Discovering Normal (19 page)

Chapter
20

It was time now to go. To just give up, wave the white flag and stop fighting, because Chris couldn’t remember what the hell he had been fighting for.

He’d been somewhere in that merciful place that wasn’t actually sleep, but couldn’t be called consciousness either, when the door flew open and four guys appeared.

Damn. Time again for another pounding.

He didn’t resist anymore, felt no need. He just wanted it over because he’d finally figured out that he’d never be able to help or protect the ones he’d loved this way. He watched the thugs descend. Two snatched his legs, two his arms.

Had he ever been filled with as much conviction as he could see in their eyes? Had anything ever mattered that much?

“Manish-Mannen, it is time.”

How many times had they told him that? How many times had they warned that this was the end, only to throw him to the floor, pound him, torment him, show him the goddamn pictures that made him smile and then never failed to make him cry?

He was a shell now and it would be so much better if a spear just sliced through his gut or a weapon blew away his soul.

But he still knew enough to know that they didn’t much care what he thought.

The two guys at his feet
allowed
them fall to the floor while the bigger two thugs tugged him across the room, out the door and down a hall.

Chris hadn’t seen the other side in so long he would’ve been interested or grateful had he just remembered how to offer up that much thankfulness. They hurled him down long twisting stairs, his feet trailing
; t
ugged him past women in white and men in leather who spit or threw things--hitting him, but with absolutely no power to hurt him anymore.

And there on the other side he remembered. While in this state that he’d been forced to live, he could tell himself that it was gone--all of it, all of his life--just erased from his memory. But here and now he remembered. Maybe it’d been the tedious hours of study and training that the Bureau of his other life had put him through that made him less vulnerable to a psychological attack. Or maybe it was the faith he’d lost when his wife walked out the door that made him less susceptible to belief in anything at all--least of all a crazed lunatic who fancied himself a messiah.

Or maybe i
t was just that Chris was tough and weathered
and tarnished and it would be less punishment for him to forget it all than the torture he felt in remembering.

There were more stairs, more grueling slaps of stone against his flesh and bones and more mocking as he passed.

He struggled briefly, but stopped just as fast as the weird and slightly biblical reality descended. Finally, after long minutes of tugging and pulling and pain, Chris was hurled to the floor of the dankest, darkest room yet. Water lapped on one side of a six by six foot platform of stone that was the only space available to him. His frame was longer than that so it was impossible to stretch out. He twisted to an angle, the soles of his feet at the very edge of a precipice that he just knew without looking led only to a deep basin that could and definitely would carry one foolish enough to try and escape out to the sea.

Chris curled his legs to his chest. He was cold and coughing and this had to be close to dead. The door slammed and the thugs were gone without so much as a word or an evaluation sheet for the new accommodations they offered.

It was too dark to see much, but Chris noted a scrawny rat dart by.

Hell, he was just grateful for the company.

***

Slow and steady, Beth inched her way down the stifling tunnel. At times she could hear voices and almost make out the words, but none gave her any clues. They whispered of devotion and the truth--nothing about captive former Special
Service agents.

Beth trudged on, silently humming just to keep from thinking. Finally and mercifully, she spotted a light. She moved toward it and when she was almost there, she cautiously hesitated and focused. Luckily, it wasn’t covered by another grate, but by netting similar to a screen. She’d caught her first break.

Without looking directly into it, Beth peered through to a corridor. A suit of armor stood guard, but she saw nothing that resembled a real live deranged human. Cautiously, she nudged at the net and breathed a sigh of relief when it actually gave way. Though it was difficult, she set to work peeling the outer wrap of her clothing, leaving just the pristine white in place. She carefully lined the dusty tunnel with the discarded wrap so as not to soil the white. Instinctively she felt for her gun and all but useless microphone and sucked in a breath before she took the chance, pushed the netting and leapt ten feet to the floor.

She landed softly, instantly covered the pistol for easy access and took an assessment of the deserted corridor. Once she deemed it clear, Beth took a stab at retrieving her bearings. A single scalloped window sat carved in stone. She hurried to it and looked around. The water was still on her left, confirming that the direction was east. That meant Chris was in the turret on the opposite end of the building. She bolted off and actually felt relieved that her shoes may in fact prove to be beneficial--they made no sound at all. Her hair blew behind her as she swiftly navigated the hall, cowering once behind yet another suit of armor when three women wrapped in white passed by. Beth managed to make a calculated turn, only to see a man dressed in leather and holding an AK-47 that definitely meant business appear on the horizon of the corridor. She ducked into a darkened doorway and prayed every prayer she’d ever been taught. He paused, glanced around, but kept moving. Beth exhaled a silent
thank you
and continued on when he’d disappeared from sight.

She started again, running, surveying, praying. When she finally reached a curvy set of stairs leading up, she paused, did a quick once-over of the corridor and then craned her neck to peer up the winding case. It seemed clear and she wouldn’t get any better odds than that.

“Deej,” she whispered one last time, hoping the tiny microphone had somehow managed to pick up where it hadn’t been able to before. No luck. Beth proceeded, slowly, stealthy like a cat; taking utter care and caution with every move.

The staircase narrowed with each step until at the top of about twenty winding ridges, the width was no wider than her size seven and half foot. She reached the end and stumbled into an outer room that was little more than some sort of lookout. A crude bench sat beneath a fortress window and an old gun resembling a musket waited nearby beside an ancient rocking chair--chipped and splintered. Aside from a few logs for a small hearth that was now cold, the area was bare. But there in the middle of the vast stonewall, sat a door with a heavy bar lock to ensure that whoever was inside wouldn’t be getting out.

But like a tiny miracle, the door was ajar, the lock not fastened. Beth peered in; saw no one, just the foot of what looked to be a bed of some sort with rumpled bedding.

Chris.

She reached for her pistol and pulled it from her wrap. Slowly, cautiously, she slipped inside. She drew the gun, steadied with both hands and spun as she’d been taught. But except for a spider busily weaving its home down the wall, the room held nothing living or otherwise.

Beth pivoted, threw what little bedding there was aside, but she’d been painfully right. He was gone. He’d been here and recently--Beth had always been able to feel him--but whether willingly or forcefully, he was gone now.

And then she heard the buzz, felt the tiny stinging zing against her breast. “Deej?”

“Bethie, where are you?”

“I got out of my room and made it to the west turret, but he’s not in here.”

“Bethie, listen to me. Get out. Get back to your room and wait for your instructions. Could you hear us at all earlier?”

“I couldn’t. I tried, but it was all static.”

George’s voice became clear then. “Fog set in, Beth. We lost you, but we were trying to tell you to stay put--tell you that we couldn’t ensure your safety.”

Beth looked around once more just to be absolutely certain and then moved to the door. “What’s going on?”

“Bethie,” Deej said in that way he had of telling her things that he didn’t want to tell her. “They got our guy. The unit at the edge of the drive found Andy Marsh’s body just a little while ago. Holden is on to us.”

Beth leaned against the wall, still clutching the gun. She closed her eyes, tried to think. Tried to calculate. “I can’t just leave him. I can’t.”

Deej spoke slow and steady. “Listen, Bethie, they’re obviously more than prepared to use the weapons that they swiped. You can’t be the next victim. We can prevent further problems if you just get back to your room, keep up the Farley-Fauna shtick--”

Beth fought the tears that wouldn’t help her. “If Holden is in fact on to us, he also knows that I’m not really here as Farley-Fauna. He’ll kill Chris. He has no reason to keep him alive.”

And there was silence.

“You think he’s already dead.” It wasn’t a question.

George cleared his throat. “Just go back to your room, Beth.”

“We’re signing off,” Deej said. “A fax is coming in. We’ll check back in a little while, but the plan now is to infiltrate in about three hours. We’re just waiting for back-up.”

And then they were gone. Beth slid down the wall and steadied the gun against the mountaintop of her knees. They were probably right--both Deej and George were experts at espionage and they certainly knew what would be best. But Chris wasn’t the father of
their
children.

She thought of Audrey and the way she cuddled to Chris’ chest while he read
Where The Wild Things Are
--complete with individual voices for Max and each beast.         
             
She thought of Noah--a tiny replica of the man who’d made him--and saw an image of father and son in the yard, catching pop-ups and cheering with high-fives.

She thought of the photos her mother-in-law had shown her of a beautiful baby with chocolaty eyes, a little boy with a gap-toothed smile and tousled hair, a teenager in football gear with the charm already present.

Beth squeezed her eyes, but then opened them just as quickly. This wasn’t the time for melancholy. It wasn’t a time to feel sorry for herself or wonder why things happened the way they did. It also wasn’t a time to give into the jealousy she felt when she remembered that her husband--albeit estranged and captive husband--had created another child with someone other than her. Chris was loved and needed and she couldn’t leave him here to die without at least trying to save him.

She hoisted from the wall, took an assessment to ensure that she’d left nothing of herself behind, and then stole down the stairs--quiet and determined--gun firmly in hand.

***

Chris coughed and curled into more of a fetal position to combat the frigid dampness. But the small, confining platform didn’t leave much to work with. He heard a sound, but couldn’t quite find the energy to raise his head and try to figure out who or what the hell it was.

A creak and then a shuffle.

“I bring you nourishment, Manish-Mannen.”

He opened one eye to see the girl called Chanta-Clara. His gut clenched because she only reminded him of the grotesque pleasurable pain. She carried a tray and moved gently toward him along the ravine of rock. She didn’t look down to the rippling vast hole of water; just grasped the tray and nearly floated his way, hair billowing behind her.

“Are you well?”

He rolled from his side to his back.

She balanced the tray on a ragged point of rock jutting from the cavern wall. “You answer not, Manish-Mannen,” she said, her voice echoing in the atmosphere. She bent and helped tug him to more of a sitting position. “You need this food. You are to be the father of the child which I carry.”

Chris felt his head fall back, felt the confusion smash to his gut.
A child? How?
But then again, maybe.

“Eat.” She hoisted him and sadly his thin frame didn’t make it much of an effort.

Chris bumped back against the scratch of rock and still knew enough to be repulsed by the fish head--complete with eye--floating in a gray broth. That was it; no crust of bread, no cup of water--just a fish head floating in gray broth.

“Though it may not look most tempting, it will keep you alive,” the girl whispered and wedged a piece of cloth beneath his chin.