Torn (32 page)

“Explain.”

“What if Wendy and the gang do a Hale-Bopp? Remember that comet that signaled the end for Heaven’s Gate? When the comet passed by they all took poison or something.”

Kavashi looks up. “Yes. Very useful example.”

“Yes. And we’ll make sure there are documents on Wendy’s computer, explaining everything he did because of some signal to go to the next world.”

“Ah,” says Vash. “But what is Weems’s signal?”

Evangeline sits on his big strong knee, very pleased with herself. “Arthur dying,” she says brightly. “That’s their signal.”

The boy sleeps with a night-light. The light is a gift from his teacher, Mrs. Irene Delancey, and despite the fact that he no longer trusts her, he still loves the night-light, even though it’s probably meant for little kids, not ten-year-olds. It’s called a Twilight Turtle and it projects constellations on the walls and ceiling. Eight different constellations, to be exact, plus a whole bunch of other stars. The turtle-shaped night-light glows comfortably on the bureau in his new bedroom, a room with no windows and only one exit, which is always locked.

They call it a bedroom but Noah understands that he is, in fact, their prisoner. And when he wakes up in the middle of the night, that’s the first thing he thinks about: how to escape. He’s heard stories of other kids who got snatched and then made friends with the ones who snatched them. As if they never really tried to get away? That’s not for Noah. No matter what they tell him about being the One True Voice, and all the neat stuff he’ll learn by listening to recordings of his grandfather droning on and on, and how special he’ll be when he grows up, with thousands of people hanging on his every word, Noah has no intention of staying.

No way will he ever forget about his mom, a suggestion actually put forward by Mrs. Delancey recently, who
said that after a while his memories of his mother will fade away and he won’t miss her because his life will be so full of learning about the Rule of One that he won’t have room for anything else.

No freaking way! His mom doesn’t let him use the word
freaking,
because she says it’s a substitute for an even worse word, but in this situation Noah thinks it would be allowed. If he listens inside his head he can even imagine Mom with her hands on her hips, going
No freaking way, Noah, don’t listen to them, don’t ever forget me, don’t ever forget who you really are.

Freaking never. He’s never ever going to forget. Not in a million years. Not if Mrs. Delancey makes him listen to the stupid headphones until he’s a hundred years old. And when he wakes up with his eyes wet from crying in his dream, he knows exactly who to blame. Mrs. Freaking Delancey, that’s who.

Mrs. Delancey who pretended to be his friend, who pretended to care, who pretended to help him with math and taught him about prime numbers, and who let Noah believe she was the second-most-beautiful-and-special person in the whole wide world. All pretend. All a lie. All so he’d trust her enough to go under the bleachers and hide in the ventilation duct. Which is where they grabbed him, just the way she planned, and put the stinky cloth over his face and made him go to sleep.

Everything she says is a lie, including the part about Mom being killed in the explosion. At first he thought it was true and then right away he overheard people saying stuff, lowering their voices if they noticed him listening, but he has really good ears, not to mention a really good
brain that can figure out if they’re still talking about his mother, as if they’re worried about what she might do, then Mom must still be alive.

Noah clings to the idea of Mommy alive. Mommy alive gets him through the day, and helps him at night when he’s so alone that it hurts inside, as though his whole body is being squeezed by a giant fist.

His mind races with thoughts about what really happened to his mom, the need to escape, to find the truth, the soothing voices in his headphones, until he’s so exhausted he can’t think anymore.

He’s almost back asleep when something wakes him. Footsteps, ever so quiet, approaching his bed. Despite being afraid, he forces himself to open his eyes, and sees Mrs. Delancey, bathed in the stars from his night-light.

“Come with me,” she whispers urgently. “We have to hide.”

5. He Who Leads

The thing about being scared is, after a while you get used to it. Numb to it. It’s as if there’s a faint, high-pitched scream in your head, and it never stops, but you learn to ignore it, like sirens in the city. Ruler Weems—why do I keep wanting to call him Reverend?—thinks I’m making a big mistake.
Stay with me,
he urges,
keep safe for your child,
and a big part of me wants to do just that. But I keep thinking Noah will be scared when some big guy he’s never met tries to snatch him from his bed. Which gets me worrying about where he’s been sleeping, and does he have a nice bedroom, and does he know I’m alive or have
they been filling his head with lies? Because if he knows his mother is alive he’ll be wondering why she hasn’t come to get him, and if he thinks I’m dead then in his head he’s an orphan, alone in the world. Unless he thinks of Mrs. Delancey as his new mom. Which come to think of it must be what the Rulers had in mind, taking him away from everything he knows. Isolate the child, make him feel so alone and terrified that he’ll bond with the one familiar person in his new world, the teacher who he trusted and admired. Who, to be frank, he had a crush on.

Makes me want to scratch her eyes out. Bitch.

“This is a mistake,” Weems says, his big eyes imploring me from deep in his homely face. “Mr. Shane is a trained professional and he strikes me as very competent. But you—” He hesitates, clears his throat.

“But I’m what, a girl? A housewife? I plead guilty. I’m not a cop, I’m not an investigator, and I’ve no idea what I’m going to do. But I’ve got one thing nobody else has, not even Shane.”

Weems raises his misshapen eyebrows.

“I’m his mother,” I say. “Now show me how to open the hatch or I swear I’ll bite your ankle.”

The hatch is built into the tile floor of the shower stall, and at the push of a concealed button—a worn bit of tile, actually—the floor of the stall lifts open, powered by a hydraulic hinge. I can’t help thinking that Noah would think it was very cool, having an entrance to a secret tunnel in your shower stall. Boys love that kind of stuff. Apparently grown men do, too.

“But you don’t have a weapon,” Weems protests.

“Wouldn’t know how to use it if I had one. If you see
the FBI before I do? Tell them to be extra careful. Shane makes a big target and he’ll have Noah with him.”

“You’re so confident,” Weems says, marveling.

“What choice do I have?”

And then I’m slipping down the rungs and the last thing I see before the hatch shuts is Weems’s little feet, clad in black Nikes.

He’s no bigger than a boy.

The tunnel is even spookier on my own. Plus there are strange, scuttling noises transmitting through the fiberglass. After a moment I realize it must be Shane, scooting along and using his hands for balance, and sure enough when I call his name he curses, distant but distinct.

Nice. I’m here to help and he greets me with a four-letter word.

It’s fairly easy for me to catch up. I can run, he can’t.

“Bad idea,” he says, hands on his knees, panting. “Go back while you’ve got the chance.”

His forehead is bleeding a little, from where he must have bumped into a light fixture. Being extra tall obviously has its disadvantages.

“You’ve made your position clear,” I say, forcing myself to be calm. “Now what’s the plan?”

“Haven’t got one,” he admits. “Get inside and see what happens.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugs. “This kind of situation, all you can do is react. Plans never work.”

“You don’t want to have to worry about keeping me safe, is that it?”

“Exactly.”

“Then don’t. Here’s the deal. I’ll go first, and if they catch me I’ll make a fuss. A really big fuss. While they’re busy with me, you find Noah.”

“Damn,” he says, looking rueful.

“What?”

“That might actually work.”

We move along the tunnel until we’re under another vertical shaft, the connection to the Pinnacle, according to Wendall Weems. He claims to have never used it because they’d then know he somehow could evade security, and because for the last six months the Pinnacle has been Evangeline’s domain. The few times he’s been inside to visit Arthur Conklin’s sickbed he’s been accompanied by her guards, his every movement noted.

Shane looks up, peering into the shaft. His voice is a husky whisper. “You sure you want to do this?”

I place my foot on the first rung. “Shane?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t stare at my butt.”

He grins. “He who leads gets butt stared at. That’s the deal, so live with it.”

Taking a deep breath, I head up the rungs, into the darkness at the top of the shaft.

At the top, I hook one arm through a rung, reach around with the other, find the hatch release handle.

“Ready?” I whisper down to Shane, poised a few rungs below my feet. Can’t see him, but I’m keenly aware of his large presence, ready to catch me if I fall.

“Ready.”

“Here goes nothing.”

I turn the release handle and the hatch pops up, followed by a clatter of metal. Very loud. Loud enough to chill my blood. So loud they’ll know we’re here.

“Quickly!” Shane urges.

Taking a deep breath I scramble up through the hatch and roll out of the way, colliding with a bucket and some awful, stringy thing that feels cool and moist and somehow dead.

A damp mop. We’re in a custodial closet, redolent of ammonia and pine-scented detergent. And it’s as dark as the shaft below. Surely the commotion with the bucket must have alerted them to our presence. Any second a door will open, and lights will pin us to the floor like bugs.

Shane and I lay side by side, barely breathing. Waiting.

Silence. Other than my heart slamming.

After a minute or so Shane gets up on his knees, fumbles in a pocket, and produces a small halogen flashlight. “Never leave home without it,” he whispers, panning the beam around the closet. The place is a bit larger than I first thought, jammed with cleaning equipment. Considering the amount of stuff lying around, it’s a miracle the hatch only disturbed one bucket. Which, obviously, sounded a lot louder to us than to whoever else might be listening.

Encouraged by his confident behavior, I get to my feet, being careful not to bump anything else. Which necessitates me more or less clinging to Randall Shane. With a pang I realize that the last time I was this close to a man it was Jedediah, and we were hugging goodbye as he left for what would be his last trip.

Don’t think about it. Don’t feel it. Not now. Now is for Noah. No room for anything but your son. Finding him,
saving him, holding him, telling him it will be okay, because if he’s alive and safe then it really will be okay, no matter what else might happen.

Nothing matters but Noah. Not even me.

“It’s four o’clock in the morning,” Shane whispers. “Hour of the wolf. They must all be asleep.”

He sounds very pleased, eager to get on with it. I borrow his little flashlight, flash it around until I find what I’m looking for, what I know must be there.

“Not hour of the wolf,” I whisper back. “Hour of the vacuum cleaner.”

6. The Purity Of Fear

Go with what you know. My father used to say that, usually when he was about to do something foolish, but I guess when the pressure is on, you tend to fall back on the familiar. I may not know anything about guns—Shane has one, as it turns out—or tactical assaults, or undercover operations, but I do know from housework. Miele, Hoover, Shop-Vac, whatever the brand, I’m your girl. Take charge of renovating an old farmhouse and you do a lot of cleaning up. For sawdust you want the Shop-Vac, for the fine dust that comes from sanding drywall compound, the Miele can’t be beat, provided you remember to change the filter when you change the bag.

Not that I expect to do much cleaning. But with a rag on my head, holding back my hair, and a sturdy work apron with voluminous pockets, I certainly look the part. The vacuum cleaner, a Sanitair upright carpet model, has a five-amp motor and a thirty-foot power cord. Not that I
actually intend to turn it on. But it makes a good prop, and rolls easily over the carpeted floors.

Having something to push gives me confidence. As if I have a purpose, a reason to be there, and something to argue about when I am, inevitably, asked to explain myself.

Much to my surprise, the Pinnacle seems to be empty at this hour. Where are the patrolling security guards, the fanatical cultists scheming in the dead of night? Resting their little heads on their little pillows, apparently.

The place is huge. Vast. The ceiling soars so high I couldn’t even begin to estimate the height. The blueprints gave me a sense of the layout, but not of the actual volume, which seems to be on the scale of a football stadium. The giant, inward-slanting windows have been sealed with what Shane says are automatically deployed blast shutters.