The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (18 page)

Munroe turned again toward the rest of the house, toward the hallway that led away from the front with its open tiled rooms, forward toward whatever and whoever lay beyond.

Aside from the kitchen with its table and chairs, and one bedroom into which two mattresses were pushed against opposite walls, the rest of the four-bedroom house was empty. Anxiety rising, Munroe passed through the place a second time, certain that in the oddity of the emptiness, the completeness of the silence, she’d missed some vital clue.

I
n the main hallway, vibration against Munroe’s back caused her to pause. She placed a palm to the wall and felt it again, a solid repetitive thud, understood what it meant, backed to the end of the hallway. Knelt. Waited.

In half a minute came the scraping of a door on unforgiving hinges, a slice of the wall, moving inward, creating a doorframe where seconds before there’d been none. From within, a man’s voice called out in a low bellow, presumably to summon his now missing partner.

Munroe drew and held steady.

The thud continued as the man with the voice worked up the last two steps.

He passed through the doorframe, a large man, not so much in height as in weight—his girth would have half-filled the hallway had he the opportunity to get that far, and by appearance, he’d climbed the stairs with effort.

Munroe aimed. Fired. Three shots in rapid succession.

The reports tore through the hall, their deafening aftereffects muting his yell and the thud of his fall.

She strode toward where he lay on the floor, clawing to shift position, struggling to reach the submachine gun still slung over his shoulder and now pinned behind his back. It was as if the shots had toppled
him and in the fall he’d broken a leg or twisted a knee joint. He was bleeding from his side, a rich dark color that spoke of imminent death.

Around his neck was a chain with three keys. His left arm trailed into the space made by the new doorway, where tight stairs led to a fluorescent-lit basement.

Munroe put a boot on his weapon. He stopped struggling. Gaped at her. And with obvious effort, in his native tongue, whispered, “Who are you?”

In language familiar from an assignment long ago, she whispered back, “I am redemption.”

She strained to hear footsteps, see motion, discover anything to indicate there’d been another with him, and after no reaction, put the muzzle to his forehead. Pulled the trigger. Yanked the chain off his neck, and headed down.

Underground, the tight hallway fronted three small holding cells. The concrete floor was damp, as if it had been recently hosed off, and the smell of bleach overpowered the scent of decay.

Munroe started with the cell farthest back, found the key, unlocked the door, and repeated this until each metal door had been opened and slid aside. In a space clearly intended to house several per cell, Munroe found only one child.

The girl cowered in a corner, a tight little ball of self-defense wrapped in dirty clothes that were still wet from hosing. Munroe ducked to enter the low-ceilinged room and then crab-crawled forward. “I’m not going to harm you,” she said. “I came to set you free. Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

The girl said nothing, remained tight in her ball, and drawing closer, Munroe judged her to be around eleven or twelve. Munroe reached for her and the child screamed, hers a helpless plea, a cry, a terror to be left alone while she remained curled and shaking.

Munroe stayed low, stayed back just far enough to keep from being seen as a threat. “How many men are keeping you here?” she said.

Without moving or raising her eyes, the girl whispered, “Two.”

“The fat one and the little one?”

The girl nodded.

“You are safe from them,” Munroe said. “Come, come see, they are gone.”

Munroe stretched her hand forward, but the girl did not move to take it. Munroe scooted closer, a cautious advance until she could touch the child. The girl flinched but didn’t cry out, and Munroe, as gently as possible, brought her to her feet and pulled her along, up the stairs and over the body melting outward into pools of red; the body that, contrary to expectation, calmed the child from her shaking, the body that would forever be more fodder for Munroe’s nighttime terror.

The first child had remained where Munroe placed her, and Munroe brought them both to the kitchen. “Eat,” she said. “I have work to do. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

Munroe checked her watch. What felt like three hours had passed in fewer than ten minutes. Outside, the first man still sat, head lolled back, behind the wheel of the idling car. Music and laughter still tinged the winter air; life had gone on without taking notice of the dead.

Munroe reached in to shut off the ignition, took the keys, searched the man’s pockets to retrieve the cash paid for the child, then dragged him to the steps and set him next to the other man so that they were tipped together like drunken conspirators in hushed conversation.

Again inside the house, Munroe searched the one occupied bedroom for money she expected to be hidden within it, and finding this in a small box stored beneath a loose tile, returned to the kitchen for the children, who had by now eaten their fill of food clearly intended for their captors.

Cautious inquiry brought forth facts about each child. The elder had been taken from her family far, far north in Bolivia; the younger had recently lost her parents and been sold by her uncle.

Outside, Munroe opened the rear door of the vehicle and ushered the girls in. She took the wheel, put the engine in gear.

Anger still raged, adrenaline still pumped, but the drums of death
had gone silent. Thumbing through the vehicle’s navigation controls, Munroe searched, found the closest convent, and headed toward it. She would place these daughters where men should never go, and the money that had been used to take their lives would now be used to save them.

Two hours late, Munroe returned to the hotel. Bradford sat at the desk, staring into space, and very nearly knocked over the chair getting out of it when she opened the door.

He stood at the far end of the room and said nothing. The look on his face spoke of panic phasing to anger, mixing with relief.

Munroe stepped inside and shut the door.

“Where have you been?” he said.

“I got held up,” she said.

“It would have been nice of you to turn on your fucking phone.”

Munroe bit down on her bottom lip. Waited. “Don’t start with me, Miles,” she said. “Now is really not a good time.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of thoughts went running through my head when Raúl told me you never showed up for the pickup?” he said. “Do you have any idea at all, the hell I’ve been through over these last hours?”

“Do you have any idea what
I’ve
been through these last hours?” she said.

“Of course I don’t!” he said. “You wouldn’t pick up the goddamn phone!”

Munroe remained by the door, hands slack at her sides, adrenaline dropping, lack of sleep taking its toll, the haunted faces of the girl children staring out at her as she drove away into the night. Overwhelming conflict collided into a potent mix, bubbled to the surface, and the water of emotion, so rarely shed, began to seep.

Bradford, who had begun to pace, whose lecturing voice had risen further, stopped short at the sight of the tears. He looked befuddled, at
a loss, as if he couldn’t decide whether to remain planted where he was or move toward her in an attempt to comfort her. “Oh God, Michael,” he whispered. “What the hell happened out there tonight?”

“I’ll tell you everything later,” she said, voice cracking, “I promise.”

Bradford walked toward her, drew near, and she leaned in to him. He held her until the tears dried and the walls returned, until she could shut it out like she did everything else.

“You need to sleep,” he said.

She sighed.

“It’s been far too long,” he said. “You’re not helping anyone by running yourself ragged. Not Logan. Not Hannah. Not you, and you’re definitely not helping me. Look,” he said, pointing to his head. “Gray, gray, gray. One gray hair for every day I’ve known you.”

His attempt at humor took the edge off. She tilted her head upward and her eyes met his. “If I have nightmares, I’m medicating,” she said.

He nodded and rested his cheek against hers, wondering if his face looked as grim as he felt. “If that’s what it takes,” he said.

It was after five in the morning by the time Munroe settled, and as expected, she was out within seconds of having lain down. Running on empty as she was, it stood to reason that once she allowed it, her body would simply shut down, but Bradford knew as well as she did that the exhaustion wouldn’t matter. The nightmares would come; it was only a matter of when.

He’d encouraged her to take this assignment, had hoped that work would ease the pressure, that being busy again would temper the inner turmoil and set her world right; and it might still, but not tonight. He sat on his bed, notebook in his lap, looking up occasionally from the rapid scrawl he put across the pages. It would be a short night, and if they were lucky, she’d get several hours of true sleep before the interruption began.

In any case, she was sleeping. That was one of two issues handled,
but her return to the Haven would definitely be the more difficult to deal with.

Bradford was familiar with Munroe’s patterns, had seen her in operative mode more than once, and knew how effortlessly she slipped into whatever role was needed to beguile a mark, but her interactions with Elijah and Esteban, her professed enthusiasm for the lifestyle of The Chosen and approval of their beliefs, went far beyond that.

Stress over it as he may, he could never voice concern that her apparent acceptance had not been entirely an act.

Although, personally, he could never allow another to take a wife or child for sexual pleasure, or submit to someone who ordered him away from one nuclear family and into another, and although to him the beliefs surrounding sex with Jesus, talking to dead people, and magical powers were absurd, when The Prophet called, as was evident by the large numbers among The Chosen, thousands followed.

Bradford could sense the appeal, the draw that giving up autonomy might have. To abdicate was a form of escapism. To release oneself from independence, to follow The Prophet was to be free from personal responsibility.

He thought of Munroe and felt the weight of her struggle.

In the stillness, the hours passed, and the relaxed pattern of Munroe’s sleep was a drowsy background to his writing until a casual glance in her direction found his eyes locked on her vacant, unblinking stare.

The shock raced through his system and his heart hit hard in response. He knew the look, and from the last time he’d watched a nightmare surface, readied for what was coming.

W
ithout moving, Bradford scanned the bedroom surfaces, checking once again for anything that could be used as a weapon against him. While his eyes darted from Munroe to the room and back again, his hand, slowly, so as not to alert her to his movement, put down the pen and inched it underneath his pillow.

These were the actions of a man who found himself accidentally in the path of a dangerous, wild creature.

Had Munroe been awake and aware, a fight with her was a suicide gamble, but in this state of somnambulism, she moved slower, was less intuitive, and with a struggle, Bradford could gain the upper hand, as he had the time before. Munroe wasn’t truly sleepwalking—at least not in any clinical sense; people who killed people in their sleep didn’t do it while they dreamed. But whether it was clinically true or not, this was real, and she was deadly.

Her eyes were locked on him now. Whatever went on inside her head, whatever she lived and saw, given her predilection toward violence, she would not stop until she woke or he was dead.

Munroe sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, never breaking eye contact. Her hands flexed, tensed, and then repositioned, as if they carried knives.

Bradford had the advantage of timing and awareness, and he remained still, taut, and ready. If he was careful, he could end it in a
single move, but doing so required getting her on her back in order to pin her under his weight.

Her focus was singular. No matter the angle, her eyes, still glazed, still unblinking, continued to track him as she stood and took a step in his direction. He waited. She took another step. And then she struck. A slash toward his jaw that would have been lethal were she armed. He weaved and she missed narrowly.

Bradford twisted to follow the flow of her movement, intending to throw her off balance, and was met with an elbow to the side of the face. The blow came so quickly that he’d no time to brace for it, and the shock wave inside his head sent him reeling.

He shifted, prepared to block her follow-through, but it never came.

Instead, Munroe stood motionless, feet planted, staring at him with a puzzled expression. And then, slowly, she glanced down at her hands and consciously unclenched them.

They both remained solidly in place—he eyeing her cautiously, she staring at some vague point near his knees, blinking as if she were running through a memory.

Finally, she raised her eyes to his and said softly, “Did I hurt you?”

He reached for her, his hand to her waist, his touch cautious and gentle. “No,” he whispered, “I’m fine.”

Her eyes followed his movement, but she gave no other reaction.

“How long was I under?” she said.

He directed her toward her bed, and although she didn’t resist, she cut him a wary glance. “About five hours,” he said.

At his guidance, she sat on the bed and then lay back with her hands behind her head. “That’s a decent night’s sleep,” she said.

Bradford sat beside her, elbows to knees, watching her face, and then, certain that she was fully coherent, said, “If you want to sleep more, I’ll get you a bottle.”