Chapter 5: Retaliation
Author: I'd like to take the time to thank you all for your positive reviews. I know with the 'ignore anonymous reviews' this means that you have to log in just to tell me what you think, and that makes me appreciate your feedback even more. Thanks, folks, you are what keeps me writing.
…well, you and questionably legal amounts of caffeine.
…
It seems that those who advocate the harshest discipline are the ones most shocked when those so over-punished lash out- the ones that advocate the most painful and humiliating punishments act with shocked indignation when called out on their cruelty. The idea that some may find their actions barbaric and base, that their victims may not respect them is so alien, so unthinkable to them, that these advocates of draconian justice are surprised when their actions backfire.
…
"More often than an agent of Rod and Whip would think, there come times where the parents or guardians of children are simply unwilling to submit them to our holy and perfect judgment. In those cases, it is the duty of the agent to, in a sound and covert manner, take matters into his or her own hands, and wrest away the spoiled child from their protectors. In these cases where the separation is done without the parent/guardian's consent, it is not only permitted, but highly advised, to begin ransom tactics as described in chapter 28: Profit from pain."
"It is only prudent to keep the victim alive long enough to gain a single ransom payment, after which the child should be disposed of promptly and in accordance with the disposal methods taught as basic training."
…
Calvin hung up and turned to look at the officers recording the conversation. "So, what do we do now?"
The officer was talking on a radio, muttering some police jargon Calvin didn't understand. "We have backup coming in now. If they make a move, we take them down."
It was a simple plan that would likely involve killing the lunatics after him, and for that Calvin was grateful. Nonetheless, the Transmogrifier Gun was tucked into his pocket, ready for use should the simple plan of having more people with more guns fail to take. He didn't like having to rely on the gun so much, it was like a cheat code in a video game, but here, there was no continuing, no safeguard against the consequences of failure. Bullets maimed and killed.
"Officer Clyde will take you all to the police station so you can be safe if things go from bad to worse. We'll take it from here." The officer indicated a powerfully built man, who led Calvin and his parents out to a car with tinted windows and a blank license plate. A man was already in the back seat, armed, and while Calvin would have normally felt assured by the fact the man was carrying firepower in the form of a .357 magnum, for some reason the man's presence- and the gun's- did not comfort him.
Mentally he made a checklist of what he had done. Hobbes had been safely hid in the closet. His computer had been backed up online. The Transmogrifier Gun was in his possession. All the angles he could possibly control were under control.
So why the feeling of unease? Granted, coming under attack by a cult dedicated to child abuse was not conducive for anyone's mental state, but there was still something… off.
He got into the middle of the backseat, his mother on his left side, the bodyguard on his right, his father in the passenger's seat.
Clyde started the car and began pulling away from the house, oddly silent. It was understandable- police didn't often make small talk.
Calvin tried to ease the feeling of worry in his gut, shoving his hands in his pockets as the car started moving away from the household, telling himself that this too would pass- the people coming for him would be caught, there would be interrogations, there would be more arrests, and this nightmare would end.
It was by coincidence he looked out through the window and noticed they were going in the opposite direction of the police station… and the city.
Maybe,he rationalized, this was a ploy to throw off any pursuers. Get the target out of town, so tracking him down would be even harder if not impossible.
When, after an uncomfortable hour of driving, they pulled over in a gas station garage that had long since been worn down and abandoned, he rationalized, maybe they're going to contact their partners- see if the problem's solved, and we can all go home-
Then the man next to him put him in a headlock and jammed the magnum's barrel against his temple. His mother screamed, his father swore, and Clyde in response leveled a .40 automatic at his mother. "Any heroics, pop, and your wife and kid die."
Or maybe, he reconsidered, sitting there, head pulled against the barrel of a loaded gun, they had been fooled from the very beginning.
….
Veronica Miles did not consider herself a hero.
Survivor, maybe. A survivor of an abusive husband who promised love and support and gave out beatings with a fist and a belt- or whatever was handy.
A good parent, maybe. It had been fearing for the safety of her five year old daughter, Hope, that had given her the courage to call the police and testify against her husband, and strike out on her own.
A teacher, maybe. After her husband was locked away, she and Hope decided that they would raise awareness about spousal and child abuse. They didn't have a formal name until recently, one bestowed by several grateful people they'd helped to overcome similar problems. "Silence Breakers".
But a hero? No, she was not that vain. As her daughter put it, with surprising maturity when they had to cancel a day at the movies to go counsel a battered wife, "We can't let more people get hurt."
The first year after she had divorced her husband, Anthony Dehnes, life had been hard- she had worked several jobs to stay afloat. Sacrifices had to be made. They ate out maybe once a month. But the two had agreed from the first day neither of them had to go to bed in fear of Anthony's midnight assaults that the sacrifices were worth it.
They were just doing what should have been done already.
Now they were in an airport, preparing to go to a conference to speak on, specifically, child abuse. These things took time to plan for- time off from work, hotel rooms for her and Hope- fortunately donations helped to blunt the costs. That and the money from several of her books.
Initially she had questioned the morality of selling books talking about her experiences, whether or not her daughter would hate her, but Hope, again, had agreed and said that people needed to hear that abuse need not be suffered in silence- and that, frankly, they could use the extra income.
Her daughter tugged on her pants. "Wanna cookie?"
Like her mother, Hope had black hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and (although Veronica never boasted about it), a big heart. She had got Hope the cookies as a treat for her alone, but her daughter seemed to enjoy her treats more when she could share them- and besides, she could use a nibble to eat. "Thanks honey." She said, taking the treat.
Maybe they would remain as they were- just the two of them. Maybe if, she found someone right for her and her daughter, she would remarry.
Eventually they reached the gate for their flight, and, with half an hour before their departure remaining, the two had little to do but wait until boarding.
Eventually, Hope had to go to the restroom. The restroom being in plain view, Veronica thought little of letting her go by herself.
Hope was a big girl.
…
It used to be that going to the restroom for Hope was a challenge in and of itself- the equipment was, more often than not, made for grownups. Now, it was a triviality.
It was amazing how much stuff mom let her do now that they were living together, just the two of them! She could cook her own breakfast, make her own snacks, and even help with her mom's grocery shopping! Sure, it meant she had to be at daycare a lot more when mommy worked, and that sometimes they didn't do fun stuff so mommy could rest, but mom wasn't getting hurt and dad wasn't hitting her anymore, so life was good.
She had just finished washing her hands when she felt the hairs on her neck stand up.
"It must be nice, your mommy letting you lie to everyone."
Hope turned, to look up at…
This couldn't be right. Monsters didn't exist.
But here one was. In khaki pants, sneakers, and a garish red-pink "World's #1 Teacher" long sleeved shirt, the rotund, scar-faced woman with misshapen red curls of hair, bald in some spots, what hair remained was unkempt and unwashed, Hope did not know what to think except perhaps something from her nightmares had crawled out into this world.
The little girl found her voice. "Lying?" What was -her? It?- talking about?
In a flash, her right hand whipped her savagely across the face, and, in the moment she was stunned, the woman's left foot slammed into Hope's side and she gasped in pain as she slammed against the bathroom wall.
"You lied for your mommy about your daddy." She hissed. A kick to her stomach knocked away what air she had left.
"You lied about how children should handle discipline." The monster grabbed her hair, slammed her against the wall, and began to choke. Her eyes watered, her side on fire, her neck crushed and slashed by the monster's nails…
The monster was smiling…
"You're not going to lie anymore, little girl. But first, you need to accept the consequences for your actions."
Hope tried to break free, but the monster was too strong, slamming her face into the sink, turning on the water to it's hottest, grabbing a handful of soap... the monster tried to force the horrible tasting pink goop into her mouth, and she bit down, ignoring the taste- the monster recoiled.
And with all the breath she could muster as the monster crushed her against the sink, she screamed.
"MOMMY!"
...
Mary Gathwells knew that abducting a child that was as close to their mother as Hope was bordered on impossible.
She knew an airport only made the nigh impossible task more unreachable. More people. More witnesses. More security.
Luring the child away was a no go either. Hope was too well taught in the dangers of strangers bearing sweets, promises, or needing directions.
Yet Rod and Whip needed her to make an example of the bitch and her daughter-bitch who had dared to teach children that they did not deserve to be beaten, burned, starved, or used as a sex toy. She had at first despaired at the seemingly impossible task, but then her mind- her perfect, trained judge's mind-had found a weakness in her unholy enemies' defenses.
She did not have the authority or means to escort- by legal or illegal means- both mother and daughter back to Rod and Whip for punishment- but she knew those who did.
The only "downside" was that they would need an excuse to take the girl, the mother, and Gathwells herself all at once.
So Mary provided the excuse by venting her righteous indignation on the five year old. She had planned to do so much at first- Rod and Whip had trained her for this sort of scenario- inflicting the maximum amount of pain and humiliation in a short period of time- but her righteous punishment was cut short when the bitch-daughter called for help.
Mary Gathwells had a good idea of what would come next, so she continued to attack, turning the girl around and clawing, punching away at her face and chest until the mother- along with several other concerned patrons- forcefully pulled her off.
She was not surprised when everyone immediately took the girl's side- her bloodied, tear streaked, scrunched face buried in her mother's blouse, staining it with blood and tears immediately evoked sympathy, and the blood on Gathwell's hands did nothing for her own appealing to the crowd.
Nor was she surprised when several people, outraged, began to attack her. It did not matter- after multiple beatings in prison, very little genuinely hurt her anymore- though when a man of 200 plus pounds, enraged by what happened, hefted a chair and clubbed her-painfully and repeatedly- in the side of the head while several others held her down or kicked her in the groin and ribs, she began to worry for her safety.
Fortunately, the security officers arrived, and- after handcuffing Mary, strongly requested that mother and daughter follow them for a statement on the incident.
She expected the humiliation as people spat on her, clapped as the officers dragged her to her feet, dragged her away. Sacrifices had to be made- what was to come would more than make up for this minor embarrassment.
Almost immediately after being escorted to a small room, she was relieved of the handcuffs and given painkillers and alcohol.
The guard gave her a salute, a signal of his own allegiance to Rod and Whip. She returned the gesture, and imbibed both forms of medication.
"The two heretics will be ready for transport shortly." The guard spoke as Mary downed the last of her liquor. "But was it really necessary to draw that much attention?"
Gathwells gingerly touched the side of her head where she had been clubbed. It was already beginning to swell. "We had to show some guts- that we're not afraid to step in and administer discipline that's long been overdue. If we keep hiding in the shadows, who will take us seriously when we start getting more public?"
The guard shrugged. "As long as you can justify it to Sir Father."
"Already have. On that note, did he give me the approval?"
The guard nodded. "Yes. You are hereby cleared to oversee the breaking of Veronica and Hope Miles."
Mary's body ached with the bruises and lacerations dealt to her by the mob, but at the same time a sense of euphoria swept over her. Bit by bit, she would make both whores recant their lies and confess their sins against Rod and Whip's Holy and Perfect Judgement.
Her body ached for rest. She ignored it.
There were consequences to be meted out.
...
His parents kicked out of the car- literally- and he himself now being held at gunpoint as the car sped away to who-knew-where, another kid in Calvin's shoes may have panicked or pleaded.
They were on a long, unpopulated stretch of road. Heavy woods on either side of the road. Almost no one to signal to for help. Nowhere to run to if he managed to escape. He currently had a gun to his head. He was being taken to, in all likelihood, a secure location where he would be tortured to death for these sicko's warped amusement.
Worst of all, he found himself bored. It was time to harass his captors.
"So, what, is Viagra not doing it anymore for you two? You only get a boner from torturing kids? Is that how Rod and Whip got you, 'better male enhancement through torturing kids-'"
He was rewarded with a backhand. His nose bled and his jaw ached, and he slumped against the seat as if knocked unconscious. Predictable creatures, these big men.
"Dammit Gene, Sir Father wants to punish him personally-" the driver groused.
"He also said if a kid mouths off to pop 'em one." 'Gene' replied. "Don't worry kid. When we're done, you'll forget all about your nose." There was no kindness in the assurance; Calvin did not expect such, rather, there was a malevolent anticipation- apparently his torture and death were highly anticipated events for whoever these clowns worked for.
For a moment, Calvin felt flattered that an entire organization was willing to devote such resources and planning to his personal humiliation and suffering. Then the novelty of it all wore off as his nose began to throb.
His hand subtly brushed against his pants pocket containing the transmogrifier gun, pulling the trigger.
He knew nothing outlandish would work with the level of 'unbelief' these sadistic tyrants generated. That meant no bazookas out of nowhere. No sudden raptor attacks. These things simply could not happen in the minds of these adults, ruled by cold logic and sadistic glee- their imaginations had long since turned into little more than torture think-tanks.
However, a car malfunction was neither bizarre nor outlandish, and as he thought of just such an occurrence, the car obediently began to sputter and slow down, slowly coming to a stop as the two cursed their misfortune.
"I thought you said you checked the car-" Gene began.
"I DID!" Clyde retorted, banging on the steering wheel in frustration. Calvin repressed a smile as he squeezed the trigger again.
"…the friggin' gas pedal is stuck." Clyde kicked the offending pedal repeatedly. Gene groaned.
"Goddammit, fix it quick. I'll watch the kid."
The driver, after a muffled curse, obligingly got out and opened up the hood, beginning what appeared to be a cursory inspection of the vehicle.
Calvin then found this moment in time to be appropriate to use the transmogrifier gun to convince reality that the car was suddenly good as new, save for the stuck gas pedal. This combined with the driver's unfortunate positioning had him scrambling to get out of the way of the now rapidly accelerating vehicle. Clyde took a glancing blow to his side as the car accelerated, he and Gene sharing a confused look through the window as the car rapidly approached- then surpassed- the generous 70 mph speed limit.
To his credit, Gene's reaction speed was top-notch, hurling himself into the driver's seat, desperately steering the car away from a road sign even as the car accelerated faster and faster. Calvin could hear him stomping on the brakes, then pulling the emergency brake, the frantic, murmured cursing grew louder as his attempts to regain control failed.
It was then that Calvin noticed that Gene had forgotten, in his haste, to take his gun with him.
As the car accelerated and Gene's attempts to slow the car down grew more frantic- hysteria rising in his voice as even removing the keys didn't work- Calvin contemplated the morality of shooting a man in the back of the head. The current kidnapping attempt aside, generally executing someone from behind was frowned upon in most societies he'd learned about.
Another thing for the philosophers to debate.
...
The gunshot motivated Clyde to run faster.
It was bad enough the car was unreliable and nearly killed him. If Gene had been a dumbass and killed the kid before they got back to HQ, then death would be preferable to what Sir Father would do to them as an example to others.
This was a priority one mission- a mission handed down by Sir Father himself. Screwing up was not an option. Being late was not an option. Nothing but a perfect, no contest, 100% perfect completion of the mission at hand was in any way a possibility that he nor anyone at Rod and Whip were willing to entertain.
So it stands to reason that when Clyde finally caught up to the slowing vehicle, out of breath and wheezing, only to find his partner sporting a debilitating new hole in the back of his head, Clyde's heart sank. He looked in the back seat, confirming what he already knew- the kid was gone.
Clyde's mind tried to function, tried to sort out what'd he'd seen- the car had gotten pretty far away, but he was certain the doors weren't opened. That meant no one got out of the car. The seats were far too narrow to hide underneath, which left only the impossibility that the kid had just plain vanished…
A bad dream. That was it. This was all a bad dream. He was probably dozing off in his quarters, and soon he'd wake up and it'd be time to go get this kid, and it'd be a simple operation as it had always been…
The sudden crack of thunder and the sharp, piercing pain that exploded in his knee dispelled the notion that the experience was a dream, along with his balance. Clyde toppled to the ground, screaming in pain, clutching his damaged knee.
Another gunshot- searing pain in his back replaced the agony in his legs. He tried to stand on his one good leg, only to find, to his horror, he couldn't feel anything below his waist… the realization hit him- he'd been hit in the spine. Crippled. A sitting duck.
Calvin walked in front of him, kneeling down to look at him, the smoking magnum still in the boy's hand. He had a cool look to his face, as if he were bored with the situation at hand. His hands shook a little- the boy must not have been used to killing.
"It's not nice, is it?" the boy spoke finally. "Someone hurting you, just because they can." There was a calmness in his voice that shouldn't have been there, yet it held a quiet anger.
Clyde gritted his teeth against the pain, looked into his hated enemy's eyes, and found the courage to speak. "You blasphemed against Rod and Whip- Sir Father's- Holy and Perfect Judgment, you little brat, you deserve whatever the hell you get…"
"Holy and perfect judgment? Sir Father? You people really are insane." The boy looked up and down the road. No cars came. No savior for the kidnapper. "Anyway, I'd like to gloat, but I'm in a bit of a hurry. So you're going to tell this… Sir Pops?"
"Sir Father, you arrogant little sh-"
"Right, him- anyway, I want to give him my regards."
Clyde spat at the boy, the phlegm falling short of it's target. Calvin, in response, painfully jammed the magnum's barrel against Clyde's right cheek- the barrel was still warm.
"You're going to give him a message. You're going to contact him- I know you have ways of doing that."
Clyde did not find his voice strong enough to argue.
"You're going to tell him that if he messes with me, with my family, or with any more kids and I find out about it, I'll do to him what I did to your partner." Calvin then, very calmly, began to disassemble the gun- it wasn't the quickest or most proficient stripping of a weapon, but soon enough, he had rendered the weapon unusable, pocketing the remaining bullets and a few essential parts.
Clyde reached into his pocket, getting his cell phone- the boy tensed until he realized what the object was, then relaxed, shrugged, and started walking towards the woods.
"You're dead," Clyde finally managed to speak. "you're dead, kid! I'll have sixty agents here in no time flat, and when they find your sorry ass-"
The boy didn't even reply. Eventually, the sound of his footsteps crunching leaves underneath faded away entirely.
Clyde dialed a number on his cell, his thumb hovering over the call button. Finally, as the pain in his back grew to the point he could no longer stand it, he gave in and called the number reserved for emergency aid.
Whatever Rod and Whip would do to him, it couldn't be worse than what he felt right now.
...
Calvin emptied his stomach once he was out of earshot of the crippled agent, slumping against a tree, a few tears trickling down his face. He'd killed a man. Jesus Christ. Of all the things he wanted to do in life, murder wasn't one of them. He allowed himself a minute or so of sobbing, head buried between his knees, his raging at the lunacy of the past few days manifesting itself in tears and sobs, angry at his parents being hurt, angry at the sheer stupidity of this world, angry at himself for having no better ideas to get free other than to kill someone and cripple another.
Finally, when he could breathe normally, he turned his thoughts to logic. He was alone in God-knows-where-ville, in an unfamiliar forest, and soon that man would call for help, and they would be combing this area for him.
He sighed, banging the back of his head lightly against the tree. There was no two ways about it, he was going to have to use the Transmogrifier Pistol again.
When he had discovered that its power, however limited by the ambient 'belief' of onlookers, was genuine and not merely a product of his imagination, he had sworn never to misuse it. Not for grades. Not for personal profit. Certainly not for kicks.
Saving his own skin, however… that was a different matter.
He pressed the gun against his temple, the similarity of one about to commit suicide not lost at all on him, and envisioned himself as a light particle.
Now, this trick- one of Calvin's emergency 'get the hell away' tactics- was difficult on an utmost scale with anyone even in the vicinity, despite whether or not they were looking at him, because it was an accepted fact that humans simply could not vanish into thin air. But the two who were around- one dead, one nearly unconscious from agony- were in no shape to counter Calvin's argument to reality that his physical form could suddenly become as light and intangible as a ray from the sun.
But then it struck Calvin that these people couldn't have just be devoted to his torture and demise; no, if the many articles he'd seen were to be believed, there were hundred, thousands of kids that were suffering at the hands of these sadists. Even assuming the police could pinpoint a location, by the time they'd get there they'd likely kill the kids or move them somewhere else.
Someone had to go deal with them, now. And after all the hell they'd put him through, wasn't it time he returned the favor?
The light particle idea seemed so bland now, and as he squeezed the trigger, he envisioned something else…
When, about an hour later, twelve men- a pithy one fifth of what had been promised- and a helicopter combed the woods for a sign of life, they only had his vomit to show for their efforts.
No one noticed the bug that flew in one of the cars.
…..
Jason had barricaded himself in his room, again, with more traps, more improvised weapons, a stockpile of water and food, a makeshift toilet that ejected the waste from his window, and his computer displaying multiple views of the perimeter of their house.
For the first time in his life, Jason was truly and undeniably scared. With a genius level IQ, it did not take him long to understand that the promises made by confident officers and his parents (looking like they had taken on twenty more years) of safety were hollow comforts, that anyone who was willing to use these tactics and weapons was a force to be reckoned with, and that he, with all his traps, with all his cunning, even if he just threw morality to the wind and killed everything they threw at him like he was mowing down mooks in a game…
….wouldn't survive.
Oh, sure, there would be casualties, he'd see to it that his capture would cost the enemy dearly. But he couldn't guarantee his family's safety or security in all the madness.
Run away, and they'd hunt him down, all he'd do is give the sick fucks a bit of entertainment.
Hide here? They'd tear the house down to get to him.
One dark corner of his mind thought of turning himself into a bomb- naturally, he wouldn't survive, but the idea of his kidnappers going through a terrible gauntlet of traps only to get blown up by their target exploding brought a grim smile to his face…
…for about five seconds.
And then he realized that being the best scenario, that he'd never get to play OR make his own games, never get to go to a college and really show people what he could do, never plot with Marcus again, never drink soda until he passed out again. His entire childhood- his entire life was being viciously stripped away for the sake of simple, unquenchable sadism, and he felt nauseated at the injustice of it all.
He was going to die a statistic.
A knock on the door prompted him to grab one of several acid super soakers, ready to go down fighting…
"Jason, the police are here."
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, switched off a plethora of traps, opened his door.
Several police officers greeted him.
"We're going to take you into protective custody, son."
Protective. Good. Very good. No more sleepless nights. No more panicking at every creak or shift in the house. Two nights with barely a solid hour of sleep had taken their toll, and the empty coke cans strewn on his desk attested to the severity of his artificially induced insomnia.
So he numbly packed some essentially, hugged his mother, and hurried into the black police van that waited outside-
A kick to his back sent him sprawling as he got inside. Before he hit the floor, his mind, though sleep-deprived, registered the idea that this was a trap. If any doubt remained, the following blows confirmed his theory.
He had hoped that they would at least beat him unconscious. Alas, they showed no such mercy.
The drive to God-knows-where was a very long one.
...
Curtis had told a tearful Chutney that things had gone to hell before barricading himself in a cheap hotel room on the outskirts of town, trying to figure out what to do next. Where would he go? His relatives thought he was a druggie gangbanging hoodlum who brought guns to school on a daily basis, sexually harassed anything with a double digit age, and treated the offering plate at church like his own piggy bank, all notions courtesy of his parent's years-long grudge against him. Gunther couldn't afford to help him much.
He had spent most of the day trying to figure out what he could do- joining the army sounded viable, more so than anything else- when his phone rang.
He picked it up as he reviewed his notes. "Gunther?"
"No," said a voice, male, stern. It took Curtis several minutes to remember. "We spoke when you called from the DMV. What did I tell, Curtis? "Stay where you are, and this will go a lot easier." Why can't you kids follow directions?"
"I'm supposed to come with you when I don't know jack shit about who you are or what you want? Screw that."
"You know what? That attitude's fine by me. Just keep doing the whole 'waaaaah I don't deserve this' routine. I've dealt with plenty of kids like you before."
'Dealt with' sounded suspiciously malevolent, and Curtis felt a horrible mixture of rage and fear as he wondered silently just how many other teens and children he had done this to.
"But maybe you just don't care about yourself, is that it? No self-respect? I can't say I blame you- a shitty brother, a lousy failure of a son, what's to respect?"
There was a muffled scream, the sounds of struggling, the sound of someone being slapped, muffled sobs.
He knew that voice. But they couldn't go so far, they wouldn't-
"Stupid bitch… well, I was going to make this a surprise for the end of the conversation, but maybe if you don't care about yourself, you'll care about someone else- lose the gag-"
Even before the screams- panicked pleas for him not to come, to stay away, screaming for him to run even as the sound of blows broke the sobs and cries- he knew who it was.
Chutney.
They had gone after Chutney.
He had screamed her name without realizing it, listening for her to say something else. There was an awful, ungodly silence for a minute. Two minutes.
"You're awful quiet over there, Curtis, so maybe it's time to shut up and listen. There's going to be some men coming to your hotel room in ten minutes. If you don't want me to take a power drill to your girlfriend's eyes, you will go peacefully and quietly, understand?"
Curtis was silent.
"DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. SHITHEAD?" the man roared.
"Yes." Curtis choked out.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir." He said through gritted teeth.
"There now, that wasn't so hard, was it, Shithead?" the man's voice held a cruel tone of satisfaction to it. "They'll be there shortly. Don't bother packing anything. Oh, and don't bother calling the cops or anyone for that matter. We'll know, and it won't help. Ciao." There was a click, and the line went dead.
The ten minutes might have well been ten years. Curtis briefly considered suicide, but then he couldn't do anything about Chutney. How had they even known about her?
His parents didn't know, Chutney's parents agreed not to speak to them, and he-
Realization hit him even as he heard cars pull into the motel parking lot. There was only one person who knew and was perfectly willing to put her in harm's way just to hurt him some more…
Even as he opened the door, was dragged painfully to one of the cars, he looked around… and saw his confirmation of what he already knew.
There, standing beside the man he assumed to have been the one to have issued the threats, was Barry, his grin radiating pure, unadulterated malevolent mirth.
…
Faith had never understood how someone could get addicted to painkillers until now.
After all the stitching, setting of bones, disinfecting, and medical attention she needed, that little tube sticking into her arm left her comfortably numb to her battered bodies' injuries.
For the first time in four years, Faith was not in pain.
Her aunt and uncle were on their way to the hospital even now. She got to choose her own dinner. She didn't have to leave the door open when she used the bathroom under the pretense she was a drug addled freak.
She had heard the news. Her parents had suddenly up and vanished. The sheer lack of anything but relief filling her did not come as a surprise
Her school, a strict, fundamentalist, Christian high school with an extended school year and no tolerance for people with her reputation, had been called, and the revelation that her teachers, rendered unsympathetic to her plight so many times by falsehoods about her getting into fights and orgies, now were considering just giving her A's out of a mixture of apology and sympathy for the hell she'd been through. That had been surprising, she'd admit- she had expected them to rally against her, demanding she repent now, even as she lay in bed bandaged.
Her father had, so very often, preached that when bad things happened to someone, it was God allowing it, to teach that person a lesson in life. (He had conveniently left unmentioned, however, the point behind God supposedly allowing an innocent to be killed) If that was the truth, then what was the point of everything that happened to her?
She had meditated on this for about an hour, arriving at the conclusion that the lesson, if there was indeed one, was that not everyone who claimed to preach the word of God was to be trusted. Nor were the people who would follow such a person.
To that end she had explained to the officers who had driven her to the hospital that the children of her church were in danger too, their parents taught to punish without cause, lest they become like her- or, at least, what Faith's parents claimed she was. If nothing else, maybe she could prevent at least a few from suffering as long as she did…
A knock on her door, the officer she had met, Garret, walked in. "How're you doing?"
"Better." She answered honestly. It was then she noticed the grim look on the cop's face. "What's wrong?"
"We visited the church where your dad preaches, found a list of the parishioners, and visited some of their homes…"
"If they're telling you that their kids are lying or that I'm making this sort of stuff up, I'm not! You must have found some of his sermons, he preaches that they should beat their kids every day whether or not they-"
"No, we do believe you," He interrupted. "but when we visited these homes, they'd been evacuated. No one home, lot of stuff taken in a hurry."
Faith lay there for a few moments as the information sunk in. It didn't take a phenomenal amount of mental gymnastics to figure out what had happened. Once she had ran away, her parents had read the note, logically assumed she was going to the authorities, panicked, and probably issued an emergency gathering of the church warning them how the "armies of the beast" were going to arrest them and take away their children.
Guilt flooded her, and she felt sick, tears welling up in her eyes.
In her escape from her own personal hell, had she condemned so many more children to suffer like her?
