Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

From somewhere outside came an eerie cry, an agonizing wail that was faint but clear. She still had no idea where in the world she was, but the primitive walls within her sight line suggested country rather than city, and lying here in this dim room, hearing that wail, she imagined some sort of monster prowling through the woods. She shivered, frightened on an instinctive gut level. The cry came again. In fact it never went away, only ebbed and flowed in its intensity, and now it sounded human, the cry of a man in serious physical or emotional pain.

There was a commotion in the other room, and at first she thought it had to do with her and what she had done, but when no one came in, and she heard Father yelling and was able to make out the words “you” and “again,” she allowed herself a glimmer of hope. He was angry. At his own people. And that was good. It meant things were not going according to his plan.

She wondered if the Homesteaders had been discovered, if they were going to have to leave this place—wherever it was. Maybe they would forget about her in their haste and leave her behind and she would be rescued.

Maybe they would just kill her because it would be too much trouble to take her along.

She tried in vain to make out what Father was saying. He was still yelling, and she could also hear the movement of feet, many feet.

What was going on in there?

She listened.

Waited.

Gary faced away from the far-off fire and focused his attention once again on the ranch house in front of him. He had no idea what had happened and could only assume that Reyn must have figured out a way to blow up one or more of the Homesteaders’ vehicles. He’d probably dropped a match down one of the gas tanks or something, and while the sound of the explosion and the sight of the flames had immediately filled him with a sense of gratification, he wished his friend had found a quieter way to decommission the cars.

Seconds after the blast, a line of men and women came running out of the ranch house. It was too dark to see any of them clearly, but he discerned no limps, no malformed appendages, nothing to indicate that any of them were Father’s Children. They carried neither lanterns nor flashlights and moved without speaking through the darkness, not taking the road but jogging single file down a parallel path he had not noticed before.

He counted twenty of them, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. It was hard to tell. Were these all of the Homesteaders who were left? Gary wondered. Were these all of the penitents and all of the followers from throughout the entire country? He hoped so but doubted it. Not that it really mattered. Because while there might still be pockets of believers scattered among various other states, Father was here. That was the important thing.

Cut off the head and the body will die.

Gary didn’t know where he’d heard that before, but it was true, and he knew that if Father were captured— or killed —his followers would dissipate; the Homesteaders would be through. Gary looked toward the path down which the men and women had gone, wishing there was a way for him to warn Reyn that they were coming, but even if his cell phone worked in this canyon, he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by speaking aloud or inadvertantly give away Reyn’s position by setting off the ringtone of his friend’s phone. Besides, at the rate the Homesteaders were moving, they would reach Reyn before Gary could take out his phone, turn it on and make the call.

He needed to concentrate on finding Joan and getting her out of here before they came back.

The room behind the window he’d been watching now appeared to be empty, but Gary didn’t dare trust that that was the case. Carefully, he crept forward, crouching low, until he reached the building. He paused, waiting to see if he’d been spotted, but no one came out, and though he listened, he heard no sound. His right hand was starting to hurt, and he loosened his grip on the tire iron, which he’d been clutching as tightly as he could.

Moving slowly, he sidled along the wall until he reached the window, then allowed himself a sneak peek around the edge of the frame. He saw a sparsely furnished room lit by two lanterns at opposite ends. There were no people, which meant no Joan, and he quickly pulled himself back, not wanting to be discovered should someone enter. His heart was pumping loudly enough to muffle his hearing, and he wondered if Joan was in the house at all.

Maybe she was dead.

No. She couldn’t be. But he crept along the side of the wall more quickly, with renewed purpose, and when he reached another window on the side of the building and found it dark, he shone his flashlight through the glass without hesitation. Weakened by the dusty glass, his beam shone upon a bed, a table, a chair. Through another doorway across what had to be a hall, he could see dim flickering, as from a candle, and he hurried around the next corner in an effort to reach that room.

Only…

The rear of the house had no windows. His flashlight beam played upon a solid wood wall facing the cliff behind the ranch. A feeling of panic welled within him, and he forced himself to calm down as he retreated back the way he’d come. He reached the front of the house, making sure to stay in the shadows—

And there was a gunshot down the road.

A gunshot?

One of the Homesteaders must have gotten Reyn.

It was like a punch to the gut, and his first instinct was to run and check on his friend in case there was something he could do.

Another gunshot.

Two shots? Reyn had to be dead. But Gary could not allow himself to stop and dwell on it. He had to find Joan—although how he could hope to get her out of here now he had no idea.

He clutched his weapon tightly. As far as he could tell, he was all alone. No one seemed to have been left behind when the Homesteaders had run out to investigate the explosion. Even if someone was in the house, Gary had his tire iron and could easily subdue—

Kill

—the person. It was time for him to take action, and without further thought he ran to the door through which the Homesteaders had exited. It had closed but was knobless and unlocked. He put his flashlight down on the ground, then yanked the door open, rushing inside, both hands on the tire iron, ready to swing.

As he’d seen from the window, there was no one in the front room. From a hook next to the door hung a lantern, and another lantern was suspended from a bigger hook near the door on the opposite side of the room. Between the two, in the center of the floor, was a round table on which sat a large black Bible. The table’s chairs had all been pushed against the wall, and on top of the seats were piled boxes filled with prayer scrolls.

The room smelled woodsy, piney, the same distinctive odor that had characterized the fires at his dorm and at the library. If Reyn had not recognized the scent, Gary would not be here right now, and he was grateful to his friend for remembering where he had encountered the pitch before.

Unless, of course, Joan wasn’t here.

In which case Reyn and Stacy had died for nothing.

Anger nearly overwhelmed him at the thought, and he ran through the room, tire iron over his shoulder, ready to take out anyone in his way. He almost tripped over a metal bucket near the opposite door. It was filled with a thick black liquid, and he had time to register that it was probably the pitch before he was in a short hall. He spotted the dark room he’d seen through the window, as well as what appeared to be a kitchen, but there was another room at the back of the house, with a faint light glowing around the edges of the doorway, and he hurried over and ran in.