Redemption Road(135)

*

When it was over, Gideon looked down on Liz, then stumbled to the pew and used his teeth to work the tape off the girl’s wrists. Weak as he was, it took a long time; when it was done, he slumped to the floor and watched her do the rest.

She lost hair and skin, but the tape came off. “Is she alive?” That was her first question, and he blinked once. Channing stripped the last tape from her ankles. “Thank you, thank you so much. Are you okay?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Here, lie down, and try not to move. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She made a pillow of the tarp and got him stretched out on the floor. He felt her hands, but from a distance. “What did you say to him? You waited for him to wake up. I saw it. What did you say?”

“Nothing you’d understand.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He blinked again and kept his eyes on her face. She seemed nice. He wanted to make her happy. “I said, ‘You killed my mother. I hope this hurts.’”

*

Channing told him again to lie still, then went to Liz, who was alive, but in terrible shape. Her neck was swollen and black, her breath the barest thread. “Liz?” Channing touched her face. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

The eyes were blank, unseeing.

Channing worked at the knots that held Liz down, but her struggles had tightened them, and it took a long time. When she finished, Liz was with her, if only just. Her lips moved.

“What?” Channing leaned closer.

“Tie him.”

Channing didn’t know if the preacher was alive or dead, but it sounded like a good idea. She tied him as tightly as she could.

“What do I do now?” Channing touched Elizabeth’s face. “Liz, please. I don’t know what to do.”

*

Elizabeth was crushed in the bottom of a deep hole. She thought maybe the hole was a grave. It had hard edges, the right shape, the darkness. The walls were ragged and black, the opening so small above she could barely see it. Her father was somewhere close, but she couldn’t think about hurt that big or betrayal so vast. Shadows and black wind and sharp-edged stone. It was the place she couldn’t go: her father and childhood and his face as he’d tried to kill her. She wanted to collapse the hole, instead, to pull down earth and rock and all the things that made her feel. Maybe she wanted to die. That didn’t feel like her, but what else did? The blood in her vision? The utter despair?

The hole darkened and deepened.

Her father was above it. Beyond him was a question.

Elizabeth drew a breath that burned all the way down. Something troubled her about the question. Not the question. The answer. People called the police when they were in danger. That was the problem. They called the police.

Why was that wrong?

She had the answer, but it slipped away in the dark. She found it again and felt it stick. Channing needed to understand the danger. She wouldn’t see it coming.

“Channing…”

She felt her lips move, but knew the girl hadn’t heard. Her face was in the world above, a slash of color, a kite.

“No police…” It was the smallest sound.

The girl leaned closer. “Did you say no police?”

Elizabeth tried to move her head, but could not. “Beckett…” She was in the grave, and hurting.

“Call Beckett.”

*

When Elizabeth woke, the light was dim but she sensed Beckett in the church. It was his size, the way he loomed. “Charlie?”

“It’s good to have you back. I was worried.”

“There was a grave.…”

“No. No grave.”

“My father…”

“Shhh. He’s alive. He’s not going anywhere.”

Beckett moved to where she could see him. Same face and suit. Same worried eyes.

“Channing told you?”

“Let’s talk about you, first.” He put hands on her shoulders to keep her down. “Just breathe for a minute. You’re hurting. You’re in shock. I feel your heart running like a train.”

She felt it, too, the thunder and noise. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

“No, I’m not.” Panic was a fist in her chest. “Jesus. God. I’m not.” She felt slippery and cold. Her hands were shaking.

“He can’t hurt you, Liz. He can’t hurt anybody.”

She risked a glance and saw him on the floor. He was tied and handcuffed, still unconscious, still her father. She lost it then, the rush of bile and the hard, hot vomit. She rolled left, and it spilled out of her like belief and warmth and life. She curled into a frozen ball, and Beckett was still touching her: his hands, the press of his cheek. His voice was there, too, but like the sound of surf. She thought of Channing and Gideon; wanted to move, but absolutely could not. The grave was all around her; she was choking.

“Breathe…” Beckett’s voice was an ocean beyond the horizon. “Please, Liz. I need you to breathe.”

But, the pressure in her chest crushed everything. The world built and pushed her down, and when it dragged her back, Beckett was still there.

He lifted her so she could sit. “Liz, look at me.”

She blinked, and the rough edges filled in. She saw his face, his hands.