The Soul Collectors

79

Darby couldn't remember how she had arrived at this place, wherever this place was, or who had brought her here. She remembered lying in the back of the ambulance and Keats crying and then she had drifted away. When she woke up, all she saw was this cool, pitch-black darkness that smelled of mildew, dust and decay. She had been stripped of her clothes, her wrists shackled with chains that extended somewhere above her, bolted to the ceiling. Her ankles had been shackled too, but she could move if she chose.

She did, the first day, stumbling around in the darkness with her chains, her fingers and palms sliding against smooth stone. A hole dug in the floor to use as a toilet. She felt thick iron bars mounted inside a small, rectangular space. The same darkness was out there but with sounds of life — jagged breathing, crying.

Several times she had called out for Casey. He didn't respond. Either he was somewhere else or he was dead. She had tried calling for Sarah Casey and received no answer.

Sergey and the FBI had to be looking for her — and Casey, Keats had said they wanted Casey too. A package deal in exchange for Keats's son, Luke. She didn't know about Casey, but she still had a GPS unit installed in her arm. The FBI hadn't come so she assumed they couldn't lock on to her signal, which meant she was being held somewhere underground. She didn't know where — for all she knew she could be halfway across the world. But Sergey and his men had to be looking for her. And what had happened to Keats? Had they spared his life and left him to spin some bullshit story about how she and Casey had disappeared — or had the Secret Service agent disappeared too?

Darby lay in the dark with questions revolving in her head and heard whispering voices asking God for help and strength. Prayers for mercy and forgiveness. The voices never stopped.

Darby didn't pray. She didn't sit around trying to wish the situation away. She was here, trapped, but sure of one thing: she had to find a way to survive. If she was going to live, she would have to be the one to save herself.

She had no idea how long she'd been shackled in here. At least a day but probably longer. Two, maybe, possibly three. The darkness pressed against her and her mind kept demanding answers. She couldn't provide any so it reacted, of course, with its natural primitive response: fear. And each time it came, each time she felt it flutter through her stomach and limbs and start to close around her throat, she didn't push it away, didn't try to talk it away. She embraced it. I'm shackled in some dungeon-like cell, so, yes, I'm scared. There's no food or water and I'm starving, so, yes, I'm afraid. Every inch of my skin is exposed, and when they come, they could hurt me like they hurt Mark Rizzo and Charlie and everyone else that came before them, so, yes, I'm terrified, because I don't want to be hurt. I don't want to suffer.

But that would come later.

The first part of their plan, whatever it was, had to do with fear. They wanted her to be trembling in fear when they came. That was why they had locked her in here in the dark. They had stripped off her clothing to make her feel vulnerable. They had denied her food and water because hunger did extreme things to the mind. Her mind didn't know what was happening or going to happen so it busied itself conjuring up all sorts of gruesome scenarios. She acknowledged all of these things but she also knew she had to steel herself against them. Conserve her strength and, more importantly, her sanity. Fear clouded the mind, prevented you from seeing opportunities. She had learned this first-hand, during the time she'd been imprisoned inside Traveler's dungeon of horrors. She had survived that and she would survive this.

So she occupied her time with things she could control — her body, her mind. She kept her body limber. Stretched. Did push-ups and sit-ups and when she finished she meditated to clear her head. Show no fear, she kept telling herself. That's what they want to see from you, that's what feeds them. No matter what happens, don't give them what they want. Keep the fear at bay and you'll find a way out of this. These people are not divine beings. They bleed like the rest of us. The first one came as she lay asleep. She awoke to the sound of a key in a lock and she sat up as the door swung open.

No shoes clicked on the floor, no sound. Bare feet, she thought.

She sat stock still, listening to the clicking sound of metal chains.

The sound stopped.

Clink clink near her ear and she didn't move.

Clink clink somewhere directly in front of her face and she felt warm drops on her stomach.

Clink clink and her heart hammered inside her chest as something cold and hard and wet slithered up the inside of her thigh. She didn't move and it travelled up her stomach and across her breast and over her shoulder and disappeared.

The door shut and then she was left alone. She touched the liquid on her stomach and held it up to her nose: she smelled blood. The door opened again, sometime later. Several people this time.

She stood against the wall and listened to the soft footsteps. She could feel them surrounding her, could hear their breathing.

One of them moved closer and pressed the edge of something hard against her lips. She jerked her head and heard a splash of water.

'Drink,' a deep but muffled voice said.

'No.'

'You need to conserve your strength. To keep your head clear for the choice you are about to make.'

She clamped her lips shut.

'We could make you.'

Say something? No, not yet. Wait and see.

She stood, defiant, lips pressed together. If only I could see them, see how many there are…

Something was placed on the floor in front of her and she heard them retreat.

'You will learn to do what we ask,' another voice said, and then the door shut.

No, she told herself, I won't. She found what they'd left on the floor: a thick wooden bowl holding cold water. She rooted her fingers around inside the bowl, but felt only its smooth surface.

She lifted it up to her nose and couldn't smell anything. Didn't mean it wasn't poisoned. Anything could be in there. Drugs. LSD.

Or just water, her mind said.

She put the bowl back on the floor. Her tongue and throat swelling with thirst, she picked it back up and with two hands smashed it against the floor. Heard it split. She brought it high over her head and kept smashing it. All she needed was one piece with a pointed end.

She found one and scurried to the door to wait. They must have heard the noise and would come to investigate. Pray for one, she thought. Just one.

Nobody came.

She kept waiting and nobody came.

Sitting back against the floor, she inserted the jagged end of the piece of wood into the keyhole for the manacle around her left wrist. These locks had to be old; they wouldn't be complicated. A simple spring mechanism, she figured. She moved the tip around inside the keyhole until the wood snapped. She gathered the other broken pieces, sharpening their ends against the stone. Put one into the keyhole, took a deep breath and tried again.