by B. C. Tweedt
Sam nodded his approval. “That was a blue-ribbon kick.”
That’s our saying. Not yours.
They stepped inside the dark home. “Anyone here?” Greyson yelled, letting the sound echo in the nearly empty rooms.
They waited for a response, but none came.
“Now what?” Sam asked.
“Now you stay here, that’s what,” Greyson responded sternly. “Don’t move. Don’t look out the windows, and don’t call anyone. Actually, turn your phone off. We can’t trust anyone – Secret Service, FBI, cops, whatever – got it?”
Sam nodded and adjusted his tie. “When will you come back?”
Greyson was almost out the door. For a moment he looked at the floor, silhouetted in the sun outside, thinking to himself. He took a deep breath. “We’ll send someone to get you. If they say, ‘We’re here to trade’, then you know they’re from me.”
Sam gulped and stared. Before he could ask another question, Greyson was gone.
-------------------
Emory watched as the third blindfolded hostage was pushed toward the makeshift prison cell in the corner of the dark factory building. The only lights came from small desk lamps and an abundance of computer and television monitors lined up in a wide U-shaped pattern where several of the terrorists swiveled from one monitor to the next.
The sounds were in whispers except for the televisions tuned to various news channels.
“The death-toll is far from certain at this point…”
“The scenes of untold carnage are appalling. We don’t have the words…”
“Some sources are already attributing the attack to Pluribus, though they have yet to claim responsibility themselves. We have several amateur videos showing Pluribus members vandalizing the fair and giving rallying speeches, angering nearby fairgoers…”
Emory turned up the volume on the nearest television.
“Governor Reckhemmer’s campaign staff have put out a statement stating that the Governor has been returned to a safe location, but that the search for his son, as well as several others, all believed to be family members of presidential nominees, is continuing. The manhunt for those responsible will be top priority and vigorous until all who were involved are put to justice.”
“Sir?”
Emory turned and bent over the man’s shoulder, his weathered skin reflecting the monitor’s light as he peered intently at the same glowing, green dot.
“It’s stopped moving, sir. Just outside the campgrounds.”
A smile crossed his face. “Why would he leave?” And then the answer to his own question suddenly came to him. Emory turned and gave his orders. “Get me a patrol car and a uniform.”
--------------------
Greyson paused at the car door and stared at the house for sale. For a moment he debated with himself, letting the stiffening breeze blow through the hair on the sides of his hat. One side of the debate won out. It always did.
He vigorously rubbed his hands on his face, as if ridding himself of the thoughts, and opened the door.
Nick was giving him a weird look. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I had to tuck him in and read him a bedtime story, but he’ll be fine.”
“What you read him?” Sammy asked. “My favorite is The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.”
The kids nodded, laughing to themselves as Greyson ignored them and pulled out of the driveway.
“Why is that your favorite?” Nick asked.
“Because he’s a dimwit,” Jarryd answered.
Sydney would have punched him under normal circumstances, but she was watching the house shrink behind them. Be safe, Sam.
“No, because she eats a squirrel. And squirrels are evil.”
Jarryd smacked his seat. “She does not eat a squirrel, you dillweed! She eats a fly, a spider, a cat, a dog, a goat, a cow, and a horse.”
“You know the story so well…” Nick muttered.
“Yeah, well, Dad used to read it to us, remember? Before D-Day?”
Nick laughed. “Yeah. He’d make us do the animal sounds as they were being eaten.”
“W-what’s D-Day?” Liam asked.
“Divorce Day,” Nick said.
“Double Dad Day!” Jarryd said.
“That’s two ‘D’s you moron.”
“Nothing wrong with Double ‘D’s.”
“Hey,” Greyson said. “Shut-up. We need to find a place – somewhere we can hide the car.”
Jarryd stopped smiling. “Hey!” He pointed up ahead. “That a church?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s got a garage in back. I saw it.”
Greyson yanked the wheel and the SUV bounced over a curb and into the driveway with an ear-grating scrape and a shower of sparks.
“That’s awful,” Jarryd grimaced.
They pulled around the small parking lot and found the garage in back. The twins opened the doors manually and guided Greyson in. When the SUV was parked, turned off, and hidden behind the doors, Greyson took in a deep sigh. Driving was hard. And he was sick of it. But what was to come was going to be even harder.
“Alright. We need to get in the church and find a kitchen – they’ll have knives in there. I’m going to need someone to cut this out of me.”
He continued walking toward the church’s back door without noticing the group lagging behind, too stunned by the last comment to follow.
“Uh…what are we cutting out of you?” Sydney arched her brow.
“Undescended testicles,” Jarryd quipped, smiling.
Greyson turned to him, slowly. Jarryd backed behind the rest of the group as they stared him down. “Sorry, sorry…didn’t mean it.”
“Dude. Don’t joke like that in front of a girl.”
Jarryd eyed Sydney and shrugged. “Sorry. But I thought she could sympathize, you know, since her reproductive organs are inside of her body, too.”
Greyson took a step toward him, debating whether to shut his mouth for him, but decided against it, choosing instead to shake his head and turn back to the situation at hand. Mental note – kick Jarryd in the teeth.
“A GPS tracker’s inside me,” he said trying the church’s back door. It was locked. “They could be tracking us – well, me – right now.”
A thought jumped into his mind. I could run. Just run. The terrorists would only follow me – and the others will be safe.
“How did – but…how?” Sydney was struggling with the lack of information.
He shot down the idea. Sydney would chase him and never let him go. And after all he’d been through today, she might actually catch him.
Greyson glanced at her but continued his search around the side of the building, pulling at windows and debating breaking one. “They caught me and Jarryd earlier. Found out Kip had put a tracker in me, to use me as bait. So they changed the tracker so they could track me as well.” He grunted at the last window. “Can you guys help?”
“Oh.”
They snapped into action and spread around the church. Sydney kept by Greyson as he peeked onto the front street. No one was coming. Without saying a word, they set checking for any unlocked windows.
For awhile, Sydney let Greyson’s revelation sink in. Kip had used him as bait? Geez. And now the terrorists are tracking him? What is wrong with these people?
“Sooo…I’m going to cut it out of you,” Sydney said matter-of-factly.
“What? No way.”
“Why not?”
“A boy will do it.” He rounded the corner and checked the next window, intent on doing his work and avoiding conversation.
“Why? Cuz it’s somewhere…”
“No!” He made a face at her. “It’s in my back.”
“Then why not a girl?”
“Because you’d have to see me shirtless, and you said that’s gross.”
Another window locked. They were running out of options. Soon they’d need Sammy’s brick to smash in a back window. The idea of using a piece of glas
s to cut it out of him flickered in his mind for a second. He grimaced and shook the idea off – for now.
“I did not! I said your sweat was gross.”
“Well, I’ve kinda been sweating all day. Doing a lot of stuff, you know.”
Sydney smiled, running up to the front door. “True, and you do stin – whoa!”
She had pulled hard on the large front doors, not expecting them to open, but they flung wide. “Who would have thought the front door was open?” She gave Greyson a sly smile.
“Guys!” Greyson yelled to the rest of them before he entered.
Before long the group had followed Greyson and Sydney into the foyer, shutting the door behind them and leaving them in silence. Some were admiring the paintings of Jesus and his disciples, the stained glass windows’ depictions of biblical events, and the ornate furniture decorated with maroon coverings, but Greyson was already halfway down the hall.
“Find the kitchen!” he shouted back. “Or a knife.”
Sammy made a sound of awe and slowly walked toward the open doors to the sanctuary. Down a long, straight aisle, pews lined each side, all facing the front stage where a podium was set up. Behind the podium, long flowing drapes curled away from an altar with a golden bowl, chalice, and a giant wooden cross. “Maybe,” Sammy said, “we’ll find a knife on the sacrificial altar.”
The others matched his gaze.
“Is that what they do?” Jarryd asked, in the direction of his brother. Nick rolled his eyes.
“What?” Sydney blurted. “Christians don’t sacrifice stuff.”
“That’s right!”
The sudden, deep voice startled the group and they turned to the left. Standing in the hall was an older man with a streak of white hair and a gentle demeanor. He was wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and worn sneakers. With a smile and a half-wave, he ambled toward them.
“The sacrifice has been done for us,” he said with a continuous smile and a sense of sincerity that put the kids at ease. “But what may I ask brings you here looking for a knife?”
“What’s it to you?” Sammy asked, sticking his lower lip out and trying to glare at him with both eyes – but failing.
The old man was taken aback for only a moment before he chuckled and ruffled Sammy’s hair. His hair actually came out better after the ruffle. “Why, this is my church. I’m Pastor Whitfield.” He extended his hand to Sammy.
“Or are you…”
Smiling awkwardly, Pastor Whitfield shrugged him off and shook the rest of the group’s hands until Greyson rounded the corner.
“I found it! It’s…”
“Oh my…” The Pastor eyed Greyson’s face. “What have you kids been up to?”
Greyson assessed the situation and then casually joined the group. “Sorry, sir, but can we use your kitchen for a few minutes? We’ll put everything back and –”
“Well, I suppose so. What are you up to? Baking a cake?”
“Umm…not really. But it’s kind of a secret.”
He chuckled. “Well, I am just too curious to turn that down. It’s this way.”
He shuffled through the group and led the way down the hall from which Greyson had come. As Sydney sided up to Greyson, she made the cutting motion with her fingers. He shook his head and mouthed ‘no way’.
“I’m doing it,” she whispered.
“No…you’re not,” he whispered back. “Nick will do it. He’s the smartest and won’t joke around.”
“Nick? With the same hands that sponge-bathed his brother?”
Greyson withheld his smile. “Why not? He washes his hands. Or Liam.”
“Oh, sure, the kid who puts his fingers down goat throats.”
“Why do you want to cut me so bad?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you either want to see me without a shirt or you want to cut me. Which is it?”
She scoffed. “Neither! I just want to help!”
“Well, then maybe you can fix us something to eat or drink. It is a kitchen.”
“Yeah, my natural habitat, right? Now I really want to cut you.”
“Then you’re getting nowhere near the knives.”
“Well, maybe I won’t use a knife. Maybe there’s a rusty spoon.”
“Why would they keep a rusty spoon in the kitchen?”
“Then I’ll use a frickin’ fork!” she screamed.
Suddenly the pastor stopped and turned on his heels. For a moment the group stared at Sydney in surprise, but after a pregnant pause, they burst out laughing. Greyson watched her angry face fade away with the laughter, her eyes losing the fire and gaining a sparkle. It felt good to laugh. Really good. He’d lost that something that had been nagging at him when he was with her, that something that had been forcing him to impress her.
And then he realized that something was Sam. And guilt edged in where it had been lurking before.
“Now. Before I let you secretly use our kitchen,” the pastor said, still bewildered by Sydney’s outburst, “make sure that anything you do in there would please God, not make Him angry. And if that’s true, you may enter.”
He opened the door and flicked on the lights. It was a rather large kitchen, meant to prepare and serve meals for many people. There were two large counter-islands running parallel down the middle, surrounded by cabinets, drawers, and more counters with a sink on each one. In the back, by a large dishwasher, was a door exiting to the parking lot. Greyson took note of it, just in case the terrorists would crash their party.
Greyson rushed in and started rummaging through the drawers. Jarryd and the rest joined him, with Sydney going in last.
Siding up to Liam as he looked through a cabinet, Greyson whispered. “Hey. Keep Mr. Pastor away from here somehow, will you? Just keep talking – and make sure he doesn’t snoop.”
“G-got it.”
Liam started away, but came back with a question. “H-he r-really doesn’t kn-know d-does he? A-about today?”
He shook his head. “And let’s keep it that way.”
The freckled boy left the kitchen, catching up to the pastor down the hall.
“Found them!” Nick shouted. “Butter knives, though.”
Greyson cringed.
“Just kidding! They’re sharp.”
“Alright, Nick. Let’s do this. You’re the man.”
Greyson plopped onto the counter and pulled off his dirty shirt, sending a plume of saw dust and ash onto the counter. Sydney gave him a disparaging look, eyeing his bruises and wounds. He pumped his eyebrows. “Syd. Can you bandage me up when he’s done? Find some Band-Aids?”
Her face lit up and after sharing a kind look with him, she immediately set to work.
“Hey, I found the communion wine,” Jarryd announced. “Might soothe your pain a little bit.”
Sydney cleared her throat. “You heard what Pastor said. Don’t mess with God, dude.”
Jarryd scowled and put the wine back. “Fine. But I’m frickin’ thirsty.”
Sydney lowered her voice to that of a man’s. “Then get us some frickin’ water, woman!”
The boys turned to look at Sydney who was laughing at herself. Her laughter turned to giggles and she couldn’t stop. Her whole body racked with them as she opened drawer after drawer.
Girls are so weird…
“Stop shaking, Greyson,” Nick said, holding the knife like a scalpel. “This won’t hurt a bit…”
Chapter 26
Greyson gritted his teeth. “OwwwwWWAAAH!”
“Oh, stop it, baby.” Sydney dabbed at the wound on his back with a damp cloth.
Jarryd pumped his chin. “She called you baby.”
The edges of Greyson’s mouth flirted with a smile, but he sat staring at the bloody tracker chip in his fingers. Can I really do this?
“Well, are you going to eat it or destroy it?”
As Nick had been cutting, Greyson had been thinking. There had been so many options before, but now there only seemed one. He had driven hims
elf to the cliff and now there was nothing to do but jump off. Greyson nodded his head more and more vigorously. “Yeah. I’ll destroy it. And then you guys will get out of here. You’re going to have to get to a safe place – a – a public place, with lots of people. And then call the FBI, or whoever’s above the FBI, on a public phone – or your cell phones if they start working.”
Sydney placed the butterfly Band-Aid and pressed it on his back. “What are you talking about? Destroy it, and then let’s go find our parents.”
Greyson slipped off the counter and marched to another drawer. He pulled out a bag. In another he found a meat mallet. “We can’t go back to our parents yet. You don’t get it. He’ll be looking for us – hunting us down for revenge – or until he gets what he wants.”
Nick nodded. “And he’ll be expecting us to find our parents.”
“Right.” Greyson acted like he put the chip in the bag, and then put the bag on the counter. He struck the bag with the mallet three times, and a fourth for good measure. As everyone watched the illusion of destruction, he slipped the tracker in his pack. “There. Now you guys need to get.”
“Why just us? What are you going to do?” Sydney asked, pushing her stray hairs back over her ear.
Greyson ignored her for a moment, leaned out the door, and called for Liam. When he leaned back in, he marched toward Sydney and reached his arm toward her. Her hands shot up as if to protect herself, but Greyson continued reaching until he had grabbed his shirt from the counter behind her. Their eyes met.
“I’m – I’m going to talk to the Pastor. I’ll meet up with you guys in a bit.”
He turned, trying to hide his face. Why is it so hard to lie? Especially to her.
There was a creak at the door and Liam came in, his face shining bright – happier than Greyson had ever seen him – but he walked into a fight.
“No. No way,” Sydney said defiantly. “Talk to some other pastor some other time. We need to stick together.”
“Th-this p-pastor’s great!” Liam said, unknowingly taking sides in the debate. “He t-told me all ab-about the c-cross symbol, and-and-and about heaven, and h-hell…”
Ignoring Liam’s enthusiasm, a new urgency was seeping into Greyson’s veins. His internal clock was telling him the terrorists would be there at any moment. Maybe they were outside right now with their guns. Maybe they were debating how to get their revenge; or maybe they were already in the church. I have to get them out. And my lie isn’t working.
