Cold Springs(28)

Samuel could see in his eyes—Race desperate to buy into the dream. Samuel knew he was terrified, knew he wanted to run. But Samuel wasn't worried about that.

In the end, Race would come to him the same way the schoolkids did—crowding onto his lap to hear a story. Samuel could make him believe whatever he wanted. He would make the girl believe, too. And when it was time to change the story—to write the girl out of it, Samuel would make that go down easy. Race would get over it.

Because kids have survival instincts. They're like animals. They know who cares for them, who to trust. They won't climb onto just anybody's lap.

“Stay here,” Samuel told him. “And Race, I know your hiding places. Don't skip. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Now go wash your face. And while you're in the bathroom, turn up the radio. It's too quiet in here.”

Race stood, still shaky, and wiped the blood and mucus off his lip. He went to do as he was told, leaving Samuel staring out the window, down across the valley where the highway cut through like a bleeding artery, spilling bloody brake lights into the Bay.

Chadwick had disrespected him again.

If Samuel ever doubted God had a plan for him, he didn't doubt it anymore.

He had been given a sign. He must not leave without settling every score. He must not leave one brick on top of another in the rubble.

And, praise God, Samuel would obey.

6

“Zedman!”

Mallory wanted to yell something back. She chewed on all the bad names she could call this bastard, but she was thinking about what had happened to that last kid who used the F-word.

The instructor yelled her name again.

Mallory didn't look up. Boots crunched on the gravel.

“Simple instructions, Zedman.” The guy bellowed like he was talking to somebody across the river, like he wanted all the buzzards circling this f**king place to hear him. “I say your name. You say, ‘Here, sir.' ”

Mallory's nausea was getting worse—the cold shakes, razors in her gut. She told herself she was sitting down on purpose, to protest, but the truth was she wasn't sure she could stand. The pain had never been this bad before. Her whole body was turning to ice and melting from the inside. She needed a fix. She had fantasies about Race finding her, busting in with a semiautomatic and taking her away. But Race wouldn't be coming. He was in worse trouble than she was.

It was hard for Mallory to control the shaking, but she decided she wouldn't throw up again. She wouldn't give the instructor the pleasure.

The instructor's assistant, a young blond dude, started yelling at Mallory, too—“Get over here! Get off your butt and get on this line!” But that was just background noise. Mallory knew the real threat was right in front of her.

She looked up, just so she wouldn't have her face in puking position.

The black guy hadn't gotten any prettier. He was huge—maybe not as tall as Chadwick, but wide, built like a tank, black T-shirt and camo pants and combat boots like a character from one of those arcade games Race liked.

She imagined Race pointing a blue plastic gun at this guy, the instructor's head exploding on the video screen. Race giving her a warm bright smile, saying, See? Ain't nothing.

The thought made her feel a little better.

“I've got all day,” the black guy said. “All day and all night.”

Mallory looked at the other three kids. They'd already given up. They were standing on the line, holding their supplies. The fat girl had mascara streaks down her cheeks from crying.

The assistant instructor was pacing behind them, yelling in their ears whenever they moved or muttered or looked in a direction he didn't like. The boy who'd said the F-word had a gag taped in his mouth—a goddamn gag.

Screw that, Mallory thought. Screw her mother for sending her here.

There was no way her mother could've known what this place was like. No way a gag was legal. If she could get to a phone, she could call her mom. She'd thought of that in the airport, but Chadwick always seemed to know what she was thinking. He'd been too hard to get away from. Maybe this black guy wasn't as smart as Chadwick.

Finally, one of the other kids yelled at her, “Get up, Zedman!”

For the first time, the assistant instructor didn't shut the kid down, didn't even act like anyone had spoken.

“I ain't standing here all day for you!” the kid yelled. He was the overweight guy—the one with the acne and the greasy hair. “GET——UP!”

Hell with him, Mallory thought.

But Mallory had a new thought—maybe she should play along. Pretend. If she did, it would be easier to get to a phone. One call to her mother, and she could swallow her anger long enough to apologize, cry a little, tell her what this place was like. Her mom would cave in. She'd bail her out. Mallory knew she would. And then Mallory could run away again—only this time, she wouldn't be found.

Mallory tried to get to her feet. It wasn't easy. Her head was spinning and her legs felt like bendy-straws.

She was standing, but she wasn't going to look at the black guy. No way.

“Zedman!” the black guy yelled.

Mallory muttered, “Here.”

The black guy's feet crunched gravel. “Here, sir.”

Mallory bit back some cuss words. She concentrated on Race. She had to get back to Race. “Here, sir.”