Torn

by Chris Jordan

  “This nobody who got away,” Eva says. “Tell me how you’re going to catch him.”

  “Road has been closed, campus being searched. Also private residence. He can’t get away. Only way out is to hike through mountains. Thirty miles, winter conditions. Impossible. So maybe they freeze to death.”

  “So you think they’re trying to get away?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he responds, surprised by the question. “They know they can’t get to boy.”

  “And what happens if they make it?” she says teasingly, her fingers at work beneath his belt.

  “Bad things. Not good. The mother give testimony, Feds get search warrant from judge, come here looking for child.”

  “That’s what you think?”

  “What else?”

  Eva smiles with her teeth. “I looked this man up, this nobody you said not to worry about? I read the blogs, darling, testimony from grateful parents, and I came to my own conclusion. I don’t think he’s trying to get away. He’s going to try and rescue the boy. That’s what he does.”

  Vash disengages her questing hand, steps away. “Good,” he says, clearing his throat. “If he does that, we catch him for sure. Nobody gets into Pinnacle.”

  “Like Wendy can’t get out of the Bunker without us seeing him?”

  Vash has no reply.

  “Let’s do something about the boy,” Eva muses.

  2. Bulldog, He Mutters

  For a while after Jed died, I kept having this dream about a long dark corridor. I was in a hospital or mortuary and somewhere at the end of the corridor was a room where I would be asked to identify the body of my dead husband. I wanted to get there, wanted to see Jed one last time, but the corridor seemed to go on forever and I could never get to the room before the dream ended. It wasn’t a nightmare, exactly. There was no fear, just a great longing. Then the walls would begin to close in and I would wake up in a cold sweat, missing Jed so bad that my whole body ached.

  The dream comes back to me as we hurry along the tunnel in single file, Weems leading the way, with me in the middle and Shane following in a crouch. The tunnel, Weems explains, is made of fiberglass pipe, six feet in circumference-plenty tall for me and the strange little man, but not nearly big enough for Shane to stand upright. He can touch both sides of the tunnel with the palms of his hands and does so, to help keep upright as he scoots along, hunched over. The escape tunnels were installed when Arthur Conklin was worried about criminals who might be drawn to the Ruler’s wealth. Apparently there was a time when the cult leader feared he might be kidnapped and held for a billion-dollar ransom. The tunnels were a way out, as well as a place of refuge. They appear on no blueprints, their existence known only to Arthur and his trusted associate, Wendall Weems. The cult leader, recently remarried, did not even inform his new wife of the secret escape tunnel, lest she be part of some plot against him.

  “That was during his paranoid phase,” Weems explains. “He got over it, of course. The thing about Arthur, he was always learning, exceeding the limitations of the ordinary mind.”

  I’m still feeling a bit stunned, not so much by the flash of the stun grenade itself as by the rapid turn of events. Only a few days ago I’d been snatched from the airport, caged like a dog, flown across the country, confined to a shuttered house, tormented with video images of my son being brainwashed, and told there was nothing I could do about it. True, I’d been clinging to the notion that Shane would find me, but it was the kind of hope that keeps people buying lottery tickets. What were the odds?

  In his laconic way he makes it sound like no big deal. “You were the one who told me about the Rulers,” he points out. “So I came to where the Rulers live and started poking around. Just basic investigation.”

  My joy at being freed lasts about as long as it takes for a deep breath. There’s no room for joy in my heart until I have Noah in my arms. And if Weems is right, freeing me has put my son in immediate danger.

  “We’ve started the clock ticking,” he says, his melodious voice booming in the tunnel. “Kavashi knows about Mr. Shane’s connection to the FBI. He’ll be expecting a raid, and taking precautions. That means destroying evidence, and, Mrs. Corbin, your son is evidence.”

  All the more reason to hurry. Shane, crouching and in constant danger of bumping his head on the tunnel lights, is having trouble keeping up, despite his long legs.

  “I feel like a bug in a straw,” he complains. “How much farther?”

  “We’ll take a short break to catch our breath,” Weems announces, halting. “To answer your question, there are more than three miles of tunnels. One branch goes to my bunker, the other to the Pinnacle.”

  “Your bunker?” I ask. “What, like Hitler’s bunker?”

  “Most assuredly not,” he says huffily, turning to look me in the eye. “And what would a woman your tender age know of Hitler and his bunker?”

  “The History Channel.”

  “Of course.” He nods to himself. “What we have long called our bunker, for lack of a better term, was originally constructed in Arthur’s paranoid period, like these very tunnels. Built mostly underground, as an impregnable fortress-although nothing is, of course, truly impregnable. Later he moved to the Pinnacle, which is higher up the mountain. The Pinnacle is quite spectacular, really. A great cathedral of glass and steel and stone, and unlike the Bunker it looks outward. Arthur liked to say it greets the world. He thought of it as a great ship sailing upon a sea of clouds. Of course this being Colorado, most of the time there aren’t actually very many clouds, but you get the idea.”

  Shane, resting his long body against the curve of the pipe, says, “You’re sure the boy is in the Pinnacle?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You have spies there? Someone from the Evangeline faction who reports to you?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “We need to call in the cavalry,” Shane says emphatically.

  “The cavalry. How very romantic. By all means, alert your colleagues.”

  “You have no objection?” Shane asks, sounding surprised.

  “No. The time has come. As I say, the clock is ticking, and Eva herself is the time bomb. No one knows when she might go off, what she might do, but I have no doubt she’s capable of unleashing great violence, if she thinks that is what it will take to secure her position.”

  “And you’d like her out of the way,” Shane points out.

  “Absolutely. She’s been a disaster. We are a small organization. There are less than ten thousand full-fledged, dues-paying members. We can’t afford to be divided, fighting amongst ourselves.”

  Shane nods, studying Weems, whose face always seems to be averted, conveniently shadowed. Partly it’s his simian, jutting brow and his deep-set eyes, but I can’t help thinking that the strange little man reacts to light like a creature who doesn’t want to be seen.

  Shane says, “So Evangeline gets arrested and you become the big cheese, the ultimate Ruler.”

  “What I will do,” Weems responds, with great dignity, “is see that things continue as Arthur would have wanted. Strengthening the organization. Building connections into the mainstream. Continuing to interpret Arthur’s writing and teach Arthur’s lessons. Spreading the word.”

  Shane says, “And you’ll do the interpreting. You’ll decide what words get spread.”

  “Who better than me?”

  Shane stands up, as best he can. “We’ll need a phone, an Internet connection, or a radio. Some way to make contact with the outside world.”

  “Kavashi will have cut off landline and broadband by now,” Weems says. “There’s a satellite phone in the Bunker. You can use that.”

  Shane takes a deep breath, touches my shoulder. “You hanging in there?”

  “Yup.”

  What else can I say? My fate, and my son’s fate, is in Shane’s hands now. His and the FBI, if we can make contact.

  “I thought you were delusional,” Shane confesses. “That first day
. Bonkers with grief.”

  “Why did you stay?”

  He shrugs his big shoulders. “Something about you, I guess. You looked so ferocious.”

  “Me?”

  “Like a little bulldog. I knew you’d never let go, never give up.”

  “Bulldog, huh? Is that meant to be a compliment?”

  His eyes slide away from mine. “Just an observation. I certainly didn’t mean you look like a bulldog.”

  Weary and frightened for my son as I am, I can’t help but grin. “Whatever,” I tell him. “That was a lucky day. The best in a while.”

  Weems clears his throat. “We need to keep moving, folks. It’s only a matter of time before Vash figures out the tunnels.”

  We trudge along for what seems like a great distance, the tunnel inclining steadily upward, then abruptly switching to double back in the opposite direction. Weems suggests we think of it as an underground switchback road, which doesn’t mean much to me. Every yard is bringing me closer to Noah. That’s what I cling to.

  At one point we come to a vertical shaft. It contains an open elevator car that has the size and heft of an oversize toy, but Weems insists that it has been rated for a thousand pounds, considerably more than our combined weight. It is, he assures us, perfectly safe.

  “How old are these tunnels?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Twenty years or so. Something like that.”

  “So the last time this perfectly safe elevator was inspected was twenty years ago?”

  “It’s the only way up,” he says. “I’m afraid there’s no alternative. If you like, we’ll send you up in the car alone. Mr. Shane and I will follow.”

  “No way!”

  There’s barely room for the three of us in the car, which sways a little as it slowly ascends, bumping the shaft walls. Shane notices my complexion going green and says, “So you’re not fond of elevators.”

  “Not little swingy ones, no.”

  He takes my hand. “Try closing your eyes.”

  That makes it worse. My hand is sweaty, his hand is cool and strong.

  “We’re going to be fine,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring. “We’ll make a call to my friend Maggie and she’ll make sure that help is on the way. You’ll be safe in Mr. Weems’s Bunker, won’t she, Mr. Weems?”

  “Most certainly,” Weems says. “I’ve taken every precaution. Vash can’t touch us.”

  “And where will you be, while I’m being all safe and cozy?”

  “I’ll be having a look around the Pinnacle.”

  “Searching for Noah.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  He shakes his head, dismissing the idea. “I’ll bring him to you. That’s a promise.”

  “He doesn’t know you. He’ll be scared.”

  “We’ll discuss this after we make the call,” Shane says, sounding stubborn.

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  He grunts. We come to the top and the little elevator bumps to a stop, rises an inch, and settles at the correct level. Back in the relative stability of the tunnel, my knees stop trembling and the relief makes me almost giddy.

  “Wait here,” says Weems. “I have to disable Vash’s cameras.”

  He climbs up a set of rungs protruding from another, much smaller vertical shaft-remarkably agile for a man of his age-and a moment later he’s gone, having sealed the hatch at the top of the shaft.

  “I’ll be moving fast,” Shane says, continuing the conversation while we wait for our strange little guide to return. “There’s no telling what I’ll run into.”

  “La-la-la-la-la.”

  “What?”

  “Means I’m not listening.”

  “Bulldog,” he mutters.

  Above us the hatch opens, and Weems calls down for us to come on up.

  3. Slam, Bam, No Thank You, Ma’am

  To be truthful, I don’t really recall much of that History Channel show about Hitler’s bunker. Jed was the one with an interest in World War II, not me. But I do remember the Spartan interior and, of course, the total lack of windows. My sense is that Hitler and his cronies were living in a concrete hole in the ground, with air supplied by a ventilation tower that looked like a witch’s hat. In the end it was cyanide and pistols, and the bombproof bunker became a gruesome tomb, with death coming not from above, but from the people themselves.

  Weems’s bunker isn’t quite that desperate, but he does have the Spartan part down. Actually it’s more like a monastery without windows. Small, sparsely furnished rooms that could be cells. Bare concrete floors with a few thin rugs here and there. The only thing decorating the thick, concrete walls are framed photographs of his hero and mentor, Arthur Conklin. Seeing the famous author in a series of candid pictures-speaking at a podium, working on a manuscript, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake-is for me a very unsettling experience. This is Jed’s father. His dad. The physical resemblance is slight, but it’s there. And it says something that all of the pictures are cropped to leave out whoever else might have been present. As if Arthur Conklin lived in a universe occupied only by himself.

  While I look at the photographs-they’re deeply creepy if you know what was left out, namely his wife and son-Shane and Weems discuss the surveillance problem.

  “Vash had a crew install new smoke detectors about six months ago, when Eva first made her move. I knew at once they were hidden cameras and began to behave accordingly. Fortunately they neglected to put a camera in the bathroom, so they never spotted the tunnel entrance. I use it sparingly, of course. For the most part it didn’t matter if they monitored my movements-I’m a creature of habit, very predictable. And up until a week or so ago I came and went freely and still had regular access to the Pinnacle.”

  “What’s regular access?” Shane wants to know.

  “The Pinnacle is built into the steepest part of the mountain about a quarter mile from here,” Weems explains, sounding almost professorial. “An aerial tram covers the last five hundred feet of vertical distance. It’s reliable and efficient, based on a design they used in Portland, Oregon. An identical tram connects the Bunker to the same lower terminus-the original tram, from before the Pinnacle was built. Both cars can carry up to twelve tons of freight and passengers.”

  “So you can leave anytime you like.”

  Weems gives a wry smile. “Alas, no. Both trams are controlled from the Pinnacle. My tram only works if they say it does, and at the moment they prefer to keep me in the Bunker, ostensibly under their control.”

  “Okay, the trams are regular access. What else?”

  “There’s a helo pad on the upper level of the Pinnacle. Rarely used because of the wind shear, which makes landing difficult even on a calm day. I assume Vash has it booby-trapped, because that’s the obvious landing place for an assault by helicopter. The access door to the helo pad is blastproof, even if you did manage to land a copter.”

  “You mentioned a satellite phone,” says Shane, who seems eager to get on with it.

  “Yes, of course. But first let me show you the layout of the Pinnacle itself. You may find it useful.”

  Weems rolls open a blueprint and the two men lean over it, tracing the outline of the complex. I have to butt in to get a look-why is it that men always suppose a woman can’t read an architectural drawing? Okay, I’m not good with schematics, but with the help of the Home Depot clinics, and many hours studying HGTV, I’ve developed an excellent sense of space and scale. And I must say the Pinnacle looks really cool, designwise. The exterior drawing reveals a soaring structure with a subtly curved concrete roof extending well beyond the supporting walls, like the brim of a stylish hat. Protection from snow, I assume. Large glass walls slant inward at about twenty degrees. The whole place has the look of a modern airport terminal in some trendy city like Paris, or that famous opera house in Sydney.

  The look of it aside, Weems points out that the design was about more than being stylish. “Art
hur always had security in mind, even in his more open periods. The way the roof juts out and the walls slant back? He insisted on that because it makes an assault from the air extremely difficult-it’s rappelproof for one thing. Plus there are blast shutters that can be deployed instantly. As I mentioned, the tram is controlled from the top, and if that fails, the cable can be manually detached at the upper terminus, cutting off all access. The only other way in is through the tunnel shaft, indicated here,” he says, tapping the drawing with a thickened fingernail. “But as I say, we can expect Vash and his men to figure that out sooner rather than later. My concern is that when she becomes aware that an attack is under way, Eva will drop the blast shutters, detach the tram cable, and seal the building. You’ll have a siege situation.”

  “That would be the nightmare scenario,” Shane agrees. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “Seen enough?”

  “I think, so, yeah.”

  Weems rolls the prints up and produces an Iridium phone that could be a clone of the one that belongs to the Barlows. Part of a matched set, apparently-not that it did the Barlows much good. “You’ll have to stand close to an exterior wall,” he suggests, handing the sleek little phone to Shane.

  Shane, looking just a teensy bit nervous, punches in the number. He strains to listen and then his face lights up. “Maggie! I’m inside. Yes. I’ve secured Mrs. Corbin, who was being detained against her will. She has seen video images of her son, who is being held in the other building. The Pinnacle. Just like you said. Weems?” Shane glances over, makes eye contact with the strange little man. “Mr. Weems is cooperating. Matter of fact, he’s the one who broke me out of jail and gave me the means to contact you. No, I’m not kidding, I’ll tell you all about it later. Hold on, I’ve got an idea.”

  Shane has Weems unroll the blueprints, snaps pictures of the Pinnacle design, then takes a photo of me standing next to Weems, who does everything but tuck his head into his torso like a turtle, and sends all of the images to the FBI over the satellite phone.