Liberty or Death (36 page)

His response was entirely predictable in a man whose notion of Christian charity was being good to himself, who managed life by belligerence and counseled that violence was acceptable, especially one who didn't like uppity women. He hit me. I was expecting it, so I managed to dodge the worst of it, but it was still enough to hurt and get my nose bleeding again. My poor nose, which I do my best to protect. It had been broken once and I'd sworn I'd never let that happen again. I'd sworn never to let a lot of things happen but they kept happening. Maybe that's why I never make New Year's resolutions.

I covered my face with my hands, feeling my nose gingerly, as the sting hovered there, sending out rays of pain that brought tears to my eyes. It didn't feel broken but the bleeding was quite spectacular. It gushed down over my mouth, between my fingers, along my arms, down my neck, and onto the front of my shirt. Gushed until I was choking on blood. I felt like I was drowning.

Cathy, who had come out of the storeroom with her arms full, stood there, frozen, staring at me in horror. Why was she surprised? Had she been living in an ivory tower? Didn't she know what they were like?

Hannon stood and watched with satisfaction, looking around at his circle of sycophants to garner their admiration. Silly ass. As though hitting a woman in my condition was some sort of accomplishment. I worked at keeping my temper and not making a dive for his throat. It would only have made things worse for me, but I wanted to do it so badly.

"Here! Use this." Clyde shoved a clean kitchen towel into my hand. "I'll walk you to the bathroom." Bathroom. That's what Kalyn had said. I wondered why. Maybe she'd left me a note. Still holding the towel to my face, I got up and reached for my purse, which was on the table, but Belcher grabbed it and held it out of my reach like a taunting boy.

"What do you need this for if you're just going to wash your face?"

If he was trying to humiliate me, he'd have to try harder. I guess the newspaper photo hadn't registered. I would do a lot for love. "Thought I'd prepare for the trip. I don't need the purse," I mumbled through the towel, "if you'll just reach in and hand me one of those pads..."

He stared into the bag and his face reddened. There are men in the world who are perfectly comfortable with all the aspects of a women's sexuality, including stuff like sanitary pads, and then there are those who consider all that to be a part of our evil power and mystery. It's something we do to aggravate them and give us a reason to say, "not tonight, dear." Send one of those guys to the store to buy a box of Kotex and he'll come back four hours later, slightly tipsy, with another six-pack, chips, and both clam and onion dip, batteries, a jar of pickles, and no pads. Big surprise. He gave me the purse.

"Roy," Hannon said, "you go with her and check the room..."

"She can't go anywhere," Clyde said. "There's no window."

"All right. Then Roy, you stay outside the door."

"I'll be right back," I said. "Call me if Mary stops breathing." Gargled through blood, it didn't sound much like English. I'd had nosebleeds before but this one was a geyser. My arms were red to the elbow and my shirtfront was drenched. At least if I was going to bleed to death, it would be nice to do it in privacy, rather than expiring in a pool of gore in front of a group of gawking thugs. On the other hand, I didn't want to linger too long, in case Mary needed me. I couldn't count on them to pay attention. I walked into the little room, flicked on the light, and locked the door behind me.

Alone at last, sort of, I checked the obvious places but I found no note. Oh well. It had been silly of me to hope. Or is hope ever silly? I set down my purse and faced the mirror, slowly lowering the towel, forcing myself to face the damage. No wonder Roy the romantic thought I ought to fix myself up. I was someone's worst nightmare. Christmas in July. Red and green eyes, green skin, and now I was daubed with garish red streaks. Two bright channels of red flowed from my nose. A surrealist's dream girl. A member of some obscure tribe, painted in anticipation of being sacrificed.

I froze there, bracing my hands on the sink so I wouldn't fall over. It wasn't because of how awful I looked, but because suddenly I was swept with fear of what was to come. I closed my eyes. This wasn't something I could plan for. I would just have to ride it out. But for now, for this terrible minute, I saw Paulette's trailer. The terrible destruction, the brutal crime that had taken place there. I looked at my fingers, at my hands, at my arms, and my feet, and knew how desperately I wanted to keep them. For the first time ever, my courage failed me utterly. I wanted to run out there, throw myself at Hannon's feet, and beg for mercy.

My peripheral vision caught movement behind me. As I watched in the mirror, frozen with terror, a hand snaked its way out of the shower where the cleaning tools were stored, and slowly began to draw back the curtain.

 

 

 

Chapter 25

 

The hand drew the curtain back, and a man stepped out, holding a finger to his lips. I caught my breath, about to scream. It had been a day of too many surprises. Then I recognized him. Pressing my towel against my nose, I turned to look at Jim Ferret. He didn't look much like a knight in shining armor; he looked like a middle-aged man in a polo shirt and track pants, with thinning hair and a pleasant face. But he was here. And his glasses hid sharp eyes while his face hid a sharp mind.

"Turn on the water," he whispered, adroitly stepping over the mop bucket and brooms. He pulled the curtain shut behind him. "God, you look like hell. You don't know the meaning of 'take it easy,' do you?" He lowered the toilet lid, put two warm hands on my shoulders, and ordered me to sit. Gentle hands, which was a good thing, since Jimmy's hands had left my shoulders bruised and Clyde's hadn't helped matters any. I sat, limp and passive, while he wet some paper towels and gently washed my face and hands. Tipping my chin up like I was a little girl again. A girl with a sticky face.

"Tip your head back and pinch the bridge of your nose," he instructed. I did as I was told. My hand was trembling so with the aftermath of fear that I could barely hold it there.

"You're right to be scared," he said, "dealing with ruthless morons like these, but stay as cool as you can. They're losing it, you know. You can see it."

"How does that help me?"

"I don't know that it does. I suppose it means you're better informed."

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," he said, not exactly reassuringly, "I didn't expect to walk into this." He turned the faucets so the water got louder. "A certain waitress named Dora McKusick reported a gun theft? Guy lost a lot of firepower? Well, that's ATF, all the way. And there's a rumor going around about an armory robbery, possibly scheduled for this weekend?"

"Maybe that's why Jimmy wanted the truck."

"Jimmy who?"

"McGrath."

He nodded grimly, the first such reaction I'd gotten to McGrath's name, so I assumed that he knew something about Jimmy. "What truck?"

"Theresa's truck. The one she uses to get supplies for the restaurant."

"Big truck?"

"Pretty big. I don't know anything about trucks."

"Good girl," he whispered, nodding with satisfaction as if this confirmed what he already knew.

Roy Belcher pounded on the door. "You okay in there?"

"Still bleeding," I called back. That ought to fix him.

Jim put his finger to his lips and pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket. "Who's out there?" he wrote.

"The Reverend Stuart Hannon, who seems to be in charge. Roy Belcher. Kendall Barker. A guy called Timmy, I don't know his last name. Clyde the cook and his cousin. Natty. A bunch of others. And Jed Harding's mother."

He wrote something again. "Know what they're driving?"

I shook my head. He held out his hand and dropped something into mine. "Tracking device," he said. "Put it in your purse or in your pocket. Someplace they won't look. And if you have to, lose it. It's not foolproof by any means, it's hard to track in country like this, but it may let us follow you. Meanwhile, your job is to stay alive. Don't take any chances... you know what these guys are like. We'll do our best to rescue you... if we get lucky, to rescue both of you..."

"All three of us. They've taken the boy, too, Jim. Jed Harding's little boy."

He nodded grimly. "Scum like this, they don't care who they hurt."

He certainly wasn't trying to be reassuring, was he? Why had he come here without an army? But that was unfair. He didn't have an army. And no one, as Theresa kept reminding me, had asked me to come. I was the one who wanted to play Lone Ranger. I just sometimes wished I had a Tonto or two. I reached for the pad and wrote, "In my car. Under the passenger seat. Lists of their license numbers. Lists of shelters. Survivalist's shelters. That might be where they're taking me. There or Theresa McGrath's camp."

I wrote the names of anyone I knew was involved, including the guys in the kitchen. "Any of these..."

He wrote, "Under the seat?"

"In a compartment. The button is underneath the rug, by the seat belt." I closed my eyes. It seemed like every part of my body ached, despite the pills I'd taken. I needed IV morphine and a long, long rest. "You'll let Jack know about the boy?" He nodded. "He's going to be so mad at me."

"Could hardly get madder at you than he is at himself, Thea. He'll never forgive himself if anything happens to you." He patted me on the shoulder. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Scared," I whispered. I thought the noise of the water was enough and writing took too long. I handed the tracking thing back. "I can't take this. If they find it..." I drew a hand in a slash across my throat.

"I'll see if I can stick it somewhere..." He took it and put it in his pocket. "You'd be a fool not to be scared."

"And my nose hurts."

"How's the bleeding?"

"Slowing down. Something else. Kalyn, the red-haired waitress... the one who tried to tell me you were in here? She knows stuff. And she might be ready to talk." I told him where she lived. But, though I wanted to stay in here forever, it was time to move on. Much longer and they'd beat down the door. Then they'd get Jim, too. I stood up, a little unsteady on my feet, and caught his worried gaze.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Did they hurt you?"

I was going to shake my head but that didn't seem prudent. Not when I was just getting this bleeding to slow down. I just shrugged, unable to bring myself to tell him about the baby. Thinking about it made me want to cry, and things were bad enough already. "I've got to go..."

I could see that he wanted to lecture me; he probably had about a million "I told you so's" stored up. Instead he did what I'd been wanting someone to do ever since it happened. He put his arms around me and gave me the gentlest of hugs. Then he said, "I'll do my best, Thea. For both of you." I loved him for that. For giving me what hope he could. And for believing that Andre was still alive. The hug made me want more comfort and I was in a comfort-free zone right now. He looked down at me, his expression curious. "What?"

"I want my mother." Which was odd because much of the time, I didn't even like my mother. But miscarriage was something my mother understood.

"If I were in your situation, I'd want my mother, too. My mother and a bunch of navy SEALS. Thea, not to put too fine a point on it... you're crazy... and you're brave... and I understand completely why you got yourself into this. But I'm scared for you."

He looked grim as he said it. Very grim. "I see from your face that you're hoping I'm going to rescue you and frankly, I've been in some pretty tough situations and I've never seen anyone who needed rescuing more. Trouble is—I can't. There are lots of them and just one of me. And maybe you didn't notice, sweet innocent girl that you are, but these guys are each armed to the teeth."

"Armed?" Dumb question. This was a militia, after all.

"You bet." He sighed, a sad, frustrated sound, and looked at me like a pet owner taking a beloved pet to be put to sleep. "I tried to tell you..." He stopped. It was too late for this to do any good. "Those dramatic rescues, complete with shoot-outs and explosions, where the heroes always escape unscathed? That's the movies," he said. "Real life's just as dangerous..." He took my hands in his, a firm grip meant to convey whatever strength and encouragement he could, and looked down into my face. "You don't know how much I want to fix this. I... life's not... Jesus, Thea... it doesn't get much worse than this!"

Belcher banged on the door. "Hurry it up in there," he said, "or I'm coming in!"

"Not much I can tell you at this point," Jim whispered. "Keep your head. Don't be provocative, no matter how much you want to be. Just stay cool and try to stay alive. No heroics. No defiance. Give them no reason to be angry at you. Any angrier than they already are. Whatever they want to dish out, keep your mouth shut and take it. However painful or degrading. This isn't about winning or losing, about honor or virtue. It's only about survival. Can you do that, do you think?"