Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

by Richard Paul Evans

  “Open the gate,” I repeated.

  “I can’t do that. Not without Master’s permission.”

  I took out my gun and leveled it at him. “Then we’ll do it ourselves. Step away from the button.”

  He still didn’t move.

  “You’re illegally keeping us here. I’m within my rights to shoot you and open it myself. Either open it now or raise your hands and step back. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  He hesitated just a moment, then raised his hands above his head and stepped back.

  “Emily, push the button.”

  She looked at the man fearfully.

  “If he touches you, I’ll shoot him.”

  The man raised his hands higher. “I won’t touch her. Please don’t shoot me.”

  Emily stepped past him and pushed the button. There was a mechanical click and the gate began to open.

  “I’m sorry, BarEl,” she said to the man.

  “Don’t follow us,” I said. “And don’t sound an alarm.”

  The man swallowed but didn’t move, paralyzed by fear. “It’s no use running,” he said. “The Guardians will find you.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I replied.

  I took Emily’s hand and we ran out the gate, following the dirt road El and I had driven in on. The moon lit our path and I kept us moving at a brisk pace. Emily was struggling to walk and, even with my pack, I was faster than she was. We had gone about two hundred yards when she asked to rest.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She was breathing heavily but nodded. A flood of lights turned on at the compound.

  “We’ve got to hurry,” I said. I grabbed her hand again and we ran as fast as we could.

  Emily kept looking back. “They’re coming!” she said.

  I turned to see car lights coming up the road.

  “This way,” I said. I took her hand, and we ran off the road into the trees. Fortunately the entire drive was lined with forest. We went about twenty feet into the woods, until I was confident that we were invisible in the shadows, and squatted down. I took off my pack and checked my gun, then just sat on my haunches, waiting.

  About two minutes later a minivan caught up to where we’d left the road. It was moving slowly, maybe five miles an hour. The passengers in the car had utility flashlights and were panning them around on both sides of the road.

  “Stay low,” I whispered.

  Emily began to whimper.

  I put my arm around her. “Everything will be okay. But I need you to be really quiet right now.”

  She nodded, even though her entire body was shaking with fear.

  I was pretty keyed up as well. I didn’t know what these guys were capable of, but from what I’d seen, likely anything El told them to do. I was sure of what I was capable of. If they came at us, I would shoot them. I’d been attacked before, and I wasn’t going to let it happen again. And this time I had someone else to protect. I hoped it didn’t come to that.

  The car drove on past us until the red glow of their tail lights disappeared from our view. I figured we were still at least a mile from the main road. If they didn’t come back, I’d have to assume they were watching the road and we’d have to hike through the forest to the highway. I wondered if they would be waiting for us.

  “What do we do?” Emily asked.

  “We just wait,” I said. “They won’t find us. Not here.”

  We sat there for about a half hour. The car never returned. Emily cradled her knees with her arms and rocked back and forth nervously.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She looked pale. “BarEl was right. The Guardians can find us. They can track our DNA from space.”

  “El told you that?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you ever seen the Guardians?” I asked.

  “No. But Master El has.”

  “No he hasn’t,” I said.

  Ten minutes later I said, “Wait here.” I crept out to the edge of the trees. Nothing. It occurred to me that they might not be looking for us at all, but may have just gone for the woman tied to the tree. That would make sense. Especially since BarEl had probably told them I had a gun. I went back to Emily. “They’re gone. Are you tired?”

  She nodded.

  “We should get some sleep,” I said. “Then start out in the morning.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “How is your back?” I asked.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Really?”

  “It kind of hurts.”

  “I have something for it.” I took my hygiene bag out of my backpack and brought out a tube of Neosporin. “Let me put this on you.”

  She turned away from me and lifted her shirt. I gently rubbed the salve across her welts. When I was done, I put the ointment away and she turned back to me. She still looked scared.

  “I have a phone,” I said. I pulled it out of my pack and turned it on. “We can call your sister.”

  Emily didn’t respond.

  “What’s her number?” I asked.

  She just sat there staring at the phone, as if she were afraid of it. “In the morning,” she said. “I’ll call in the morning.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then let’s get some sleep.” I put the phone back in my pack, then led her deeper into the forest. I unpacked my tarp and mat and laid them both out behind a thicket of scrub oak. I brought out my sleeping bag and laid it over the tarp. “You can use my sleeping bag,” I said.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m okay. I’ve got the mat and my coat.”

  She took off her shoes, then climbed into the bag.

  I lay down on the ground with my head against my pack. “Emily, how did you get involved with this group?”

  “I met a boy at a dance club.”

  “He was a member?”

  “Yes. He was really sweet.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s a missionary. So I don’t see him.”

  “Did he bring other girls here?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Were you lonely?”

  “Yes.” I could hear her softly crying. After a moment she said, “Alan?”

  “Yes?”

  “What if Master El’s right?”

  “He’s not.”

  “But how do you know? He said someone would come and try to take me away. And you came.”

  “Every cult says that,” I said. “The first rule of a cult is to make you afraid of the rest of the world. Do you think that’s what God wants? To make you hate the rest of His children?”

  “But God’s angry at us.”

  “Why is He angry at us?”

  “Because we don’t do what He tells us to do. He hates us.”

  “If you had a child, would you hate her because she didn’t always do the right things?” When she didn’t answer, I said, “No, you wouldn’t. You’d love her. And because you’re an adult, you’d understand her mistakes and want to help her, for her good. That’s who God is. If He made us flawed just to condemn us, what does that say about Him?”

  She looked even more distressed. After a minute she said, “I have a child.”

  I looked at her. “Where?”

  “My sister has her.”

  “You need to go back to her.”

  “KarEl won’t love me with a child.”

  “Is KarEl the boy who recruited you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t really love you,” I said. “He had an ulterior motive.”

  She sobbed softly for a few minutes. When she finally stopped, she said, “I’ve made a mistake.”

  “We all make mistakes,” I said. “Everything will be okay. I promise.”

  After a moment she said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now let’s get some sleep.”

  She lay back and closed her eyes. I watched her for a few minutes, then rolled back over and fell asleep.

  It was late morning when I wo
ke. My head ached, and I felt drained from the night before. The sound of insects filled the humid, morning air. But that’s all I heard. I bolted up. Emily was gone. I looked around. There was no sign of her anywhere. She had gone back.

  I remembered her words from the night, “I’ve made a mistake.” I completely misunderstood her. How stupid could I be?

  I folded up my tarp and sleeping bag and stowed them in my pack, then, holding my gun, walked down the road back out to Highway 31. When I got to the highway, I returned my gun to my pack. No one was there.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-two

  Sometimes we can only find ourselves by first losing ourselves.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  My next stop, in Prattville, was eighteen miles away. For the first few hours I was anxious that El might send someone after me and, as traffic was light along this section of highway, the sound of each approaching car filled me with trepidation. But nothing ever happened.

  All day long I thought about Emily. I couldn’t get the fearful look in her eyes out of my mind. I wondered what El would do to her once she returned. I should have been smarter. I had underestimated the pull the cult had on her and the thickness of those chains of fear and belief. I should have made her call her sister. I should have known that she might go back. What if she had been my daughter or sister or wife? What if she was Falene? Would I go back then? Of course I would. I felt guilty for failing her and cowardly for leaving her now. I might have been her only chance for freedom.

  Spurred on by my anxiety and anger, I made good time, stopping only a few minutes for lunch by the side of the road. I reached Prattville by 5 P.M. and ate dinner at Fat Boy’s Bar-B-Que Ranch on 1st Street. For the first time in years, I drank too much beer. Then I booked a room at the Days Inn on Main Street and went to bed early.

  The next morning I woke feeling hungover. I felt even worse emotionally. I felt guilty and lonely. I dialed information and was connected to the Alabama office of the FBI. I spent about forty-five minutes telling an agent about my experience with the cult and Emily. Though the agent seemed genuinely sympathetic, he warned me that cases like this generally didn’t turn out well.

  “The victims rarely cooperate against the group or its leader,” he said. “And it’s nearly impossible to prove someone’s being held against their will if they’re unwilling to leave.” He added wryly, “If psychological manipulation was a crime, my wife would be on death row.”

  Still, he agreed to look into the group. I gave him my phone number and hung up.

  Montgomery was only thirteen miles from Prattville, and I reached it before noon. I stopped for lunch, but no longer. Montgomery is a beautiful town with a rich history, but I had no desire to stick around and see the sights. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the darkness I’d carried with me since leaving the cult. Or maybe it was just that after walking more than twenty-five hundred miles, I was just a few weeks from Florida. I suppose the closer the magnet is to steel the stronger the attraction.

  At lunch I casually glanced over my map, then, for the first and only time on my walk, I started off in the wrong direction. Instead of traveling east on Highway 82, I went south on 53. I had walked nearly three hours before I realized my mistake. Had I been in a car, I would have just turned around—but I wasn’t in a car and miles, on foot, are hard-earned. After looking at my map again, I decided to continue on the route I’d taken, placating my mistake with fatalism: maybe there was a reason I’d gone this way.

  Over the next five days my improvised route took me through a series of quiet, meandering roads—many through quiet little neighborhoods—south to Orion, then east at Troy to Clayton and Eufala before reconnecting with Interstate 82. In the end, I probably would have saved miles if I had just walked back to 82, but the road I’d chosen was worth the extra steps. The towns and suburbs I passed through fulfilled my expectations of a South I had hoped to find—a place still slow and rich, with southern drawls as thick as praline, faded Coca-Cola signs, and hand-drawn placards advertising homemade pecan brittle and boiled peanuts.

  On one of those long stretches I remembered something Falene had said to me a few months after coming to work at the agency. We were pulling an all-nighter on a campaign for a brand of clothing called Mason-Dixon. Falene’s job was to keep us swimming in coffee. It was probably three or four in the morning, and we were getting pretty punchy when she said to me, “I should have been born a southern girl.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Because I’m a rebel.”

  Maybe it was the hour, but I laughed for several minutes.

  Thirty-nine days and seven hundred miles from St. Louis, I crossed the Chattahoochee River at Eufala into Georgia. I walked twenty-three miles along the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway and camped for the night just a mile west of Cuthbert. I was in a dark mood, and it wasn’t until I was making camp that I realized why. It was the one-year anniversary of McKale’s death.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-three

  I’m beginning to pick up the language down here. “Jeet?” means, “Have you eaten?” A “far truck” is useful in putting out “fars.” “Bard” is past tense of borrow. There are four “tars” on a truck and “did” is the opposite of alive. Shopping carts are “buggies,” buttons are “mashed” not pushed, and “Wal-Mart’n’ ” is a pleasant pastime.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Cuthbert, Georgia, is famous for three past residents: former world heavyweight boxing champion Larry Holmes, former NFL defensive lineman Rosey Grier (who went on to work as a bodyguard for Robert F. Kennedy and was responsible for subduing Kennedy’s shooter, Sirhan Sirhan), and Lena Baker, the only woman ever executed in the Georgia electric chair. There’s a story there.

  Lena Baker, an African-American woman, was born in 1901 in a slave cabin to a family of sharecroppers. She spent her life in dire poverty. At the age of forty-four she was taking in laundry to help support her mother and three children when a local gristmill owner and heavy drinker named Ernest Knight broke his leg and hired Baker to care for him.

  Soon after taking the job, Knight, twenty-three years older than Baker, began forcing himself on her. When she tried to flee, Knight locked her in his gristmill. Baker escaped but was tracked down by Knight, who beat her and threatened to kill her if she left again. After weeks of living as his slave, she decided she couldn’t take it anymore and one night, when he came for her, they “tussled” over his pistol. A shot was fired and Knight fell dead.

  Baker was brought to trial under Judge William “Two Gun” Worrill, and it took the all-white jury less than a half hour to reach a verdict of murder. Baker was taken to Reidsville State Prison, where she was kept in the men’s section until, less than a month later, she was executed in “Old Sparky,” making her the only woman in Georgia to ever die in an electric chair. Her last words were, “What I done, I did in self-defense. God has forgiven me. I have nothing against anyone. I picked cotton for Mr. Pritchett, and he has been good to me. I am ready to go. I am ready to meet my God.”

  As I approached Cuthbert that morning, the city looked incapable of such a deed. It looked kind and welcoming and today I’m sure it is. Besides, I always liked a town where the first thing you see is a baseball field. I stopped for breakfast at the Ranch House Restaurant, drawn in by their advertised “Buffet Every Day.”

  Cuthbert is an old southern town and had survived the war with some of her colonial homes intact. The city center had a roundabout, a large clock tower, a tea parlor, and the not-so-vintage Dawg House, a hot dog emporium.

  Leaving the town, I saw something I had never seen before, a billboard cautioning travelers of an approaching intersection.

  Dangerous Intersection Ahead

  There must have been more than a few accidents, because, in addition to the billboard, I passed four more warning signs, three with flashing lights, all contributing to my general excitement to cross the “intersection of doom.
”

  To my dismay, the crossroad looked identical to any other intersection. I walked through it without even stopping, wondering what all the excitement was about.

  The road from Cuthbert took me along miles of pecan trees intermingled with fields of cotton. Shortly before noon I stopped at a lone, ramshackle roadside store called Bruce’s Country Corner. An A-framed sign out front read:

  Cooking Today:

  Muscadine & Scuppernong Jelly

  From what I could see, I was the store’s only customer, so I lay my pack down on the open porch and walked inside. Just inside the door was a woman sitting near a cash register reading a romance novel. She looked up as I entered. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning,” I said. I glanced around a moment, then asked, “What is muscadine and scuppernog?”

  “Scuppernong,” she said. “They’re grapes. They grow wild around here.”

  I surveyed the store, a long, narrow hall of a place stacked with jams, jellies and preserves, handmade wooden knickknacks, pecans, pecan logs, pecan ice cream, and pecan candies.

  “There’s more in back,” the woman said. She pointed toward a narrow door as her eyes returned to her book.

  I went to explore. The items in the back room were as eclectic as those in the front: Christmas decorations, saddles, farm implements, hard candies, boiled peanuts, and, most peculiar, carved walrus tusks and whale teeth. I asked the woman about the latter and she said, “Once a year a man comes by and trades them for pecans.”

  She offered me a sample of pecan brittle that, in all honesty, was the best I had ever had. I purchased a half pound, then, before leaving, doubled it.

  My afternoon walk was pleasant, made more so when a parade of antique and vintage cars drove past me. There were Model A’s, Model T’s, Studebakers, LaSalles, Thunderbirds, Cadillacs—eye candy, all of them. Most of the drivers were men my father’s age or older.

  I reached the town of Dawson around six. I learned something about myself in Dawson. Priding myself, as most Seattleites do, for being racially “color blind,” I realized that it’s easier when you’re in the majority. This was the first town I’d walked through where I hadn’t seen a single other white man. Outside of my foreign travels, for the first time in my life I truly felt like a minority.