by Jen Blood
Her voice trembled.
“You can call me Allie,” Blaze said. She made the transition from drill sergeant to den mother seamlessly. “Jessie, no one has to go home with the Lord today, all right? Nobody has to go anywhere but right back where they belong. We can put today behind us. I just need you to put that gun down, sweetheart.”
On the video screen, Willa was still crying. The old man sat down at the table with her on his knee, bouncing her gently. Dougie Clinton looked ready to strangle him. Then, I watched with my stomach in a knot as the old woman picked up the vial of cyanide and pulled the pitcher toward her. The agent beside us had his walkie talkie in hand. He spoke into it quietly.
“Keith, what’s your status? There’s activity below.”
Blaze must have had an earpiece in, because her shoulders tensed at the words. She lifted the megaphone again.
“Jessie, I know you have children in there. Those kids’ families are looking for them; they just want them to come home safely. Now, I know your grandfather is a good man.”
To my surprise, a tear rolled down Jessie’s cheek, a flicker of something in her eyes. Anger, I thought—and not necessarily directed at us. Blaze didn’t miss it.
“As good a man as he is, the position he’s put you in here isn’t fair. You’re a smart girl—I did a little checking, and it turns out you’re at the top of your class. You don’t belong here, Jessie.”
The old woman on the video dumped the vial into the pitcher. She stirred it, her face chillingly impassive, and then began pouring the liquid into a dozen paper cups.
“We have to move,” the agent said into his walkie talkie. He said it quietly enough, but there was no mistaking his urgency. Jessie’s head came up, like she was listening to someone inside the house. Her hands tensed around the gun.
“Whoever’s in the woods out back best leave here,” Jessie said. She shifted, eyes taking on a wild quality that wasn’t reassuring. “My granny isn’t happy about this. We can’t have you folks back there.”
“Jessie—” Blaze began. A shot erupted from the house, this time in the back. A second later, “Agent down!” crackled over the walkie talkie. Jessie jumped, her gun going off in the process. Another shot came from the back of the house. Most of the kids were crying on the video screen by now. Those who weren’t just looked terrified. The old couple began handing out paper cups, moving with unnerving efficiency.
Someone fired back from the woods. This time Jessie took aim, her rifle pointed directly at Blaze.
“Y’all need to go!” the girl said. “You got no idea what you’re doing.”
“Jessie, please—let us get you out of there. Set down your gun, and let us take care of your family. You shouldn’t have to face something like this.” Blaze took a step into the clearing, both hands in the air. The girl’s arms were shaking so much now that I didn’t know how she held the damned gun up. Dougie Clinton and four other kids in the cellar picked up their paper cups. I wasn’t breathing. No one was, as far as I could see. Diggs sat rigid beside me, his hand clasped tightly in mine. I didn’t even remember taking hold of it.
“Dammit,” he whispered under his breath. “Why the hell isn’t anyone doing anything?”
“We have agents right now who can move in there and take care of this, Jessie,” Blaze said. “I have a daughter your age, honey—this isn’t the kind of thing I’d ever want her to go through. I know your granddaddy feels the same.”
Jessie shook her head furiously, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Then you don’t know my granddaddy,” she half-whispered. Her eyes hardened. My hand tightened around Diggs’, and I think everyone there knew what was coming next:
She fired the gun.
It hit Blaze square in the chest, knocking her backward. The girl chambered a second bullet. Before she could take aim, a shot sounded from the woods. The girl fell to her knees, still holding tight to the rifle, blood spreading in a neat circle at the upper left of her dress. Her eyes went wide.
More shots erupted from the cabin, from the deep bass of a shotgun to the steady rat-a-tat of automatic weapons in the back. Juarez bolted from the woods, moving fast and low. He reached Blaze and she got to her feet, still gasping from the impact of buckshot on Kevlar, and the two retreated back to the trees.
“Hold your fire!” Blaze shouted hoarsely to her team.
Meanwhile, Diggs and I watched as the video picture jumped, like someone had jarred the camera. Two boys of no more than five drank down the liquid in their paper cups, one of them crying. Dougie looked at his but didn’t touch it. I watched as, in the chaos, he quietly took Willa’s from her and put it back on the table. Good boy.
The forest was alive with gunfire now, all of it coming from inside the cabin as agents and National Guard alike took cover. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a full breath. Another little girl drank from her cup, even as the first two boys sank to the floor as though suddenly too tired to stand.
Jessie sat on the front porch, her back against the door, blood soaking the front of her dress now. She still clung to the rifle. She’d gone very, very pale.
And then, down below, I watched on the video feed as the old woman suddenly looked up, eyes wide. The picture jostled again. The kids’ faces turned up in the same direction. Someone had entered the room.
The woman clutched something by her side that I hadn’t seen before—something dark and metallic.
“The detonator,” Diggs whispered next to me. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or himself. I could barely hear him over the rushing in my ears.
I heard a single shot from inside the house, and a second later the old lady dropped. The metal box fell to the floor. I waited for the world to explode.
It didn’t.
The old man grabbed the pitcher on the table and I watched as he drank down whatever was left. The kids looked on, crying in stark terror as three agents in full SWAT garb—one of them Juarez—appeared on screen.
Juarez went up the stairs, rifle up, while the others focused on evacuating the kids. Time ground to a halt. There was another series of shots fired inside the cabin, and then possibly the longest silence I’ve ever endured. If I could have summoned enough focus to pray, I’m pretty sure I would have in that moment. As it was, all I could do was sit there and wait, as though in suspended animation, for someone to tell us what the hell had happened.
Finally, Juarez’s voice came on over the radio. “House is secure. We need medics in here now!”
The front door opened and Juarez emerged. He took the rifle from Jessie’s hand gently. She closed her eyes, tears still falling, and surrendered.
Diggs and I dove into the fray as soon as we were cleared to do so, me joining a team of medics who’d just swarmed in while Diggs went around to the back to help round up whatever kids were still mobile. A broad-shouldered Hispanic woman nodded me over to a clearing not far from the trees where the injured were being moved.
“You’re Solomon?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I’m Stacy. Blaze said you’re cleared to lend a hand. You up for that?”
“Yeah, of course,” I agreed. My hands were shaking and I was pretty sure I was about to puke on someone’s shoes, but it didn’t look like anyone else was volunteering for the job.
Juarez came over carrying one of the two boys I’d seen drink the poison. I was on the job and thoroughly focused, but I still managed to brush my hand over Juarez’s as he lay the boy on the ground in front of us. Another of the agents had the other boy, and another couple of EMTs went to work on him while Stacy and I looked for signs of life in our patient.
“His name’s Tom. The other boy’s Greg,” Juarez said. He hovered over us, forehead furrowed.
“You know what they gave him?” Stacy asked.
“Cyanide,” Juarez said promptly. I fought an overwhelming urge to panic, ordering myself back to that quiet, steady place my mother taught me to rely on as a teenager. “What can I do?”
Juarez asked.
“Go help the other agents,” Stacy said. “We’ve got this.”
As soon as he was gone, Stacy shook the little boy gently. “Tom, can you hear me?” There was no response.
Close up, he seemed impossibly small, with curly black hair and dark skin. The other boy started to seize, and I realized at a glance that the two must be brothers. The other team tried to stabilize him. Stacy snapped her fingers at me.
“Hey—focus. This is our patient.”
I nodded. It wasn’t easy, though: our patient had a pulse. Our patient was breathing. We gave him a dose of amyl nitrite and set up an IV of sodium nitrite as soon as he was stable. Meanwhile, the other boy wasn’t moving. The paramedics stopped chest compressions after what seemed an eternity.
“Greg Hernandez, age approximately six years,” one of the EMTs said. “Time of death, 11:52 a.m. March 15, 2013.”
I sat back on my heels and surveyed the rest of the scene, trying to get my bearings. Diggs stood at the edge of the woods holding Willa Clinton, Doug beside them. They were laughing, Willa’s arms so tight around Diggs’ neck I didn’t know how he could breathe.
Jessie Barnel was already being carried out—they’d either sedated her or she’d lost consciousness, but she was still alive. Of the six members of Barnel’s crew inside the house, she was the only survivor.
We prepped Tom for air evac, and then Stacy shook my hand. “We’ve got this. Thanks—we’ll let you know how he does.”
I nodded.
Beside me, the other little boy lay alone, a blanket pulled over his small body. For a second or two I just stood there, swaying, sure I would be sick. Across the way, Juarez knelt beside Blaze, their heads bent in conversation. She still sat propped against a tree, but he offered her his hand and she got to her feet.
Limping and rung out, we left the Barnel compound.
Chapter Nineteen - Danny
12:06:02
Danny was asleep, dreaming of home, when the door opened and someone shined what felt like a floodlight into the room. He blinked in the glare.
“We’re going for a little walk,” a woman said. The same woman who’d talked to him outside Casey’s garage—that soft, silky voice was unforgettable.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
She lowered the light and stalked into the room. Danny recognized her from around town, but he didn’t know that he’d ever talked to her before that night at Casey’s.
Jenny Burkett knelt beside him and picked up a black hood she’d tossed in. She was pretty—not Justice pretty, either. She was Hollywood hot, with blonde hair, great curves, and a soft, full mouth. She brushed against him, looking like she knew just what he was thinking. She moved in closer, till her mouth was at his ear.
“Ready for an adventure, Danny?” she asked, her voice husky and rich. She took a black hood and started to put it over his head. He shied away.
“You’re gonna kill me anyway, ain’t you?” he asked. “What does it matter if I can see or not? At least have the guts to look me in the eye when you pull the trigger.”
“Relax,” she said. “Nobody’s pulling any triggers just now. The reverend just wants to have a little chat.” He kept fighting her, scooting backward until his back was against the wall. His daddy taught him never to fight a woman, but it seemed like this might be an exception to that rule. He kicked out, catching her in the shin.
She swore, and everything soothing or soft about her just fell away. She dropped to her knees beside him, grabbed a hunk of hair at the back of his head, and pulled hard.
“Don’t fight me, little boy,” Jenny hissed. She kept a good grip on his hair, forcing his head back. Then, she pulled a gun from the back of her jeans and pointed it just under his chin. She put her mouth to his ear. “It’s not a safe game. Trust me.”
She pulled the hood over his head and pulled him up.
There were footsteps outside—heavy, loud steps, like some giant was headed into the room. Danny tried to stay calm, but his breath wasn’t coming right and the inside of the hood smelled like old wool and sweat.
“You ready?” a man’s voice he didn’t recognize asked. Like Jenny, he didn’t sound like he was from around here.
“Watch him,” he heard Jenny say. “The little bastard’s a fighter.”
They grabbed him by both arms and led him outside the room. Once they were past the doorway, he could see a change in the light outside, even through the hood. They walked along a dirt floor, then stopped and somebody opened a door.
“Step up,” Jenny said.
Even with the order, Danny tripped on the first step. They kept climbing until they reached another door. Somewhere distant and just above them now, he could hear Dylan playing: “Temporary Like Achilles”—one of those deep tracks Diggs introduced him to. He’d always liked that song.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked. The man had a tight hold on his arm, like he was afraid Danny might make a run for it. He might, too, if he had any idea where in hell he was.
“The reverend wants you to make your peace,” the man said.
“I don’t want to make my peace,” Danny said. “All I want is to get the hell out of here. I don’t—”
They walked a little longer, their feet echoing like they were on concrete in a closed space now, and then went down a few steps. Another door opened. A blast of warm air hit him, and he smelled sweat and sickness and a kind of darkness he couldn’t put a name to. For the first time since he’d been taken, Danny felt a jolt of fear so pure it just about knocked his breath loose.
“Keep moving,” the man said, jerking him forward.
“Where are we?” Danny asked.
They guided him to a chair and made him sit, then took their hands off him. The door opened and closed again; Danny sensed they’d gone.
Someone took the hood off his head.
He blinked in the sudden harsh glare, lights pointed directly into his face. When he looked past them, he spotted Reverend Barnel. The reverend wore his usual suit, his right arm in a sling. He didn’t look right, though—like maybe he was on something. His face was red, sweat running down his cheeks. He moved a music stand close to Danny, a piece of paper set on it.
“I’m sorry it has to end this way, boy,” Barnel said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways—this isn’t the path I would’ve chosen, but it got chose for me. I tried to turn around the evildoers that come to me. I really did.”
The reverend’s eyes were black, and his hands were shaking. Danny realized that the sweat and sickness he’d smelled was coming from Barnel himself.
Once his eyes had adjusted, Danny tried to figure out where he was. A boiler room of some kind, pipes and controls and steam all around. He could just barely hear the music over the sound of the big old furnace. A video camera was set up a couple feet in front of him, just to the side of the lights. When Danny didn’t look at the paper Barnel had set out, the reverend pushed the music stand a little closer.
“What is this?” Danny asked, staring at the words.
“You done what’s on that paper—don’t try and deny it. I led you to the Lord, but that’s as far as I could get you. It ain’t my fault you turned your back. Now, I need you to read that. Folks need to know. They got to understand.”
“Understand what?” Danny asked. He felt sick.
“Why the Lord’s pushin’ me to end this,” the reverend said. He mopped the sweat off his forehead with a damp handkerchief. “Read it,” he said again. “Read it right to the camera.”
Danny shook his head. His eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t stop them from falling, no matter how hard he tried. “I won’t read this,” he whispered.
“You will,” the reverend said. “And maybe, if I believe you’re sorry for what you done, you won’t end up like your daddy did.”
Danny wet his lips. Cleared his throat. A tear rolled down his cheek.
“God is good,” he began, reading the reverend’s words.
&n
bsp; ◊◊◊◊◊
Once he’d read everything the reverend told him to, Barnel put the hood back over Danny’s head and the others came back in. Jenny and the man Danny didn’t know led him out like he was a damned dog, but he didn’t complain—he was too happy to be out of that boiler room. He heard music again: something older this time. Chuck Berry, he was pretty sure. It had a good beat, and he thought somewhere in the back of his head that somebody out there—wherever they were—had good taste.
“Can’t you shut that off?” the man asked.
“Not now we can’t,” Jenny said. “You know that. But we’ll shut ’em down later—don’t worry your pretty head.”
The man grunted. Danny didn’t think it sounded like he cared much for Jenny.
They hauled him along, not talking anymore. Finally, after they’d gone back down the stairs and concrete gave way to dirt floor again, he heard a door open. People were talking inside the room. He made out two voices, then three. Jenny pushed him and he stumbled in the doorway. Somebody said his name.
Jenny kept the hood on him while she tightened up the zip tie around his wrists. It hurt now, the plastic cutting into his skin until he knew he was bleeding. He just stood there. He heard another voice, then another. It should be a good thing that he wasn’t alone anymore, but all it did was make him more nervous. What the hell was the reverend playing at?
Once he was secure, Jenny took off his hood just before she slipped out the door. He’d thought there would only be two or three people in there, but instead he counted half a dozen—all ages, everybody looking ragged and scared. They all sat with their hands tied behind them, backs against the wall.
“Fine mess you got us into,” a girl’s voice said. It took him a minute before his eyes adjusted and he realized who it was. He fought the urge to break down and cry like a baby.
