Bitter Falls

by Caine, Rachel

  “Headache won’t go away,” I say, and attempt the smile she didn’t. “I need to talk to Carol. What’s our best play?”

  “Straight up? They’ve got a van parked at the dentist’s place right next door—which they also own and rent to him—to evacuate people if someone shows up to find them. So J. B. goes in the back and asks for Carol, they’ll tell her no such person, and after they see J. B. drive off, they’ll get Carol to the van and relocate her to another safe house. Van’s our best chance.”

  It’s solid, and it doesn’t require me to go in and lie, so I nod agreement. J. B. goes to her car, and Cicely and I walk around the block to the dentist’s office. It’s a modernized, small clapboard house with a ramp access; there’s a totally anonymous van with darkened windows sitting in one of the spots in the small parking lot that’s replaced the yard. I leave Cicely on the porch and go inside the dental office and sit down in the slightly shabby waiting area; no one’s at the front desk, and I hear the high whine of a dental drill in the back.

  I need to stay out of sight until Cicely signals me, because if Carol spots me, she’ll know exactly what’s up.

  The receptionist comes back to her desk and seems surprised to find me there; I just tell her I’m waiting for my friend, and she accepts that without question and goes back to reading a magazine. Minutes pass. I resist the urge to look out the window and see what’s happening.

  Cicely finally cracks the door open and nods, and I join her.

  We move down the ramp. The driver is sliding the van’s side door shut. He’s a solid-looking man of about forty, balding, with skin a few shades lighter than Cicely’s and a comfortable beer gut. He opens the driver’s door, and Cicely moves faster than I would believe possible to get to the passenger side. As he’s climbing in, she’s slamming her door.

  I step up to block his exit. She’s drawn a gun. It’s highly illegal, but she makes her point as he flinches and freezes. “Easy,” she says. “We just want to talk to your passenger. Then we’ll go, and she can do what she wants. Okay? Nod your head.”

  He hesitates, and I can see the fury and tension in him. But he nods. I slam his door and slide open the back.

  Carol’s in the rear corner of the van, and she has a wide-eyed little boy in her arms. There’s a flash of relief when she recognizes me, but she doesn’t let down her guard. I climb in and close the door after me, and hold up the bank bag that I’ve taken out of my purse. “This is for you,” I tell her, and toss it. She catches it and unzips it. Stares at the $50,000 inside, then looks at me with confusion.

  “Why?” she asks me. “After—” She doesn’t finish, but then, she doesn’t need to. I understand. She looks past me, at the van’s driver, who’s got his hands up. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to her.”

  That’s a real relief. I see Cicely put the gun down to rest on her thigh. She doesn’t put it away. The driver slowly lowers his hands and puts them on the steering wheel. “Don’t you honk that horn,” Cicely says. “We’re all friends here. Right?”

  He nods. But she’s watching him like a hawk about to drive in claws, and he stays still.

  “I just have a couple of questions, and you can go anywhere you want,” I say to Carol. I pause and look at the little boy. He’s adorable. I remember Connor at that age, his smiles and his rages and his little-boy charm. It hurts as much as it warms. “He’s Father Tom’s son, isn’t he?” She clutches the cash, and finally, stiffly, nods. “And Father Tom wants him back.”

  “Of course he does,” Carol says. “He never lets any of his property go. But I’m not letting him have Nick. I’ll die first.” I think, for the first time, she’s being honest with me. Her bolting for the bus had probably been a temporary measure. She wouldn’t have left him behind. Not permanently. “Father Tom corrupts everything he touches. I came as a runaway when I was thirteen. And he made me think I was nothing in so little time you wouldn’t even believe it. But I’m not worthless. I’m not.” She lifts her chin as she says it, and I can see she’s still struggling to know that. Not just say it.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say. “When you lived with the cult, what did they call the place that women slept?”

  She doesn’t have to think. “The Garden,” she says. “Like Eden. We’re all his Eves.” The bitterness in her voice makes me flinch, and remember that king-size bed in the deserted compound. She’s not lying. She knows this cult.

  I can still see her self-inflicted bruises, ripe blue-black splotches. But her damage goes far, far deeper than any of that.

  I can’t imagine what it took for her to run—not just for herself, but for the baby she carried. Dear God.

  I take a deep breath and say, “They took my son, Connor, last night. They wanted me to tell them where you are. They came in an RV, just like you said. They got Sam too. My partner. My son’s about the same age you were when they started on you.”

  She goes ghostly pale. She shoves the money bag into her backpack—the same one from before. Remy’s. “I’m sorry,” she says. “What did you tell them about me?”

  “Nothing. But you need to leave, Carol. Right now. We found you. That means they can too. Take that money and start a new life with your son somewhere very far away.” My eyes fill with tears, and I have to struggle to continue. “But before you go, please, please tell me where to find my son. I’m begging you. Please. It’s in your power to help me save him.”

  “But . . . you already know about the Garden. You have to know . . .” Her voice fades out. “Oh. You found the old place. The one up near Wolfhunter. They moved out of there before I joined up.”

  “I know the new compound is somewhere up near the Catoosa Wildlife Area. Just—just tell me how to find them.” I’m shaking so hard now I have to brace myself with both hands on the back of one of the seats. Tears break free, and I feel them cold as melting ice on my cheeks. I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t tell me. I don’t want to think about that. “Carol. Please.”

  She’s shaking her head, God no, she’s shaking her head and I feel the desperation inside coil and twist like a snake through my guts. But she says, “He bought that old work camp up near Bitter Falls. But that won’t help you. There’s no way out. There’s no way in. It’s his fortress.” I see the glitter of tears in her eyes, sharp as tinsel, but she blinks the shine away. “I know people who tried leaving. They all died there. He made them his saints. I’m sorry about your boy, but I can’t help you anymore. I’m not going to let him drown my child like he did all those others—”

  I go cold, and whatever else she says dissolves into noise. Drown my child. I try to swallow, but it feels like the saliva in my mouth has turned thick and hard as gravel. My voice is rusty when I say, “What do you mean, drown?”

  Carol takes a horribly deep breath, like she’s going under herself. “He told me Nick was going to be his new messiah. But he said that before, and then he said that baby didn’t have the right marks, and he took him to the falls and came back alone.” She shudders, and I feel it, too, a cell-deep revulsion. No wonder she ran. “Any man who steps out of line he calls saints, chosen by God. And he drowns them while he baptizes them. He says he’s making an army up in heaven to defend us.”

  I feel colder than I’ve ever been, listening to this. “Is that what happened to Remy?”

  “Remy thought he could buy my way out by promising to work for them for three months. That’s what I told him. But he’s not coming back; they never let anybody go. They’ve got him, and either he’s one of them, or he’s a saint now. I don’t know which one.” She wipes away tears. “That’s the night I managed to slip away. The night Remy went with them. I took my chance, and I escaped. I traded him for my child’s life. And I think about that every day.”

  She named her boy Nick. Nicolas. Remy’s middle name. I think she’s being as honest as she knows how right now. But the desperation gnawing at me won’t let go. “I need to get in, Carol. Find my son. Where would they keep him at the com
pound?”

  “He’d sleep with the men in their house if he was a convert,” she says. “But it depends what they do with him during the day. Converts usually work the fields. But he’s not a convert, he’s a hostage, so I don’t know. Maybe they’ll keep him in the shed; that’s where Father Tom locks up those he calls saints before he takes them away. But none of that matters. You can’t get in!”

  “I can ram the gates if I have to.”

  “They’re too strong, and anyway, you’ll be shot to pieces. He’s got an army in there. Patrols all along the fences too. He preaches that the government’s coming to kill them all the time. They’ll fight. All of them.” She swallows hard. “They kill for him already. And they’d die to the last man defending him.”

  “What about these falls you mentioned?”

  “Doesn’t matter. There’re twelve-foot fences around the whole camp,” she says. “Wire on top, and patrols all the time. They can shoot you dead before you make it over. Even if you do, they’ll catch you. And God help you then.”

  I have to believe that there’s a chance. I have to.

  Carol says, “I used to have nightmares about those saints coming up out of that water. But it was never real to me. Not until I got pregnant.” She swallows hard, as if she’s fighting nausea. “Then I couldn’t sleep for imagining my baby being drowned out there. I didn’t know if it would be a boy or girl, but either way, I knew I couldn’t let it be born with him. I volunteered for the missionary circuit—they send us out in the RVs, three men and one woman. Us converts were better at flirting than the ones born inside the compound anyway; those poor girls, they never knew any other life. We could charm those boys, tell them our sad stories, make them believe they were saving us.” She looks down at the backpack she’s holding. “Like Remy. It was so easy to do it. Spin a sad story, tell him only he could be my hero. And he thought he was doing right.”

  I want to go. I need to go. She’s confirmed the place—Bitter Falls—where we might find Connor and Sam. But there’s a magnetic, awful pull to her self-loathing and her guilt.

  “None of this is on you,” I tell her. “You were a victim. You were a child. Brainwashed. Abused. The fact you found the strength to run says everything about you. Just—live for your son. Find a place you can be safe. I promise you, if you ever need me, all you have to do is call. I’ll help.”

  “Why?” It sounds like a cry of pain. “I screwed you over first chance I got!”

  “You did what you had to do, Carol. I understand.”

  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.

  So I do what my SERE training in the air force taught me. I eject all of it from my mind, I curl up to preserve warmth, and I sleep as best I can, for as long as I can.

  The next morning, I wake up when
the door bangs open. I barely get myself upright before they’re on me. No kicks this time. They drag me out into the soft morning sunlight. It’s still cold, and my feet have gone numb, so I barely feel the cuts as I stumble over sharp rocks that form a low wall around the prison building. It’s a symbolic sort of barrier, designed to warn people away. There are three men again this time, and one of them is Caleb, who’s carrying an assault rifle strapped around his chest. An MP5. I wonder how good he is with it. Probably good enough to shred me like pulled pork. The other two are armed as well with more consumer-level ordnance, which decreases my chances of getting that MP5 away from him and surviving to use it. I opt to wait and see where they’re taking me.

  They don’t say a word. They shuffle-march me down a path over more sharp, cutting rocks and then cold, packed dirt through a cathedral of silent trees. When I stumble—feeling’s coming back into my feet now, and it isn’t pleasant—I get a strong shove from behind that nearly sends me sprawling. The manacles on my wrists and ankles have worn my skin raw already, and I’m gnawingly hungry again. I notice that odd silence. There are no birds singing in this place.

  I hear the hiss, then the full-throated roar, before I see the waterfall. It’s small, but breathtaking, and in the morning light a rainbow dances around the white mist that overlays the foaming water. The pond—lake?—it plunges into looks inky and deep.

  Father Tom is standing by the rocky shore staring at the waterfall. Caleb and his silent companions shove me into place beside him, and withdraw a few steps. They stand at parade rest. Sloppy jumped-up militia assholes, two of them, though I think from his superior posture that Caleb’s worn a real uniform sometime in the past.

  “Sam,” the prophet says, and turns his head to smile at me. He looks like everybody’s older best friend, dad, grandpa . . . and I have to admit, he’s got a weird, compelling charm. “I wanted to have a private talk. Just us, man to man.” Jailer to prisoner, he means.

  I realize this could be my chance. I’m not in the middle of an exposed camp, surrounded by guards and guns. I’m in a secluded area with just three guards and the most valuable member of the cult. I click through the plan rapidly in my head. Step one, get my manacled hands over his head, pull him back by the neck, use him for cover. Get them to throw down weapons. Grab whatever’s closest and shoot every one of them if I have to. March Father Tom over to get Connor, and use him to get a vehicle and get the fuck out.