Make that three times.
I tried to stand, but Hercules had wrapped around me like a blanket and was doing a good job of trying to separate my head from my shoulders when I sliced through the back of his right hamstring. He flinched long enough for me to grab a breath of air and turn my head slightly to take the pressure off my carotids, but he never let go. Suggesting he was probably a good bit tougher than me. We rolled around the barn floor and broke through one of the stall doors while I tried every trick in the book, which had zero effect on him. With the walls closing in, I stood and launched myself at the stall door while wearing him like a cape. Just before my forehead contacted the cross bar, I ducked, allowing it to contact him square in the chin. The blow dazed him, and my forward momentum peeled him off my back.
By the time I got to my feet, he was already waiting on me, which presented me with another problem. He was not the guy in the picture Bones had sent me. Given that he was quicker and stronger, he shot low, took me to the ground, and was doing a good job of closing my eyes when a snarling thing latched itself around his head, causing him to shriek like a girl. While Gunner chewed on his face, I wedged his head between the stall door and the post, cinching it tight with the rope that secured the gate.
Within a few seconds, I had his attention and pulled Gunner off him. While he struggled to breathe and Gunner licked the blood off his muzzle, I knelt and asked him a few questions. His voice was thick with accent and he said nothing to answer my questions, so I tugged on the stall door, squeezing off the blood flow to his brain, and put him to sleep. I then bound him hand and foot, rolled him on his stomach, hog-tied his hands to his feet, and shoved a dirty rag in his mouth.
I collapsed on the barn floor while Gunner licked the sweat off my cheeks. Struggling to breathe, I said, “Next time I tell you to stay . . .” He looked at me and rolled his ears forward. “Just do whatever you want.”
I found my pack, which was good because my crossbow and rifle were latched to it. It was starting to look like I would need them. I paused long enough to force myself to think clearly, which was not easy. If Gunner had returned to me, then Summer had intersected Bones. Or so I hoped.
He answered after one ring. I managed, “Summer with you?”
“She was.”
“What do you mean ‘was’?”
“Well, she was here. We talked. Or rather, she talked and I listened. And then she left me with a sleeping girl, turned that Jeep around, and shot back up the hill.” Just then Summer appeared at the barn door.
“Never mind.”
Bones interrupted me. “You all right?”
“No. I’m not. Every time I turn around I’m wrestling an angry cat or a gorilla or something. These guys are the strongest human beings I’ve ever laid hands on. What are they eating? It’s like they’re playing in another gear or something.”
“It’s that new style of cage fighting.”
“Well, whatever it is, I need some lessons. I’ve got no defense against these guys other than Gunner. Every time I turn around one of them flips me into a pretzel and hands me my tail on a platter.”
Bones laughed. “You’re not a spring chicken anymore.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Need help?”
“Not yet. I think we’re down to just one.”
“Don’t take any chances.”
I stood and the searing pain in my shoulder reminded me of the bullet that grazed it. “Stay close to the phone.”
“Roger.”
Summer appeared next to me. Breathing heavy.
I frowned. “How’s this going to work if you don’t do what I tell you?”
She pointed in the direction of the road. “I did. I drove down the mountain.”
“What about the ‘stay there’ part?”
“You told Gunner to stay. Not me.”
She was right, but we were arguing semantics. “I thought that was self-explanatory.”
She pointed to the house. “Casey?”
Tattoo-boy already knew we were here, and he’d already unloaded all his goons on us, so I took the subtle approach, marched around to the front door, and kicked it off the hinges.
Searching the house, we found it completely empty. Which meant all of this had been a diversion. A decoy. If he’d been here with Casey, they were long gone now.
Make that four times. It wouldn’t happen again.
I returned to the barn and the hog-tied gorilla. I pulled the rag from his mouth and asked him, “Where’d they go?”
He laughed.
I turned to Gunner. “Choctaw.”
Within seconds, my gorilla had become a monkey, screaming valuable information.
Summer and I stepped out of the barn as daylight broke the ridgeline. It was cold, but the snow had quit. Summer tugged on me and pointed at my shoulder. “You should let me look at that.”
She cleaned and bandaged my arm and then asked, “How do we know he’s telling the truth?”
“We don’t.” I pointed at the tracks half full of snow. “These lead away from the house. They’re several hours old. One is smaller than the other, suggesting a female. One is deeper than the other, suggesting he’s carrying a load. And the direction and number agree with what he told us. It’s a gamble.”
Summer frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“No struggle. If this is Casey, she’s walking with him. Not fighting him.” She knelt and studied the prints, then stared up at me. “She’s in front. Leading him.”
I nodded.
“This doesn’t surprise you?”
“Maybe at one time.”
“What do you mean?”
“It gets twisted. Psychological warfare at its most evil. Girls who’ve been trafficked long enough become attached to those who own them. He still owns a part of her.”
Summer flashed red.
The footsteps led to the ridgeline and then turned south, doubling back several times to throw us off. Gunner kept us on course. At 10 a.m., our deadline for the transfer, my phone vibrated again. “Six million or you lose.” The picture did not encourage me and I didn’t show it to Summer.
By noon, we’d walked six miles southwest. Casey seemed to be heading to a hidden valley that sat at about twelve thousand feet. A rustic miner’s cabin and a Jeep trail that descended into a small town. If they reached the town, we’d lose them.
By late afternoon, we’d crested the plateau and could see the valley laid out before us. A land washed in white set beneath a canopy of blue. The cabin sat on the far side, some two miles away, smoke rising from the chimney. I was tired of them being warm and us being cold. We circled the valley, keeping the ridgeline between us and in line of sight of the cabin.
Two hundred yards off, we studied the cabin through binoculars but spotted no movement. I could hear talking inside but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly, I heard raised voices and a loud crash followed by a snapping sound, and finally a scream coming from Casey’s mouth.
Gunner and I shot out of the snow and crossed the distance. Reaching the front door, I again decided to skip the subtle approach, running through it, rolling, then coming to my feet. When I did, I found Casey standing over tattoo-boy. She was holding a fire poker in her hand about the length of a baseball bat. Carl lay on the floor with both his shin bones sticking through his pant legs. Casey was leaning over, pointing in his face. She spoke through gritted teeth, saying the same thing over and over. “You don’t own me! You don’t own me . . .”
I touched her hand and tried to slip the iron rod from it, but she turned quickly, shouting, “You don’t own me!”
While she was looking at me, I don’t think she was seeing me.
Tattoo-boy lay writhing. He would have to learn to walk again, and I had a feeling his MMA career was over. Not to mention his freedom. It struck me as telling that so powerful a man had been taken down by so diminutive a woman. She had done what no MMA fighter could: render him powerless
. Which means you can never underestimate the power of the heart. Summer appeared behind me and stood next to Casey, who was staring at what remained of the monster at her feet. Hefting the poker in her hand. Wanting to finish the job. I didn’t blame her.
Summer slipped the metal from her hand, led her outside into the fading sun, and turned to face her. Casey’s eyes were glazed over, staring years into the past. She had checked out. Slowly, Summer placed her hand on Casey’s chest. On her heart. Then she took Casey’s palm and laid it flat across her own heart.
Then she just breathed.
They stood there thirty minutes, pulse to pulse. And with every heartbeat, Summer brought Casey back from the brink. Back from hell. Had I not seen it I would not have believed it, but with each minute that passed, I watched in wonder as Summer proved true what she’d spoken to me. While I could rescue Casey’s body, I was not the one to rescue her spirit. That would take someone else. Someone else’s touch.
An hour later, Casey’s head turned slightly and her eyes focused on Summer, and then on her own hand transmitting the pulse of Summer’s heart to her own. Finally, she crumpled in Summer’s arms. Crying.
Wailing.
Releasing all the pain inflicted by others. The memory of that which was stolen. The sound was guttural. She kept screaming one phrase over and over: “You don’t own me . . .”
There is a thing that happens when someone comes back from hell. Their eyes show it best. While they’re gone, their eyes are absent. Blank. Dark. Hollow, even. We say, “They’re not behind their eyes.” When they return, the curtain pulls back, and when they look at you, they’re standing behind their eyes.
Summer held her, rocking back and forth. Speaking softly. Words not meant for me. When Carl started to laugh, I shut his mouth and turned out his lights. In approval, Gunner rolled onto his back and stuck his paws in the air.
A federal marshal airlifted Carl to a prison hospital near Gunnison where he would await trial. Given Casey’s testimony, chances were good he’d never breathe free air again. Bones and I watched him leave. “What happened to his legs?”
I pointed to Casey.
“She did that?”
“All by herself.”
Bones smiled. “What happened to his teeth?”
I pointed to Gunner.
Bones laughed but said nothing.
That night we rode the lift to the Eagle’s Nest where Clay entertained us with stories, some of which were true, and Summer used me as a guinea pig and taught us to dance, and Bones opened expensive wine, and Casey and Angel sat before the fire with their knees tucked to their chests and made the sound of the free, and Gunner lay with his paws in the air. And somewhere a few minutes shy of midnight, moon high, night clear, and air cold, while dancing with my daughter, who was standing on my toes and telling me to loosen up and that my hips were too tight, I stared at my life. At what had become of it. At the mystery, the majesty, and the memory.
And for the first time in a long time, I liked it.
When Casey tapped me on the shoulder and asked to butt in, I caught a glimpse of her. And there she was. Standing behind her eyes.
I tried to lead, but I’m not much of a dancer. Given that Casey wasn’t either, we danced well together. Halfway through the song, she stood on her toes and whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry.” Then her eyes darted to the floor.
I waited until she lifted them.
She continued, “I know my leaving betrayed you.” She glanced around the room. “Everyone. But . . .” She stopped dancing and looked up at me. “This world I’m living in here is so different from the world I lived in for so long, I don’t always believe it’s real. Most of the time I feel like this is all a dream and one day soon some guy is going to snatch me back to hell. So I figured I’d find out for myself. Kind of like ripping off a Band-Aid. If this is a dream, I’d rather it come to an end, because it’s too good to be true and staying here any longer just hurts too much ’cause it’s all I’ve ever wanted. So I did the very things you told me not to, and . . .” A tear trailed down her cheek.
I waited.
“Despite all you have done, Carl was still walking around inside me. And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, he still owned a part of me. I needed to know for myself if the part he owned was the real part and all this was make-believe, or if he was the counterfeit and all this is real. So . . . I let him find me. And . . .”
I waited while her lip trembled.
“And I’m really sorry I did that to you. To all of you. After all you’ve—”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
She placed her hand on her heart. “I know you say that, but I know better. I know what I’ve cost you. I know what you’ve given. I’ve seen the scars . . .” She trailed off. “I’m not defending me. I’m just saying that every day I woke up in a no-man’s-land. Not really here. Not really there. Just wandering somewhere in the middle. And I couldn’t live that way anymore. I had to either give him all my heart or cut him out of it.”
“Did you?”
Her eyes were the clearest I’d ever seen them. She tapped her heart. “He doesn’t own me anymore. Not any of me.”
Chapter 28
Bones said he wanted to drive, so Summer and I climbed into the Jeep and he eased off the clutch, idling through the high alpine roads accessible only through the back side of Freetown. Bones was fit, trim, had grown a beard that was solid white, and while he was never without his Sig, he was also seldom without his camera—recording life as he lived and saw it. Most evenings he’d disappear into his darkroom with a bottle of wine in tow and develop slides long into the night.
If Freetown had a recordkeeper, it was Bones.
An hour later, we crested a plateau. A dilapidated miner’s shack sat nestled in the rocks on the far side. Bones scratched his chin and pointed. “Freetown needs a backup plan.”
The shack had no roof. “That’s your plan?”
He laughed. “I can see potential.” This was one of Bones’s great qualities. He spoke that which was not as though it was.
That included me.
He wound a serpentine path around the boulders toward the sheer rock face a half mile away. Turning in front of the shack, Bones navigated between two boulders, each the size of a small house. Doing so brought us to the base of the rock face and a steel door that sat hidden in shadow until you were on top of it. I’d been in this valley a dozen times and never seen it. The door was large enough to drive a Jeep through—maybe twelve feet high and fifteen feet wide.
He pointed through the windshield. “It’s a Cold-War bunker. Deserted in the seventies.”
Summer looked intrigued. “How’d you find it?”
He weighed his head side to side. “That’s between me and God.” A pause while he idled closer. “Structurally, she’s solid, so I brought in some engineers and other really smart people and made a few changes. Updated generators, solar panels, reverse osmosis filtration, food stores. We could last . . . a while. If something were to happen to Freetown”—he glanced over his shoulder at me—“like what happened to your island, and we had to evacuate, we could get here. And we could probably do it with very little notice.” A knowing nod, almost as if he were talking to himself. “If something happens, we could cover our retreat. Hold the high ground.” A longer pause. “At least long enough to figure out who’s trying to hurt us and get the girls out safely one at a time. To better circumstances.”
Summer looked confused. “Why not just call in the cavalry?”
He nodded. “We could, but sometimes the psychological damage is worsened.”
He was right. Everyone in our care has entrusted us with their safety. Not anyone else. If we shuffle them around, passing them between hands, their subconscious can tell them they’re being trafficked again. It’s touchy. It would never be our intention, but we’re dealing with the effects of emotional warfare. As long as they see us as caring for them, they continue to heal.
But the nanosecond they think we’re offloading them to someone else, even if our intentions are good, the damage is real.
I studied the massive door. “You’ve been busy.”
He nodded and his tone changed. “I thought I was good at this rescue thing until I spent time with you. Then I watched you and realized I’m not. You’re one in a million. Personally responsible for cutting into hundreds of millions of profit. Because of that, you have enemies, and we’re a target. We can only stay hidden so long. Sometimes it’s best to hide in plain sight. Right under someone’s nose. Other times it’s best to disappear. This is the disappearing play.” He shot a glance toward Freetown. “They trust us. And . . . we owe it to them. I’m betting that whoever blew up your island is still looking for you. And would love nothing more than to bring their explosive talents to Freetown.”
“Speaking of my island, you got any thoughts?”
“Yes. But nothing certain.” He pointed at my phone. “You can access it with any phone. Just dial the number.”
“Which is?”
“Something you won’t forget.”
“Which is?”
“Written across the top of your back.”
Summer laughed.
I punched in a-p-o-l-l-u-m-i on the keypad, and the giant doors unlocked and began swinging open as overhead lights clicked on. Bones drove the Jeep inside and parked, revealing a fortress that traveled a half mile down and into the mountain. A nuclear blast couldn’t dislodge us from here.
I marveled at what he’d accomplished. “You’ve been really busy.”
He admired his work.
I pressed him. “How’d you find this place? Really?”
“Long story.”
During our walking tour, Bones told us the history as much as he knew it. Built in the ’50s when the Cubans were parking missiles ninety miles off the Florida coast and the Russians were threatening to annihilate the world with the press of a button, “the Bunker,” as it was affectionately known, was an underground city built to protect members of government in the event of a meltdown—and to do so for a long period of time. A year or two even. To increase their prolonged comfort, they’d built an indoor pool, a bowling alley, volleyball and basketball courts, a sauna, and a two-hundred-seat theater. It had all the amenities of home and was designed to allow life to be as normal as possible when lived five hundred to a thousand feet underground. Many of the rooms were suites, designed for family living. Others were singles and doubles. When needed, communal bunk rooms could be opened to accommodate overflow. The Bunker contained multiple kitchens, large freezer and refrigeration rooms, and given the constant fifty-some-degree temperature, an extensive wine cellar. It also contained one centrally important aspect when considering people’s safety: a single way in and out. No back door.
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