Found and Lost (28 page)

Epilogue

Windowless walls. Roughly six feet by six feet. Light from the gap under the door. Cracked, dirty tile. Never the cage Marcus pictured. He'd expected iron bars. A miniscule window too high to reach. Room to pace. Not that he could right now. He'd tested weight on his right knee and nearly blacked out, catching himself before his face hit the far wall. Lee would tell him to put his leg up, but the only prop he had was his other knee. Too vulnerable a position when they came back. So he sat against the wall across from the door, his left leg bent, ready to push himself up.

Judging from the light—and then lack of it—under the door, a whole day and night had drained away. At some point, he'd slept for a little while, though he tried not to. Hunger gnawed, and his head throbbed. A day and night without coffee. He imagined the soothing bitterness of an Americano, but he would down a cup of gas-station mud without complaint.

Of course, his brain latched onto its need for a fix in spite of the real dangers here. After the arrest, protocol had disappeared. The agent had driven past the Constabulary admin building, down a street of vacant houses that backed up to the Constabulary lot. State-owned, probably. Marcus was hauled from the car and shoved across an overgrown front yard toward a dilapidated house. Handcuffed, unsteady on his knee, he'd rammed a shoulder into the agent's chest and nearly twisted free. Until the taser. Three times. Must have ticked the guy off.

He was dragged into a house, down the basement stairs. Handcuffed to a metal support pole. Left there for a while until the white hot, quivering shock of the taser wore off and he could think again. The man retrieved Marcus from the basement and then tased him once more before tearing the dart from his back and throwing him into this room on the main level. Neither of them spoke. No need to.

Marcus's knee prevented him from working his cuffed hands to the front, so he'd backed against the door to explore it. The hinges were sturdy. The knob had been reversed to lock from outside, maybe by the agent while Marcus was cuffed to the basement pole.

Now, a day and night later, he slouched against a wall of the dark pantry and breathed in the rankness of his own sweat.
God, please help me.

He'd faced it only days ago—the reality that he'd soon be locked up. He'd set Violet free because he had to honor Jesus, whatever the cost. But he hadn't been strong, hadn't been ready. No, he'd gone home and collapsed on the floor, spasms twisting in his shoulders and his neck, the headache like claws in his skull. Indy had guarded him for hours, her head on his chest, until he could sit up.

For some reason, Violet hadn't turned him in. He'd started to breathe again.

He shifted his swollen knee.
God, I need to get out of here. Back to my family.
He prayed for them, name by name, as he'd done a thousand times. For the ones taken from him, locked up. For the ones still free, the ones he had to protect.

Clay.

The name punched a hole in his chest. He clenched his fists against the ache, clenched his eyes against the burn. He'd been fighting for hours to understand. How. Why. But the hole inside just kept bleeding.
He's my brother. Family doesn't do this. Janelle said family doesn't do this.

A shadow crossed in front of the door. The knob rattled.

Marcus braced both hands on the wall, pushed up with his left leg. On his feet. Ready.

Sunlight flooded in, and Jason Mayweather stepped through the door. Marcus's body coiled, pulsed with instinct and adrenaline. He'd only have one chance.

Jason's cologne overwhelmed the little space. His blue eyes glittered. He planted his feet across from Marcus as if they were guarding each other in a basketball game and he expected a charge.
In a minute, Jason.

“So.” Jason tilted his head. “It really is you.”

Marcus curled his fingers against the wall. What did Jason want, a confession?

“You're a Christian, aren't you.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. And I've spent six months chasing the wrong half of you. No wonder I couldn't get anything on Lee. When you said she was innocent, you weren't lying. There's the kidnapping thing, but compared to all the crap you pulled …” Jason shrugged.

Maybe he did need a confession. No, Clay's testimony should be enough. And there'd be evidence, now that they were looking for it. They couldn't trace the burner phones, but they'd find something. Nobody committed as many crimes as Marcus had without smudging a fingerprint somewhere.

Jason stepped closer until Marcus couldn't help breathing his breath. “I'd have just turned you over, if you were someone else. I want you to know that.”

Okay.

“You know what else? I should be getting a commendation. Instead, I had to file a report on your escape. My colleagues have been burning midnight oil to track you down, and they're pretty disgusted with me.”

Now.

Marcus rushed, didn't allow himself to favor the knee, and if it hadn't been torn before, it was now, but Jason was off balance and the threshold of the cage was inches away.

Shock. Heat.

The dart was in his stomach this time. Jason tore it out and ignored the blood, hauled Marcus to his feet and shoved him against the wall.

Jason holstered the taser. “Just so you're aware. Too many jolts from this thing could stop your heart, though it's inconclusive as a cause of death. Of course, you won't get an inquiry either way.”

Marcus shivered in the overheated room. Nobody knew he was here.
God, Jason's going to kill me, isn't he?
Right here in this room. This tiny, stale space. He tried to picture the sky, sunshine and blue and clouds, the way it looked on his last day outside.

Jason spoke against his ear. “I chose this instead of a commendation, Brenner. I chose this. Because the cost is going to be worth it.”

Marcus's nerves tingled. His muscles tensed. His wrists ached as his hands strained against the cuffs.

Not another shock. Not a bullet between the eyes. Jason hit him. Close and hard. Like a boxer. Again and again. Marcus doubled over, couldn't help it, but Jason caught him by the chest and forced him upright. The next punch hit his right ribs and knocked his balance to his right knee.

The floor came up. Smacked his face. He rolled to one side, tried to see.

A steel-toed boot blurred past his face and bashed into his chest. His arms jerked but couldn't shield the pain. He tried to curl in on himself. The next kick came to his stomach. He wheezed. His breathing was too loud. But it didn't drown Jason's voice, calm with a burning thread of fury.

“You came into my house.”

Kick to his back.

“You infiltrated my house.”

Kick to his shoulder blade.

“You had every intention of influencing them. My wife. My son.”

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kidneys. Stomach. Ribs. Chest.
Lee, he's breaking things.
Cold floor. He was too hot. He was shaking.

He had to shield his head. Getting kicked in the head could kill you. He wasn't supposed to die yet … or maybe he was. He couldn't see anymore. Just gray and black, drifting over his eyes.

“See, Brenner, this—is—worth it.”

It was. The people he'd saved. They were worth this. And Jesus. He was worth this.

Marcus shut his eyes and tried to see the sky.

Acknowledgments

I'm writing this in December. My first book,
Seek and Hide
, has been out in the world for ninety days, and I have so many people to thank, not only in the writing of this book but in the reception of that one.

To the first readers of
Found and Lost
: Andrea Taft, Emily Stevens, Heather MacLeod, Melodie Lange. For catching typos, critiquing characterization, solving plot, and everything else.

To
Seek and Hide
's advance reviewers, for your time and enthusiasm: Andrea, Chris, Emily, Hannah, Jessie, Jocelyn, Julie, Melodie, Stephanie C, and Stephanie R. To each blogger who hosted me, for your hospitality. And extra thanks to those of you (you know who you are) who have spread the word about my series to essentially everyone you know. You are an author's best blessings!

To my sweet coworkers for the release-day party (I still have the banner and the framed picture; the chocolate and popcorn is long gone): Angela, Cindy, Dawn, Debbie, Diane, Janis, Mary, and Sally. And to everyone else at work who bought a book.

To Cornerstone Baptist Church for hosting my first book signing and to Ruthanne O'Brien for coordinating it.

To Emilie Hendryx for answering my “what would a photographer do?” questions.

To Jocelyn Floyd, for the prologue's legal language (which I forgot to mention last time), fake penal codes, and the continued suggestion of meteors.

To Jess Keller, for We MUST Write reminders and general cheerleading and traveling companionship on the writing road.

To Melodie Lange, for romance-flavored story encouragement and soul-baring Panera nights.

To Andrea Taft, for the fan club and
Treasure Island
and not laughing when I cry over a song that reminds me of Marcus.

To Charity Tinnin, the greatest of critique partners, for challenging Marcus's (and my) ethics, loving Violet as much as I do and talking me off my Clay ledge, line edits including my overuse of
just
, character therapy, and everything else.

To my marvelous agent Jessica Kirkland, for continuing to challenge me and believe in me and for liking this book so much.

To Nick Lee, for now two ominously beautiful cover designs. I still stare at them both.

To the David C Cook team and editor Jon Woodhams, for your continuing dedication to excellence.

To my siblings Joshua, Emily, Andrew, and Emma, for memories and laughter and love.

To my parents Bill and Patti, for everything I said last time, plus your excitement to tell everyone about this book your daughter wrote. Thank you for wanting a Haven Seekers billboard on I-94. For wanting me to succeed and believing that I can, and for raising me in “the nurture and admonition of the Lord.”

To the only wise God and King, Father Son and Holy Spirit. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart and the stories of my pen be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.

FOUND AND LOST

Published by David C Cook

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David C Cook Distribution Canada

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David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

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ISBN 978-0-7814-1247-6

eISBN 978-0-7814-1176-9

© 2015 Amanda Stevens

The Team: John Blase, Renada Thompson, Susan Murdock

Cover Design: Nick Lee

Cover Photo: Shutterstock

First Edition 2015

Photo by Emilie Hendryx
(E.A. Creative Photography)

As a child, AMANDA G. STEVENS disparaged
Mary Poppins
and
Stuart Little
because they could never happen. Now, she writes speculative fiction. Holding a Bachelor of Science degree in English, she has taught literature and composition to home-school students. She lives in Michigan and loves books, film, music, and white cheddar popcorn.

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