Redemption Road

35

Gideon woke to the sound of wind and the warmth of a blood-soaked shirt. He felt weak, but the truth was all around him.

This was real.

It was happening.

He tried to sit, but something didn’t work right, so he lay back down. The next time he went slower, and when the church stopped spinning, he looked at the yellow tape the preacher had torn down. There’d been bodies here. He could remember some of the names from what he’d seen on TV.

Ramona Morgan.

Lauren something.

Then, there were the ones beneath. Nine more women, they said. Nine more ghosts. The thought made him afraid, but his mother died here, too, and if there were ghosts, maybe she would be among them. She’d been a good person, so maybe the others had been, as well. Maybe they would see into his heart and offer no reason to fear. But, Gideon was a spiritual boy. He believed in God and angels and the bad things, too.

Did that include the preacher?

It shouldn’t, but he thought it must. Why else was he here with Liz and the other girl? Why were they tied and taped and terrified? It was too much, too big. But the truth of what he had to do was simple. He had to go inside and see. So he pulled himself up the stairs and at the top looked down at how the valley rolled out, soft and narrow and long. It was pretty, he thought, then opened the door and went looking for the ugly. It wasn’t hard to find. The altar was lit, and Liz was on it. Her father was hurting her, and the sight made Gideon weak. Ten steps later the weakness was worse, and he thought of such things as blood loss and shock and the doctor’s talk of a stitched artery.

The shirt was heavy.

His eyelids, too.

Holding on to a pew, he waited for the faintness to pass, but it didn’t. If anything, he felt worse. Numb legs. Dry mouth. He stumbled and went down on a knee, smelling the carpet, the rotted wood. The girl was screaming, but all he could see was Liz on the altar, how she twitched and jerked, and how ropes cut her ankles. Veins bulged in her neck; her mouth was open. Gideon dragged himself up, thinking, This is how my mother died. Just here. Just like that. The gap in his logic didn’t close until he was close enough to see the blood that filled Liz’s eyes.

She was dying as he watched. Not being hurt. Being killed.

Gideon swayed again, seeing his mother’s death, as it must have been.

This place.

This man.

How could that be possible? He’d loved the preacher more than his own father. Trusted him. Adored him. A day ago he’d have died for the Reverend Black.

“Hmmm! Hmm!”

The girl was at his feet, shoved half beneath the pew. Her noises grew frantic as she tried to gesture with her entire body. The preacher’s coat was on the pew ten feet away. The girl dipped her head twice, and Gideon saw the stun gun beside the coat. He’d never seen one before today, but it looked simple. Metal points. Yellow trigger. He reached for it, then saw the real gun sticking out of a coat pocket. It was black and hard. He touched it once, but didn’t want to kill anyone.

It was still the reverend.

Right?

He wasn’t thinking straight, and his hands were tingling, too. The whole thing felt wrong, but life often felt that way. Mistakes happened. Things that seemed clear weren’t. He didn’t want to make a mistake now, but was so dizzy.

Was it really happening?

He bent for the stun gun and fell against the pew. New heat spread on his chest, and his fingers didn’t want to obey. They were far away, fumbling at the grip. His knees touched carpet, and blood from his shirt smeared the wooden seat. He turned his eyes to the girl beside him, saw the shiny eyes and yellow hair, the way she struggled and pleaded and screamed behind the tape as if to remind him that a woman was dying, and that it was Liz, who’d always loved him.

Gideon couldn’t allow that, so he pushed with all he had; he pushed and bled and found his feet beneath a vaulted ceiling and a wall of colored glass. The stun gun filled his hand, and shallow stairs led to the place Liz was dying. He asked his mother to help if she could. “I’m scared,” he whispered, and it was as if a dozen women kissed his face and lifted him. The pain in his chest went away. His head cleared, and he moved as light as any ghost across the carpet and up the steps to where pink light spilled down and motes hung in the air above the preacher’s head. Beyond the altar was Mary, in the glass, and in her arms an infant son. They wore halos and were smiling, but Gideon was angry and afraid and beyond such gentle things. He looked once at Liz’s bloody eyes, then put metal in the reverend’s back and lit the bastard up.

Channing watched it happen and felt a surge when the preacher went down. Above him, Elizabeth was unmoving. Maybe she was breathing, and maybe not. The boy, beside her, looked half dead with his bloody shirt and translucent skin. He wobbled where he stood and looked as if he, too, could drop at any second. She needed out of the tape before that happened.

“Hmmmm! Hmmmm!”

She tried to scream, but the boy seemed oblivious. He stared at the preacher and touched the man with a shoe. Beyond him, Elizabeth was open-eyed and paler even than the boy.

She wasn’t moving.

Was she breathing?

Channing screamed behind the tape, tasting it. The boy sat and looked at the face of the fallen man. He watched him stir, and even Channing saw the eyes flicker. He would wake and take the boy out. It would begin all over. Elizabeth would die, and so would she. They’d go back to the silo, or he’d kill them here. Who could stop it? The boy was glass-eyed and frozen. Liz couldn’t do it. Could Channing? She struggled against the tape, but it wasn’t going to happen. The man was moving for real, and the boy watched it happen. He waited for the eyes to open, then moved as deliberately as anything Channing had ever seen. He rolled to his knees, said something she missed, then put metal against the preacher’s skin and kept the trigger down until the battery died.

When it was over, Gideon looked down on Liz, then stumbled to the pew and used his teeth to work the tape off the girl’s wrists. Weak as he was, it took a long time; when it was done, he slumped to the floor and watched her do the rest.

She lost hair and skin, but the tape came off. “Is she alive?” That was her first question, and he blinked once. Channing stripped the last tape from her ankles. “Thank you, thank you so much. Are you okay?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Here, lie down, and try not to move. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She made a pillow of the tarp and got him stretched out on the floor. He felt her hands, but from a distance. “What did you say to him? You waited for him to wake up. I saw it. What did you say?”

“Nothing you’d understand.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He blinked again and kept his eyes on her face. She seemed nice. He wanted to make her happy. “I said, ‘You killed my mother. I hope this hurts.’”

Channing told him again to lie still, then went to Liz, who was alive, but in terrible shape. Her neck was swollen and black, her breath the barest thread. “Liz?” Channing touched her face. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

The eyes were blank, unseeing.

Channing worked at the knots that held Liz down, but her struggles had tightened them, and it took a long time. When she finished, Liz was with her, if only just. Her lips moved.

“What?” Channing leaned closer.

“Tie him.”

Channing didn’t know if the preacher was alive or dead, but it sounded like a good idea. She tied him as tightly as she could.

“What do I do now?” Channing touched Elizabeth’s face. “Liz, please. I don’t know what to do.”

Elizabeth was crushed in the bottom of a deep hole. She thought maybe the hole was a grave. It had hard edges, the right shape, the darkness. The walls were ragged and black, the opening so small above she could barely see it. Her father was somewhere close, but she couldn’t think about hurt that big or betrayal so vast. Shadows and black wind and sharp-edged stone. It was the place she couldn’t go: her father and childhood and his face as he’d tried to kill her. She wanted to collapse the hole, instead, to pull down earth and rock and all the things that made her feel. Maybe she wanted to die. That didn’t feel like her, but what else did? The blood in her vision? The utter despair?

The hole darkened and deepened.

Her father was above it. Beyond him was a question.

Elizabeth drew a breath that burned all the way down. Something troubled her about the question. Not the question. The answer. People called the police when they were in danger. That was the problem. They called the police.

Why was that wrong?

She had the answer, but it slipped away in the dark. She found it again and felt it stick. Channing needed to understand the danger. She wouldn’t see it coming.

“Channing…”

She felt her lips move, but knew the girl hadn’t heard. Her face was in the world above, a slash of color, a kite.

“No police…” It was the smallest sound.

The girl leaned closer. “Did you say no police?”

Elizabeth tried to move her head, but could not. “Beckett…” She was in the grave, and hurting.

“Call Beckett.”

When Elizabeth woke, the light was dim but she sensed Beckett in the church. It was his size, the way he loomed. “Charlie?”

“It’s good to have you back. I was worried.”

“There was a grave…”

“No. No grave.”

“My father…”

“Shhh. He’s alive. He’s not going anywhere.”

Beckett moved to where she could see him. Same face and suit. Same worried eyes.

“Channing told you?”

“Let’s talk about you, first.” He put hands on her shoulders to keep her down. “Just breathe for a minute. You’re hurting. You’re in shock. I feel your heart running like a train.”

She felt it, too, the thunder and noise. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

“No, I’m not.” Panic was a fist in her chest. “Jesus. God. I’m not.” She felt slippery and cold. Her hands were shaking.

“He can’t hurt you, Liz. He can’t hurt anybody.”

She risked a glance and saw him on the floor. He was tied and handcuffed, still unconscious, still her father. She lost it then, the rush of bile and the hard, hot vomit. She rolled left, and it spilled out of her like belief and warmth and life. She curled into a frozen ball, and Beckett was still touching her: his hands, the press of his cheek. His voice was there, too, but like the sound of surf. She thought of Channing and Gideon; wanted to move, but absolutely could not. The grave was all around her; she was choking.

“Breathe…” Beckett’s voice was an ocean beyond the horizon. “Please, Liz. I need you to breathe.”

But, the pressure in her chest crushed everything. The world built and pushed her down, and when it dragged her back, Beckett was still there.

He lifted her so she could sit. “Liz, look at me.”

She blinked, and the rough edges filled in. She saw his face, his hands.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Can you stand?”

“Give me a minute.”

Elizabeth touched her throat, felt swollen flesh and ridges from her father’s fingers. She squinted around the church, saw the kids and her father and no one else. “Where is everybody?” She meant cops, paramedics. “There should be people here.”

“You’re still wanted on charges. Did you forget that?”

She nodded, but everything was fuzzy. She was dressed again, which must have been Channing’s doing, or Charlie’s. “Give me some space. Okay?”

“You sure?”

She raised a hand, and he backed off. Whatever happened next, she needed to do it on her own, to know she could. She swung her legs over the edge, coughing hard enough to choke all over again.

“Liz!”

Elizabeth pushed out with the same hand, keeping him back. She touched her chest and focused on taking careful, shallow breaths. He moved closer. “Don’t. Just… don’t touch me.”

She slipped off the altar, stumbled, but stayed on her feet. Her father was on the floor. She hugged her ribs.

“Channing told me everything. I’m sorry, Liz. I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t either.”

“You’ll deal with it. Time, maybe. Maybe therapy.”

“My father tried to kill me, Charlie. How could I possibly deal with it?”

He had no response. How could he?

“Channing? Are you okay?”

“I’m all right.”

“And Gideon?”

“He’s bleeding. I don’t know. Your friend won’t let me call an ambulance.”

Elizabeth moved to the bottom step. Gideon lay on the floor by Channing. He opened his eyes, but looked bled out and rough. Elizabeth glanced the length of the church and understood, at last, that something was very wrong. It was too quiet after so much time. Channing was wide-eyed and frightened and shaking her head in a small way. Elizabeth knew the look; she felt it. “Where are the people, Charlie?”

He turned his palms. “I told you…”

“You told me why there are no cops. Where are the paramedics? The boy is hurt. Channing is hurt. There should be paramedics. You could have made that happen, kept it quiet.”

She moved toward the kids, but Beckett stepped between them. He was still palms up and smiling, but the lie was in his eyes. “We need to talk, first.” She stopped after the bottom step. “Come on, Liz. Don’t look at me like that.” He forced a smile that failed. Elizabeth had never been good at hiding the way she felt, and it was all in her face now, the distrust and doubt and anger. “Goddamn, Liz. I’m here to help you. The girl called and I came. Who else would do that? No questions. No doubt.”

“What’s going on, Charlie?”

“This whole week, who has been by your side, your friend? I’ve been that friend. Just me. Now, I need you to be mine.”

She gauged the way he stood. Chin down, feet spread. His hands were out as if he’d grab her if she ran. Whatever was happening, he was serious about it. “Are you really standing between me and those children?”

“We just need to talk. Two minutes. We’ll talk and call the ambulance, and this will all be over.”

Her eyes fell to the gun in his belt. He was good with it. Plus he weighed 250. Whatever this was, she couldn’t take him.

“Why don’t you sit down.”

She stepped sideways. Her father groaned.

“Please, Liz. Sit.”

Elizabeth kept moving. She had no intention of sitting, and Beckett saw it. He nodded and sighed, and something artificial fell away. “Do you know where Adrian is?”

It was the last thing she expected.

“Adrian Wall. I need a location.”

“What does Adrian have to do with any of this?”

“It’s for everyone’s good. You. The kids. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Not without an explanation.”

“Just tell me.”

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Liz! Just tell me where he is!”

“Yes, please tell him.”

The voice came from the back of the church, loud and familiar. Elizabeth registered the sudden desperation on Beckett’s face, then saw the warden with Olivet and Jacks and Woods. They stood in the open door, four in a line and the sky behind them burning.

“Gideon. Channing.”

She called the children to her, and they obeyed, Channing on her feet, the boy stumbling. They moved past Beckett, but he didn’t try to stop them. His head was down. His shoulders slumped. Elizabeth got the children behind her as the world slowed, and everything came into sharp focus: the scrape of air in her throat, Beckett’s sweat and fear and sudden despair. “You should have told me,” he said, and though she heard the words, she wasn’t listening. The warden led his men down the aisle, and Liz paid attention to the things that mattered. Two autoloaders. Two revolvers. Olivet looked scared.

“Please give him what he wants.”

“Shut up, Charlie.”

“Please, Liz. You don’t know this man.”

“Actually, I do.”

The warden was close, now, fifteen feet, then ten. Elizabeth spoke when he reached the final pew. “I guess you two know each other better than I thought.”

“Of course,” the warden said. “Detective Beckett and I go back many years. How many is it, Charlie? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Don’t pretend we’re friends.”

Beckett spat the words, and the warden tilted the pistol in his hand. “Friends. Acquaintances.”

The arrogance was more obvious, now, the smile lazier and slow. It made Elizabeth’s stomach turn. The warden wore a summer suit. His men, behind him, were in plainclothes. She kept her eyes on the warden. “Does he know what you did to Adrian?” She pitched her voice to carry. “The torture and abuse? Does he know your men tried to kill him?” She backed closer to the altar, and the children moved with her, up two steps, then three.

The warden and his men moved forward, too. “I like Vegas,” the warden said. “It’s the motto, I think.” He waved a circle with the gun; held up both hands as if framing a marquee. “‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ My prison is like that.”

His prison.

He could call it that, and who would contradict him? Guards? Prisoners? Not if he was hard enough, malicious enough.

“Did you know?” she asked Beckett. “Did you know they tortured Adrian? That they killed his cellmate?”

“It doesn’t matter what I know.”

“How can you say that?”

“Desperate men,” the warden interrupted. “I thank God for them every day.”

“There is no money,” she told the warden. “No pot at the end of your sad, little rainbow.”

“I’ve explained once that we’re beyond that. This is about William Preston, who was dear to me. It’s about payback and endings and the natural order of things. Prisoners don’t touch my guards. Inside the walls, beyond them. It doesn’t happen.” The barrel of his gun came up. “Detective Beckett, would you step away from them, please.”

“You were supposed to wait outside.” Beckett stood sideways to the warden, his chin down. “You wait outside. I come in. That was the deal.”

“I’m an impatient man. It’s a weakness.”

“I gave you my word.”

“Yet I have no reason to trust you.”

“You have every reason! You know you do!” Beckett was begging. Elizabeth had never seen him beg. “I can get what you want. Please. Just leave them alone. Give me two minutes. I’ll find out where he is. No one has to get hurt. No one has to die.”

“You think I would kill someone?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. Please…”

“Is that man alive?”

The warden pointed his gun at Reverend Black, bound on the floor. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the warden shot her father in the heart. The bullet went in small and came out big. The body barely moved.

“That was to get your attention.”

Elizabeth stared at her father.

Channing threw up.

“I want Adrian Wall.” The gun was a.45, cocked. He pointed it at Gideon. “He seems like a nice boy.”

“No!”

Elizabeth leapt in front of the gun, her fingers spread. She was bent at the waist, desperate and small, and begging, too.

“Goddamn it!” Beckett yelled. “This was not our fucking deal!”

“Our deal’s off.” The warden shot Beckett in the gut. For a second the big man stood, then crumpled.

“Charlie!” Elizabeth dropped beside him. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Charlie.”

She put a hand on the bullet wound in his stomach, then felt the exit wound in his back. It was large and ragged, and beneath it was a pistol. Pain swam in Beckett’s eyes, but he mouthed a single word.

Don’t…

She looked at the warden and his men. Guns were up and level. “You bastard.”

“Stomach wounds are extremely painful,” he said. “Yet, people recover.”

“Why…?”

“The violence? This?” He waved an arm across the dead and dying. “So, you would take me seriously, and give me what I want.”

“Charlie. Oh, God…”

His blood pooled against her knees. His fingers twined into hers. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” She felt him fading. “Liz, I’m sorry…”

She touched his throat when his eyes closed. He was in a bad way, but breathing. “What do you have on him?” Her voice cut, and she rose, fearless. “He wouldn’t have done this without a reason.”

“Brought me here? No. But I was with him when the little girl called.” The warden made another circle with the barrel of his gun. “He was trying to protect you. He told me he could get what I want. Obviously, he could not. Now, here we are.”

“He needs medical care.”

“Like William Preston needed medical care?” The warden held the stare; she had no words. “It’s a funny thing, really.” The warden sat on a pew, speaking conversationally. “When we first met, I felt as if I knew you. What you value. The person you really are.” He lit a cigarette and pointed the gun at Gideon’s chest. “Where is Adrian Wall?”

“Don’t.”

He swung his aim to the girl. “You see how this works.” The gun moved back and forth. The boy. The girl. “I want you to call him. Tell him to come here. Tell him he has an hour before I start killing children.”

“He’s farther away than that.”

“I’m an impatient man, but not beyond reason. We’ll call it ninety minutes.”

Elizabeth held the stare. The warden smiled.

At their feet, Beckett lay dying.