by Chris Jordan
Evangeline shuts off the camera and exits the studio, heading for her war room. Her plan is falling neatly into place. Within the hour she will have solidified her grip on the organization. Wendy and his people will follow Arthur into the next world, wherever that might be, and trouble her no more.
“Vash!” she calls out. “Is everything ready?”
He’s been busy in the war room, calmly programming a complex portion of the system’s software. He looks up, his expression betraying no emotion.
“Is good,” he says. Then he smiles, his cool eyes warming up, drinking her in. “Bad for them. Good for us.”
9. Good Night, Irene
When the flat-screen TV came to life in Irene Delancey’s empty bedroom, announcing the death of Arthur Conklin, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Not just because it startled me, but because of what the announcement might mean. When a cult leader dies-excuse me, is “removed to the next level”-“outsiders gather”-that must be Shane’s FBI friends-it can’t be good. An organization in crisis, factions fighting for control, the whole place in lockdown, it all sounds as if it’s spiraling out of control. That can’t be good for us.
The woman making the announcement had seemed serene in tone, but I don’t believe her for a second. Something about her is off, way off. She has the look of madness; confident, chilling madness.
As soon as the screen goes dark again, Shane tries to make a call, but with no view of the sky, not to mention all the concrete and steel between us, the fancy satellite phone can’t get a signal. No phone, and therefore no way to know how long it will take the FBI to find a way inside. And in my mind at least, if we don’t locate Noah in the next few minutes, something terrible is going to happen. Call it mother’s instinct, or plain anxiety, but there it is, the absolute need to find my son now rather than later.
“Two possibilities,” Shane says, surveying the empty bedroom. “Either she heard us coming, or something else frightened her. Same result, whatever the cause. She’s hiding and she took your son with her.”
“How do you know that?”
He holds up the book left on Mrs. Delancey’s bedside table. “Noah told me,” he says with a gleam in his eye. “He left a message.”
“Oh my god! Let me see!”
The book is, no surprise, Arthur Conklin’s The Rule of One. Apparently the true believers keep it close at hand, like the Bible. The surprise is the scrap of paper tucked into the book, hastily scrawled in pencil:
WE ARE HIDING.
NOAH CORBIN, AGE 10
P.S. TELL MY MOM
I know that handwriting! No question, it’s Noah, and aside from the brief glimpse of video provided by Ruler Weems, the first real tangible proof that he’s not only alive, but well. Despite whatever poison they’ve been feeding him, he knows his name is Corbin, not Conklin. Plus he wants his mother to know where he is. That’s a good sign, right? Right?
“S-sorry,” I blubber, totally losing it, clutching the little note to my heart.
Doubtful a big strong shoulder would help, but there’s no way of knowing, because Shane isn’t offering. He’s not being unkind or uncaring, but neither is he offering to comfort me. It’s clear that he shares my concern about finding Noah right away, and that must take precedence. No time for emotional meltdowns, save the tears for later.
“I suspect she hasn’t gone far,” he says, waiting for me to get it together. “If she wanted to hide, her options would have been limited.”
“But we checked all the rooms on this floor,” I say, frantic.
“No,” he says firmly. “We didn’t. You looked in the doors, saw the dustcovers, and backed out. Very quietly, too, I might add.”
He’s right, of course. We’d been searching for rooms that were lived in, not places to hide. Stupid! In an instant I’m back in the hall, racing for the next suite, housekeeper disguise forgotten. Bursting through the door, I run to the adjoining room-all the layouts are the same-and find it just as empty. Dustcovers, stillness. My instincts telling me the air in here has not been disturbed recently, that the mustiness has been honestly come by.
Check everything. Look everywhere. Bathrooms, closets, under the bed.
Whipping back a shower curtain, I come face-to-face with a madwoman. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are red, she looks as frantic as me. She is me.
What kind of place is this, putting mirrors behind the claw-foot tubs?
By the time I get to the last of the guest suites, every door has been opened, every closet looked into, every shower curtain whipped back, and still there’s no sign of Noah, no clue as to where he’s been taken.
My head is light with the pounding of my heart. In despair I fall to my knees and cover my face as it all comes crashing together. The conflicting tides of fear and frustration and just plain old need, the need to have my child in my arms at last. I’ve come this far, the madwoman of Humble, the crazy mom who won’t give up, because somehow I can feel that my child is alive, and where he might be, but whenever I almost get there somebody moves him farther away.
I can’t take it anymore. This ends now, or I really will go stark raving mad.
“Noah!” I scream. “Where are you!”
Shane, startled, reaches out to caution me, but I duck under his hand and fling myself out into the hallway, bellowing at the top of my lungs, “NOAH! NO-AHHH! IT’S MOMMY! NOAH! NOAH! NOAH!” chanting and screaming with all my strength, with everything I’ve got, and to give him credit, Shane doesn’t really try to stop me.
“NO-AHH!” I cry, running back and forth, doing my best to shout the walls down with the sound of my voice. “NO-AHHH! NO-AHHH! NO-AHHH! I WANT MY SON! GIVE ME BACK MY SON! NO-AHHH! NO-AHHH!”
I scream his name until my throat is so raw I can’t get out a sound, until the air is out of my lungs, until the strength is fading from my body, and hope from my heart.
And then I hear it. Very faint. Not Noah, not his voice, but something. A tiny thump no louder than the thudding of a single sparrow wing. But it’s enough to get me flying down the hallway, through the open door, and into one of the empty guest suites that we’ve already checked twice. And exactly as I enter the room, there’s the faintest flutter of movement under one of the dust sheets, a simple white cotton sheet covering an unused desk.
Hands extended like eager talons, mama bird zeroing in, I rip away the dust sheet and there under the desk is Irene Delancey, who looks almost as terrified as I do. Struggling in her arms is a desperate little boy. She has her hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, and her face is bleeding from where’s he’s scratched her, and his feet are kicking.
That’s the thump I heard, that’s what made the dust sheet flutter. Noah, my son, my beautiful true-blue boy, responding to his mother’s cry.
“Let him go,” I tell her, my voice hoarse and croaking.
“I saved him,” she whimpers, pleading for forgiveness. “They want to kill him and I saved him. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Let him go.”
She does, she lets him go, and then he’s in my arms, hugging me as if his life depends on it, crying Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, clinging with all his might, and everything is good. I am made whole again and everything is right in the world.
Except for one thing. Cradling Noah with my left arm, I lift my foot and stomp Mrs. Delancey right in the nose.
10. Run For Your Life
For weeks I’ve dreamed of this moment. Dreams so palpable, so real that I awoke convinced my son was back home, and I’d find myself staggering into his empty bedroom and realize that the real nightmare was in being awake.
Now that it has finally happened, now that I can feel Noah’s heart pounding against my own, all the pain and grief starts to melt away, and it is as if I’m finally, truly, wide-awake to the world. Strangely, my rage at those who stole him melts away, too. It’s as if there’s only room enough in me for love. Maybe that will change over time, but right at this moment, this wonderful, wonderful moment, all I feel for Ir
ene Delancey and her Ruler friends is pity.
They are so utterly pathetic. Worshipping a mean old man who encouraged them to be selfish, is there anything more sad?
Cupping her hands to her bleeding nose, Irene looks at me imploringly. “We have to get out of here,” she whimpers. “She’ll find us.”
“Evangeline?” asks Shane. “Is she the one?”
I hadn’t even noticed that he’d come into the room. He’s been standing apart, letting me hug Noah, who is clinging to me as if he never intends to let go, his wet face buried against my neck, his legs locked around my hips just as he used to do when he was three or four and still wanted to be carried.
“Something has happened to her,” Irene says. “She was always dangerous, but lately it’s gotten worse. I think she must be delusional. All of her Sixes have seen Noah, so why does she think she can make him disappear? Everybody already knows he’s here, she can’t just make him disappear. It doesn’t make sense.”
Shane goes into the bathroom, returns with a cold cloth. “You may need to have that cauterized,” he says. “This will help with the swelling.”
“I never wanted to do this,” she says, pleading with me. “You’ve got to believe me.”
Her nose may be broken, but there seems to be no way to stop her from babbling on, making her excuses. How her husband got in trouble with the Rulers for cheating on his share-in, and how Evangeline and her horrible boyfriend were about to ruin them-leave them virtually penniless, imagine!-and the only way out was to do what they demanded. Take the job in Humble, befriend the child, bring him to Conklin. She’d never known that the police chief would be killed in front of the children, or that the school would be blown up, honest! And she’d only agreed to continue as Noah’s tutor to make sure he was okay, blah blah blah.
“Let me get this right,” I say. “You’re given a choice-lose money or kidnap an innocent child-and you choose to kidnap the child? That’s your defense? That’s the best you can come up with?”
Noah, clinging to my neck, whispers, “She’s lying, Mom. She’s a liar, liar with her pants on fire.”
“I know that, sweetie. Hush now. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have to listen to her anymore. Not ever again.”
“No,” agrees Shane. “But she’s right about one thing. We do need to get out of here, and fast. If I’m not mistaken, the entire building, or most of it, has been evacuated.”
I’m really too busy comforting Noah to pay close attention to what he’s saying, but I can see from his expression that he’s very worried, that in his mind we’re still in immediate danger.
“You were yelling loud enough to rattle the walls,” he points out. “No security response? There’s only one explanation-nobody comes to see what’s going on because they’ve already left.”
“Evangeline is still here,” Irene says, talking around her clotted nose. “She and her Sixes. At the top level, in the private residence. They’re holding vigil for Arthur.”
“But the guards are gone,” Shane says, pondering. “Rats deserting the ship.”
He decides we can’t wait for the Hostage Rescue Team to breach the building. The fastest way out is the way we came in-through the tunnel.
“Follow me,” he urges. “No sneaking around, we’ll run for it.”
“Don’t leave me!” Irene begs, following us out the door, into the deserted hallway.
Shane is right. I was yelling to raise the dead, that should have attracted attention. And if the building has been abandoned by the security chief and his men, there has to be a reason.
“Mom?” says Noah, releasing his grip on my neck. “Put me down. We can run faster that way.”
Holding his hand, we run for the stairs. Shane in the lead, his long legs eating up the yards, and Irene whimpering and stumbling as she tries to keep up.
Part of me is frightened-who wouldn’t be?-but part of me can’t help noticing how fast Noah can run. He’s nimble and balanced, physically healthy. So they must have fed him okay. My mommy gut tells me he hasn’t been damaged beyond repair. Whatever else he’s been through, whatever mental traumas he’s suffered, we can deal with all that.
He clings to my hand, though, and won’t let go, as if he can’t bear to lose physical contact. I expect he’ll be back sleeping in my bedroom for a while, as he did after his father died. That’ll be okay. That’ll be fine. And if he doesn’t want to sleep in my bedroom, I just might move into his. For a little while. Just until I get used to the idea that he’s safe, that no one will come to take him away in the middle of the night.
Making plans, even as we run for our lives.
The custodian’s closet is just as we left it, door unlocked. Shane is the first inside, and he doesn’t even bother to flip on the lights, he drops to his knees, pushing away mops and buckets, searching the area of floor where the hatch had popped open.
“Got to be here somewhere,” he mutters. “A pressure switch.”
The lights come on. I assume it was Irene because I don’t even know where the switch is, and besides, Noah has climbed back into my arms and I quite literally have my hands full. But it isn’t Irene, she looks as startled as me, and then in an instant her face drains white with fear. Not just fear-terror.
“Nobody move.”
Standing in the doorway is the handsome guy with the killer eyes. The man with the mustache. The man who stopped me on the stairs and let me go. The man they call Vash, which is short for something else, I can’t remember what, now, exactly. Doesn’t matter what his proper name is, he’s pointing a funny-looking gun at Shane, who remains on his knees in the middle of the crowded custodial closet. Looking, and this scares me, very spooked, if not exactly frightened.
“Nobody move,” Vash repeats with a humorless chuckle, as if applauding his own cleverness. “They say that in American westerns, yes? Okay, Mr. FBI man, you got gun in belt, I can see that. Pistol you stole from BK vehicle, you naughty boy. You think you draw fast like in westerns, blow bad guy away. No, no, no.”
“Go ahead, tase me,” Shane says, not making a move for the pistol. “See what happens this time.”
Vash laughs. “I already see. Two times, already. Third time, you pee pants for sure.”
“Maybe I learned how to take it. Maybe the third time, you’re the one who wets his pants.”
“Ha! Not possible. While you flop around, I take pistol you stole and shoot you,” Vash promises. “Bang, bang. Self-defense.”
What I want to do is put down Noah and grab a bucket and throw it in this horrible man’s smug, handsome face. But before I can think it through, Shane gives me a warning look and says, “Don’t. I’ll handle this.”
Which Vash thinks is very funny. “You handle? Big joke for big man. Where you going, huh? Escape into tunnel? I don’t think so. We find the entrance, toss in a little boom-boom, make part of tunnel collapse. Forget tunnel. Forget escape. You are safer right here, trust me.”
Shane snorts. “Trust me. From a war criminal? I’m guessing most of those who ever trusted you are dead.”
Vash shakes his head, disappointed. “I’m wishing I had time for this,” he says. “Could be lots of fun.”
“What’s your hurry?” Shane says.
Taunting Vash. Daring him to fire. Which doesn’t make sense, with Shane more or less helpless on the floor and Vash holding the Taser. I know enough from what I’ve seen on TV that getting hit with a Taser may not be fatal, but it does turn you into a nonfunctioning slab of twitching muscle.
Is he planning to sacrifice himself while Noah and I get away? But where can we go that Vash can’t find us? It doesn’t make sense.
“Is the place going to blow up?” Shane asks him, pushing. “Is that why you’re in a hurry to get away? Like you blew up the school?”
“Stupid penny man blows up school, not me.”
“So you knew Roland Penny. I’ll bet it was you that filled his head full of nonsense about ruling the world, and then pointed him in the right
direction. Is that how you did it?”
“Never mind the penny man,” Vash says dismissively, no longer smiling. All business, and in a hurry, too. “You lie down! Everybody lie down! I put plastic ties on wrists, not too tight. Then I give myself up to FBI, okay? I explain everything. You be fine, don’t worry.”
Irene whimpers and collapses to her knees, holding out her wrists like a child who knows she deserves to be punished. With one hand, cocky Vash whips a tie around her wrist, cinches it tight. “Good girl,” he says. “Lie facedown. Nothing bad happens, I promise.”
Eyes streaming, she obeys. Obviously convinced she’s about to be executed, but too frightened to resist.
Meanwhile Shane is staring at me with great intensity, as if trying to communicate something, though for the life of me I don’t know what. Has he changed his mind, does he want me to make a move, distract the man with the mustache? No, that’s not it. He wants me to stay where I am, he’ll make the first move. So we’re back to sacrificing himself to help us get away. Or else he has something else in mind entirely, something I can’t quite fathom, and I’m hoping that’s it, because I’ve run out of ideas.
“Out the front door, huh?” he says, sneering at Vash. “Give yourself up? Might work, if there’s nobody left to testify against you. What happened, did you and Evangeline break up? Did you decide to sacrifice her before she sacrifices you?”
“Facedown,” Vash insists, taking aim with the Taser. “Now.”
“Now would be good,” Shane says, standing up.
Vash’s eyes widen in surprise, but before Shane can reach for the pistol wedged into his belt, he fires the Taser.
It all happens so fast I can’t be sure what I’m seeing, but it looks like a couple of little wires attach themselves to Shane’s chest, and then his whole body begins to twitch and convulse in the most awful way.