Bitter Falls

by Caine, Rachel

  As a plan, it’s thinner than the edge on a piece of paper, but it’s a chance and the best I’m going to see, I think.

  I’m a hair trigger from throwing it into motion when Father Tom turns toward me and presses a huge hunting knife to my side. He’s still smiling. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says softly, as if we’re exchanging secrets. “You’re making a plan on how to get out of here and get the boy out too. I respect that. But that boy is mine. I’ll see you both dead before I let you leave.”

  I don’t say anything. Defeat is sour in my mouth. I swallow it and don’t move.

  “Even if you do manage to somehow get past this knife, past me, past my men . . . my people have their orders, and they’ll tear you apart before you can escape. Accept it. You’re not that brave. No one is.” He pauses for a moment. The knife stays right where it is, a hot point of pressure against my skin. An inch or two from kidneys, large arteries. He wouldn’t have to make much of a move to watch me bleed out, right here. I feel sick and enraged and I want to kill him, but I force myself back into my training.

  I wait. I look defeated. I waver, and I look as tired and dispirited as I can.

  “That boy of yours is smart. Quiet, too, like you. Though I know who his real father is. Maybe he takes more after Melvin Royal. Do you think that’s true? Would he grow up to be a ruthless killer?”

  I don’t say anything. Let him talk. He’ll get to the point eventually. I bite down on my anger and chew it and swallow as much of it as I can. I’m sweating, even in the cold. Feverish with the need to hurt him.

  I need to wait.

  “I looked you up, Sam. Such a shame your sister had to cross paths with a monster like Royal. God really does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? Setting you and Royal’s wife together. But there’s a certain triumph in that too. You don’t need to destroy him if you’ve taken what he once had. His wife. His children.” He’s trying to get a reaction. I don’t give it. He’s jabbed me in the wrong spot if he wants to see me flinch.

  His smile doesn’t waver. Neither does the feeling coming off him—relaxed, friendly, calm. I’ll bet he looks and feels like this right up until the moment he watches you die, and then, maybe only at the very last second, the mask will slip and the monster will show through. But only for his victims. Never for his flock of sheep and wolves.

  “You seem to really care for that boy, despite all that blood and pain. So tell me, Sam: What will you do to save him?”

  Now we’re getting down to it. I’m almost relieved, but I still don’t answer. First step in resisting interrogations: never say yes. Never give any answer that can either emotionally compromise you or be twisted into hurting others.

  “Not a word?” He sounds disappointed. “I need to know this, Sam: Would you die for him? He’s not your real son, not your flesh and blood. Do you love him enough to save him?”

  Never say yes. Captive training is imprinted deep into me, but I’ve never felt such a prisoner as I feel right now, trapped in the drowning well of this man’s threat and charisma. I can see some glint in this man’s eyes now, some hint of what his victims see at that last, desperate moment. I need to make him angry. “I’m going to jump to the chase, since your mind games are getting boring for me. So let me make this clear: Fuck you, Tom. Fuck your twisted cult and your threats and your bullshit amateur brainwashing. Take all of it and stick it up your ass. I’ll die for Connor, absolutely. You might manage to kill me before I kill you. But I’ve got to tell you, the person who comes for you when I’m gone will be so much worse.”

  If he’s taken aback, thrown in any way, I can’t see it. But I do hear a strangely curious note when he says, “And who do you think comes after once you’re gone?”

  “Gwen Proctor,” I tell him.

  He laughs. Genuine laughter, though I don’t think someone with this much malignance and pathology is capable of understanding humor the way the rest of us do. He finally composes himself to say, “The Bible says, Man was not made of woman, but woman made of man. Women are made to serve, to please, and to procreate. Nothing else is important. She needs to be taught that. I’ll make sure she is.”

  “She’s going to enjoying teaching you too,” I say. “If I don’t get to do it first.”

  “Let me predict the future this time. When I’m done with him, Connor’s going to be a true believer. Maybe even my long-promised messiah. He’ll carry on my work, and he’ll feel better and more content in that than he ever has with you or his unnatural mother.” He presses the knife in closer, and I feel a bright spark of pain. I don’t react. He cuts deeper. Sparks turn to fire. I don’t blink. “That’s the best case, of course. One of you is going to join my army of saints. It can be you, or it can be your son. I’m going to let you make that choice.”

  Classic.

  “You’re going to do exactly what you want, no matter what I say. You think you’re different and special, but you’re not even original. You’re ISIS with a Bible. You’re Jim Jones minus the poisoned drinks. You’re a copy of a copy, asshole. But it doesn’t matter. People like you always end badly. But the important thing is . . . you end.”

  I’ve succeeded in cracking open his shell, and for a second there he is: the real Tom. Angry, feral, clever, hungry Tom.

  This time the knife goes deeper, and it feels like he’s stuck a blowtorch in me. Shock descends in a warm curtain, and that’s good, because part of what shock does is pull blood into the core of your body, save it up to preserve your heart and lungs and brain, fuck everything else. The bleeding isn’t so bad from my side, though there’s a steady enough flow. He didn’t hit an artery. That helps me get my breath.

  He stands there looking at me with the knife in his hand. Watching me bleed. He looks . . . happy as a kid at Christmas. He’d love to carve me to pieces. I think he’s going to for a long few seconds, and while that happens I just . . . vanish. I think about Gwen. The kids. Good days, warm sun on my skin. If I’m going to die here, I don’t want to be thinking about Father Tom.

  But he doesn’t kill me. He composes himself back to his normal face. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the knife clean before he puts it in a leather sheath at his back.

  “Take him,” Father Tom says. “Let him bleed and fast and pray. Tomorrow we’re going to make him a saint.”

  “You need me,” I tell him. “Kill me, you’ve got nothing to keep him here. That kid is smart. He’ll find a way out.”

  “Connor’s already mine,” he says. “And I’ll do with you as the Lord moves me.”

  They have to drag me back to the prison. I pass out halfway there, and when I come to again, I’m locked in the little cell. Someone’s dressed my wound. I have no idea if I’m bleeding internally, but it hurts like a son of a bitch, every pulsebeat a red stab of agony. I just stay as still as I can and wait for my body to start adjusting. Or my mind. Whichever can do it first.

  When the pain’s manageable, I drink the rest of the water and eat the rest of the bread, a miniature communion, and tell myself that whatever happens, I’ve done the best I can. If I’m bleeding internally, this is going to be a very bad few hours. And I have to admit to myself that I’m scared. Scared for myself and for Connor. Terrified for Gwen, who might not know what she’s walking into when she comes for us.

  I believe Father Tom when he says his people are lethal. I go cold and sick when I think of Gwen being caught by them. I don’t want to imagine what could happen.

  Don’t come alone, Gwen. For the love of God, don’t come here alone.

  23

  GWEN

  I call every person I know who can be of help.

  The war council convenes at Stillhouse Lake, at our old house with the shotgun holes in the drywall and signs of struggle everywhere. Before everyone arrives, I go to Connor’s room and open the door. It’s neat, as it usually is, like he’s just stepped out. Books racked on every available shelf. He always makes his bed, even when I’m telling him that we’
re leaving this place, maybe for good. I know that some of that is his need to exert control over a life that’s often seemed wildly chaotic. But I also think he’s just careful, even at thirteen.

  I sit down and pick up his pillow, then silently hug it and breathe in the scent of my son. I want to cry. I can’t. The pain is fierce, but it also burns away all the worry. We can get him back. We will.

  I put the pillow back and smooth it down, and I go to the living room as the doorbell rings. Lanny and Vee are sitting uneasily on the couch, holding hands. I don’t like it, but I don’t discourage it either. Lanny needs this now. And so does Vee, most probably. “Mom? Do you want me to make tea or something?” Lanny asks.

  “Sure, honey,” I tell her. “See what we’ve got. Maybe make some coffee too.” I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night.

  Kezia and Javier Esparza are the first to get here. I haven’t seen Javi much recently; he’s been off doing his own thing running the gun range and visiting family, but he and Sam always keep in touch. Javier is a badass. He’s an incredible shot, and one of the best, most polite shooting instructors I’ve ever seen, while also not putting up with anyone’s bullshit—which can be considerable out here in not-exactly-liberal rural Tennessee. He doesn’t talk much about his days in the Marine Corps, but I know he was highly trained and almost certainly highly decorated. Javier is someone I need at my back right now . . . and I’m grateful, so grateful, that he’s willing to be here.

  Javier doesn’t say a word when he walks in; he just gives me a hug and sits down. From him, that’s a lot. Banter is his usual way of expressing emotions, but when he’s silent like this, he’s very, very focused. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy, ever, but especially when he’s in this mood.

  Kezia’s right behind him, and her hug lingers a little longer. “You all right?” she asks me. I try to smile. “Yeah, okay, I see.” She glances at Vee and Lanny, both in the kitchen taking down mugs from shelves. The last time she saw my daughter was when she took her statement taking the blame off Olly Belldene. “Girls okay?”

  “They’re all right,” I say. “Worried, of course. I’m trying to keep them occupied.”

  “Anybody else coming?”

  “A few more,” I tell her. It’s a bit of an understatement.

  When I try to step away, she holds me in place. “You made a deal with the Belldenes, didn’t you?” I don’t answer that. I don’t want to lie, not to her, but I can’t tell her the truth either. She finally just shakes her head, lips pressed into a hard line of disapproval. “You’re on the wrong side of this, Gwen.”

  “I’m on the side of my kids,” I tell her. “And I know you are too. Thank you for being here.”

  “Well, Prester would have come, too, but one of us needs to be here in Norton. He also said thank God whatever mess you’re in is not in our town for a change.”

  I have to laugh, because I can almost hear Detective Prester saying it. I didn’t ask him to come tonight, but I’m not surprised, either, by the fact he knows. Norton doesn’t deserve the two detectives it’s got, and I’m sure the locals don’t know how lucky they are.

  J. B. arrives next, but when I open the door she doesn’t come in. She gestures me outside and points out at the far end of the road, where it disappears down a dip in the hill. “I really hope that isn’t a problem.” I see the line of cars as it comes around the curve. Six of them—big, black SUVs. Two of them park down on the road. The other four turn in, and maneuver into our already-packed space in front of the house. It’s a lot. I imagine our neighbors around the lake are paying close attention and wondering what kind of trouble I’m in this time.

  We stand quietly together on the porch and watch. J. B. says, “FBI?”

  I nod. “Go on inside,” I tell her. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She goes, and I wait, breath misting in the cold air. This is the kind of night Sam and I like—crisp, bracing, the sky full of stars and the lake shattering that light into glitter. We’d sit out here on this porch with a bottle of wine, sharing a blanket, fingers twined together. Blind, contented peace.

  I want that back so badly.

  FBI Special Agent Mike Lustig unfolds himself from the passenger side of the first SUV. A big, powerful African American man with a handsome face that eases into a restrained smile when he sees me. More people start getting out of the SUVs—like Lustig, they’re serious people in suits. Lustig’s wearing his FBI badge on his hip, which he normally doesn’t; he’s in full Bureau mode right now.

  “Agent,” I say, and offer my hand. He shakes it. We’re a little more formal than the rest of my friends, at least right now, after Wolfhunter. He made choices I didn’t like. One of them was working with Miranda Tidewell to try to get Sam away from me. He’s never fully trusted me, and I doubt that’s going to change. “Thanks for coming. And”—I gesture to the rest of it—“bringing the cavalry.”

  “Pretty much emptied out the Knoxville and Memphis field offices,” he tells me. “Specialized teams are coming down out of headquarters and heading straight for the location you provided.”

  I’m not stupid enough to think he took my word for it. “You have confirmation that’s where their compound is?”

  He nods and pulls out his phone, and in a few swipes brings up an image. It’s taken from a satellite, and it’s difficult to make out exactly; the area is thick with trees. But I can see an open area, and what looks like at least two buildings visible through the tree cover. One looks like a church. What seals it is the wide stream that wanders along the border, and the rocky falloff into a small lake. Bitter Falls. It matches what Carol—Daria—described.

  “We’re tasking a drone to get a better look at the compound, so we should have images real soon.”

  He’s holding something back. That isn’t surprising, but it is aggravating. “You couldn’t have gotten all this done without more than what I told you,” I say. “What did you find?”

  He doesn’t want to tell me. At all. But he can see I’m not moving until he does. “We took a look at that abandoned camp you talked about. Fact is, we were behind the curve on this; they never had anybody coming forward, escaping, selling stories. Nothing. People who were in the cult kept their mouths shut, or didn’t know enough to matter. We went all the way back in the records and came up with a man called Tom Sarnovich. He started out a regular-type preacher back in the seventies, took over a church in Wolfhunter around then. One day, the church just closed down, and they moved out to Carr’s property, where they built their first compound.”

  “The one you and Sam found.”

  Lustig nods. “Turns out they were there for about ten years, then Preacher Tom wanted a bigger slice. They moved to that camp you sent the video of; it was an old mining camp sold at auction.” He doesn’t want to tell me the next part. I can see him hesitating.

  “Agent,” I say. Then, in a lower tone: “Mike.”

  “Okay. We sent a team out there to look around. It was pretty much like the video showed—weird and disconcerting, but no real signs of anything criminal. But there was a small lake on the property, too, an old quarry. Smelled rotten around there. On a hunch, the agent in charge sent down a diver to take a look.”

  My mouth goes dry. I don’t blink. I just . . . wait.

  “They found bones,” he says. “No way to tell how many bodies there are down there, a lot of the bones are scattered. They’re all skeletonized. Divers found one still weighted down with junk iron and chains.”

  My lips part, but I don’t say anything. All this fits. It fits with everything that Carol told me. It fits with the baptism, Father Tom’s army of saints.

  “My guess is, they moved because when you put that many bodies in a body of water that shallow, the stench can’t be covered up. The whole place must have reeked. So he found some new spot to relocate and start over.”

  “Bitter Falls,” I say, and swallow. It feels tight and painful, and my nerves are crawling with horror. “How deep is this la
ke?”

  “Deeper than the first one,” he says. “And my guess is, they’re using it the same way.”

  I have to brace myself against the porch railing because my knees are shaking. I can’t stop imagining my son out in that water, a weight around his ankle, being dragged down in the cold, black water. Then, in a blink, it’s Sam. Nausea rushes up. It’s too much. Too close.

  Melvin anchored his victims’ bodies in water. He liked to take us out on the lake where he knew they were, gliding his boat over his garden of dead women. I never knew until the trial, and I still dream about it, about plunging off the side of the boat and being down there with them. Sightless eyes and reaching arms, welcoming me.

  I don’t throw up. But I realize that I’m gasping for breath, and Lustig is watching me, and I manage to get myself together. Somehow.

  “Normally I wouldn’t let you within a country mile of one of my ops,” Lustig says. “Especially not one like this. You know that, right?”

  I just nod. The acid at the back of my throat burns.

  “So here’s the deal we’re going to make. You, your friends—however badass you think they are—you can come with us, but you’re staying at the perimeter. I can’t have you in the line of fire, and I can’t have you trying anything clever. These are not rational people we’re dealing with now. You got me?”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “When are you going in?”

  Lustig sighs and looks up at the sky. Day’s turned to night. We’ve wasted so much time already. I expect him to say soon, or now, or at least tonight.

  But he says, “We’re not.”