Page 69 of Bitter Falls

My heart’s beating too fast. I use breathing techniques to slow it down as I watch Connor get untied and brought to his feet. Caleb keeps the manacles on his wrists and ankles and leads him shuffling to the door and out. All my training can’t lock down the worry I feel, having him out of my sight.This was inevitable,I try to tell myself.They’re going to separate you. Wait for your chance.

That doesn’t help the fear I feel—not for myself. For him.

I count seconds. It’s a way to stay calm when I can’t see what’s happening. Not knowing can drive you nuts, especially when emotions run so high. When counting doesn’t stop my brain, I make it do square roots. Anything to keep it occupied.

It takes ten minutes for Caleb to come for me. By this time the other two men have exited, and I’m left alone in the RV. Caleb uses the same routine with me as Connor. First, he opens my padlock and unthreads the chains. There’s an opportunity, but it’s not a good one—I can mule-kick him in the chest, if I’m fast enough, but that still leaves me tied up in the chair, inside a compound with a locked metal gate. Not to mention I don’t know how many of them are waiting out there armed. I’d still take the chance if I knew the keys had been left in the ignition, and if I were just getting myself out.

But Connor’s not here. And that means I need to be out there. The problem is that if this cult is as experienced and smart as they seem to be, they’ll never keep me close to him. Isolation will be part of the disorientation tactic. Isolation and fear, coupled with acceptance and support by cult members. But for Connor, I think, not for me. I’m not their primary target; I’m the control.

Being the control has certain advantages. I’m more disposable, but at the same time, killing or even seriously injuring me will impair their ability to handle Connor, so that means they probably have a hard red line of how far they’ll go. As long as I’m alive, he’ll work to please them and keep me safe. Kill me, and he’ll close up. From Caleb’s attitude toward the boy, they’d like to recruit him. He’s at a prime age. And maybe having Melvin Royal’s son in the congregation would be a perverse feather in the cult leader’s cap.

Caleb leaves me tied up in the chair and steps back, and that’s when I realize someone new is coming on board the RV; the floor dips with his weight, and when Caleb’s out of the way I see an older man with pale, almost white hair. Pale skin to match. Nothing impressive about him. He’s medium height, maybe a little thin, wearing a plain white pull-on shirt and loose white trousers. Not nearly as tanned and sunbaked as his followers, which means he spends his time indoors, not working fields. Long hair that flows all the way down to brush his shoulders. He’s going for the Christlike image, according to the popular paintings, and it works for him.

“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 simpleyesto 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; itlookslike 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’sbeautiful.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.

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