by Ralph Gibbs
“Why did you have to kill them?” Paris said, handing over the list.
“I had to. I couldn’t let them loose into society. Jesus, the world’s fucked up enough as it is. And I couldn’t take the chance on them escaping . . . like I did.”
Paris released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Like you did? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you, but I wanted to wait until we were a long way from Round Hill. I couldn’t take a chance you would say something. Carl would have locked me up, and I need to find my family first if I can. After that, you can do with me what you want. I deserve it anyway.”
“What were you in for?”
“They gave me life without the possibility of parole for three counts of manslaughter.”
“Life for manslaughter? Who did you kill the president’s daughter?”
“Nathan Hurst, age thirty-two, a police officer. Twelve years on the force. Looking to make detective,” he said, rattling off the information he had forced himself to memorize. “His wife, Nadine, thirty, a nurse at a local clinic.” Franklin started to choke up. “Their thirteen-year-old son, Nathanael, who had just graduated middle school. They were on their way to Nags Head for the weekend to celebrate. Then I came along in the opposite direction, drunk.”
The revelation was both shocking and unsurprising. Something had been nagging Paris about Franklin. But because he had saved them from a life of misery, she’d overlooked her gut feelings. She decided to take this one step at a time. She would deal with the first issue and then eventually she would deal with the second.
“So, you killed the prisoners?” Paris asked. He briefly explained everything that happened on the day he escaped from his cell.
“What’s the problem?” Paris asked when he was finished.
“Don’t you get it? I killed them in cold blood. I went to their cells, asked them to pray then shot them in the face.”
Paris looked at him in silence. Afraid she now thought of him what he thought of himself; he looked away in embarrassment. In the second his attention was elsewhere Paris kicked him in the balls.
Franklin, too shocked at first to react, looked at her wide-eyed, and then doubled over in pain. He felt as if he had jumped from a forty-meter-high diving platform only to end up landing on his belly. The pain was so intense that, had someone offered at that very minute to turn him into a eunuch, he would have gratefully accepted. After a few minutes holding his balls and wiggling around on the ground in pain, he caught his breath enough to speak.
“What the hell?” was about all Franklin could manage.
She knelt beside him and looked into his pain-filled face. “Now that I have your attention, we’re going to talk,” Paris said calmly. “Afterwards, it’s over and done, and we won’t ever have to bring it up again. If you do, I won’t just kick you in the balls, I’ll shoot them off.”
“What is it with you and balls?” he wheezed.
“Franklin, I’ve only known you for a short time, but regardless of your legal transgressions, you’re a good man, even if you don’t think so yourself. You could’ve left me with those creatures, but you didn’t. Considering the circumstances, most people wouldn’t have bothered. That you bothered says a lot about your character. That you feel guilty for killing all those prisoners says something about you too. However, and I say this with all due respect, you need to man . . . The. . . Fuck. . . Up.
“You did what needed doing. Though some of them no doubt deserved death by starvation. It was more kindness than many of them would have otherwise shown anyone they met. There are people out there right now who you will never meet that owes you a debt of gratitude. Hell, I owe you a debt I can never fully repay.”
She placed her hand gently on the side of his face and said, “Regardless of the debt I owe you, if you can’t deal with this, let me know, and Gunilla and I will part ways with you. I will not stick around and watch this eat at you until you decide you can’t live with it anymore. I have grown fond of having you around and, frankly, I need you. My moral compass isn’t what it used to be, and I need you to keep me in check.”
Franklin nodded his agreement. He knew Paris was right. Hell, he knew he was right in killing them. He even said as much when he told Carl what he would have to do when he faced the slavers. At the same time, what he did couldn’t help but change a person. The question was how he would deal with it going forward so he didn’t have his dick blown off, not that he thought she really would; at least he hoped she was kidding.
“And what about you?” he said, the pain starting to subside. “Can you take your own advice? Paris looked down, afraid now to look at him. “I’d threaten to shoot your dick off, but . . .”
Using the car as a backrest, Paris sat down and laughed until she cried and then couldn’t stop. Franklin realized what he needed to do but was afraid. Trauma like what Paris suffered sometimes made victims skittish toward men. But the more she cried, the more he felt like a cad and then felt like a fool for making it about him. Gingerly, because his testicles still throbbed, he moved next to her. After another minute, he carefully put his arm around her. When he did, she punched him hard in the chest, just to prove to the both of them she was still tough, and then wrapped her arms around him, crying into his shoulder. When she was spent, she looked up and noticed tears in Franklin’s eyes.
“Were you crying?” she asked, wiping her tears away.
“Smoke got in my eyes.”
Reaching up and grabbing him by the chin, she pulled him over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“I’d rather you be sorry for my balls,” he said, smiling at her.
“I’m not sorry about that. You deserved it.”
“It’s not Gunilla’s fault, you know,” he said broaching another subject that needed to be addressed.
“I know,” she whispered.
“You haven’t been acting like you know. You’ve been mean to her.”
“I can’t help myself, sometimes,” Paris said as if pleading her case to a judge. “I look at her and see her beautiful smile and can’t help but think if I weren’t given this mission, I wouldn’t have been . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “Or if they raped her, they would have raped me a little less. I know it’s irrational, but it’s there nevertheless.”
“I would hazard you have a case of post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Franklin said.
“I know. I may have a master’s in criminal justice, but I minored in psychology.”
“Just because you know you have something doesn’t mean you know how to deal with it. I’m an alcoholic, I knew I was an alcoholic, but I still drank. Maybe you should talk to someone.”
“You’re probably right. The next town we come to I’ll look up the name of a good psychologist and make an appointment.”
“Hilarious smartass. “I was thinking you should talk to Gunilla.”
“Gunilla?” Paris asked, shocked. “Why would I talk to her?”
“Because, regardless of what happened, she’s your friend, and she’s a doctor. I’m betting if you talked to her real nice, she’ll prescribe some great drugs you can take. If you fill weird about it, punch her in the chest first.”
“Now who’s being the smartass?”
He shrugged, stood up, and helped Paris to her feet. “You think about it,” he said. “In the meantime, we’ll both have to work on our . . . issues.”
When Paris went back inside, Franklin finished adding Adam Henderson’s name to the list.
CHAPTER 32
Danica, dressed in her father’s trooper shirt, was sitting on the red brick steps with her back against the long black iron railing outside her parent’s house. She was sipping a large glass of sweet tea in the late hot afternoon sun, watching a group of young boys and girls play basketball on one side of the cul-de-sac while a group of younger children played hopscotch on the other. The laughter, encouragement, teasing, and the oc
casional curse followed quickly by the inevitable scolding from a nearby adult, made it seem to her as if this were any ordinary summer day. Add a bit of fireworks, and it could easily have been an Independence Day celebration.
In some ways, it was a celebration. Over the last week, heavy storms had kept the growing community indoors. The storms, wind, and rain were so intense that many feared the coast had been hit with a hurricane that was now rushing inland. Danica had to admit, because of the time of the year, it was a possibility, yet history was on their side. Situated two hundred miles from the ocean, Charlotte had only once been directly menaced by a hurricane. However, the same could not be said of the effects of the storm. Just because hurricanes didn’t directly cross your path didn’t mean it couldn’t indirectly kill you. Wild storms, tornadoes, flooding, and falling trees were just some of what a hurricane could whip up to make sure you had a bad day. Now with children laughing and playing under clear skies, everyone seemed to be in a celebratory mood.
Across the yard, Toscana and Matthew were tending three large pots of stew cooking over several propane grills. Toscana, wearing a short yellow flowered sundress that showed off her black underwear and bra beneath, dipped a wooden spoon in the stew and sipped the concoction. She dipped again and placed the spoon next to Matthew’s lips.
“Blow,” she said. Matthew did as commanded and then took the offered sip. “What do you think?”
“Needs salt,” he said, reaching for a bottle.
“Next bottle, to the right,” Toscana said. “That’s pepper.” Matthew corrected himself and handed over the salt. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“Always so polite,” she said as she cupped his chin playfully.
Since returning to the housing complex, Toscana and Matthew had formed a close bond. Danica was heartened to see the two get along so well and, truth be known, relieved. She felt uncomfortable around Matthew because she didn’t know how to deal with his blindness, and she always thought she would do something wrong. She felt inadequate to the task of caring for the boy and knew it.
“Know your limitations,” her father always told her. She did, and this was one of them. Toscana and Matthew’s connection wasn’t an uncommon development. The community now consisted of nearly forty people, and a fair number of them were children. A rare few were from other parts of the neighborhood, but they discovered most in their search for children. It was an idea borne on the lips of a lamb.
“Do you think there are more kids like me?” Matthew had asked the night they returned to the housing complex.
“Like you?” Danica asked, just as she was about to shove a fork of spaghetti in her mouth.
“Blind, I mean.”
Danica put down her fork as a sudden chill ran down her spine. “Most likely,” Danica said with dread.
“Maybe we should go look for them.”
“Jesus Christ,” Danica said, getting up from the table, nearly upending her bowl. “I should have thought of that.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “I told you we needed you. Ruiz, let’s get everyone together as soon as possible.”
In days that followed, Danica sent out search parties with no real plan. Many went out and started shouting for people. Eventually, they became more organized and started a grid search. Although they discovered many children, none were blind, leading Danica to wonder if she’d started the search too late. As children were discovered, Danica, at first, figured the children would end up being taken care of by the community, in much the same way wolves take care of the pack’s pups. Instead, Danica noticed an interesting dynamic develop as people seemed to gravitate toward specific children, some because they reminded them of their dead child, others because they specifically did not.
Matthew’s suggestion turned out to be a blessing in another respect as it kept many of the parents mourning the loss of their children from killing themselves, but not all. After the second suicide, Danica held a private meeting with everyone individually and told them if they wanted to kill themselves, have the decency to go blow their brains out, or cut their wrists where the children wouldn’t find them. One trauma per lifetime was more than enough for these kids; thank you very much.
As Toscana tossed a spoonful of salt into each of the three pots, Danica sipped her tea and tried to determine where Toscana’s long legs ended, and her slender ass began. The black underwear helped with her calculations. After a quick stir, she and Matthew tasted the stew again. This time they were satisfied and covered the pots to let them simmer. Toscana wiped sweat from her forehead and then reached for a glass of water sitting on the chair next to her. As she downed half the glass, she glanced over her shoulder and caught Danica watching her. Embarrassed, Danica reddened and looked away. Toscana only smiled. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught Danica staring at her assets. Toscana whispered something to Matthew and then joined Danica on the steps.
“How are the nightmares?” Toscana asked.
“Better,” Danica said honestly. The nightmares hadn’t started right away. She imagined she’d been too busy trying to trap a couple of kidnappers and organizing rescue parties to process what had happened to her. Eventually, though, Wade crept into her sleep as easily as a breeze whips through a drafty house. She screamed the first and second time Wade’s face invaded her dreams. Toscana rushed to her room with Ruiz on her heels. Finding Danica crying and huddled in the sheets, Toscana scooped Danica into her arms and rocked her. After the second incident, Danica scolded herself. There was an entire growing community—tribe as Matthew liked to call it—that counted on her to be a grownup, not some cowardly child, scared of her own shadow.
Wade was dead. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. Afterward, though Wade still haunted her nightmares, she kept her screams to low moans. Toscana wasn’t fooled. She’d seen the condition of her bed each morning and commented that it looked as if she went to war with her sheets the moment the candles were out.
Not finding Toscana’s two kidnapped friends also scared her more than she would admit. Were these girls going through what she would have gone through had Donavan been successful in capturing her or if she were unable to escape Wade? In the days following their return to her parents’ house, Danica brought out her father’s maps, determined to plot out a search grid, but quickly realized the futility of searching for two girls in a city the size of Charlotte. The only chance was a sting operation, similar to what undercover cops did when trying to catch a John propositioning a prostitute. While search parties looked for children and, by extension, kept an eye out for the two girls, first Toscana and then Danica and even Ruiz walked about the streets in a dress hoping to lure the kidnappers in. Instead, all they’d found were people in need of help.
“I can tell,” Toscana said. “Who would have thought the storms outside would have helped calm the hurricane inside of you.” Toscana smiled slyly. “Or maybe just being a doting grandmother agrees with you.” Danica smiled and sipped her tea.
As the weeklong storms rolled in and battered the community, Danica had taken up conducting security checks. It started as a way to cut the insane boredom of inactivity in a world where there was no more television, video games, or Internet lesbian porn to hold a person’s interest. At first, it felt like she was an over-doting grandmother and even said as much to Toscana. However, after the second day, she could tell she was sleeping better. Her sheets only looked as if they’d been in a skirmish instead of a beach assault. Danica guessed there was some psychological comfort for her in knowing that the residents were safe before she turned in for the night and finding them just as safe when she woke up in the morning. What would happen the day she woke up to find someone kidnapped or dead? Would it shatter her beyond her ability to cope?
“There won’t be any storms tonight,” Toscana said gazing up at the cloudless sky.
Danica followed her gaze and frowned. “I guess not,” she said, almost sullenly.
“You’re still going around
to check on everyone, aren’t you?”
“No need. Danger’s passed.”
“You of all people know better than that,” Toscana said as she stretched back to lean on her elbows, forcing Danica’s attention on Toscana’s chest. Danica quickly glanced away and focused on watching the children having fun in the street. “They like it, you know?”
“They like the guards I posted, more,” Danica said. Toscana laughed loudly.
“Yes, they do,” she agreed. “But they also like you coming around checking on them. It gives them an extra layer of comfort. The fact you have a uniform is just icing on the cake.” Toscana hesitated as if trying to think of how to say her next words. “Remember, you aren’t the only one that’s been through . . . let’s just call it rough times.”
Danica involuntarily glanced over to where Stacy, a woman in her early thirties, was watching over a young girl she had unofficially adopted. Stacy was one of the few people that wasn’t trying to replace a lost child, not that it didn’t mean she wasn’t trying to fill a void. In what Danica guessed was a rarity, both Stacy and her husband, Leo, survived the plague. A few days after they recovered, Leo went out to explore and never returned. When she went looking for him the next day, she found him beaten to death in a yard down the street; a bloody baseball bat lay beside him. For Stacy, what was worse was that she couldn’t bury him. He was too big for her to move. All she could do was cover him up with a sheet from their house. She’d been alone for more than a week before one of the search teams found her, looking as if she were half-starved and half-plagued.
“I’m not sure she didn’t come out of hiding hoping we’d kill her,” David DeMoss said when the team returned to the housing complex. He gave Danica a terrified look. “And if I'm honest, I damn near did.” He gave a single low huff that sounded as if he were ashamed of himself and then looked Danica squarely in the eye. “She scared the shit out of me. When she came screaming out of the shadows, hands flailing in the air, I thought she was a fucking zombie. I had my gun up and aimed right between her eyes.” When Danica gave him a cold look, he waved his hand in the air dismissively. “I know, I know. Ain’t no such thing. But, shit, it’s fucking spooky out there. Makes your imagination run wild.” He paused and then sighed heavily. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll take a little time off. I’ll go back out in a few days once I’ve had a few drinks and settled down.”
