What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  “Please, Lizzy. Just tell me.”

  After a dramatic sigh, she said, “They’re fine. For now. How long they stay that way largely depends on the Whitaker Holler hillbillies. There are rules, you know...” An odd undercurrent had replaced the sly tone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rules that govern my...behavior. My choices.”

  “You mean your killings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I can, but I won’t.”

  “How far are we going?” he asked, almost tripping over some thorny vines. They seemed to reach up and grab his boots like living, malevolent barbed wire.

  “Those are roundleaf greenbriers, a sub-species of the pervasive smilax,” Lizzy offered. She might have been a sixth-grade science teacher. “There are worse thorny plants in the woods, but these are quite annoying. Try to lift your feet rather than shuffling along like a hobo.”

  “It would be easier to navigate the terrain if my hands were free.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, Ray,” said a deep voice that sounded nothing like Lizzy. Perhaps he’d been rash to dismiss her multiple personalities.

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  He didn’t respond, but continued trudging through the forest taking care to lift his feet eight inches off the ground with each step. Lizzy was right. It helped. Fergus was right as well. Ray was no woodsman. Images of his cozy quarters in the warehouse — watching the drone footage, listening to John Denver, eating hot food — flitted through his mind. He’d been in the woods for a couple of days, but he’d been miserable the entire time. And now, rather than capturing Lizzy, she had captured him. Everything he knew about her must be utilized if he hoped to survive. According to her journal, no one had accomplished that singular feat.

  “Here we are,” she said several minutes later, interrupting his thoughts.

  A crumbling wood cabin stood before him. Or leaned, rather. A strong wind might reduce it to kindling.

  “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not in great shape, but the bones are good. Bones...” She giggled. “Come on. I’ll turn on the lantern.”

  He tried to commit everything about the exterior of his would-be prison to memory: rusted corrugated metal sheets served as a roof; a stovepipe in an equal state of decline thrusted through the angular surface on the right side; large rocks shored up the structure’s left front corner where the ground had eroded; a pane-less window framed blackness within.

  Another shoulder-poke forced him through the doorway the next moment. He stopped, waiting for light. When it arrived, his heart sank. The interior looked as bad as the exterior. Rotten floorboards, several sections missing, promised to break the fibula of careless tenants. A desiccated pile of firewood in one corner had likely hosted countless generations of rat families, and a squatty cast iron stove with its grate hanging askew cradled ashes from decades-old fires.

  Two shiny eye bolts had been screwed into the only solid-looking wall in the place.

  “Come on, Lizzy. I treated you better than this.” He struggled to keep the fear out of his voice.

  “Be grateful, Ray. It’s better than being outside, exposed to the elements. You’ll have a roof over your head tonight, and I’m going to light a fire for you. How nice of me!”

  “I’m talking about those.” He gestured toward the bolts.

  “Would you prefer the previous arrangement?”

  “No,” he said finally.

  The wide grin almost split her face in two.

  He looked out the window rather than at Lizzy. “Can we cover that opening with something?”

  “Yes. I have some plastic sheeting. At the very least, you kept me warm, dry, and well-fed. I will do the same for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Another giggle. “You may not thank me later.”

  Next came the familiar pinch in the back of his neck, then blackness.

  ***

  When he awoke again, his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Not a good kind of cotton, like cotton candy. More like cotton gauze used to wrap limburger cheese.

  His stomach rumbled at the thought of cheese of any kind, even stinky cheese.

  The sight of a cheerful fire in the wood-burning stove greeted him when he opened his eyes. His arms seemed to be pinned to the wall behind him. He tugged at them, puzzled by their obstinacy, yet finding the position not terribly uncomfortable.

  Then the blowflies returned.

  Lizzy. His decaying prison. The handcuffs.

  Before he could work up a healthy state of dismay, he became distracted by a scintillating aroma.

  “Rabbit stew,” a voice said.

  Turning his head to locate its source felt like moving underwater. There sat Lizzy, cross-legged on the floor, grinning. The corners of his mouth responded of their own volition.

  “Well,” she said, “I haven’t seen you smile in a month. How nice. You’re really quite handsome, Ray. I wonder if you realize that.”

  The effort to respond vocally was too strenuous. He just continued to smile.

  “I bet you’re hungry. I hope you don’t mind if I feed you. Your hands are out of commission at the moment.” A girlish giggle followed. “Have you ever eaten rabbit stew? It’s normally better than this. Freeze-dried vegetables aren’t as good as fresh.”

  Whatever Lizzy had put in the stew, it tasted delicious. With every spoonful she fed to him, his salivary glands spurted. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

  “Poor little bunny didn’t stand a chance.”

  Another giggle. This one sounded less attractive.

  More blowflies arrived. He almost spit out the mouthful of stew, but stopped short. He must navigate this situation carefully.

  “What was in the syringe, Lizzy?”

  “If you think hard enough, you can figure it out. I’m sure you did an inventory of everything that was missing after I left. You probably had printouts of all your little spreadsheets.”

  He hadn’t because everything that was relevant these days was stored in his head. He remembered the missing midazolam, then a few seconds later, the ketamine. Special K would explain much about his current state. Despite knowing that the drug coursed through his system, he felt no anxiety — a side effect, no doubt. Depending on the dosage, there could be many more side effects, and not all beneficial.

  “You could accidentally give me an overdose.” The words came out slurred, but understandable.

  “Did you notice that I never made any references to a job in my journal, Ray? There was a reason for that glaring omission. If it had fallen into the wrong hands, the authorities would have no trouble tracking me down. But I’ll tell you now. I was a doctor.”

  Surprise filtered through the mental fog.

  “I know,” she continued. “It’s an odd occupation for someone like me, but when you consider my career specialty, it will make sense.”

  “Let me guess. A medical examiner?”

  “Well done. My doctorate was in forensic pathology.”

  “You cut open dead people.”

  “Correct again. Makes sense now, doesn’t it? So you don’t need to worry about an inadvertent overdose. I know the precise dosage needed to produce the results I desire. Here, have another spoonful of stew. You’ll need to keep your strength up. I have so many delicious plans for you...for us. Perhaps you won’t find all of them...unpleasant. There was a reason I faked my suicide back in the warehouse, you know. I thought it might soften your feelings toward me. Every now and then, even a woman like me finds herself needing...gratification...of a carnal nature. What can I say? I’m a victim of biology,” she added, an odd tone in her voice.

  He suppressed a full-body shudder at her words, then focused on the dancing flames in the ancient stove as he chewed his food. Forcing himself to analyze his physiological and mental state wasn’t as hard as it had been a few minutes ago. His brain felt slightly clearer. The food may be helping
; a filled belly could often mitigate adverse effects of pharmaceuticals.

  Still, his thoughts felt like they were slogging through petroleum jelly. Escape was essential to survival, but formulating a plan would have to wait. His brain was simply not up to the task of tackling complicated logistics at that moment. The warmth of the fire, the oddly cozy ambiance, and the drug-induced comfort lulled him into a state of complacency.

  Yes, he must escape. Later.

  Chapter 16

  Willadean

  “You think she plans to kill us, like the tree people?” Willa used her stealth-voice. There was no telling if their abductor, whom Fergus called Lizzy, could hear. Willa had come up with a more suitable name for the woman...

  Witch.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Fergus whispered. “She’s capable of anything. But I suspect she’s dealing with us differently than those other people, considering we’re holed up here instead of in the woods.”

  Willa appreciated the candor. Most grownups tip-toed around violent topics when they talked to children.

  “When Mama finds us, it won’t end well for the witch.”

  That was the thought to which she had been clinging ever since she’d been abducted by the witch. She'd woken up in bed at home with a hand covering her mouth — a female hand that wasn’t Mama’s. After a sharp poking sensation in her neck, there had been nothing but blackness. Then, a couple of hours ago, she’d awakened in this creepy basement with Mister Fergus.

  He’d filled in the blank parts as best he could. Explained about his and Mister Ray's run-in with the witch in the forest, then how he'd ended up in the basement just like her. Mister Fergus didn’t know how the witch had gotten into her bedroom. Maybe she used magic? And what about Harlan? He wasn’t in the basement with her and Fergus, so had the witch put him somewhere else? Or was he still safe at home? “Your mother is indeed a formidable woman, a quality that grows exponentially when it comes to matters of her children’s safety, no doubt.”

  “That’s a good word,” she whispered.

  “Formidable or exponentially?”

  “Exponentially. I learned formidable years ago.”

  Mister Fergus chuckled from behind the metal bars in the corner of the basement. He looked like a hobbit in a canary cage.

  “You’re a shining star, young lady.”

  “Pops calls me that sometimes. I sure do miss him and Mama and Harlan. I wish I was back home with them.” She kept her voice steady when she said that last part. Mister Fergus did not need to know how scared she felt.

  “Willa, do you feel brave?”

  Had he noticed anyway? Damn.

  “Always. I’m Anne Bonney, remember?” There. That came out formidably, just like Mama.

  Only one of her hands had been chained to a wall next to the bunk. Apparently, it was a kindness gifted by the witch so that Willa would be able to lie down comfortably. Anne Bonney would do her best to make the witch regret that kindness.

  “Check the floor as close to me as you can get. I’m almost certain I heard a pinging sound when Lizzy removed my jacket.”

  “I thought you said you were groggy when she brought you in here.”

  “I was, but I know what I heard.”

  “I believe you. I’ll look again.”

  A nightlight next to the door provided minimal illumination. She scooted off the narrow bed and crawled toward the metal cage on two knees and one arm.

  “Feel all along the floor as you go. Under that cabinet, too.”

  “I’ve done that already.”

  “You might have missed it.”

  “What kind of a person happens to have a handcuff key in his jacket?”

  “The kind of person who has found himself in dangerous situations in the past.”

  “Interesting. That only confirms my theory about you.”

  “What theory is that?”

  Willa puffed a strand of hair away from her face. “You were no college professor. I’m sure Mama knows it too, but for some reason she trusted you anyway.”

  “Indeed? Well, if you find that key, I’ll grant you a boon. I’ll answer exactly three questions pertaining to my former life. No stonewalling or prevaricating.”

  “Words like these are exactly why I like talking to you.”

  “Right. Hurry, child. She could return at any time.”

  “Still not finding anything. Wait...”

  Her fingers, stretching as far as the chain allowed, brushed against something beneath the cabinet. She couldn’t reach any of the drawers, but her hand disappeared up to the wrist between the two rolling wheels. Anything under there was obscured by the bulk of the cabinet, a type used for storing garage tools. The tip of her middle finger encountered an object. She must be careful not to push it farther away.

  “I don’t think it’s a key, but it does feel metallic. It kind of feels like a nail file.”

  “Can you slide it out?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, Maximus Impatientus.”

  A quiet chuckle came from the corner.

  Willa smiled to herself, then concentrated on catching the rounded tip of the metal object with her fingernail. It felt smooth, though. There was no purchase. It required a gripping, whorled fingertip rather than a ragged fingernail.

  “I just need another quarter inch...”

  “Back to your bed, child. I hear her coming.”

  “I don’t hear anything. Almost have it...”

  “Now!”

  That got her moving. A shrill tone coated the deep voice. By the time the door opened, she was sitting on the bed arranging her face into an expression of innocence. The one that always kept her out of trouble. Well, almost always.

  “Hello, my little jailbirds. Are we feeling more clear-headed now?”

  The witch caressed the switch next to the door. A sudden burst of light assaulted Willa’s eyes, but she forced them to stay open in order to study everything: what lay beyond that door (a wooden staircase), the clothing the witch wore (a black long-sleeved shirt, thick black leggings, black boots), the items she carried (a tray of food...two bowls...probably poisoned), and the analog clock hanging in the stairwell (6:33, but whether AM or PM was unknowable).

  Even the tiniest bit of information about her surroundings and her abductor might prove helpful. She’d read that FBI trainees learned how to make mental notes on everything in their realm of vision, even when they were on vacation.

  “I need to pee,” Willa replied in her sweetest voice. It wasn’t even a lie.

  A raven’s-wing eyebrow arched. “That’s what the pail is for.” The witch indicated a plastic bucket next to the bed.

  “I can’t go in front of him.” Willa had been working on this strategy prior to the key quest. She figured the witch might allow her to go somewhere else to pee, or the witch might release Mister Fergus from his cage to give them both privacy. He had a bucket too, but she couldn’t figure how he would be able to use it while wearing handcuffs. He probably had to go pretty badly, too.

  “If you wet the bed, you will have to lie in it. Not only that, if you soil the sheets, I will cut off your pinky finger and feed it to my wolf.”

  “You have a pet wolf?” She used a childish voice an octave higher than her own. Like the innocent expression, it had worked well on grown-ups in the past.

  “An intriguing notion, isn’t it?” the witch replied.

  Willa nodded. She could imagine herself with a pet wolf, although a pet panther would be even more exotic. Maybe she could have the panther and Harlan could have the wolf.

  “Where does your wolf sleep?” she continued in the high-pitched voice, adding a cute head-tilt. “At the foot of your bed, like a dog, or out in the open with his pack? Does he have his own wolf house in the backyard?”

  “You’re an imaginative one,” said the witch.

  “I’m a writer. You can’t be a writer without an imagination. It’s probably even more important than proper grammar. Editors c
an fix grammar mistakes, but they can’t fix a lack of imagination.”

  “What makes you think my wolf is male?” the witch said in a sly tone. Willa did not like that tone one bit. She adored clever people; sly ones made her hackles rise.

  “Oh, I didn’t think of that. Wolves in books and stories always seem to be male, but of course there must be plenty of female wolves too. She-wolves!” Willa added with what she hoped was a disarming grin.

  The witch stared at her, then set the tray on a table next to the door.

  “Whatever is in those bowls smells delicious,” Willa said. “But I don’t think I can eat until I pee. I promise to behave if you let me go in private. I bet you have a proper bathroom upstairs. You’re an elegant lady. I can’t picture you squatting behind a tree or peeing in a bucket.”

  The witch giggled. To some, that giggle might sound charming. To Willa, it sounded ghoulish.

  Seconds passed as the witch busied herself with the food tray. Willa studied her from the back. The witch was about as tall as Serena Jo, but skinnier. Her boots showed evidence of wear but were good quality; mud had squished out from between the treads, leaving footprints on the concrete floor with every step.

  Finally, the witch said, “Very well. I do hope you behave because if you pull any shenanigans, I will slice off your entire hand to feed to my wolf.”

  “Shenanigans is a good word! I’ll add it to my lexicon.”

  Poison-green eyes stared at her, unblinking. The expression the witch wore now was inscrutable.

  Willa hoped she was winning the witch over. She didn’t know if that was possible with witches, but she was giving it everything she had. A normal grown-up wouldn’t stand a chance. A psychopath, as Fergus believed the witch to be, may possess an innate ability to withstand her charm offensive.

  The witch didn’t respond. Wordlessly, she carried one of the food bowls to the cage in the corner. From his perch on a stool within, Fergus studied the woman’s every move, like a wary, red-haired gargoyle.

  “You look tired, Lizzy. You’re probably not getting much sleep between all your nocturnal adventures. How’s Ray, by the way? I can’t imagine you’ve done anything too nefarious to him, considering your, shall we call them, tender feelings.”