Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(82)

She barely reaches my chin—five feet tall, if that. Perfectly proportioned, with smooth skin as dark as walnut bark, and eyes the color of late-fall leaves. Cicely wears her hair close-cropped in tight spirals, and though she doesn’t have bulk, she has serious skills. I’ve seen her take out a biker twice her size in three swift moves. “Your girl’s still inside,” she tells J. B., then looks at me with a serious expression. “Hey, Gwen. I’m so sorry. You doing okay?”

“Headache won’t go away,” I say, and attempt the smile she didn’t. “I need to talk to Carol. What’s our best play?”

“Straight up? They’ve got a van parked at the dentist’s place right next door—which they also own and rent to him—to evacuate people if someone shows up to find them. So J. B. goes in the back and asks for Carol, they’ll tell her no such person, and after they see J. B. drive off, they’ll get Carol to the van and relocate her to another safe house. Van’s our best chance.”

It’s solid, and it doesn’t require me to go in and lie, so I nod agreement. J. B. goes to her car, and Cicely and I walk around the block to the dentist’s office. It’s a modernized, small clapboard house with a ramp access; there’s a totally anonymous van with darkened windows sitting in one of the spots in the small parking lot that’s replaced the yard. I leave Cicely on the porch and go inside the dental office and sit down in the slightly shabby waiting area; no one’s at the front desk, and I hear the high whine of a dental drill in the back.

I need to stay out of sight until Cicely signals me, because if Carol spots me, she’ll know exactly what’s up.

The receptionist comes back to her desk and seems surprised to find me there; I just tell her I’m waiting for my friend, and she accepts that without question and goes back to reading a magazine. Minutes pass. I resist the urge to look out the window and see what’s happening.

Cicely finally cracks the door open and nods, and I join her.

We move down the ramp. The driver is sliding the van’s side door shut. He’s a solid-looking man of about forty, balding, with skin a few shades lighter than Cicely’s and a comfortable beer gut. He opens the driver’s door, and Cicely moves faster than I would believe possible to get to the passenger side. As he’s climbing in, she’s slamming her door.

I step up to block his exit. She’s drawn a gun. It’s highly illegal, but she makes her point as he flinches and freezes. “Easy,” she says. “We just want to talk to your passenger. Then we’ll go, and she can do what she wants. Okay? Nod your head.”

He hesitates, and I can see the fury and tension in him. But he nods. I slam his door and slide open the back.

Carol’s in the rear corner of the van, and she has a wide-eyed little boy in her arms. There’s a flash of relief when she recognizes me, but she doesn’t let down her guard. I climb in and close the door after me, and hold up the bank bag that I’ve taken out of my purse. “This is for you,” I tell her, and toss it. She catches it and unzips it. Stares at the $50,000 inside, then looks at me with confusion.

“Why?” she asks me. “After—” She doesn’t finish, but then, she doesn’t need to. I understand. She looks past me, at the van’s driver, who’s got his hands up. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to her.”

That’s a real relief. I see Cicely put the gun down to rest on her thigh. She doesn’t put it away. The driver slowly lowers his hands and puts them on the steering wheel. “Don’t you honk that horn,” Cicely says. “We’re all friends here. Right?”

He nods. But she’s watching him like a hawk about to drive in claws, and he stays still.

“I just have a couple of questions, and you can go anywhere you want,” I say to Carol. I pause and look at the little boy. He’s adorable. I remember Connor at that age, his smiles and his rages and his little-boy charm. It hurts as much as it warms. “He’s Father Tom’s son, isn’t he?” She clutches the cash, and finally, stiffly, nods. “And Father Tom wants him back.”

“Of course he does,” Carol says. “He never lets any of his property go. But I’m not letting him have Nick. I’ll die first.” I think, for the first time, she’s being honest with me. Her bolting for the bus had probably been a temporary measure. She wouldn’t have left him behind. Not permanently. “Father Tom corrupts everything he touches. I came as a runaway when I was thirteen. And he made me think I was nothing in so little time you wouldn’t even believe it. But I’m not worthless. I’m not.” She lifts her chin as she says it, and I can see she’s still struggling to know that. Not just say it.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say. “When you lived with the cult, what did they call the place that women slept?”

She doesn’t have to think. “The Garden,” she says. “Like Eden. We’re all his Eves.” The bitterness in her voice makes me flinch, and remember that king-size bed in the deserted compound. She’s not lying. She knows this cult.

I can still see her self-inflicted bruises, ripe blue-black splotches. But her damage goes far, far deeper than any of that.

I can’t imagine what it took for her to run—not just for herself, but for the baby she carried. Dear God.

I take a deep breath and say, “They took my son, Connor, last night. They wanted me to tell them where you are. They came in an RV, just like you said. They got Sam too. My partner. My son’s about the same age you were when they started on you.”