Gary knew who he was immediately. There’d been no mug shots of Father in the sheriff’s file because lawyers had gotten them removed when the case was dismissed, but his framed visage had been displayed on the walls of every photographed room. He’d appeared grim and forbidding in the pictures, but he looked far more frightening in person, and the dark eyes of the tall, stern man who stood in the center of the hallway, white beard hanging down to the center of his chest, blazed with an anger so strong that Gary completely understood why his followers were afraid of him.
Behind Father in the corridor, standing, sitting, crawling, rolling wheelchairs and pushing carts, were men, women and children, fifteen or twenty of them, all horribly malformed. Gary saw a woman with only one arm, no legs and a few strands of iron gray hair combed over the top of her otherwise bald head, being pushed in a modified stroller by a broad-shouldered man no taller than a child. A skinny, pasty-looking teenager who did not seem to be able to close his mouth was drooling into a thick rag tied around his neck. A figure of indeterminate gender lay atop a table equipped with wheels, laughing toothlessly.
“What the fuck?” Brian said.
“The Children!” Joan exclaimed, and there was fear in her voice.
“Yes, Ruth, the Children,” Father said. He had a strong, deep voice, the type suited for oratory, and his piercing, angry eyes took all of them in. What Gary saw there frightened him, and for the first time he thought they might not make it out of there alive. He used his right hand to withdraw the knife from his belt, still holding protectively on to Joan with his left.
If he thought there would be talk, discussion, negotiation, he was wrong. With a rigid finger, Father pointed at them and shouted an order in that strange language.
Rebekah screamed.
Joan clutched his hand even tighter.
The Children swarmed. As Father stood untouched and unmoving amid the sea of running, rolling, crawling humanity, Gary, holding tight to Joan’s hand, turned to run. He had a knife in his hand, as did Brian, but neither of them were killers, and though they might have wielded the weapons for protection, their reflexes were too slow, impeded by conscience and morality, and by the time they’d made the determination that to attack was their only choice, it was too late. Gary’s wrist was grabbed, the weapon jerked from his hand. All of the words coming at him were in that alien language, and hands were clawing at him, claws were handling him. He saw faces so distorted they looked more animal than human, more monster than animal, feeling soft, squishy flesh and hard, reptilian skin. Trying to fight back, he went down under a horde of hideous assailants. “Joan!” he cried as they were wrenched apart.
Punched in the gut so hard he couldn’t breathe, Gary knew he was going to die, and at that precise second someone shouted out, “Stop right there!”
The voice was not only normal but familiar. Sheriff Stewart.
The assault continued, but it grew weaker, and shouts in English overrode the alien screams as law enforcement officers broke up the melee. Gary kicked one of his attackers and managed to pull free from a long-legged man who was tugging on his right arm. He stood, looking frantically about for Joan. Batons raised, Stewart and four deputies he didn’t recognize were yanking people up, shoving them against the wall and shouting for compliance. Joan and Reyn were free and standing just behind the sheriff. Brian was still fighting with a man who had hold of his neck.
Face hurting, eyes watering, Gary lurched to the right, staggered around the edge of the fray and embraced Joan. “Are you okay?” he managed to get out.
She nodded, but her body was tense, and the expression on her face was anxious and agitated. He was about to tell her that everything was all right, the cavalry had arrived, they were safe, when he saw where she was looking. He suddenly understood her worry, and he glanced around, searching in every direction. His eyes moved over the combatants, up and down the corridor, did the same thing again, but the result did not change.
Father was gone.
Twenty-four
Joan stood with Gary and their friends next to the sheriff’s car as two deputies brought out a line of stumbling, mushroom-impaired Residents tied together with plastic restraints. They were placed in front of the Home, in the shade of the wall, next to the fifty or so others who had already been taken out.
All of the law enforcement officers in Bitterweed, on duty and off, had been called in, as had the six extra posse members who usually helped out in the event of an emergency, but they were still overwhelmed by the sheer number of people they had to round up. Other agents from other jurisdictions had been summoned to handle the overflow, but it would be a while before any of them got here, and until then local law enforcement had to subdue and restrain the entire population of the Home by themselves. Not all of the Residents and Penitents would be charged and arrested, of course, but all of them had to be interviewed, once they were sober, and after that the determination of what to do with them would be made.
There were deputies stationed all around the Home, at every entrance, in case someone should try to get away, and Joan still had hopes that Father would be captured, but as one hour passed by, and then another, such an outcome seemed increasingly unlikely. The sheriff had told them they didn’t have to wait around, they could go back to town, but she wanted to stay. She wanted to see what they found, who they found, what happened.
Finally, the last group was brought around the corner of the building from the area of the Farm, all shackled together. There were Teachers in this group, and she saw the look on Absalom’s face as he was led out with the others. There was nothing kind about it now. He had no warm smile for her, only a hateful glare that told her what she already knew: this was not over.
She remained stoic as his eyes bored into hers. But inside, she was like jelly. She had left the Home, had lived in the real world, was an official Outsider. She was not the girl she had been. But somehow being here again, seeing these people, brought it all back: the fear, the anxiety, the paranoia.
She turned away, trying to make it seem casual and natural, not wanting him to know that she was afraid. Her heart was pounding crazily, and she needed a drink of water; her mouth was completely dry. The sheriff walked up to them. He looked tired but pleased, and he actually smiled as he said, “Thank you.” He pointed to Stacy. “Especially you, for calling it in. The tape of that call is going to get us out of a whole heap of legal trouble.”
“I just hope you put them away for a long time.”
“With your help, with the help of all of you, I think we’ll be able to do that.” The sheriff moved in front of Joan. “Ms. Daniels.” He nodded politely. “How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” she said.
“Understandable, understandable.” There was a short pause. “When we’re done here, after we go back to the office, if you’re up to it, I’d like to get a statement from you. Not to add on too much pressure, but you’re the reason for all this. You’re the linchpin of our case, and we really need your cooperation in nailing these guys.”
“I’ll give you a statement; I’ll testify in court—I’ll give you whatever you need.”
He looked relieved. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that.”
“Is that all of them?” Gary asked, motioning toward the numb, passive Residents lined up against the wall. Separated from the others were the Children. Several of the more severely disabled, the ones in wheelchairs or lying on gurneys, had already been taken away in ambulances.
“That’s all we were able to find. So far. I have a group of men searching the barn and looking through the fields. We’re going to go back in and do another search of the compound in a few minutes.” His jaw tightened. “We haven’t been able to locate their illustrious leader, the one who calls himself ‘Father.’ ”