Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(84)

She’s silent for another couple of seconds before she says, “He gives us all names he likes. Music names. Flower names. Mine was Carol.” She suddenly holds out her hand, balancing her son in one arm. “But I’m Daria. Daria Iverson. And this is Nick Iverson.”

I take her hand and shake it. “Gwen Proctor,” I say. “But . . . I used to be Gina Royal. I feel about that name the way you feel about Carol. It belongs to the dead.”

I don’t ask where she’s going when she leaves. I hope she disappears. I hope she and her son find some anonymous corner of the world to make their own, far away from compounds and saints and the dead.

But me?

I’m going to war.





22

SAM

I expect beatings on the regular, so I’m not surprised when the door clanks open and three men rush in to put the boots to me. I roll into a ball and take it, to the extent one can take these things; the pain hits sharp as glass, but I don’t think anything breaks, and when they leave me bleeding and breathless on the dirt floor, they toss down a half-empty bottle of water and a piece of bread.

Literal bread and water. Good they know the classics.

I sip a little, despite the urge to drink it all at once, and put the bottle aside. I save half the bread for later, and eat it in small bites. I taste blood from my split lip when I chew. I’ve already lost track of time, even though I tried to count out hours out by scratching marks on the dirt where the sun fell, until the sun was gone.

I don’t know where Connor is, and I have to stop thinking about him, because there’s no way out of here—yet. I let them have their fun this time without a fight, mainly because I want them to get complacent. Next time they’ll come in without so much aggression and with a lot more confidence. I’ll let them have that one too. The third time, if the circumstances are right and their defenses are low, I’ll get the fuck out of this hole, locate Connor, and find us both a way out.

I have to hold back from eating all the homemade bread, because it’s as good as I’ve ever had. But best to save it for later.

I hear a quick, nervous knock on the door. For a darkly hilarious second I almost say, “Who is it?” like this is my home, like I could allow them entry if I wanted. But I keep quiet.

“Are you there?” a voice asks. I’ve been hoping it will be Connor, but at the same time, I don’t want it to be. I want him to stay safe, obey the rules, not risk himself.

It’s not Connor. It’s a woman’s voice, or maybe a girl’s. Very tentative. I try to get up, groan, and stay down. I used to manage pain better. Maybe I’m getting old. “Where else would I be?” I ask. I scoot over and lean my head against the metal door. I’d better be grateful it’s early winter, I realize. This thing would be a merciless oven in summer. The cold’s got me shivering, but it’s not down low enough—yet—that I need to worry about hypothermia. Going to be hell sleeping, but I’ve survived worse.

“What’s your name?” she whispers. “I can’t stay long, I’m sorry. Just tell me who you are.”

“Sam Cade,” I say. I don’t intend to give them much beyond that, because this is probably a tactic. “Who are you?”

She doesn’t answer that. She just says, “Are you his father? The boy’s?”

There are alternate answers to that; I choose the simplest. “Yes.”

“He’s in trouble,” she says. “You need to get him out of here. Soon.”

That makes me forget the aches and the cold and everything else. I straighten up and look at the door like I can see past it. “What’s happening?” I ask.

“It happens to all of them,” she says. My mysterious stranger. “It only ends two ways. He ends up a brother, or he ends up a saint. Neither is good.”

I realize that this, too, may be a tactic—a disinformation tactic designed to weaken my focus, damage my ability to resist. Naturally, they’re going to play me and Connor off each other. It’s textbook. And for all I know, this voice on the other side of the door is one of the true believers.

“Nothing I can do about it. He’s on his own,” I say, and despite how much it stings to do it, I go back to the far wall. She says my name, twice. I don’t respond.

She leaves, and in her wake the night seems very dark, very cold, and very long. Because I can’t be sure that she wasn’t telling the truth. I can’t be sure that Connor isn’t being brainwashed right now. He’s been susceptible before. He fell for his bio-dad’s bullshit, which either immunized him—hopefully—or made him even more vulnerable. I’m praying it made him better able to see the manipulation coming, but clearly these people have a solid system that works well-nigh flawlessly. They’re careful, strict—and yet coming for Gwen that way, and taking me and Connor . . . that was reckless.

Recklessness is very, very dangerous in this kind of cult. It makes them brazen and suicidal. Father Tom, like all these self-appointed assholes, will hang on to power until the bitter end, and making sure all his cultists precede him to the grave ensures that. Plenty of precedents for it, from David Koresh to Jim Jones.

Whether I want to believe that woman or not, Connor’s danger is real. The fact that I’m sitting here shivering is humiliating and enraging, but I can’t allow it to tear me up. I need to use this. Somehow.