“You seem to really care for that boy, despite all that blood and pain. So tell me, Sam: What will you do to save him?”
Now we’re getting down to it. I’m almost relieved, but I still don’t answer. First step in resisting interrogations: never say yes. Never give any answer that can either emotionally compromise you or be twisted into hurting others.
“Not a word?” He sounds disappointed. “I need to know this, Sam: Would you die for him? He’s not your real son, not your flesh and blood. Do you love him enough to save him?”
Never say yes. Captive training is imprinted deep into me, but I’ve never felt such a prisoner as I feel right now, trapped in the drowning well of this man’s threat and charisma. I can see some glint in this man’s eyes now, some hint of what his victims see at that last, desperate moment. I need to make him angry. “I’m going to jump to the chase, since your mind games are getting boring for me. So let me make this clear: Fuck you, Tom. Fuck your twisted cult and your threats and your bullshit amateur brainwashing. Take all of it and stick it up your ass. I’ll die for Connor, absolutely. You might manage to kill me before I kill you. But I’ve got to tell you, the person who comes for you when I’m gone will be so much worse.”
If he’s taken aback, thrown in any way, I can’t see it. But I do hear a strangely curious note when he says, “And who do you think comes after once you’re gone?”
“Gwen Proctor,” I tell him.
He laughs. Genuine laughter, though I don’t think someone with this much malignance and pathology is capable of understanding humor the way the rest of us do. He finally composes himself to say, “The Bible says, Man was not made of woman, but woman made of man. Women are made to serve, to please, and to procreate. Nothing else is important. She needs to be taught that. I’ll make sure she is.”
“She’s going to enjoying teaching you too,” I say. “If I don’t get to do it first.”
“Let me predict the future this time. When I’m done with him, Connor’s going to be a true believer. Maybe even my long-promised messiah. He’ll carry on my work, and he’ll feel better and more content in that than he ever has with you or his unnatural mother.” He presses the knife in closer, and I feel a bright spark of pain. I don’t react. He cuts deeper. Sparks turn to fire. I don’t blink. “That’s the best case, of course. One of you is going to join my army of saints. It can be you, or it can be your son. I’m going to let you make that choice.”
Classic.
“You’re going to do exactly what you want, no matter what I say. You think you’re different and special, but you’re not even original. You’re ISIS with a Bible. You’re Jim Jones minus the poisoned drinks. You’re a copy of a copy, asshole. But it doesn’t matter. People like you always end badly. But the important thing is . . . you end.”
I’ve succeeded in cracking open his shell, and for a second there he is: the real Tom. Angry, feral, clever, hungry Tom.
This time the knife goes deeper, and it feels like he’s stuck a blowtorch in me. Shock descends in a warm curtain, and that’s good, because part of what shock does is pull blood into the core of your body, save it up to preserve your heart and lungs and brain, fuck everything else. The bleeding isn’t so bad from my side, though there’s a steady enough flow. He didn’t hit an artery. That helps me get my breath.
He stands there looking at me with the knife in his hand. Watching me bleed. He looks . . . happy as a kid at Christmas. He’d love to carve me to pieces. I think he’s going to for a long few seconds, and while that happens I just . . . vanish. I think about Gwen. The kids. Good days, warm sun on my skin. If I’m going to die here, I don’t want to be thinking about Father Tom.
But he doesn’t kill me. He composes himself back to his normal face. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the knife clean before he puts it in a leather sheath at his back.
“Take him,” Father Tom says. “Let him bleed and fast and pray. Tomorrow we’re going to make him a saint.”
“You need me,” I tell him. “Kill me, you’ve got nothing to keep him here. That kid is smart. He’ll find a way out.”
“Connor’s already mine,” he says. “And I’ll do with you as the Lord moves me.”
They have to drag me back to the prison. I pass out halfway there, and when I come to again, I’m locked in the little cell. Someone’s dressed my wound. I have no idea if I’m bleeding internally, but it hurts like a son of a bitch, every pulsebeat a red stab of agony. I just stay as still as I can and wait for my body to start adjusting. Or my mind. Whichever can do it first.
When the pain’s manageable, I drink the rest of the water and eat the rest of the bread, a miniature communion, and tell myself that whatever happens, I’ve done the best I can. If I’m bleeding internally, this is going to be a very bad few hours. And I have to admit to myself that I’m scared. Scared for myself and for Connor. Terrified for Gwen, who might not know what she’s walking into when she comes for us.
I believe Father Tom when he says his people are lethal. I go cold and sick when I think of Gwen being caught by them. I don’t want to imagine what could happen.
Don’t come alone, Gwen. For the love of God, don’t come here alone.
23
GWEN
I call every person I know who can be of help.
The war council convenes at Stillhouse Lake, at our old house with the shotgun holes in the drywall and signs of struggle everywhere. Before everyone arrives, I go to Connor’s room and open the door. It’s neat, as it usually is, like he’s just stepped out. Books racked on every available shelf. He always makes his bed, even when I’m telling him that we’re leaving this place, maybe for good. I know that some of that is his need to exert control over a life that’s often seemed wildly chaotic. But I also think he’s just careful, even at thirteen.
I sit down and pick up his pillow, then silently hug it and breathe in the scent of my son. I want to cry. I can’t. The pain is fierce, but it also burns away all the worry. We can get him back. We will.
I put the pillow back and smooth it down, and I go to the living room as the doorbell rings. Lanny and Vee are sitting uneasily on the couch, holding hands. I don’t like it, but I don’t discourage it either. Lanny needs this now. And so does Vee, most probably. “Mom? Do you want me to make tea or something?” Lanny asks.
“Sure, honey,” I tell her. “See what we’ve got. Maybe make some coffee too.” I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night.
Kezia and Javier Esparza are the first to get here. I haven’t seen Javi much recently; he’s been off doing his own thing running the gun range and visiting family, but he and Sam always keep in touch. Javier is a badass. He’s an incredible shot, and one of the best, most polite shooting instructors I’ve ever seen, while also not putting up with anyone’s bullshit—which can be considerable out here in not-exactly-liberal rural Tennessee. He doesn’t talk much about his days in the Marine Corps, but I know he was highly trained and almost certainly highly decorated. Javier is someone I need at my back right now . . . and I’m grateful, so grateful, that he’s willing to be here.