’s just that… Well, the general ordered me to keep it confidential.”

  “Even from me? The warden of this camp and your boss, I might add?”

  A nervous pause. “Especially from you, Warden Colonel. Sorry, but the general will have my ass.”

  Keagan considered what to say next. Obviously strained by the weight of the bag, Paulsen shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  “Sir,” Paulsen said, “if you don’t mind, the general will have my ass if I—”

  “You said that already.” Keagan waved him along. “Go. I understand.”

  Clearly relieved, Paulsen continued his scurrying walk toward headquarters. Keagan watched him until he disappeared through a side door.

  He went through the side, Keagan observed. With such a heavy bag, if he were headed for Halsidier’s office on the second floor, he would have taken the shorter route through the front entrance where the stairs are right by the doors.

  Keagan knew the building through and through. There was no other option to get to the second or third floor. The emergency stairs had been sealed off by the previous warden, who wanted to cut down on access points that could be used by sneaky prisoners.

  Interesting.

  His next interrogation wasn’t for another ten minutes. Convinced he was making either the smartest or the dumbest decision of his entire career, Keagan snuck around the rear of the building and crouched by a window.

  Bombs.

  The general was stockpiling them—specifically C-4 plastic explosives.

  But why?

  Hunkered down by the window, peering past a layer of caked dust and grime that had accumulated on the glass over decades, Keagan observed Halsidier dismiss Paulsen after his delivery, then proceed to lock the door before opening the duffel bag to pull out the first of several tan, brick-like explosives wrapped in black tape.

  Keagan knew a bomb when he saw one. Earlier in his career as a soldier, he’d done a stint in the army’s Covert Anti-Terrorist Explosive Squad—they called it the CAT Squad, for short—which involved planting explosives in public spaces, like parks, train stations, and restaurants. These strategically chosen areas—along with any unfortunate civilians who happened to be in the vicinity—would then be blown to smithereens so Eastern terrorists like Louis Blake could be blamed, thereby arousing public resentment and strengthening Harris Kole’s war against the villainous forces east of the Line.

  Keagan wanted to spit in disgust. Even then, as a young and impressionable zealot of Harris Kole’s particular brand of government, Keagan had been repulsed by the idea of slaughtering innocent men, women, and children. His first successful mission in the CAT Squad—the utter annihilation of a crowded bus—had him filling out over two dozen transfer applications afterward. Thanks to his impeccable academic record and his father’s Party connections, Keagan had landed in the Fatherland Security Department, where he mainly oversaw administrative matters.

  The FSD was more his style—though it had eventually led to his post at Camp Brazen. Now, all he wanted was to get out again, but not to a different division.

  This time, he wanted out for good.

  Maybe Andrea is right, and we should find a way to that beautiful little town…

  Keagan had seen all he needed to. A confrontation with Halsidier would yield nothing. If the general had ordered Paulsen to keep the explosives a secret—especially from Keagan—then asking about it would only get the private in hot water.

  Besides, he had an investigation to conduct, and time was running out.

  8

  It happened at nine-thirty that night.

  The crack of a pistol fired outside headquarters.

  Keagan shot up from his stool, again finding himself unpleasantly interrupted during another equally unpleasant interrogation, which was yielding nothing.

  “Get him back to his cell,” he commanded the soldier who stood guard behind him.

  Then—for what felt like the hundredth time that week—he found himself sprinting through a hallway, the same sinking sensation taking hold of his stomach.

  A dozen or so prisoners had gathered outside the HQ’s west-facing wall. The gunshot had come from one of his soldiers, who had remained standing with the pistol aimed at the starless sky.

  “I won’t say it again,” the soldier shouted at the crowd. “Get back to your sleeping quarters. If you don’t, I will shoot every last one of you!”

  Behind him, four more soldiers stood with their guns drawn, aimed at the prisoners. The crowd had begun to disperse, though not as quickly as Keagan imagined they might have done a week ago, before this whole ordeal began.

  The prisoners had changed. Not a single one seemed afraid of being shot.

  Keagan ran up to the soldiers.

  “Holster your guns,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

  The one pointing his gun at the sky holstered the weapon before turning around. Looking up at the building’s topmost floor, he slowly extended his right arm and pointed.

  “Look, sir.”

  Keagan followed his gaze. “Son of a bitch.”

  The spotlights on the HQ’s wall—which were required to be lit from sunset to daybreak—illuminated two banners decorated with the faces of Harris Kole and his deceased father, Harold Targin. Bathed i
n the intense light, the posters hung as usual, except for one thing.

  They had been flipped upside down.

  “Why are these prisoners outside past curfew?” Keagan demanded.

  “Sir,” the soldier said. “We came to inspect what had happened. Didn’t even notice the prisoners out here until there were a whole bunch.”

  Keagan’s suspicion had been correct. The prisoners knew being out past curfew was an offense punishable by a beating or worse.

  They clearly weren’t afraid of either. Not anymore.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” Keagan said.

  “Yes, sir,” they all replied.

  “Get ladders. Restore those banners to their proper positions immediately. I want two of you—Richards, Wallinger—to stand guard beneath them until daybreak. Shoot any prisoners you see outside past curfew, even if it’s just to take a leak. But do not shoot to kill. We need to send a message.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richards and Wallinger jogged to the building, stopping to stand guard on opposite sides of the wall. The rest sprinted away to grab ladders.

  Keagan shouted over the huts.

  “Any man seen outside his hut after curfew will be shot! This is Warden Colonel Keagan speaking! Any who leaves their hut tonight will be shot on sight!”

  Out of breath and exhausted, as if the weight of the world were bearing down on his shoulders, Keagan returned to his own post in the prison cells of the HQ’s basement.

  He was tired, but determined.

  No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  9

  Day three.

  Only two more to go after this.

  Keagan chewed his lower lip—an old habit he thought he’d overcome in his academy days—as he interrogated his latest prisoner. Frown deepening, he composed himself.

  “I’m sorry, Warden,” the prisoner said, as if simply reciting the same script they’d all been required to memorize. “I barely knew Marshall. He was a really quiet kid, never said anything to me about escaping.”

  The man seemed calm and sure of himself, despite having been hung shirtless by a chain attached to the ceiling. His lack of fear made the entire situation seem ridiculous. The rope, the removal of their shirts, the occasional punch to the belly or face—Keagan might as well have been torturing these men by forcing them to dance a lighthearted jig.

  Nothing scared them.

  The duffel bag containing the battery and picana was only a foot away, within arm’s reach. Keagan hadn’t used the device since his torture session with Marshall Towne.

  It was time.

  “I’ll keep my ears open,” the prisoner said. “You can count on me, sir. I’ll see who’s been saying what. I’ll… I’ll snitch, no problem.”

  Something about the man’s offer sounded vaguely familiar. Almost jumping off the stool in excitement, Keagan took a moment to steady himself. He rose slowly, then paced around the stool in the cramped cell, trying to give off the impression he was considering the possibility.

  Yes, I’ve heard this from two others. Marshall was a quiet kid, and they were more than willing to keep their ears open and snitch.

  They were following a script.

  “You snitch for me,” Keagan told the man, “and I’ll let you out of this cell with your jaw still attached to your face. But I want something solid. By tonight.”

  “Yes, Warden. I’ll keep a low profile, ask around to see if anyone knows what’s going on. I’ll be careful.”

  “What’s your name, prisoner?”

  “Yeltsin, sir.”

  Keagan uncuffed the man, returned his shirt, and nodded once, as if they were now partners in crime and could trust each other. The prisoner nodded back before darting out of the cell.

  If Keagan’s suspicion were correct, anything these men had to say would only be a scripted lie or a form of misdirection. But it was the script itself that was valuable to him.

  “Private Rogers,” he said, causing the soldier standing guard in the corner to straighten and salute.

  “Yes, Warden Colonel.”

  “Get three other guards,” Keagan ordered. “I need two prisoners arrested and placed in two separate cells.” Grabbing his clipboard, Keagan scanned the list of interrogations he’d already completed. “Abir Zaid and Franklin Klein.”

  Prisoner Franklin Klein hung shirtless from the ceiling like the others. Keagan had intentionally recreated the conditions of their first session.

  Keagan even used the same words—his own script, so to speak.

  “I want you to tell me the names of the men who were loyal to Dean Hampton.”

  A ripple of confusion played across the prisoner’s face.

  “Warden,” he said, “since last night, I… I’ve been asking around. We were all loyal to him at some point. Like I said… I mean, with all due respect, sir, as I informed the warden earlier, I could name every prisoner in this camp. We all served under him at one point or another.”

  Staring intently into the man’s eyes, Keagan made sure to phrase his next question exactly as before.

  “Tell me what you know about Marshall Towne.”

  Another confused stare. “Warden, I… Marshall was a quiet kid. Didn’t really talk much. I swear, he said nothing about escaping.”

  Nodding approvingly, Keagan snapped his fingers. “Guard. The picana, please.”

  Franklin’s mouth yawned open as if to protest, but words escaped him. He’d grown comfortable repeating his script, but this would throw him off.

  “Do you know what a picana is?” Keagan asked

  Behind him, the guard unzipped the duffel bag.

  “Yes,” Franklin answered, tipping his head back and straightening his spine as if to steel his body against the oncoming pain. “I’ve heard about it. Sir.”

  Without breaking eye contact, Keagan extended a hand, palm facing up, to receive the wand from the guard.

  “Good,” Keagan said. “Then I want you to imagine the worst pain you’ve ever felt, like a blowtorch tracing hot lines across your chest and melting your skin down to the muscle.”

  His breaths quickening, Franklin nevertheless appeared confident.

  “That won’t be necessary, sir. Please. I’ll tell you what you want to know about Marshall.”

  Keagan’s pulse rose. This was it—the moment he’d been waiting for.

  “Marshall Towne and Dean Hampton were working together,” Franklin said. “We didn’t know what they were planning, but they would disappear together all the time. Always talking, whispering, and then shutting up as soon as anyone came around. Sometimes, the men would talk about it. How weird it was.”

  “That makes sense,” Keagan said. “What else?”

  “We think they’re the ones responsible for all the strange things that have been going on. It certainly wasn’t one of us, or I would have heard something. You have to believe me.”

  His excitement growing, Keagan leaned forward and tried to appear surprised. “You mean to tell me they’re still in the camp?”

  “I think so, sir. I’ve heard rumors, and a couple men claim to have seen Hampton creeping around at night, maybe—maybe scouting the place, playing tricks, that sort of thing.”

  “Why would they do something like that?”

  Franklin shrugged—as much as he could, anyway, with his arms stretched above his hanging body.

  “To send a message, sir. We think, anyway. No one knows for sure.”

  Keagan gave the man an approving nod—one of his stupid approving nods, as Andrea had described it—and rose from the stool until his face was level with Franklin’s.

  “You’ve done well,” he said, raising the picana until it was inches from the man’s face. “But your job isn’t over. From now on, you’re my number-one snitch. You hear anything about Marshall Towne, Dean Hampton’s plan, or any other rumors, then you come straight to me. Unless you want to find yourself back in this cell with a cattle prod up your ass, you hear me?”

  “Yes, si
r, Warden Colonel. I’ll keep a low profile. I’ll see what the men are saying.”

  Keep a low profile. Just like the last one had said.

  Were these men really dumb enough to memorize the same exact script?

  Minutes later, Keagan was seated on the same stool, which he had carried from the last cell to this one, his guard following with the duffel bag—only now, he faced a nervous young man with brown skin, straight black hair that fell girlishly down to his shoulders, and a missing eye.

  Like the others, Abir had been chained to the ceiling. His good eye had widened slightly at Keagan’s approach and it remained that way, his nervousness clear as day.

  Keagan stuck to his script.

  “I want you to tell me the names of the men who were loyal to Dean Hampton.”

  “Sir. Warden Colonel… I…”

  Yes. He’s confused. Why am I asking him the same question I asked yesterday?

  “Do not make me repeat myself,” Keagan said.

  Abir looked positively terrified now. “Sir, I told you, I don’t know. We all were, you know, loyal to him. Most of us, anyway, I think…”

  Despite his mumbling, Abir’s response was almost exactly the same as Franklin’s had been.

  On to the next question.

  “Tell me what you know about Marshall Towne.”

  A brief pause as Abir seemed to consider the possibility Keagan was suffering from amnesia, or maybe this was some sort of trick.

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t really know him. He… he was really quiet.”

  Again, the same response.

  Keagan compared this to what he’d heard from other prisoners not following the same script. They had given answers like “I thought the kid was a stuck-up asshole, sir—definitely dumb enough to try to escape,” or “The boy talked all the time about escaping, but we never took him seriously. We knew he wouldn’t last.” Keagan’s favorite response had been, “The kid was Hampton’s lover, and they used to sneak out at night to be alone together. We all stayed away from those two.”