Jeremy yelled, “No!” but it was too late. The pistol boomed-it was impossibly loud in the confines of the hallway-and Mr. Stewart dropped to the floor. He landed in a heap and didn’t move.
Jeremy shrieked, “Mr. Stewart!” and a hand clapped his mouth closed. Garlic Breath lifted him by his head until his bare feet could no longer find the floor.
From behind them, down the hall, someone yelled, “What the fuck?” and one of the men who’d disappeared into the dorm room darted back out into the hall with a gun in his hand.
“Gotta get going,” Garlic Breath said.
Jeremy couldn’t believe the lack of emotion. They’d just killed the nicest man at Resurrection House. He dug his fingernails into Garlic Breath’s hands and kicked his feet wildly. He wasn’t leaving Mr. Stewart. Not like this.
His attacker’s grip only tightened. “Get the other one out,” he commanded, and the other man disappeared again into the room.
“Let me go!” Jeremy yelled, but it was as if he were invisible.
Another door opened, and a boy yelled. Jeremy recognized the face but couldn’t remember his name. Jeremy yelled, “Help!” but the boy disappeared back into his room and slammed the door.
“To the stairs!” Garlic Breath called.
It hurt too much to fight. Jeremy let himself be taken.
Another door and another scream.
A man’s voice yelled, “Mitch! Look out!”
And then Jeremy got hit by a train. That’s what it felt like, anyway. Without warning he was airborne, and then fireworks exploded behind his eyes as he was driven into the unyielding concrete block wall.
Things went fuzzy after that, but there were definitely more screams. As his head cleared, it took a second or two to realize what he was seeing. Mr. Stewart was fighting his kidnapper! He and Garlic Breath rolled on the floor, cursing and struggling for advantage as blood smeared and spattered everywhere.
“Help!” Jeremy cried, and while more doors opened, none of the children filling the jambs did anything.
In seconds, the man from down the hall joined the fight and pulled Mr. Stewart away from Garlic Breath by his pajama top. When it ripped and the buttons pulled away, the custodian launched himself at the attacker again. But he’d lost his element of surprise. The second man grabbed him by the arms this time, and Mr. Stewart could barely move as they stood him up. His chest and belly were slick with blood, but he kept up his struggle as best he could.
“Run, Jeremy,” he said. “Children, get to your rooms and lock-”
Garlic Breath punched him hard in the ribs, in the spot where the blood seemed to be flowing from.
Mr. Stewart’s face twisted into something beyond pain, but he didn’t yell. Instead, he locked eyes with Jeremy and said again, “Run.” At least he tried to say it. No sound came out.
But Jeremy couldn’t move. Not to save his friend, not to save himself. He didn’t even know he was crying as he covered his mouth and watched them hit Mr. Stewart again. And again. One more time and they let him slide to the floor.
“I said it was time to go,” Garlic Breath said to his accomplice. Then he walked to Jeremy, stooped and grasped his arm, almost gently this time. “You, too, Jeremy,” he said.
Jeremy stood. The last thing he saw before they placed the foul-smelling rag over his face was the faces of all those kids staring at him, letting him be taken. Letting Mr. Stewart die.
Darkness.
“That’s all I remember,” Jeremy concluded. His voice had been growing softer as he droned on with the story, until now it was barely audible, speaking to his crossed ankles on the camp chair. He rocked his head up, and in the dark illumination of the lantern, Harvey was surprised to see that the boy’s eyes were dry. “Why would they do that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Harvey said, but his words were merely place-takers in the night. His mind raced in step with his hammering heart as he tried to come up with some plausible explanation. It was worse than a mere kidnapping. These men-whoever they were-dragged Jeremy all the way out here to kill him. And then they didn’t. Why take him in the first place if they just wanted him dead? They killed Mr. Stewart, after all; why not just fire a second shot into the boy? Worse, why fire a fake shot to pretend they’d killed him?
Harvey felt the panic attack blooming like a mushroom cloud. It was a big one, he could tell, forming like an offshore tidal wave and rising higher and higher until it would finally break over him and crush him. He hadn’t had one like this in years.
He had nowhere to run. He had possession of a child he didn’t know, who was supposed to be dead, and undoubtedly had people bearing down to correct their mistake. If they got the kid, they’d get Harvey, too, and then what?
No, sir. He’d chosen this ridiculous lifestyle specifically to keep things like this from happening. He’d been responsible for too many people, thank you very much. He’d fought other people’s wars. He wasn’t going to do that again.
He had to get rid of this kid. He should have just let him die. He should have let the boy become a body, and then just packed up his shit and gotten out of here. What was he worried about protecting, anyway? A footlocker full of MREs and a few utensils?
The air seemed suddenly too thick to breathe. Harvey clamped his arms across his chest and squeezed, trying to bring the rush of panic under control. Sometimes this worked, sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t, things got ugly.
He closed his eyes and tried to summon the image of the serene lake where the long-ago shrink had taught him to seek refuge when the attacks came. If he could get to the lake before the wave broke, the whole incident could pass. If it didn’t, then he guessed he’d see another blackout. He’d go wherever his mind would take him, and when it was over, he’d have to assess the damage he’d done.
Come on, he begged himself. Let me win. To lose was to wipe four successful years completely off the books. Please, God, don’t let that happen.
He saw it. On the movie screen behind his eyes, he saw the mirror-smooth surface of the water reflecting the flawless blue sky and the green pines. He saw himself as a little boy sitting on the edge of the dock casting for bass, his bare feet swinging, his toes cutting V — shaped wakes in the still water.
The image was born of hypnosis, and when it arrived, it always felt real. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his neck, feel the chill of the water on his toes. Those sensations were every bit as real as the slowing heart rate and the regulated breathing. He’d broken the wave before it could break him. He’d won, and he was proud for it.
“Are you okay?”
It was Jeremy. He’d climbed off his chair and taken a position on his haunches in front of Harvey. The touch of the kid’s hand on his shoulder brought him back from the lake.
“Are you okay?” Jeremy asked again.
Harvey inhaled deeply through his nose and blew it out as a silent whistle. It steadied him. The panic was gone.
“You and I have some serious thinking to do, young man,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’m setting up a breaching charge,” said Boxers’ voice in Jonathan’s ear.
The framed explosives that the big guy had brought along would make easy work of the security doors, but not without leaving an unholy mess. Jonathan wanted to say no, but things were looking grim. “Fine,” he said. “But don’t blow anything until I give the command.” They were here to free one prisoner, not a whole jail.
“What the hell is going on?” Jimmy Henry demanded. He looked terrified, fully ready to join the other side. “And who do you keep talking to?”
Jonathan ignored him. “Mother Hen, speak to me,” he said.
“It’s bad,” Venice said. He could hear the computer keys clacking in the background. “They figured out what
