Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(73)

The RV rolls forward, but not very far—the length of a football field, at most. Then it stops, and the engine dies.

“Get your lazy ass up,” the driver yells back at Caleb, and he rolls out, yawning and rubbing his face. “We’re home.”

“Praise the Lord,” Caleb says. “Been aching for a decent meal.”

My stomach rumbles, right on cue. I could use some scrambled eggs and bacon. No point in denying that craving exists, so I satisfy it as best I can by imagining how that would taste. I let it go and focus on Caleb, who is releasing Connor. He unlocks a padlock at the bottom of the U-bolt, sliding the chains free; Connor starts to struggle, but he’s not going anywhere. Still tied to the chair. Caleb knows his job. He gets right in the kid’s face and says, “Look, I don’t like to do this, but you’re not giving me a choice. Stay still, or I’ll shock you unconscious. Understand?” He knows Connor saw what that did to me. And I hate the fear that I see on the boy’s face before he locks it down behind a calm, stiff expression. I’ve seen that look before. He gets it when he hides everything and tries to cope, but it’s less a shield than a thin Halloween mask. It won’t protect him long.

Connor locks eyes with me. I mouth, Do what he says. Connor nods slightly. I’d worry more if it were Lanny, who’d take the wrong opportunity to rebel, but Connor’s cautious. He’ll be okay.

I’ll make sure of that.

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 simple yes to 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.