Bitter Falls

by Caine, Rachel

  There’s a small table in the corner, and she sits me down there. “I’ll get you some food,” she says, and turns away. But then she turns back. “I know you probably are thinking of ways to get out of here. But Connor: don’t try. They’re watching you. Break the rules, and the man they brought in with you will pay the price. Do you understand?”

  I nod. She’s said it very quietly, and it’s hard to hear over the noise of the kitchen. Her lips are tight, her eyes darkened, and I wonder how exactly Sister Harmony got here. But that second of connection ends, and she stiffens her back and moves off. The other women all glance up and nod as she passes, but nobody smiles. She’s got power here. Not a lot of friends.

  I wonder if this is some other kind of game Father Tom is playing. Does she want me to worry about Sam? Is this supposed to make me play by the rules? I’m not sure. Maybe she means it. Or maybe she’s just like Aria, sent to make me do exactly what Father Tom wants.

  I need to get to Sam. Once I know where he is, maybe I can steal some keys and let him out. I close my eyes and think about that, about making some escape over the fence, and how good it will feel to get out of here and back to Mom and Lanny. That helps me remember that this place isn’t real. Out there, that’s real. This is all . . . fake.

  A shy, round-faced woman of about twenty brings me a bowl of soup and some bread, and I wonder for a moment if I should eat it or not. I’m so hungry, but . . . I don’t trust it either.

  The woman understands immediately. She goes and gets a spoon and takes a big mouthful of soup from my bowl, and a chunk off my bread. She eats it, still smiling that weird smile. “See?” she says. “All safe. We wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Brother.”

  I push the bowl away anyway. “I’m really not that hungry,” I tell her. I take a little bit of the bread. It’s good.

  “Well,” she says, “if you’re not hungry, of course, I understand. You can come here anytime you need food. Just ask for me. Sister Lyrica.”

  I’m regretting my choices when she picks up the bowl and takes it away, but I eat the rest of the bread. Bread that probably isn’t drugged, if she ate it first, or at least that’s what I tell myself because I can’t stop eating it. Sister Lyrica brings me a plastic bottle of water that’s still sealed, and I drink that.

  “The bread’s really good,” I say, and finish the last bite. “Uh, is Sister Harmony your boss?”

  “She is the elder wife,” Lyrica says, and blinks. “She is responsible for all the sisters.” She clearly thinks it’s weird I don’t know this. I wonder if she’s ever been outside these walls, seen even a little bit of the real world.

  “Elder wife?” I ask. “How many wives does he have?”

  She seems confused by that question too. As if it’s obvious. “We are all the brides of Father Tom,” she says. “As God intended.”

  Harmony has noticed us talking. She comes striding over, long skirt flowing behind her, and snaps, “Sister Lyrica, back to your work, please. The young brother has no need of your conversation.”

  Lyrica hurries off, taking my empty bread plate and bottle of water. I got to drink only a little bit of it. Harmony stares at me for a long moment, then starts to leave. It’s weird. She doesn’t look like my mom, but there’s something about her. Maybe it’s the angry look. I don’t feel like she’s angry at me. Just . . . angry.

  I ask, “Do you think all this is right?”

  She turns to face me. I’ve kept my voice low, the way she did hers when she warned me.

  “Do I think what is right?”

  “How he treats you.” I look around the room. “All of you.”

  “The Lord says, Ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands,” she says. “I obey the commands of the Lord.”

  Yeah, but she doesn’t like it. I can see that. I wonder if Father Tom sees it, too . . . but if he does, why would he put her in charge?

  Then I remember what Lyrica said. She is responsible for all the sisters.

  Just like Sam’s responsible for anything I do wrong here. Putting her in charge means she has to cooperate, or other women get hurt.

  The bread was delicious, but now it feels heavy in my stomach. Like I’ve eaten in the underworld, and now can never leave.

  She leans over to sweep crumbs from the table into her palm, and while she does, she whispers, “Don’t go to the falls, whatever you do.” Then she straightens up. “Now come with me. I’ll show you where you are to sleep.”

  “I want to see Sam,” I tell her.

  “That area is off limits.”

  She’s not going to argue about it. She just moves off to dust the crumbs into the trash, and looks at me, waiting for me to move. I have to decide whether to follow her. I remember what Lyrica said again. If Harmony is responsible for the women, she’s probably responsible for me, their guest, while I’m in her company. Which means if I take off on my own, she’ll be punished along with Sam.

  I can’t take that chance.

  I follow.

  21

  GWEN

  There’s a pressure inside me like a scream. It squeezes my heart and lungs, and no matter how deeply I breathe the pressure doesn’t ease. Driving away from this strange, temporary alliance feels like being stripped bare. We need real help. Real options.

  J. B. may be able to give us that.

  We drive away from the Belldene compound, bouncing over the rutted, narrow track that leads back down to a logging road; Belldene boys are stationed at the gates to open them and lock them up after us. We eventually come to a two-lane country road, which is practically civilization compared to where they live. It’s so remote that they have plenty of warning for anyone coming up there; if law enforcement shows up, they have plenty of time to hide evidence.

  I hate that I owe these people.

  Lanny’s been quiet, too, but she suddenly says, “Mom, what if Sam and Connor get away? What if they come home and we’re not there?” My whole body aches from a sudden rush of emotion, because the idea of them coming home is so powerful. So impossible right now.

  “If they do, they’ll let us know,” I tell her. “Either one of them would call us, or call the police, and we’d hear immediately.” I pull my phone out. “It’s always on, honey.” I realize that’s a risk. The kidnappers could have Sam’s phone, unless they trashed it as Mike Lustig thinks they probably did; if they didn’t, they now have a powerful tool to trace me. He’s got an app on it that allows tracking of my phone. I have to breathe through another surge of anxiety. Normally I’d ditch our phones and get new ones.

  I have to remind myself that if they have the phone, if they turn it on, I can track him.

  I check. It’s off.

  I have a flash of Remy Landry’s mother baking cookies for a son who doesn’t come home to eat them, and my mouth goes dry, my skin cold enough to show gooseflesh. No. That’s not going to happen. Not to us.

  “We should go home,” Lanny says, but she doesn’t mean it, not really. Our home’s been made toxic by the men who broke into it. By the shotgun blasts in the drywall. By memories. She’s imagining walking into a place without that lingering damage, and the reality would be very different. Neither of us could feel safe there now.

  “J. B. will help us,” I tell her. And I pray that I’m right, because if she can’t, my next call has to be to the FBI. That’s a trigger I’m deeply afraid to pull. If the FBI gets officially involved, good things can happen . . . but so can bad. Ruby Ridge. Waco.

  Connor and Sam could get caught in a very deadly crossfire.

  “But what if they—”

  “If they can get free, they will. And God help anybody who gets in Sam’s way of protecting Connor.” I’m trying to believe that. Trying to make her believe it. And it works, a little; the insistent, choking pressure inside recedes enough that I feel like I can breathe again. I look down and check the gas gauge; it’s an automatic thing born of living out in the country. We’ve got plenty.

  But it comes t
o me in a sudden wave that although my SUV burns a fair amount of gas, that RV must burn a hell of a lot more.

  And all of a sudden, I know how we’re going to narrow down our search area. There can’t be that many gas stations near a cult compound.

  “It’s going to be okay. I promise,” I say, and for the first time I actually think it might be true. She doesn’t answer, but she nods and closes her eyes. She looks exhausted, too, poor kid. I’m not tired at all. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again, at least not until I have my son and Sam back safely.

  I call Kezia and tell her about my gas station idea; she likes it, and says she’ll start working on it by phone, and send the information on to the TBI and state police. And, God willing, that won’t turn out a total disaster. I can’t stop it. But I can try to make contingency plans.

  The drive to Knoxville takes a torturously long time, and inside my brain a horrible litany of the abuse that my boys could be suffering loops over and over and over, and I have to keep my hands firm on the steering wheel so they don’t shake. It feels like a relief when I spot the office building in the distance, and I park and hustle the girls upstairs. My key card gets us inside the plain, solid door, and we step inside the large open-plan office. Lots of desks, and some of them are occupied with people doing computer work; for some of J. B.’s investigators, that’s the only kind they do. For others, their desk is just a place to type up reports and take calls.

  I don’t even have one, officially. I just claim one of the desks without a nameplate whenever I’m here, which isn’t that often. That’s the agreement I have with J. B.

  Her office is a glass box near the back in the corner; she has all the blinds raised, and she sees me coming. She meets us halfway and gives me a hug. “Hey,” she says. “How are you?” She shoves me back to take a good look, and shakes her head before I can try to lie. “Never mind. I know how you are. Lanny, hi. And I recognize Vee Crockett, of course.” She would, from Wolfhunter. Her glance toward me clearly says she has no idea why Vee’s with us now, and I don’t try to explain. “Hey, girls. Why don’t you go back there to the break room and grab some snacks while I talk with Gwen?”

  Lanny hangs back for a second until I nod, then takes Vee back in the direction that J. B. points. I follow J. B. to her office, and wait until she’s closed the door and lowered the blinds before I sink into a chair. She leans against her desk and crosses her arms.

  “I’d ask how in the world Vee Crockett figures into this, but that’s probably not important right now,” she says. “You need help, and not just moral support. Right?”

  I nod. The suffocating pressure is closing in again. I want to be Badass Gwen, the woman she hired, the one who fights everything, all the time . . . but I’ve got no one to fight. I suck in a deep breath and say, “I need Carol.”

  J. B. doesn’t move. “I put Fareed and Cicely on that after your bail hearing.”

  “And the case?”

  “Dropped as of twenty-seven minutes ago. I checked. You’re no longer out on bail. You’re a free woman.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say. “Fareed and Cicely?” They’re top operatives for J. B. Fareed is an absolute master of all levels of the internet; he can trace anyone, anywhere, anytime if they’ve ever so much as glanced at a computer. And Cicely is a little pocket dragon of a woman J. B. hired away from a top bail bondsman. Cicely is dangerous. And expensive. “Thanks.”

  She waves that aside. “Fareed got nothing, which wasn’t too much of a surprise, as careful as this woman is. But Cicely hit the ground running. She had a theory that Carol might not chance public transportation again, not even a bus, so she went to domestic abuse shelters first. Carol has visible bruising and they don’t ask questions.”

  “And?”

  J. B. gives me a smile that makes me remember what hope feels like. “She found her. Cicely’s sitting on the place; so far, Carol hasn’t tried to leave it. She probably feels secure for now, but that shelter has a network that could get her out of Knoxville quickly and quietly, anytime she wants it.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “It’s Cicely. She’s never wrong.” J. B. raises eyebrows at me. “What do you want to do? Please don’t say abduct Carol; I’m not risking it. And I don’t think you’ll get her to come with you willingly this time.”

  “I’m not trying to,” I tell her. “I just need a conversation. She can point to the exact location and what we’ll be up against when we get there. Carol’s the key to getting Connor and Sam back safe.” I have a brief, dizzying moment imagining what might happen if Carol won’t talk to me. What would I do then?

  It occurs to me that I could put a tracker on her. Maybe in a zipper pocket of her backpack. That way, if everything fails, if I have to trade her for my son’s life . . .

  I flinch. I can’t. I can’t. I won’t betray Carol to the people she fears, even after what she pulled on me. She was just trying to survive then. To protect her own child.

  The thought I’ve been trying to avoid brings me up short, and I ask J. B., “Does she have a child with her at the shelter?”

  J. B. cocks her head to one side, still unreadable. “Why would you ask?”

  “Because I think when she ran from the cult she was pregnant,” I say. “The men who came to my house were looking for her and a child. I’m sure they want to shut her up, if she’s got information that could link them back to Remy’s kidnapping. But they want that child just as much.”

  J. B. sighs and looks down. Her shoulders angle forward. “Cicely says there’s a child with her, three or four years old. A boy.”

  Carol must have retrieved her child from whoever was keeping him for her. She’s planning to get out of town as soon as the heat dies down. A domestic abuse shelter is an absolutely perfect place to hide.

  “If it comes to that . . .” J. B. shakes her head. “Maybe you have to tell them where she is.”

  “I can’t.” I say it softly, but it feels heavy in the air anyway. “I won’t turn her or her son over to them. I could never live with that. Everything I know about this cult tells me they see Carol as nothing but a walking incubator, and her son . . . They’d raise him to believe as they do. If Vee’s right, I’ve seen video of one of their old compounds. J. B., it’s . . .” I can’t put into words the wave of slow horror I feel. I remember that nightmarish house in Wolfhunter, and what Sam told me of the women out at Carr’s compound. I can’t condemn Carol back to living hell, or her son.

  “I know,” she says. “You were never going to make that bargain, Gwen. That’s why I like you.” She pushes away from the desk. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

  We leave Vee and Lanny at the office, over their protests; I don’t want the girls anywhere near this. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Carol’s desperate. She might be armed . . . I certainly am, and I’d do desperate things to protect my children. I don’t want Lanny and Vee in the line of fire. They’re parked on a sofa in the break room with a pizza and a stack of movies, and a stern warning to stay put. And J. B. assigns someone to watch them too. Trust but verify. I remember Lilah Belldene saying that, and I shake my head.

  Dammit. She was right.

  The domestic abuse shelter sits in a neighborhood that was once residential, now rezoned for commercial purposes; most of the original houses have been demolished or significantly renovated, but the one J. B. points to as we drive by it looks like the outlier. It’s a large place, at least four or five bedrooms; at one time it was probably a showplace. Now it’s showing its age and is in need of a good coat of paint and roof repairs. There’s no sign on it except a small one that says NO SOLICITORS. The front door looks normal enough, but it’s painted metal. I’m sure it’s solid. Bars on all the windows too.

  “The main entrance is in the rear,” J. B. says. “Cicely’s in a neighbor’s yard watching it. How do you want to do this?”

  I don’t want to lie to the people running this place. That would be the easiest way in; I
could walk right up and tell them a horror story. It would even be true, just not current; being married to Melvin has given me that, at least. But I’d feel foul doing it. As J. B. smoothly turns the corner, I say, “Did you get back the bail money you put up for me yet?”

  “I did,” she says.

  “Will you loan it to me? At bank rates?”

  Her eyebrows raise, but I can’t say she’s really surprised. “Automatic deduction from your paychecks,” she says. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

  “I am,” I say. “But I’ll need it in cash. She won’t take a promise.”

  J. B. heads for the nearest bank branch. In twenty minutes we’re carrying out a small bank bag with $50,000 inside, and I put it in my shoulder bag. J. B. doesn’t ask again if I’m sure. She just drives me to a house that sits across the fence and at an angle to the shelter house; this one is vacant, with a FOR RENT sign in the window. We park and walk around to the backyard, which is as devastated as the front—dry grass and dead bushes, and junk left piled in the corners by a leaning shed. I don’t see Cicely West until J. B. heads straight for her, because she’s chosen a spot near the junk pile and is wearing clothes that nearly match the weathered gray paint on the shed. She’s sitting in a folding chair and draped with a camouflage blanket. All the comforts, and I still can’t spot her until we get within fifteen feet and she raises a hand. She rises, folds her chair, and leans it against the shed. She folds the thin camo blanket into a tight square and tucks it into the messenger bag hanging by her hip.

  She barely reaches my chin—five feet tall, if that. Perfectly proportioned, with smooth skin as dark as walnut bark, and eyes the color of late-fall leaves. Cicely wears her hair close-cropped in tight spirals, and though she doesn’t have bulk, she has serious skills. I’ve seen her take out a biker twice her size in three swift moves. “Your girl’s still inside,” she tells J. B., then looks at me with a serious expression. “Hey, Gwen. I’m so sorry. You doing okay?”