“Smooth move,” Eli muttered to him. “Way to call attention to yourselves.”
“I was aiming for a distraction,” Parker whispered back. “I screwed up, okay?”
The lead soldier had a master sergeant rank and a bright red flattop under his BDU cap. He lowered his bullhorn, looked in surprise at the other soldiers, and then turned back around and lifted the bullhorn once again.
“Not tonight, you aren’t. This is a security sweep. Now get the hell out of here and back to your homes before I open fire.”
“Come on, Jim,” Eli whispered. “They’re being lazy or they’re cocky; otherwise, they would have stopped and frisked us the moment we walked up with you three pushing those bikes.”
“Let’s go,” Finn said.
They pushed their bikes back down the narrow run between houses and into Parker’s small backyard. Parker realized he was scared. Not nervous and keyed up with adrenaline in the sort of state that had allowed him to operate as a cop. He was scared.
He saw the fear on the girls’ faces, as well. Ava was disguising hers pretty well with a scowl, but it was there. Eli breathed steadily, his eyes watching the approaches to their position as he stood ready to react if needed.
“We’re going to get caught,” Ava said.
“What should we do?” Finn asked Parker. “We need a plan, fast.”
“Well, maybe we could burn the house down, create a distraction,” Parker suggested.
“We’re not arsonists,” Finn said.
“You mean morally or literally?” Ava snapped. “Because, one, I don’t think it’s really a problem, and two, starting a fire isn’t rocket science. There’s plenty of furniture with stuffing that’d go up quick, not to mention drapes and curtains. Drywall burns fast.”
“Jim has laundry detergent,” Eli said. “That’s filled with phosphates. He’s got acetone paint thinner and fertilizer in his shed, plus oven cleaner, butane for his grill, and motor oil. I could make a bomb in about thirty seconds that’d engulf the place in flames and pump smoke out. Then, once all of his ammunition that was too heavy to carry started cooking off, it’d really get everyone’s attention. If you want a distraction, that’s your best one.” Eli looked pointedly at Parker. “Police get plenty of IED training; you could do it as easily as I could.”
“Fire, especially one as big as you’re talking about, might endanger the neighbors.”
“There’s time for me to warn them while pretending I’m worried about a regular fire, if it’s the cooking ammo you’re worried about.”
Parker shook his head. “Still too dangerous.”
“Then think of something and think of it quick if you don’t want to do what the Army guy thinks is a good idea,” Ava snapped again. “But stop standing around trying to save all of New Albany for fuck’s sake; we have to move.”
Parker knew what the obvious thing to do was, and the adrenaline had long ago burned off what little buzz he’d had. Why couldn’t he respond? He gripped the straps of his pack to keep from reaching into his pocket for an Ativan.
Finn stood to one side now, quietly crying. She didn’t sob; the tears simply slid down her cheeks. Ava reached out and took her hand. “Shh,” she told the girl. “We’ll think of something.”
Whistles blew in the street outside the house. Down the back alley behind Parker’s house, where he left the garbage cans on trash pick-up day, they heard the rough voices of men shouting orders. Time was up.
“Go,” Eli said.
“Where?” Finn asked.
“Out the back gate. Head east—it’s the closest border of the neighborhood, and there’s a greenbelt there between us and the highway. You can hunker down there until you’re sure it’s safe to ride your bikes, if that’s what you have your stubborn asses set on.”
“What are you going to do?” Parker demanded.
“I’m going to say hello to my little friend, the SCAR,” Eli told him. “I’m going to light up a few of these asshats until they’re pinned down, and then I’ll scoot across yards.”
“That’s suicide,” Parker said.
“You let me figure out me,” Eli said. “You get your own shit tight. There’s no time for you to argue.” He grinned. “Besides, I don’t own a bicycle. Stay safe, brother.”
Eli turned on his heel before Parker could argue further. He started after him, but Ava caught him by his sleeve.
“Guy like that,” she said. “You don’t argue with him once he’s made up his mind. Now if we want any chance at all, we have to go right now.”
They turned and pushed through the back gate into the alley. Down the run to their right, they saw flashlights moving and they turned left. Making it to the edge of the alley, they turned down a side street and started pedaling.
Suddenly from behind them, the sharp crack-crack-crack of rifle fire opened up. After a moment, there was screaming from all around, and then the soldiers returned fire.
They pedaled faster.
4
The Vineyard
Sara had a secret.
It was a pretty big secret as far as secrets went, too. Despite the apparent fervor of her allegiance to the Church, she hated the place. Hated the people who bleated memorized scripture like so many sheep. Hated the routine and the expectations and the pretense of piety that kept the devout in their places. Most of all, she hated Theo Truesdale.
From the shadows at the edge of the main building, she scanned the compound set in the middle of the extensive vineyards. There were bunkhouses, communal kitchens and meeting halls, worksheds, storage units, and outbuildings.
There was also the church, the center of their life. The front of the building was the chapel itself with altar, pews, and stained-glass windows. To the rear of the building was the little cluster of offices that Truesdale used to conduct business, though little about business had been normal since the Event.
Sara knew she was popular and well liked in the community. She’d been cultivating that persona ever since she’d been a child. You could gather more bees with honey than vinegar, she often had to remind herself when she wanted to scream to the church steeple how she felt about everyone. Her standing in the community would change quickly if it was discovered she was an agent of “the Beast,” as the members of the Church of Humanity referred to the Council. It was the sort of secret that could get someone killed, she knew.
Stepping out from the edge of the building, she made her way across the green grass of the lawn framing the church. Susan Hagar and Daniel Morgan strolled out of the dining area and, seeing her, waved hello. Sara smiled and waved back.
She mostly hid in plain sight—this was her power.
Reaching the edge of the building, she turned the corner and approached the back door. Checking unobtrusively to ensure she was unobserved, she entered the building. With only the evening sunlight to illuminate its interior, the place was a hall of shadows, and her footsteps made little squeaks on the linoleum as she walked down the hallway. The church office space wasn’t large, with only a couple of rooms and a small break area where a coffee pot was kept, so she was outside Truesdale’s office in a moment.
It being after hours, the place was deserted and quiet. But Truesdale kept a very predictable schedule, for the most part, so he was easy to find, or keep track of. After dinner, he sat outside, smoked, and conversed with Church Section Leaders. From what Sara had overheard, these meetings were mostly bullshit sessions, but they invariably lasted at least thirty minutes. Plenty of time for what she had to do.
Since the Event, security after dark had dramatically increased, and Sara knew that if she were caught slinking around after hours, it wouldn’t be a smile and a wave from some old friends that she’d be dealing with. Thankfully, despite the heightened security, the church still contained the cheap interior locks the contractors had installed back when it had been built. They were no match for someone who wanted through them.
Looking to both sides, more out of habit than real c
oncern, she pulled a paper clip from her pocket. Trying the doorknob first, to make sure it was really locked, she then began forming her pick.
Straightening the paper clip so that it formed a basic “L” shape, she took a second one and twisted it straight. She eyeballed the lock the way she’d been instructed, determining that it turned clockwise. Inserting the hooked, L-shaped clip into the lock, she applied downward pressure and pulled it in the direction of the lock’s rotation.
The tip of her tongue, bright pink against the macchiato coloring of her skin, pressed between her lips as she concentrated. This wasn’t cat burglary at its highest level, to be sure, but she didn’t have all night, either. This needed to go smoothly.
Keeping downward pressure with the L-shaped clip, she slid the straightened clip between the hook and the top of the keyhole. Then, lifting the straightened clip up, she raked it toward her, engaging the pins. Three times, she tried; three times, she failed. Then the hooked clip, already applying pressure, turned further as she depressed the pins, and the lock slid open.
“Smooth, girl, smooth,” she whispered to herself.
She’d practiced the technique at odd moments when she’d been alone, and she hadn’t been entirely confident in her ability under pressure. Sara smiled as the door swung open beneath her hand and she stood, entering the office.
She closed the door quietly and leaned back against it, surveying the room. Desk, filing cabinets, the now useless personal computer. Her instructions were clear: discover what Dr. Marr’s contingency plans had been and glean any information she could about networks and locations. As the head of the Church, Sara knew that Dr. Marr had kept files here because of her aversion to the overuse of electronics.
Why the Council, which was in complete control of the law enforcement and military assets in the area, needed her to do this was a mystery to Sara. They could have raided the compound under the thinnest of pretexts, or no pretext at all, and shipped everyone off to detention centers for interrogation. Instead, she was here.
She didn’t pursue the line of thought too closely, however. She wanted to fight the Church for reasons of her own, and she willingly left the big picture concerns to those higher up her chain of command. She was good as long as she got a chance to bring Truesdale down.
Moving methodically, she tossed his desk. There was nothing in the drawers beyond old print-outs of Excel sheets, receipts for Church purchases, and various work orders for the Vineyard. She stopped shuffling paperwork for a moment and cocked her head to the side. Gently, she pushed down on the base of the bottom drawer.
It flexed slightly.
Working quickly, she unloaded the remaining paperwork from the drawer and stacked it on the floor next to her. Using her nails, she dug at the lower edges of the drawer until a little false bottom popped up. Inside, she found a slim photo album. Hands almost trembling, she opened it.
Unconsciously, her hand crept up to her mouth. Of course, she’d known. But that kind of knowledge wasn’t spoken aloud, allowing people to pretend they didn’t understand what was happening. The silence surrounding it was where it got its greatest power from.
She turned a page, then another, and then looked all the way through it without hesitating again. She forced herself to go slow, to look at each picture. The photo album was filled with pictures of girls. High-quality print-outs on expensive Kodak film with pigment instead of the cheaper inkjet dye—little labors of love, each snapshot a masterpiece.
The girls were young, and naked, or, at most, wearing panties. Some were crying, some posing provocatively as if fully engaged with their own abuse. Some stared into the lens with quiet, inexpressive eyes. Sara knew these girls; some of them, at least. In a page toward the back was a picture of Susan Hagar who, right before Sara had entered the offices, had been walking across the compound with Daniel Morgan. In the photo, she was on her knees, lipstick smeared on her cheek, eyes bright and alive, looking past the lens toward whoever was holding the camera (as if Sara had any question of who that was). Her flesh crawled as she realized she was holding Theo Truesdale’s stroke book. Revolted, she slammed the book shut and slid it back into place.
I’ll see this place burn. She pushed the drawer shut. Frustrated, she turned to the filing cabinet.
Opening the metal drawer, she began rifling through files and blank forms. Personally, she felt that any plans Marr might have kept would have been stored on a computer—perhaps one protected in a Faraday cage since the woman had known of the Council’s intent to set off the EMP. Sara shrugged, thinking of this possibility not for the first time; maybe someone somewhere else was looking for that more likely clue. Marr had been in a lot of different locations on Church business.
“Someone’s got their hand in the cookie jar,” a deep male voice said.
Giving a little scream of shock, Sara spun around. Theo Truesdale leaned in the doorway, shoulder resting against the jamb. He was a heavyset man. Faces from the photo album began flashing through her mind as she felt his gaze on her. She’d never been able to stand the man, and had made it a point not to be alone with him, which had been relatively easy for the most part. Until now. Her eyes followed his big hand as it dropped down to his crotch and squeezed.
“Oh, hi!” she smiled as wide as she could. “You startled me, Mr. Truesdale.”
He smiled. It was more of a smirk. Not for the first time, he told her, “Theo. Call me Theo, Sara.”
“Okay, Mr. … Theo.”
“Whatcha doin’?” Truesdale asked.
Stepping forward, he closed the door behind him. He didn’t slam it, but to Sara, when latch hit jamb, it sounded like a vault closing. She smiled even more expansively.
“I was getting … requisition forms,” she said.
“‘I was getting requisition forms’ what, Sara?”
Her smile hurt. “I was getting requisition forms, Theo?”
Truesdale, nodding, stepped closer. Sara forced herself not to shrink away. Some of those girls in the album had been crying. Some were so young. Barely teens.
“I, uh, knew you were in your Section Leader meetings and I didn’t want to bother you with something so trivial. The door was unlocked.”
Truesdale’s smile narrowed to a sleazy grin. He had her in body weight by a hundred pounds, but thankfully none of it was muscle. Up close, he smelled like Old Spice Body Wash and cigarettes.
“It was, was it?” he asked.
“Yes. I didn’t mean—”
“Shh,” he whispered. He reached out and tapped her nose with a thick, blunt finger. There was a half-moon sliver of grime beneath the nail. “Boop! Got your nose!” he laughed.
Sara forced herself to laugh along with him, her heart beating as if she were running a race. An icy shroud of a certain cold, implacable truth settled over her. Her story wouldn’t hold up under close inspection, she knew. If she didn’t radically change the energy of this engagement, she’d be under suspicion from here on out.
Some of those girls were crying.
She stepped toward him, her breasts inches from his chest, making the space intimate. He hadn’t brushed his teeth for a while.
“Is that all you want?” she asked. She made her expression serious. “You only want to get my nose?” She traced a finger on the flesh of his beefy forearm. “There are so many other, better, parts you could get.”
Truesdale blinked, momentarily taken aback by her forwardness. Then his lips skinned back off his teeth. The effect was similar to a dog showing its fangs. His right arm suddenly reached out and encircled Sara, and he yanked her toward him, crushing her body into his. Sara swallowed and looked up into his face. He had large pores.
“I’ve noticed you,” he said. “I’ve noticed that tight little body of yours growing up, and I’ve noticed how you’ve been hanging around a lot more lately.”
His crotch radiated heat between them.
“It’s just that you make me so … curious.” She choked on the words, hoping it sounded
like passion. “Everyone looks up to you, does what you say. You always seem so in charge, even more so since the Event.”
His big hand slid down and cupped her ass, and squeezed. The motion pressed her hips a little harder into his and she felt the club of his erection between them. She flashed on Susan Hagar’s lipstick smear, intuitively understanding what that had meant. She closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“It’s good for a young girl to come to an older man,” he said. His voice came out in a thick growl, like an animal warning something off its kill. “To help show her what she needs to do. Guide her; teach her.”
Not knowing what else to say, she murmured his name. “Theo.” Sara felt bile rising as his other hand roamed her body. Not able to bear looking at him any longer, she closed her eyes and turned her face up to him, her eyes closed.
Instead of the kiss she was dreading, something much worse came. Suddenly he spun her around and bent her over the desk, roughly pressing down on her back and pinning her in place. Her ass poked backwards, the pose highlighting for her how vulnerable she was. No one knew she was here. No one would care if they did.
“Kissing is for fagots,” Truesdale all but snarled. “You’re going to learn what lips are for.”
What does that even mean?
Coherent thought fled then, replaced by pure, animal terror. Sara could feel tears pressing at her tightly closed eyes.
He tugged at the button on her jeans, yanking hard as the zipper opened and then cupping his hand between her legs.
“Please, Theo,” she said. “I’m scared.” She was, too, but she vowed that he wouldn’t make her cry.
The big man leaned his bodyweight into her and bent down close to whisper in her ear. His belly and chest rested heavily on her narrow back and she fought to breathe.
“Oh, I like that,” Theo said. “It adds spice.” He ground into her. “But you have to show me you’re my girl. Are you my girl, Sara?”
911: The Complete Series Page 29
