Bitter Falls

by Caine, Rachel

  I just stand there for a second, looking at him blankly, because I know I cannot have heard him properly. “They’ve got Connor. And Sam. You know what they do to people!”

  “They’ve also maybe got fifty or more other people in there, and we don’t know which of them are fanatics and which are victims. Little kids in there, by your informant’s account and the evidence we saw at that old compound. That’s a hell of a lot of potential human shields and noncombatants. We can’t do a full-on assault. They’ll be looking for it.”

  “But . . . you said you were going to get them out, you bastard—”

  “Hey,” he interrupts me, and I realize my voice has risen, that there’s a sharp, cutting edge to it. That I’ve lost my battle to stay calm. It feels good. I need to yell. I need to hit and shove and make people listen. “Easy. We do this right, and we make it way too expensive for them to do any harm to anybody in there. We get his followers to lay down their weapons and come out; I guarantee you there are people in there who aren’t completely brainwashed and want out, and maybe more than you’d think. Trust me, this isn’t a Seal Team Six situation. This works best if we convince them to walk out on their own.”

  Everything he says makes sense, but I don’t care. The idea of waiting while my son is . . . while God knows what is actually happening to him . . . I know I can’t do it. I know in my gut, just from meeting Carol and seeing the desperate lengths she took to avoid going back, that what waits behind those walls is far, far worse than Lustig is considering. I’m incandescent with rage, and worse, I know he isn’t going to listen. He trusts Sam. Not me.

  He’s going to get my boys killed, and I don’t know whether to blame him or myself. I should have known that getting Lustig involved was a risk; he’s not a free agent, and he has protocols to follow.

  But I’m not letting those rules get my son killed.

  Lustig calls my name as I walk away, but I don’t stop. He doesn’t try twice.

  I go back inside and close the door. J. B., Kezia, Javier, and the girls look at me as I close the door and lean against it. I don’t know what I’m going to say to them. Then I find the words. “We’re on our own,” I tell them. “The FBI is going to do it their way, but their way isn’t going to get Sam and Connor back alive. Not according to what Carol told me.”

  “They’re not going in, are they?” Javier says.

  “In Mike’s words, this isn’t a Seal Team Six situation.” I put all the bitterness I feel into the words.

  Javi takes that personally. “The hell does he know? Does he think we go in and just shoot up the place? That’s not how it works.” He pauses and shakes his head. “They’re going to negotiate, aren’t they?”

  “Try to,” I say. “And from everything Carol told me, I think Father Tom has been planning for this day for a long time. He’ll see it as their final battle. Their glorious ending. Ragnarök, Armageddon, whatever religion he’s cobbled together in his head. While they’re sitting outside waiting, this will go very, very badly.”

  “Then what we need is a plan B,” Kezia says. “One that gets us into the compound. We find Sam and Connor and get them out. But what about the others? Surely not everybody in there is down with the idea of dying for Father Tom. What you told us means the women are little better than slaves in there. And the kids—”

  J. B. is shaking her head. “You can’t count on the women,” she says. “In a cult like this, the women are often the strongest believers, despite how badly they’re treated. Maybe because of it; if they stop believing it means something, they’re just victims, and they can’t handle it. If you go to them for help, they’re liable to raise the alarm instantly.”

  That’s a grim prospect, and I care about them. I care about the kids. I care about the men who’ve been roped or kidnapped or brainwashed into this toxic sinkhole of a cult. I want to save them.

  But sometimes, I know, the hard fact is you have to save yourself first. They always tell you on planes to put your mask on before helping others. My oxygen is Connor and Sam. And once they’re safe, then we can work out how to get others free.

  J. B. says, “I’d suggest infiltration, but there’s no chance of pulling that off. Mr. Esparza, Detective Claremont . . . sorry to point it out, but so far everything we know about these people is that they go after exclusively white recruits. So that leaves you two out. Gwen, some of them already know you by sight. I’m sure this Father Tom has your dossier. He’d see you coming a mile away.”

  “You, then?” I ask her. “J. B., no. I can’t ask you—”

  “That wouldn’t work anyway,” she says briskly. “Cults like this don’t have any use for older people. Father Tom has no use for women if they’re not of childbearing age.”

  “Then who . . .”

  I realize what she’s saying, and it grabs me by the throat. I choke on it. I shake my head. Violently. “No. No. Absolutely not. I won’t let Lanny go anywhere near this—”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll do it,” Vera Crockett says.

  She sounds calm as chamomile tea. She’s even smiling a little bit. We all stop and look at her. Vee, with her attitude and her fragile strength and her slightly mad eyes.

  “Vera, you can’t,” I say. “I know I’m not your mom, but—”

  “You ain’t my momma,” she agrees. “I can take care of myself. I took care of my own mother more often than not. I’m the right age, ain’t I? They like young girls.”

  “No,” I say flatly. “Out of the question. These people are killers.”

  Vee stares at me without a quiver. “You think I don’t know that? The Assembly folk in Wolfhunter killed my momma. I know ’em better than you do. And I can act the part. I can!”

  “That’s a lovely offer,” J. B. says, “but it won’t work. If it was any other time, I’d say Vera would be an ideal candidate to let them recruit. But it would have to be done gradually, over time. Not the same night the FBI shows up. They’d kill you, Vee.”

  “I can sell this,” Vee insists. “I can. And you need to let me!”

  There’s absolutely no way in hell I’m going to let this girl do something like this. She may not be my child, but she’s my responsibility. “No!” I shout it this time, and it surprises Lanny to the point that she flinches and grabs for Vee’s hand. Vee doesn’t even blink. “You are not doing anything like this, Vera! I will not allow it!” I take a beat to get my pulse under control, my tone less sharp, and turn to the others. “I need options. Does anybody have some?”

  Vee turns and walks away. She goes down the hall, and I hear a door slam. Fine. I want her out of this anyway. Her and Lanny both. My daughter looks torn; she gives me a pleading look, and I nod toward the hallway. She goes after Vee.

  The four of us are silent for a few painful seconds, and then Javier says, “Tell me what the girl said again. About how they make their saints.”

  I repeat Carol’s story, best I can. About how Father Tom drowns his captives and sinks them in the pond. It’s borne out by the evidence the FBI found in the lake at the abandoned compound, so it’s almost certainly still going on at Bitter Falls.

  Javier listens without any expression and then nods. “I’m opening up the gun range. We’ll arm up out of the stock. If the FBI isn’t going in, then we’re going to have to. It’s risky. You and me, Gwen.”

  “And me,” Kez says. Javier turns expressionless eyes toward her, and she stares right back. Nobody bends. “You don’t decide for me, Javi.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, and cracks a crooked smile. “I know I can’t stop you when you get going anyway.” He looks at J. B. “Ma’am, I don’t know you, and I can’t trust you can handle this. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m past my fence-climbing days. But I’ve got two operatives who aren’t, and they’re waiting on my call. Solid people. You can count on them.”

  “In a firefight?” I ask her. “Because that’s where this is heading, J. B.”

  She lifts a single
shoulder. Half a shrug. “Cicely West and Joe Froud. You know them. You tell me. They volunteered, by the way, when they heard about Connor and Sam.”

  Joe Froud is a tall, lanky, funny man; I’ve met him a few times, worked with him once. But never in a dangerous situation. Cicely—well. I’ve already seen her in action. If J. B. thinks Joe’s in her class, I’m fine with that. “Please tell them this is incredibly dangerous,” I say. “And I understand if they take a look and decide it’s not for them. No judgment.”

  “Let me make the call,” J. B. says. She goes into the kitchen and turns away from us. I look at Kez and Javier.

  “You two, same thing,” I say. “I can’t ask you for this. I don’t want you risking your lives for me—”

  “Hey,” Kez says. “We’re not doing it for you, Gwen. We’re doing it for Connor. We both love that boy. If there’s anybody innocent in this situation, it’s him.”

  Javier just nods in agreement, and I have to stop for a moment. The weight of this is both welcome and crushing. I need them. But I also need them to be safe. But I need my son. There are no right answers here, and I’m flailing in the dark.

  J. B. ends her call and comes back. “They’re going to meet us there,” she says. “Question is, how do we get out of here with the FBI parade blocking our way?”

  “We don’t ask,” I say. I stand up and go knock on Lanny’s door. There’s no answer, so I swing it open.

  My daughter’s standing at the open window, staring out. As I watch, she slides it down and locks it before turning back to me with her arms crossed. “Vee’s right,” she says. “You don’t get to decide for her, Mom.”

  “She’s gone?”

  Lanny just nods. Fuck. I can’t worry about what Vee’s planning. There’s no way she can get there before we do. I’ll have to alert the FBI that she might try to approach the place, though. I don’t want anyone thinking she’s a combatant.

  I want to yell at Lanny, but it won’t do any good. I should have known Vee Crockett would do whatever she thought was best, like it or not. And that Lanny would agree with her. I just take my daughter in my arms and hug her instead. I feel all the stiff confrontation melt out of her. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  I’m lying to my child when I say it. I feel utterly out of control, out of time, out of hope. For the first time in my life I have to depend not on myself alone, but on the goodwill of friends I’ve made along the way. People I respect and love. And giving up control is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time.

  I lead Lanny back into the living room. J. B., Javier, and Kez all look up.

  “Let’s do this,” I tell them. I look at my daughter. “Lanny, you’re going to stay with J. B. Whatever happens, I don’t want you to be alone.”

  She nods. She was so afraid I’d leave her behind, and that hurts and heals at the same time. I know I’m taking her somewhere dangerous, but Lanny, of all people, understands how necessary this is.

  Javier says, “Gwen? Once we’re doing this, you follow my orders. That’s how it’s got to be.”

  I nod, though it goes against everything in my nature.

  Sometimes I have to let those I love lead the way too.

  24

  CONNOR

  It starts with the girl who tried to get me to go off with her before. Aria.

  It’s getting dark after dinner is served by the army of silent women. Aria’s one of them. She keeps her gaze down most of the time, but she glances at me plenty. I . . . don’t mind. She keeps coming by to refill our glasses. The men at the table ignore her completely, like she doesn’t even exist. But I see her. And she sees me.

  She needs to leave with us, I think. She doesn’t belong here. There are younger girls here than Aria, too; there’s a wispy blonde girl with really blue eyes who looks scared to death, who cowers when anyone comes near her. Another dark-haired kid, maybe nine at most, who just looks sad and lost. They’re not like Aria. Aria seems to know what she’s doing.

  The last time she leans over my shoulder to pour more water into my glass, she whispers, “Meet me at midnight at the falls.” She’s gone before I’m even sure I heard right. Or heard it at all. She walks away with her heavy pitcher and doesn’t look back, and the meal finishes and I have to listen to Father Tom praying for nearly an hour before we’re released. When all the heads are bowed, I do it, too, but I don’t close my eyes. I’m sure they’re all into whatever he’s droning on about, so I slowly move my hand and put it over the fork I left next to my empty plate. I’d like to have a knife, but they didn’t give me one. I slowly slide the fork up my sleeve and work it around so the tines are stuck in the cotton right at the band of the long sleeves. It’s the only thing I like about these clothes Father Tom’s made me put on: I can hide stuff under the shirt, and the plain black jacket.

  When the prayer’s over, everyone stands. I start to, but the men on either side of me put their hands on my shoulders and keep me seated. My heart starts racing. I look at one of them and say, “What?” He doesn’t answer. He just smiles.

  Then Father Tom walks over and says, “Put it back, Connor.” He sounds calm and patient, but firm. I think about bluffing, but I know that voice. It’s what my mom sounds like when she knows exactly what I’m up to.

  They knew I’d try it. They were ready.

  I silently reach into my sleeve and take the fork out. I put it back where it was. The men let me go.

  “I like your spirit,” Father Tom says. “But you need to understand that when you do these things, there’s a price. Not for you. For the man who calls himself your father.”

  I lunge to my feet. I don’t even think before I do it. My fists are clenched. “Don’t hurt him!” It just kind of bursts out of me.

  The men on either side of me laugh, like they think I’m funny. Stupid. Weak. I shove the chair back so hard it tips over, and the laughter stops. “Pick that up and put it back,” Father Tom says. “You’re not a child. Don’t throw tantrums.”

  The sick thing is that there’s something about the way he says it that makes me want to obey. Want to please him.

  I kick the chair and send it spinning down the wood floor instead. Another man down the row who’s standing there stops it with a booted foot and looks at Father Tom. Then he sets it upright.

  “That’s disrespectful,” Father Tom says. “Go get it, Connor. Put it back where it belongs. Now. Or you’ll make me do something very unpleasant.”

  He’s using Sam, and I hate it, I hate it. He hasn’t said what he’d do, but it doesn’t matter, it would be bad. And I can’t get Sam hurt because I’m pissed off and scared.

  I go get the chair. I bring it back to the table. I slide it in place, and then I look at Father Tom.

  He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “Good boy,” he says, like I’m a pet. “You look fine in those clothes. Much better than those modern rags.” He means my old blue jeans, the ones that had holes in them. The ones they’ve made me put on are stiff and new and cheap, and I hate them. The black jacket itches. The shirt feels thin and homemade. The only thing they let me keep were my Nike shoes.

  I want to tell him his clothes suck. I stay quiet.

  Father Tom follows as the men walk me back to the Quarters, a long bunkhouse where the men sleep. Long rows of identical cots, with old surplus army trunks at the foot of each bed for clothes and whatever personal items they’re allowed to have. They’ve assigned me a bunk, and these stupid clothes to put on; my regular ones got taken away when they made me change. They said it was to wash them.

  I don’t think that was true.

  “Our routine doesn’t vary,” Father Tom tells me as he walks me to my bunk. “You have thirty minutes for private prayer and contemplation; you may read your Bible if you wish. Then bed.”

  “I want to see Sam,” I tell him.

  “Sam’s fine,” he says. “He won’t get any food tomorrow because of your disobedience. Disobey again, and he won’t get
water. Three times, and I’ll have to assign a much worse punishment. Are we understood? I like that you are strong, Connor. But you need to know how best to use it.”

  With that, he’s gone. He greets other men, shakes hands, claps shoulders in that way they all touched me in the church. Like a ritual.

  Once he’s gone, they all stop talking and go to their bunks—all except for a group who stands near the door. They’re not wearing the same clothes the rest of us are; they have regular ones, checked shirts and T-shirts and jeans that don’t look so stiff and awkward. They look almost normal, compared to what I have on.

  They’re the men from the RV, plus a few more. In a strange sort of way, they’re familiar at least. So I go to them, and they stop talking and look at me with either annoyance or amusement. I focus on Caleb. “When do I get my clothes back?”

  Caleb puts his hand on my shoulder. “These are your clothes, Brother. Wear them with pride.”

  Oh hell no, I won’t. I want my clothes. I remember going with Mom to the mall in Knoxville to buy those jeans, and the Avengers T-shirt I love. I need to have them back. They’re not the past. They’re my future. In the real world.

  That’s why they took them.

  I look down at myself. I look like them now. That’s what they want. They’re trying to change me bit by bit. Make me someone else. Just like Father Tom made me do what he said.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  “Go pray,” Caleb says, and pushes me away. “Thirty minutes to lights out.”

  I don’t pray. I just sit there, pretending, watching the others. They seem to actually be doing it. The RV crew makes sure they do, I realize; they walk up and down the aisle, and they’re checking. I stop pretending and actually pray when Caleb pays attention to me. Dear God, please help Sam. Please make sure he’s okay. Please help us get out of here and keep Mom and Lanny safe. Please get rid of these people.

  The time passes pretty fast. The last five minutes men start undressing, stripping down to their underwear. It’s all the same, white boxers. I take off my coat and fold it up on the trunk, and pretend to be untying my shoes. I take long enough that the lights go off, and I’ve still got my pants and shirt on. I get in bed and pull up the covers to my neck. I have to stay still and wait until I think most everybody is asleep. When a chorus of snoring starts, it’s time to go.