“Open your eyes, Cyrus,” Charley says.
Instead of obeying, he whispers the lyrics to “The Sound of Silence” under his breath like it’s a life-giving mantra. She steps forward, crouches down where Mattingly can’t see her, and whispers into his ear. “Open your fucking eyes or when I find your crazy family, I’ll tear them limb from limb while you watch.”
Another minute goes by, then another. It’s late and the field’s empty, but it would be reckless to keep sitting practically out in the open like this while Cyrus takes his sweet time deciding whether to give them the address of Mother’s hell house. She pats Luke on the shoulder, gestures to the divider door. He holsters his Glock, refastens Mattingly’s head strap, then lowers the cargo area door.
They step into the rear compartment formerly occupied by the gurney, standing where they’ve both got Mattingly in sight.
“Get the Thunder Derm,” she says.
“One strike will kill him.”
“You’re not using it on him.”
Getting her meaning, Luke meets her eyes. “I thought we were saving your trigger window for when we really needed it.”
“We need it.”
“There’s a risk of the trigger gap not being—”
“Luke, I did it with a bear trap six months ago. The Thunder Derm will work.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have to do it.”
“That’s correct.”
“And then we’re racing against the clock again.”
“Luke,” she whispers, taking his arm, “there are two women out there in trucks like this, headed for we don’t know what kind of hell. We’re already racing against the clock.”
“You’re right. And I hate it.”
She can’t blame him. The memory of her last trigger window closing is still fresh and painful.
“It could kill you,” he says, but he’s studying Mattingly, wincing a little at the man’s continued perversion of the haunting Simon and Garfunkel classic.
“No, it won’t.”
“How can you be sure? I mean, what if my aim’s off?”
“For one, you have great aim. Two, you won’t have time to kill me before I trigger. You’d have to sever a nerve that controlled my breathing, and I’d have to be deprived of oxygen long enough to go brain dead. Just don’t fire into my neck or anywhere above my waist, for that matter.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got arteries all over.”
“You won’t be able to drain me of enough blood to kill me before I trigger.”
“And if you don’t trigger?”
“Realizing I’m not triggering will be enough to trigger me. Luke, I have thought this through. There’s no other way. The only thing that’s worked on this crazy son of a bitch is watching me snap metal. And if this phone call doesn’t work, that’s the only way we’ll get this woman’s location.”
And I’m sorry but this is part of the job you signed up for, she wants to add, an important part. But that might be more than necessary.
Luke grunts like a ten-year-old being told he has to do his homework before screen time. “Fine.”
The Thunder Derm’s inside its case, resting against the wall not too far from where Mattingly lies bound and singing under his breath. As Luke carefully removes it, Charley listens to Mattingly’s crazed voice, wondering with increasing dread if the man’s truly lost what mind he had. She pushes the thought away as Luke approaches, giant Thunder Derm awkwardly in one hand. For an instant, it seems as if the goofy-looking weapon—it’s not a weapon, she reminds herself; it’s a medical device that only works on her—is the size of a regular gun and somehow Luke has shrunk before her eyes. She laughs.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” he says once they’re nose to nose.
“It’s not. I’m sorry. Just . . .”
“What?”
“Never mind. Let’s do this.”
“What if you imagined it?” he asks.
“Imagined what?”
“The remote dose. Maybe you were just so upset that you wanted to believe it but it was just a headache from the stress or—”
“Luke!”
Startled by the sharpness in her tone, he looks right into her eyes. While she’s got his attention, she reaches down, grabs the Thunder Derm’s barrel, presses it to her right knee.
“Do it,” she whispers.
“Fine,” he whispers back.
He sinks to the floor on one knee, the other leg bent, bracing himself for impact from the device’s significant recoil.
Once again, the tennis ball–cannon sound makes Mattingly yelp, but this time it also sends an arc of pain up her body so white-hot it feels like her scalp’s going to blow off. She can’t remember the last time she’s really screamed, but she’s screaming now. And then comes the miracle that changed her life. It’s like a bucket of ice water poured over fire, as muscle, skin, veins, and damaged nerves heal in a miraculous instant. The pain is doused as quickly as it conquered every nerve in her body, replaced by a hallelujah chorus of tingles throughout her right leg, flights of tiny angels working miracles within.
Now that she can breathe again, she looks down, sees Luke’s been knocked on his ass and is staring up at her goggle-eyed, as if not fully convinced she’s triggered. When she sees the splashes of blood on his face and hands, she wonders if she hasn’t actually triggered, if she’s just in shock. But when she looks down at her leg, she sees the bullet-size wound healing through the hole the Thunder Derm blew in her jeans.
It worked just like they hoped it would, only they forgot one thing: all the vials they left in the SUV, full of her paradrenaline-filled blood. Which means there isn’t one inside the Thunder Derm, so what blood the device did manage to yank from her body before she triggered just spurted all over Luke.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Luke’s so relieved she’s not bleeding to death he hasn’t even noticed how badly he’s been slimed.
Most importantly, Cyrus Mattingly, psycho of the open road, has stopped singing under his breath. Maybe it was the sound of the Thunder Derm that did it.
“Showtime,” Charley says.
37
When Marjorie went down the ladder into the silencing pit, Jonah and Wally were setting up the cement mixer, but the bellowing of that pathetic sow brought them to the pit’s edge, and that was a good thing because she needed help ascending the ladder’s last rungs.
Now that Jonah’s laid the tube right next to the opening, he asks, “Should we start?”
“Not till Cyrus gets here,” she says.
“When did he call?” Jonah asks.
“He hasn’t yet.”
Jonah’s tempted to say something cutting about his brother, she can tell.
“Don’t you go casting suspicion on him just ’cause your ride didn’t go as planned,” she says.
Instantly ashamed, Jonah says, “Yes, Mother.”
You could argue that what Marjorie just said to Wally’s seedling wasn’t entirely truthful. A seedling can’t choose how she dies, just the length of time it will take. She can live for as long as she can scream; the minute she falls silent, the cement mixer starts disgorging its thick, wet contents into the pit all around her. If she marshals enough strength to start screaming again, they shut the mixer off, buying her a little more time for her to reflect on how she’s abused her voice throughout the years. But in the end, the seedlings realize there’s no point, that they’re just delaying the inevitable. In the end, they all die in breathless silence, which is exactly what they deserve.
“Is there food?” Wally asks.
“Casserole needs another few minutes. Show me what you brought.”
She’s excited to see Wally’s gifts. Wally, her sweetheart, remembered how much she hates watercolors, and he ribbed Jonah plenty about bringing her one. But their teasing seemed as innocent and playful as a game of hide-and-seek. The bond between them is as strong as ever, despite their having been apart a year. She has herself to th
ank for this, she’s sure.
“Watch the pit,” Marjorie says to Jonah before she and Wally step out the barn’s back door.
Just then the phone rings.
“That’ll be Cyrus,” she says. “You boys stay put and mind the seedling.”
They agree with quick nods, and then she’s striding toward the house.
The phone’s still ringing by the time she enters the kitchen. Good thing the call drew her back. Another few minutes and the casseroles would burn.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
At the sound of Cyrus’s voice—his straining for calm, slightly phlegmy voice—all the muscles in Marjorie’s upper back instantly tense with enough strength to send little flames of pain up into her neck. Something’s wrong. So wrong she’s pretty damn sure he’s not about to give their official thumbs-up code by asking for the mythical Sheryl Peterson.
“Hello . . .” Marjorie repeats because it’s the only thing she can think of to say.
“Is Patricia Whitney there?”
Marjorie feels as if a dart’s been fired at the center of her chest, and for a second or two, she’s convinced cardiac arrest is on its way. The name Patricia Whitney is part of no code they’ve agreed to, good or bad. But she is the name of one of the most violent seedlings they ever captured. She was Jonah’s girl from a few years back, snatched outside Albuquerque. A real fighter, and the only seedling to ever slip her confines and require a bit of chasing before they managed to get her into the silencing pit. She’s also long dead, and Cyrus can only be going off book now because something on his end has gone very, very wrong. Catastrophically wrong, the kind of wrong for which they’ve got no agreed-upon code.
Her hand trembling, Marjorie goes to hang up the phone when the voice of a woman she doesn’t recognize says, “Hang up on me and Cyrus dies. Slowly.”
38
Charlotte was sure her captive would warn his beloved Mother no matter what he promised, so why not use that to her advantage? It would ensure he called the right person. Then Charlotte would have a chance to butt in and speak to the supposed architect of this nightmare.
When she first pulled the phone away from Mattingly’s ear, their captive tried to get off a few warning shouts, but just then Luke shoved the barrel of his Glock into the man’s open mouth. Too late, Mattingly went to close his lips, ending up kissing the gun before he opened his mouth wide to avoid the taste of the gun’s metal.
His mouth’s still wide, teeth bared, but he’s gone silent. So has the woman on the other end of the phone, save for her strained breathing.
Charlotte speaks fast, delivering words she rehearsed in her head a thousand times during the last hour of the drive. The worst outcome in this moment will be if the woman hangs up before Charlotte can make an impact. “I’m not the cops and I’m not the FBI. I’m not any kind of law enforcement. You probably won’t be able to understand what I am and what I’m capable of, so try to understand this instead. What I want is very simple. You’re going to release the two women you’re holding captive into my care, and then I’ll let you have your boy Cyrus back.”
“I don’t know who this is and I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you seem very disturbed. I have to go now.”
“You go and I will be at your ranch in five minutes and I will rescue those women from those pits myself and anyone who gets in my way will die.”
A total lie, given she still doesn’t know where the ranch is, but the woman on the other end doesn’t know that. But the detail about the pits has silenced her, probably has her frantically wondering what other facts her beloved Cyrus has revealed.
“I’m tempted to call you crazy, but that’s a very strong word and I’m a kind person.”
“Well, I’m not. Crazy is what Cyrus will be after I break every bone in his body and leave him to scream himself to death under a great big Texas sky. Kind of like what you’re about to do with those women, right? Now, are you going to be a real mother to this boy or not? Let’s figure this out; then we can call it a night and go our separate ways.”
Not for one minute is this lunatic going to agree to a hostage trade. But Charlotte’s after something very different.
“I see,” the woman finally says.
Not a denial. Maybe Charlotte’s getting somewhere.
“Do you?” Charlotte asks gently.
“You think I’m capable of terrible things, I guess,” the woman says softly.
“Your son says so.”
There’s brittle silence in response, and that’s good. That’s what Charlotte was hoping for.
“You want to know how I got your boy, ma’am?”
“I’m growing concerned for your mental well-being, so if it helps you to talk to me . . .”
Yeah, right. Charlotte laughs under her breath. She’s not about to reveal the digital mechanics of the Red Tier and how a man like Cyrus ends up on it. But in this instance, a neat summary should suffice.
“Every few months your boy buys the kinds of chemicals you need to help a human body decompose down to nothing in about no time flat, and he’s got no other use for them. Now if everything he’s said about this little family game of yours is true, you don’t need him to get rid of anybody. You bury your victims under a bunch of concrete. So if he’s buying this stuff on his own, that means he’s doing a little killing on the side. And to hear him tell it, the whole point of your sick little game is to help him purge all those instincts under your supervision. Because you’re his ‘mother.’ And so it’s your job to make sure he only kills once a year. And the way you want him to. Well, news flash. Your little game ain’t workin’, Momma.”
Silence from the other end.
“Thanks for letting me get that off my chest,” Charlotte says. “I feel saner now. Do you?”
There’s no telling exactly what the silence on the other end means. But the woman hasn’t hung up; that’s the important thing. Has this revelation loosened the thread between her and Mattingly as much as Charlotte hopes it did? The next few seconds will tell.
“Why do you think I wouldn’t be able to understand what you are?” the woman asks.
“Most people don’t.”
“Why’s that?”
She’s not about to define her powers for this woman over the phone. Much better to fill her with the fear of the unknown.
“Because I’m from some place you don’t understand,” Charlotte says.
“I see. Well, if you came from hell, you shouldn’t have any trouble going back now, should you, missy?”
The call ends, just as Charlotte predicted it would.
At her signal, Luke pulls the Glock’s barrel from Mattingly’s drooling, half-open mouth. The man lets out a wail like an abandoned calf.
“You told her . . . How could you . . . You told . . .” It’s not the same question trying to take different forms, she realizes. It’s two questions fighting to get out at once. One, how did Charlotte know about the murders he committed on the side? Two, why did she tell his mother about them? Charlotte doesn’t plan on answering either one. But it was her plan to expose Mattingly to the terrible realization that when push came to shove, his beloved mother would cut him loose without a second thought. Maybe it was a lucky guess on her part, but only a self-obsessed psychopath would be foolish enough to believe an entire family of psychos could maintain a unified front under the slightest external pressure. She saw living proof of this in how quickly Daniel and Abigail Banning turned on each other after their arrest.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Your mother just dropped you like deadweight.” Charlotte crouches down next to the gurney. Avoiding the piss stain that stretches from his crotch to his right thigh, she runs one hand gently down Mattingly’s right shin. “Guess you’re going to have to find a new family. If I let you.”
Brow furrowed, lips clenched, Mattingly’s attempts to hold back his despair are failing fast.
Now that she’s split the bond
between Mattingly and his mother, it’s possible the woman’s cutting and running. If she’s panicking, it won’t be easy for her to erase all evidence of what she’s done. And that’s exactly what Charlotte hopes she’s created on the other end of the line—an all-out panic. True, chaos could endanger the lives of the captives, but if the other option was letting this family’s terrible ritual play out unimpeded, was there any better choice?
If, in the end, the best thing she can do is lead whatever team Cole’s been forced to send after them right to this crazy woman’s doorstep, then so be it. She doubts they’ll suddenly stand down when they’re within sight of whatever horrors lie on this woman’s ranch. Unless Bailey pulled a miracle, her blood trackers have been broadcasting their location every minute since she destroyed their TruGlass feed.
“I’ve had my own experience with mothers,” she says quietly. “They can be very disappointing.”
Especially if they kill your real mother and pretend to be yours, she thinks. Which is kind of your speed, shithead.
“Fuck you,” Cyrus Mattingly whispers.
“Or fuck her. I mean, she’s the one who just picked your brothers over you, isn’t she? How hard would it have been to set up a meet and then come at me with guns blazing? But apparently, you weren’t worth the risk. So what do you think she loves more than you? Planting seedlings, or your brothers?”
“Fuck you.” This time it’s a whisper riding the threat of a sob.
Charlotte gives him a second to catch his breath, during which she places a gentle grip on his right shinbone, a reminder of her strength. Which, she realizes, is probably not going to help him catch his breath. But that’s OK.
“I need an address and directions, Cyrus, and I need them now.”
Eyes screwed shut and spitting tears, Mattingly shakes his head like a defiant little boy.
She looks into Luke’s eyes.
He stares back. She knows the expression well. Jaw slightly clenched, eyes wide and unblinking and seemingly disconnected from the rest of the tension in his face. It’s the look he gives her when he’s biting his tongue, tamping down on an acute need because he knows expressing it forcefully will distract from a decision that’s hers to make. Sometimes it’s the look of desire he gives in the bedroom, when he’s horned up but not sure it’s the right moment to instigate. Sometimes it’s the look he gives her when he knows she’s forgotten something from the grocery store that he needs for the recipe he’s cooking that very moment, but he doesn’t want to jump down her throat because she was doing him a favor by running to the store at the last minute anyway.
Blood Victory: A Burning Girl Thriller (The Burning Girl) Page 24