I go cold, and whatever else she says dissolves into noise. Drown my child. I try to swallow, but it feels like the saliva in my mouth has turned thick and hard as gravel. My voice is rusty when I say, “What do you mean, drown?”
Carol takes a horribly deep breath, like she’s going under herself. “He told me Nick was going to be his new messiah. But he said that before, and then he said that baby didn’t have the right marks, and he took him to the falls and came back alone.” She shudders, and I feel it, too, a cell-deep revulsion. No wonder she ran. “Any man who steps out of line he calls saints, chosen by God. And he drowns them while he baptizes them. He says he’s making an army up in heaven to defend us.”
I feel colder than I’ve ever been, listening to this. “Is that what happened to Remy?”
“Remy thought he could buy my way out by promising to work for them for three months. That’s what I told him. But he’s not coming back; they never let anybody go. They’ve got him, and either he’s one of them, or he’s a saint now. I don’t know which one.” She wipes away tears. “That’s the night I managed to slip away. The night Remy went with them. I took my chance, and I escaped. I traded him for my child’s life. And I think about that every day.”
She named her boy Nick. Nicolas. Remy’s middle name. I think she’s being as honest as she knows how right now. But the desperation gnawing at me won’t let go. “I need to get in, Carol. Find my son. Where would they keep him at the compound?”
“He’d sleep with the men in their house if he was a convert,” she says. “But it depends what they do with him during the day. Converts usually work the fields. But he’s not a convert, he’s a hostage, so I don’t know. Maybe they’ll keep him in the shed; that’s where Father Tom locks up those he calls saints before he takes them away. But none of that matters. You can’t get in!”
“I can ram the gates if I have to.”
“They’re too strong, and anyway, you’ll be shot to pieces. He’s got an army in there. Patrols all along the fences too. He preaches that the government’s coming to kill them all the time. They’ll fight. All of them.” She swallows hard. “They kill for him already. And they’d die to the last man defending him.”
“What about these falls you mentioned?”
“Doesn’t matter. There’re twelve-foot fences around the whole camp,” she says. “Wire on top, and patrols all the time. They can shoot you dead before you make it over. Even if you do, they’ll catch you. And God help you then.”
I have to believe that there’s a chance. I have to.
Carol says, “I used to have nightmares about those saints coming up out of that water. But it was never real to me. Not until I got pregnant.” She swallows hard, as if she’s fighting nausea. “Then I couldn’t sleep for imagining my baby being drowned out there. I didn’t know if it would be a boy or girl, but either way, I knew I couldn’t let it be born with him. I volunteered for the missionary circuit—they send us out in the RVs, three men and one woman. Us converts were better at flirting than the ones born inside the compound anyway; those poor girls, they never knew any other life. We could charm those boys, tell them our sad stories, make them believe they were saving us.” She looks down at the backpack she’s holding. “Like Remy. It was so easy to do it. Spin a sad story, tell him only he could be my hero. And he thought he was doing right.”
I want to go. I need to go. She’s confirmed the place—Bitter Falls—where we might find Connor and Sam. But there’s a magnetic, awful pull to her self-loathing and her guilt.
“None of this is on you,” I tell her. “You were a victim. You were a child. Brainwashed. Abused. The fact you found the strength to run says everything about you. Just—live for your son. Find a place you can be safe. I promise you, if you ever need me, all you have to do is call. I’ll help.”
“Why?” It sounds like a cry of pain. “I screwed you over first chance I got!”
“You did what you had to do, Carol. I understand.”
She’s silent for another couple of seconds before she says, “He gives us all names he likes. Music names. Flower names. Mine was Carol.” She suddenly holds out her hand, balancing her son in one arm. “But I’m Daria. Daria Iverson. And this is Nick Iverson.”
I take her hand and shake it. “Gwen Proctor,” I say. “But . . . I used to be Gina Royal. I feel about that name the way you feel about Carol. It belongs to the dead.”
I don’t ask where she’s going when she leaves. I hope she disappears. I hope she and her son find some anonymous corner of the world to make their own, far away from compounds and saints and the dead.
But me?
I’m going to war.
22
SAM
I expect beatings on the regular, so I’m not surprised when the door clanks open and three men rush in to put the boots to me. I roll into a ball and take it, to the extent one can take these things; the pain hits sharp as glass, but I don’t think anything breaks, and when they leave me bleeding and breathless on the dirt floor, they toss down a half-empty bottle of water and a piece of bread.
Literal bread and water. Good they know the classics.
I sip a little, despite the urge to drink it all at once, and put the bottle aside. I save half the bread for later, and eat it in small bites. I taste blood from my split lip when I chew. I’ve already lost track of time, even though I tried to count out hours out by scratching marks on the dirt where the sun fell, until the sun was gone.
I don’t know where Connor is, and I have to stop thinking about him, because there’s no way out of here—yet. I let them have their fun this time without a fight, mainly because I want them to get complacent. Next time they’ll come in without so much aggression and with a lot more confidence. I’ll let them have that one too. The third time, if the circumstances are right and their defenses are low, I’ll get the fuck out of this hole, locate Connor, and find us both a way out.
I have to hold back from eating all the homemade bread, because it’s as good as I’ve ever had. But best to save it for later.
I hear a quick, nervous knock on the door. For a darkly hilarious second I almost say, “Who is it?” like this is my home, like I could allow them entry if I wanted. But I keep quiet.
“Are you there?” a voice asks. I’ve been hoping it will be Connor, but at the same time, I don’t want it to be. I want him to stay safe, obey the rules, not risk himself.
It’s not Connor. It’s a woman’s voice, or maybe a girl’s. Very tentative. I try to get up, groan, and stay down. I used to manage pain better. Maybe I’m getting old. “Where else would I be?” I ask. I scoot over and lean my head against the metal door. I’d better be grateful it’s early winter, I realize. This thing would be a merciless oven in summer. The cold’s got me shivering, but it’s not down low enough—yet—that I need to worry about hypothermia. Going to be hell sleeping, but I’ve survived worse.
“What’s your name?” she whispers. “I can’t stay long, I’m sorry. Just tell me who you are.”