His feet crunched up the road, gravel and snow and ice making the footing treacherous, keeping his mind on the here and now.
The smart thing would be to call Navarro, to get him involved now, because that made sense, instead of rushing in there on his own like some demented, French Rambo.
Rambeau, he thought with a snicker.
Going serious again, he reminded himself that Abby didn’t want that. And Abby had good reasons for things, didn’t she?
They’re all waiting for the Apocalypse, she’d said. They’re expecting the End of Days. And I’m beginning to think Isaiah would not be against bringing it about himself, if need be.
The whole thing rigged to blow.
Abby doesn’t want me to do this either, he reminded himself with a stab to the gut.
By the time Luc reached the bottom of his drive, the sweat inside his coat didn’t keep him from shivering. He’d left his place open to attack again, gone for hours—although they wouldn’t know that, with his truck parked in front of the cabin. But there was that same fear at the back of his throat: the possibility that they’d attacked him while he was gone, and he was impotent against them.
Well, fuck that. He was done being scared, done worrying. Done letting them walk all over him. And more than anything, he was done letting them walk all over Abby.
* * *
Abby hadn’t driven in a while, although she’d done it a few times on market duty. In fact, she’d even had a driver’s license made. Of course, Isaiah’d taken it away from her. For safekeeping.
The closer she got to the mountain, the tighter her stomach twisted, and still, there was no sign of Luc. This truck was older than anything she’d driven before, and she kept her pace slow, despite the nerves trying to shove her foot onto the accelerator. It was a good thing, too, because she might not have seen him if she hadn’t been inching along in the newly falling snow.
She pulled up beside him, leaned over, and used the hand crank to roll down the window.
“Luc!”
He stopped and turned to squint at the truck, and even from here, the man looked cold.
“Get in! Come on!”
Shaking his head, he turned and waited for her to pull up the lock before opening the door and climbing in beside her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting Sammy,” he said, and for the first time in her life, Abby had the urge to hit someone. Not hard, just…
She grabbed him by the collar instead and shook him before plastering her mouth to his in a hard kiss. He kissed her back with equal vigor, his lips as cold as ice.
“You are a…a nightmare.” She bit out the words before letting him go and putting the truck back into drive. “You have a plan?”
“First, I was going to get my gun,” he said with what sounded like humor, “and possibly defrost my feet. And then I was going to get Sammy out.”
“Yes?” She nodded, as slow and calm as she could.
“Yes.”
“You’re a…a stupid man.”
“I am.” His hand covered hers on the steering wheel. “But you were going to do the same.”
“I wasn’t going to go in like some…dumb, stupid man.”
He chuckled, and the feeling that sound brought up in her chest should have worried her. Instead, it warmed her up.
“We go in quietly and get him out. Together.”
“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Together. We go together.” He moved his hand to her thigh and gave her a squeeze that lit her up inside, the sensation utterly inappropriate in this moment, but so good that she almost purred.
“We can’t drive in now that they’ve put up the guard.”
She swung her face around. “Guard?”
He sighed, hard, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “They’ve been watching me.”
“That’s why you don’t have your truck tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Through the fence, then.”
“We’d need tools for that, and we can’t drive up to my cabin without them seeing us.”
“Right.” They must have been keeping Sammy in the Center with the kids. “Your driveway. That place where it runs up on the fence.”
“The snowbank we got stuck in on the way out.”
“Exactly. By the slaughterhouse.”
“Where will he be?”
She doused the lights and started up his drive, passed the slaughterhouse, and parked, hidden from view, keys dangling from the ignition. Ready to run.
She laid a gloved hand on Luc’s, stalling him.
“Let me out, Luc. I’ll do it. I’ll go in.”
He shook his head, pressed his forehead to hers, and whispered, “We do this together, Abby. Now, where is Sammy?”
She inhaled his warmth. “The Center.”
“Okay.”
He gave her a hard kiss and pulled away, then seeming to change his mind, he grabbed her hand, threw a sidelong glance her way, and whispered, “We’re in this together. But once we get him out, you leave town. You take him and go.”
“I know, Luc.” Though she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay with him. She wanted to be his family.
“Don’t worry about me. Just leave town.”
“I will.” Lord, those words were the saddest thing she’d ever said, each syllable like ripping out a piece of her heart.
“That way?”
“Yes.” Before they took off, he went to the back of the truck and came back with an ax.
Abby followed closely behind Luc, marveling at how much better these boots were than the shoes she’d had to walk in before. The sky over the mountain was changing as they climbed the low fence and trudged toward the Center as quietly as they could over the hard-crusted snow. Strange to see this place in the cold light of dawn.
Dawn. It shouldn’t be dawn for a few hours yet.
About twenty feet from the main double doors, Abby stopped and threw her head back. The clouds shone bright orange.
“Luc,” Abby gasped, but he’d already seen it. Probably smelled the smoke, too. “Go, Luc. Run. Go take care of your vines.” Her whisper came out harsh and frantic and much too loud. She expected him to run, but he didn’t. Of course he wouldn’t.
Instead, he took hold of her hand and continued the trek forward, shaking his head and muttering what she thought might have been “Together.”
27
Inside the cult’s main building was a big room, low-ceilinged. It was too dark to make out much detail, but it smelled musty, like old carpeting. Camp Jesus, frayed at the edges. Luc ignored the way his pulse pounded in his skull, doing his best to concentrate instead on getting them out of here alive. Squinting, he could make out crosses and prints on the walls. Rows of wooden chairs faced what must have been a sort of altar at the opposite end of the space.
This was it? The place where these people worshiped their angry god? Luc had never been much for religion, but he’d always felt a sort of awe in France’s cathedrals and ancient stone churches. This windowless space inspired nothing.
There were doors off to each side and a double set straight ahead, but Abby was already headed to the left. When she paused, he got close enough to stir her hair with his breath and whispered, “Open it. I’ll go in.”
She turned the knob and pulled, and he entered a room that felt immediately different. First of all, there was breathing.
A lot of breathing.
He could see enough to realize that there were people waiting here, together in one big space. It felt like a trap, like some demented surprise party.
Only…that was snoring, wasn’t it?
Somebody snuffled, a quiet, high-pitched, plaintive sound, and everything crystallized. All the kids were here. Not with their parents in those cozy-looking cabins, but here, in
this big, cavernous space.
It smelled like…like urine, he realized. Diapers, maybe. Other things, too, that he couldn’t identify, but the entirety of it freaked him out like nothing had before.
They’re expecting the End of Days. And I’m beginning to think Isaiah would not be against bringing it about himself, if need be.
Abby’s words came back to hit him hard in the chest, and his instincts told him to back out.
That was when the voice whispered.
“Abby?”
His breath rushed out with equal parts fear and relief.
Abby responded from right beside him. “That you, Sammy?”
“You come to get me?”
“Yes. Come on. Let’s go.”
“Don’t wanna leave without my friends.”
Oh God, why did he have to say that? Why did he force this into a choice that they couldn’t possibly make?
There must be adults in here, right? Watching over all these children? Mon Dieu, how many of them were there, right now, hearing this conversation?
As his eyes adjusted, he barely made out a row of cots or pallets or mattresses, one after another, after another. What looked like cribs lined the far wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he didn’t know about this.
Babies.
He’d just opened his mouth to whisper that it was time to go when a voice cut in.
“Who’s there?” A woman.
“It’s Abby, Brigid,” said Abby. “Just here to get Sammy, and then I’m leaving.”
“Abigail? You ain’t takin’ nobody. I’m callin’ Isaiah and—”
“He’s sick, Brigid. You heard me tell Mama. You know he’ll—”
The woman made a strange, frantic sound.
Someone snuffled on the other side of the room, and another kid coughed. Abby whispered again, “It’s his only chance.”
Luc came up against something and stiffened. A person, who let out a bleat of a sound, and after a beat or two, he recognized it as Sammy. “Sammy, it’s Luc,” he whispered as quietly as he could.
“Who else’s here?” came the other woman’s voice, louder now.
“I brought a friend. To help.”
Harsh breathing told him where Brigid stood, and Luc wondered if he needed to subdue her. In the meantime, she spoke again, something different in her voice. “Take Jeremiah, too.” The words were electric, stopping them all in their tracks.
“What?” breathed Abby.
“Take him,” the woman said. “I won’t tell.”
Luc’s skin pebbled over with goose bumps. This whole thing was so wrong.
“We can’t take your baby, Brigid. He’d—”
“Just do it. Or I scream.” A rustling sound and footsteps, then she went on. “Here. He needs to see a doctor. And vaccinations. I want him to have those. You can”—she cleared a clogged-sounding throat—“you can say he’s yours.”
“No, I—”
“I’m beggin’ you. Please.” The last word came out more like a wail, and Luc cut in.
“Take the child, Abby,” he said, grabbing Sammy’s hand and pulling him toward the door.
A noise came from outside. A man’s voice, yelling, followed by another and the loud crunch of footsteps in the snow.
“Let’s go,” he said again, moving fast until he was stopped, midstep, by Brigid’s voice.
“Too late,” said Brigid. “Through that door. The Small Chapel.”
“No,” said Abby, her voice strange. “I won’t go in there.”
“Go.” Brigid pushed the group toward a door. “Out the back.”
“Come on, Abby,” Luc urged. He grabbed her arm and pulled. Reaching past Sammy, he found the door, twisted the knob, and they stumbled through. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting out all light and air.
Blind in the pitch black, he felt around for Abby and found her, child in her arms. “Which way?”
“I can’t, Luc. This is… Down this hall is the Small Chapel. It’s where they…” She shook as she spoke, and a shiver slid up his spine.
This place smelled of stale ashes. And fear.
He waited.
“I can’t go through that room. They hurt me there, Luc.”
“Okay, Abby. Okay. We stay here. Or we can turn back and bust our way out, if you want. I can do my Rambo impersonation.”
She didn’t speak for a second, and he stood, with Sammy breathing hard against him and the men’s voices getting louder next door. “Rambo? Is that a superhero?” she asked finally, and oh fuck, he wanted to kiss her. No, he wanted to marry this woman.
They started moving again, Abby leading them through a door, and putain, he could smell the ashes stronger in here. He almost gagged, not from disgust, but from anger. And another emotion, stronger, more protective. Some kind of instinct he’d never known he possessed, inexorably linked to this country and this woman.
Suddenly, Luc didn’t want to hide anymore. He wanted to tear through this place, swinging the ax he still held at his side, to knock them down like a goddamned Viking raider. And then he wanted to tear Isaiah apart. With his teeth.
Beside him, Abby whispered, breaking through the shimmering sheen of rage. “The exit’s right over there.”
Blinking, he moved, making sure the others were right where he could feel them. Their breathing was loud in his ears.
The fucking door wouldn’t open, and Luc felt around until he encountered a massive padlock. Behind them, a door slammed, and somewhere outside—hopefully not too far away—Luc thought he heard a siren.
“Step back.” He nudged the others to the side and hefted the ax, determined enough to chop through the lock on the first swing. A kick finished the job, and they were out in the fiery night.
* * *
Abby’s breath was loud in her ears when she spoke. “We can’t leave the children.”
Luc said, “I know.” He sounded resigned but certain. “This stops now.”
“I’ll go—”
“You take these two to the fence, and I’ll go back.”
“Okay.” She wanted to argue, but what was the point? Besides, if she could get Jeremiah and Sammy out, she could come back and—
Brigid appeared in the doorway along with several women, their arms full of groggy children, others dragged behind them. Her old adversary nodded at her once, and suddenly they were on the same team, aligned in their rejection of this life that had been forced on them. “This is all of them,” said Brigid.
On a rush of adrenaline and something that felt like love or pride, Abby turned to run. Behind them, something popped, and one of the children started to scream.
Pulse beating hard and fast in her throat, Abby pushed herself harder. From behind her came the loud pop and crash of the Center roof caving in. It smelled bad, like gas and…
A gunshot sounded out from not too far away, and Abby couldn’t even look. She refused to turn back, wouldn’t look behind her, because this baby in her arms, and all the others, depended on her to get them out. Smoke billowed out from behind them now, thick enough to choke her as she nearly fell. Gagging, she pulled her coat over Jeremiah’s face and ran faster.
Someone yelled—nothing but a disembodied voice in the blinding wreckage. He would have killed the babies, she thought over and over and over. Seconds more, and he’d have killed the babies. Who could possibly side with him after that? None of them would, right? Mama couldn’t possibly want to stay with that man?
They were close to the property line, the part where the fence was low enough to climb, when a shadow broke out from the trees and turned into a man. Benji, rifle in hand, blocked their way, and the scene was like something she’d lived before. Just days ago, but it could have been a different life.
“You going to shoot me, Benji?” she asked, slowing. “You planni
ng to shoot your own son?”
Benji’s face turned strange enough to stop Abby in her tracks. He didn’t know. He hadn’t realized she held his baby under her coat. At first, she thought it was anger or disappointment, but when he dropped the rifle and moved toward her, his mouth open wide, expression a broken thing, she understood it for what it was: relief. He sobbed with it when he saw his boy, and had she been a different person today, she’d have let him take the baby.
Instead, she held on tighter, but when she moved to walk around him, he put out his hand to stop her.
“Stop your cryin’,” Brigid’s voice hissed from a few feet away. “You pick up that rifle, Benjamin Sipe, and make sure we get out of here alive. It’s your job to keep your boy safe. All of the kids, after what you let Isaiah turn this place into.”
Everyone stilled, except for Luc and Abby, who was pretty sure Benji had never had a woman speak to him like that before. But being less of an idiot than Abby had believed, he complied, picking up the rifle and looking to them for direction.
“Hold up the rear,” said Luc, the ax in his hand ten times more threatening than the firearm in Benji’s. But then again, he was ten times the man. Something like pride swelled in Abby’s chest.
An explosion from the Center sent them all running again, toward the fence. Finally, they made it to the truck.
Luc turned to Abby. “To my house?”
“We don’t know what it’s like up there.”
“I see lights. Probably fire engines. We’ll call the sheriff.”
They shoved the youngest children into the back and a couple of the bigger ones climbed in front with the babies. The others—adults and older kids—melted into the woods to continue on foot.
Up they went, staring out the windshield at where the reflection of emergency lights lit up the smoke and trees. One more bend and she’d see it: the destruction.
The sight knocked the breath out of her. It wasn’t just the vines they’d burned. It was the cabin. Luc’s home.
No. No, no, no. Over and over she thought it, but denial apparently didn’t work. How could it be this cold with that inferno raging outside?
In His Hands Page 30
