White Heat (31 page)

T
he pit was real. Nate had guessed it would be. They stood at the top of some metal stairs that extended into a dark, cavernous void, which resembled a kind of cellar. Except that it was bigger than any cellar he'd ever seen. The air billowing up from inside smelled of fire and incense. But it seemed to be empty.

“This is where Ethan performs his rituals?” he asked.

The housekeeper, who'd just told them her name was Maxine, had turned on a light in the pantry, making it possible for them to see her clearly for the first time tonight. Her hair was mussed, disheveled by static from the hood she'd worn, but her makeup was mostly intact. Obviously, she hadn't been to bed this evening. The swelling where Nate had hit her was beginning to close her right eye, although she seemed to be thinking coherently. “If Martha and Sarah are alive, they'll be in the pit,” she said, and motioned for them to go down ahead of her.

Nate made no move to do so. Something about Maxine was making him cautious. He couldn't figure out exactly what. She had reason to be nervous, and she was. She also had reason to sympathize with Martha
and Sarah, if not Courtney, and she acted as if she did. That was why she was helping them. He even found it believable that she'd kept quiet about the stoning for fear of reprisal. It all made sense.

So…why did he feel uneasy?

Maxine motioned toward the stairs again. “Don't you want to look in the pit? Martha might still be alive. Maybe we can get her out while Ethan's sleeping. The Brethren are finished in there for the night. We might not get another chance.”

Then they'd have to force an entrance later, Nate thought, because he couldn't go in that hole, couldn't put himself and Rachel in such an indefensible position. There was only one way in or out—a single door that could easily be controlled by Ethan, should he become aware of their presence.

Catching Rachel's arm as she brushed past him, he shook his head. She had guts; he had to give her that. She was so eager to find the women who'd gone missing she would've marched down those stairs regardless of danger. But that pit could become a prison. Or a grave. They couldn't help anyone if they compromised their own safety. “We'll go for a warrant and come back,” he said. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“You don't want to check?” Maxine asked. “You don't want to find out if Martha's down there? There are cages. I've seen them with my own eyes.”

He studied the
C
carved on her forehead. She'd seen a lot; she'd also participated. Which meant she had convictions he wouldn't understand. Even after everything she'd been through, Martha had maintained some loyalty when it came to the religion, wouldn't share certain details about the rituals. She wasn't upset about the
orgies, the use of women for pleasure or the everyday abuse of power. She'd liked it here and would probably have remained if Ethan hadn't turned on her personally.

“Like I said, we'll be back. You can come with us if you want.”

Her uninjured eye widened and her nostrils flared. She seemed frightened, confused, as if she didn't know what to do, and that was Nate's cue to get out even faster than he'd planned. Clutching Rachel's hand, he pulled her along with him as he navigated the narrow walkways in the pantry. They were just entering the kitchen when he heard something that made his heart seize in his chest. His instincts had been on target. Maxine, the housekeeper, had told them what she knew they'd believe, had used that information to persuade them to reveal who they really were, and had drawn them right into a trap.

 

Dealing with crack dealers, whores and pimps, Rachel had had a lot of guns shoved in her face, generally semiautomatic pistols. It wasn't as if she scared easily. That constant threat was part of the job, part of the adrenaline rush that made her feel alive even though she was “dead” to her family. But seeing a group of Bartholomew's guards standing in a circle around her and Nate, holding various guns, most of them banned weapons that must have been purchased on the black market, frightened her more than usual. Because they were cut off from help, had no backup in place.

She felt Nate go rigid at her side, felt his hand tighten on hers and knew he was thinking, as she was, that this could be the end.

Focusing on a boy no more than eighteen or nineteen
holding a .22-caliber rifle with a sawed-off barrel, he said, “You really plan to use that, kid? You want to be responsible for blowing someone away?”

The boy never got to answer. Bartholomew came up from behind him, placed a fatherly hand on the young Covenanter's shoulder and spoke first. “Mr. Mott, apparently you're willing to go to great extremes to reclaim your wife.” He chuckled. “Or should I say partner?”

“Where's Ethan?” Nate asked.

“Asleep in his bed, where he should be. This isn't his problem. This is my domain.”

Ethan probably didn't even know what was going on. From what Rachel had overheard earlier, he was tweaking on meth again.

“If we go missing, you'll have hell to pay,” Nate told him. “There will be no confusion about whether or not we were here.”

Maxine came around to stand by Bartholomew, her uninjured eye narrowed with the hate she'd previously hidden, and a triumphant curl on her lips.

“Last I checked, the police still have to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt,” Bartholomew said. “And that takes evidence, does it not?”

Rachel counted men and weapons while searching for the closest exit. “You never know what they'll find,” she said. “They'll come and search every tent, every building, turn over every rock. If nothing else, they'll discover your cache of guns and maybe some of the drugs floating around this place.”

He shrugged. “Not if I don't want them to.”

“With two hundred people in the compound, there's got to be at least one person who has a conscience,” she
insisted. “The police could come across someone who's ready to talk.”

“You mean, like Maxine was ready to talk?” Bart laughed and, with a wave of his arm, directed them back toward the pit.

The men with guns moved in. Rachel could feel Nate trying to decide whether they should make a break for it now or allow themselves to be shepherded into the pit. They didn't have much of a chance either way. She preferred to make their move now and knew he'd come to the same conclusion when he jerked her behind him, grabbed the gun of the closest person and used it like a bat to knock down two of Bart's guards. The element of surprise was on their side. But only for a few seconds.

Trying to reach Bart, to capture a hostage who'd matter, Nate fought his way through two more men. But Bart wasn't taking any chances. “Shoot them!” he yelled, and his men didn't hesitate.

The blast deafened Rachel. She tried to push Nate to the ground, away from the bullets, but he was too busy trying to shield her. He managed to pull the trigger of the gun he'd stolen—twice. Rachel heard the screams of those he'd hit and felt a small glimmer of hope. They'd already gotten farther than they should have.

As more shots rang out, she kicked a man coming up from behind and turned to fight someone else when Nate fell into her. He'd been hit.

“No!” She grabbed for his gun as he collapsed. She wouldn't let them kill him. She'd shoot them all if she had to. But that was only wishful thinking. Someone struck her from behind and down she went, right on top of him.

 

Rachel woke to the sound of water dripping.
Drip…drip…drip…
Steady, monotonous, but by no means reassuring.

At a complete loss, she lay perfectly still, listening for any clue that might bring comprehension. What had happened? Where was she? It was so dark. More than dark. Black. And the smell! It turned her stomach. Mildew, damp earth, fetid water, incense…

Incense!
That triggered the memory she'd been searching for. She'd been standing at the door of a pit, a pit that had the same smell. Only she was no longer at the door. She was inside, sprawled on bare earth….

Had Bartholomew buried her alive? Left her alone down here to die?

Claustrophobia welled up like bile. She would've screamed if she hadn't heard movement. “Hello? Anybody there?”

No answer.

She began to wonder if an animal had made that noise. She could easily imagine rats scurrying around down here. The mere thought made her skin crawl. But this was more of a dragging sound. “Hello?” she said again, her voice shaky and as uncertain as her rioting stomach. She tried to sit up but couldn't. Whoever had hit her had really clobbered her. The pain was so bad she felt as if her head would explode.

And then she remembered.
Nate.
They'd shot him.

A sob caught in her throat. Was he dead?

More movement.

“Nate?” She was afraid to even hope. But she couldn't refrain from calling the one person she wanted more than any other.

The dragging sound started again. Someone or something was trying to reach her. Although she knew it might cause her to pass out again, Rachel was about to scramble to her feet so she could evade what was coming, if she had to, when she finally received an answer. “It's…me.”

Nate was alive. But he was also in a great deal of pain. She could tell that crawling over to her was taking every ounce of energy he possessed. Recalling the hail of bullets that'd cut him down, she was almost afraid to learn the extent of his injuries. She didn't want him to die but, even more than that, she didn't want him to suffer.

Her concern for him somehow muted her own pain. She'd been struck, but she hadn't been shot. She needed to bear up, be tough. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

He grunted, but she didn't know whether that grunt signified yes or no.

“Don't move. Stay where you are. I'll come to you.” Wincing against the dizziness and nausea that descended when she rolled onto her hands and knees, she paused to brace herself against her body's revolt. Then she began to feel her way across the dirt floor in the direction of his voice.

She found him a few feet away. His breathing was labored, and he was sweating despite the cool air. Or…no. The dampness on his shirt wasn't sweat; it was blood. “Where'd they hit you?”

“In the chest.”

Carefully modulating her voice, she snuggled close. “Do you know if…do you know if the bullet's still inside?”

“I have no idea. The way…my chest burns…you'd think so.”

Warning herself to remain calm, to sound unafraid, she took a deep breath. “You—you're still bleeding, then?”

“A little. It's more of a…a slow leak or…I'd already be dead.”

Squeezing her eyes closed, Rachel said the humblest prayer she'd uttered in years—and felt tears roll down her cheeks despite her best efforts to stifle them.

“What about…you?” he asked. “You…okay?”

She didn't see any point in mentioning her wound when he was in far worse condition. “I'm fine.” Locating his arms, she traced them to his fingers. He was applying pressure to the wounds in his chest.

Rachel could tolerate a certain amount of blood and gore, but the thought of Nate bleeding out almost made her faint. She couldn't distance herself from what it might mean; she cared too much about him.

“You—you're going to be fine,” she said. “I'll take care of you.” She didn't know how she'd do that, but she wanted to bring him all the comfort and reassurance she could.

“See if…if the bullets came out.”

Carefully rolling him toward her, she felt along his spine, then worked in a grid pattern over his broad back. She wasn't sure whether to hope for exit wounds or not. It would've been comforting to think the bullets were out of his body. But more holes meant more blood.

When her fingers encountered a large wet spot on his shirt, she knew she'd found where one bullet had made its exit. “One's gone.”

“And the—” his gulp was audible as he struggled to speak “—other?”

She finished her search without finding a second hole. “Must be inside.”

“Am I bleeding…very badly…back there?”

“No, but I'm going to apply some pressure, just in case.”

She felt his muscles bunch when she did, knew it hurt like hell and couldn't stop herself from bending to kiss his forehead.

“Rachel?” He forced her name through gritted teeth.

“What?” She was praying again, praying as hard as she could, begging God to forgive her if her father was right and she was wrong. But not for her own sake. For Nate.

“For what it's worth…I love you,” he said. “I'm…pretty sure I've loved you since…that night at my condo. I just didn't want to…to let you down if…I wasn't ready.”

“God, now I know you're really hurt,” she said with a sniff.

He attempted a laugh, but it came out as more of a rattle. “No…I mean it, okay?”

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she eased herself out from under him. “Don't move,” she said. “I'm going to find a way out of here. I have to get you to a hospital.”

“It's a…a pit, Rach. Only…one door.”

“There's got to be
something
I can do.”

“You could…tell me you love me…too,” he said. “I threw those words…back in your face…once. I'm sorry about that.”

Swallowing against the hard lump in her throat, she rocked onto her behind. “Stop it. You don't need to hear it, because this isn't goodbye. You're a tough son of a bitch. So prove it, okay? Hang on until I get back.”

He seemed to be trying to speak, but the effort was too much. He went limp and silent.

Afraid that he'd died, Rachel scrambled to find a pulse—and almost collapsed in relief when she felt one beating softly in his neck.

He wasn't gone yet. But unless she could figure a way out of this place, it wouldn't be long.