“Hey, it’s Jesus,” I say. “Is this heaven?”
Caleb’s not amused. He picks up the Taser, but Fake Jesus puts his hand on Caleb’s arm and shakes his head. He’s smiling. “Let him joke,” he says. “Brother Sam, yes, Jesus is here. Not in me, I’m not so arrogant as to think that. But in all of us. Even you.” He keeps smiling. It’s unsettling. “I’m Father Tom. I know you think ill of us right now, but you’ll come to see the truth. Everyone does eventually.”
He sounds certain of himself—not a trace of doubt in those calm, mad eyes. I don’t answer, because I get nothing if I let myself give in to my smart-ass nature. The best strategy for the rest of this, no matter what happens, is to play quiet, exaggerate weakness and injury, give nothing. I don’t know if I’m valuable to them beyond being a club to beat Connor with. But even that’s enough. I can use that to stay alive, and relatively unharmed.
Never agree. Never admit. Never ask. Never sign. Even a simple yes to something is a hook they sink into you, a crack in your armor, and it can be used in all kinds of dangerous ways. Enough hooks sunk in, and they can drag you where they want you to go.
Alert and neutral, always accept food and drink but never ask for it. The training comes back fast, as it was meant to.
I lower my gaze and say nothing.
They untie me, watching for any hint of resistance, but I don’t offer any. I go along quietly, shuffling in my leg irons like a criminal on my way to a cell. I sweep in as much as I can in a long glance—multiple buildings, fields in the distance, vehicles, barns. An open central area. Lots of people moving around.
A church situated prominently near the center of the compound.
I look for Connor, and I see him; they’re taking his ankle manacles off, which is good. It means he can run if he needs to. But it also means they want to instill a sense of gratitude in him. They’ll wait awhile for an opportune moment, then do him the additional favor of taking off the handcuffs. Little kindnesses. Maybe paired with pain, maybe not. At his age, love will work better than torture.
And that’s Connor’s weakness. He needs love the way a sponge needs water. And from a father figure, doubly true. If they spot his weak points—and they will, they’re experts at this game, predators always are—then they’ll know how to get to him. Good cult indoctrinators can pull it off in just a couple of weeks at the most. And that’s on adults.
I need to stay ready. For both our sakes.
It starts as I expected. While Connor’s getting well treated, they sink a punch into my midsection. That’s Caleb’s job, of course, as soon as Jesus / Father Tom has turned his back and walked away; it looks like Father Tom isn’t aware of it, but of course he is. Connor sees it, which is what they intend. Double incentives for him: cooperate with us, you get treated well. They’re setting him up to have him ask for better treatment for me, which puts him in their debt psychologically. And he won’t understand that. I hate that I’m the lever they’re going to pull on him, but that’s how it works.
I meet his frantic gaze for a second and smile. I give him a silent thumbs-up to let him know I’m okay, that it’s fine, that he doesn’t need to be worried. It’s all I can do to insulate him before they hustle me away in a different direction, dragging me when my shackled legs don’t move fast enough. I still manage to look back, and find him anxiously staring my direction. I try to put everything I can into that look—love, especially. Some steel too. I hope he gets it. I can’t be sure.
Then we’re around the corner of a low concrete building, and at the end of it there’s a steel shed.
They throw me in the cold, cramped, pitch-black shed and leave me there.
Step one: deprivation and stress.
I can’t stretch out; I have to try to get comfortable against cold, hard sides and a dirt floor. No blankets, of course. No water either. Not even a pot to piss in. The old lament sounds funny at the moment, but it isn’t. They’re not going to provide me with a toilet. I have to make one, and I do, digging in the hard dirt until I’ve scraped out a hole in the corner. Good enough for now. The laborious exercise also tells me that the walls have a foundation that goes down at least three inches, and probably several feet more than that. Digging out might be possible, but it’ll take time, and there’s no way to conceal the extra dirt from anyone who looks. So: probably useless effort.
I use the hole as intended, and try to stretch out and rest. I’m cold, and I’m thirsty, but I know they’ll withhold water until they get something they want. Whatever that will be.
They’ve taken my cell phone; they’re not that stupid. They probably left that on the side of the road long ago, or—if really clever—sent it on a wild-goose chase in exactly the wrong direction. I have no weapons. They stripped off my shoes and shirt too. The pants will be next. Eventually, every prisoner in a situation like this ends up naked.
I curl up in a ball, preserve what core warmth I can, and shiver until I can fall asleep.
I wake up to singing, and for a disoriented moment it sounds like a chorus of angels. It’s beautiful. I sit up, listening, eyes shut against the darkness; it feels better if I control how dark it is rather than having it forced on me. They’re singing a hymn, and the female voices lift it up to a clear, warm height. Feels like sunlight. Like joy.
When the song ends it’s just silence, and darkness, and the cold, and it feels like forever. I need to get to Connor. But I know that need is a weakness they’re going to use against me.
I’m trying not to think about Gwen, about what might have happened to her and to Lanny after I was tased out. She’s okay. These assholes cannot stop her. She’ll figure it out. She’ll point the goddamn army our direction if she has to.
That comforts me just enough to let me sleep. I dream that I’m falling into a hole so dark it swallows me up completely, but then I feel Gwen’s arms around me, and her strength at my back, and I hear her whisper, I’m here.
It’s a good start to survival.
19
LANNY
I don’t know why it doesn’t hit me until I’m alone in my room at the Belldene house, but it all just . . . crashes on me. I’m wearing a stranger’s nightgown because I forgot to pack one in my backpack. I’m lying on a bed that feels like it’s molded for someone else’s body. Clean sheets, clean pillows, but the room smells all wrong, and those aren’t my posters on the walls, or my books on the shelves.
And as I’m lying there, I realize that my brother’s really, really missing. He’s gone. They took him away, and I was scared out of my mind and hid behind the couch and I didn’t stop them. I’m so ashamed. I always, always thought I would fight, no matter what. I always told Connor that I’d protect him if something happened, and I meant it.
But I didn’t. I let it happen. And Mom was hurt, and Sam—
I press my face to the pillow. My skin feels hot and tight, and tears just explode out of me like my eyes hold geysers of misery. I curl up and cry into the soft cotton pillowcase that smells like someone else’s detergent, and I think about my brother’s face, about how scared he looked. Before, I was there for him. I defended him.