Lester’s hips spasmed and he came, moaning deep in his throat.
Then he smiled and took a picture.
Prior to this, Lester never had any sexual experience that was consensual. This Georgia girl was the first person to ever come on to him. And though, like the others, she seemed afraid, she also seemed very willing.
Because of that, Lester had no immediate desire to chew her into little pieces. The idea of an active participant was so exciting that he was able to keep the biting urge in check.
He bent down to kiss her, and she didn’t pull away. She opened her mouth to him fully, jabbing at his tongue with hers, even grinding her hips up against him.
Yes indeed, this Georgia girl was something special.
“Lester is taking Georgia girl home.”
Her eyes got big, and she sucked on her lower lip. “To your playroom?”
“Yes. But Lester won’t hurt Georgia girl. He likes her. He wants to show her something.”
Her hands moved down, grabbing him again. “Lester already showed Georgia girl something. And she really liked it.”
Lester blushed, and then felt the stirrings of a second arousal. But this wasn’t a good place for sex. The feral people were around. They feared Lester, but there were too many, so he had to stay on guard.
He zipped up the fly in his overalls. “Lester wants to show Georgia girl the pet. Lester thinks Georgia girl will like it.”
The girl tugged up her pants and stood, and for a brief moment she looked scared and Lester thought she was going to run. That would be bad. Lester would have to chase her, and then he’d take her to the playroom and tie her up and hurt her very badly.
But she didn’t run. Georgia girl reached out and took his arm, resting her cheek against his elbow.
Yes, she would like meeting the pet. And afterward, Lester would introduce her to Doctor. But Doctor wouldn’t give this one to Subject 33. Not this one.
This one, Lester was going to keep.
Sara found the next ribbon in the direction Martin said it would be. After hours of fruitlessly searching for the damn things, her relief was palpable. But so was her fear. Every moment they remained undiscovered seemed like borrowed time.
The trio moved slowly, stopping often to listen if they were being followed.
All they heard was screaming. Meadow’s screaming.
Sara walked with her shoulders rigid, her fists clenched, tucking Jack’s blanket up around his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear it.
Every wail was worse than a slap. As a psychologist, she knew about the mental processes involved in certain instances of child abuse—research she boned up on to better understand Georgia, who put a child in a clothes dryer. The trigger of Shaken Baby Syndrome was usually a frustrated caregiver who couldn’t take the crying, and began to resent the very life they were supposed to protect.
Then Sara had her son. She was in labor for eight and a half hours with Jack. Toward the end she was exhausted, wracked by pain, and just wanted the whole damn “miracle of birth” thing to be over with so she could get some sleep.
But then Jack finally entered the world, and when she was holding him in her arms and looking into his tiny eyes the implication of it all hit her harder than the labor did. Sara felt love like it was a physical force, and she swore she would do everything in her power to make this little person happy. It was an absolute joy she hadn’t ever experienced, before or since.
The idea that anyone could lose control and hurt a child was monstrous.
But after listening to Meadow’s screams for more than ten minutes, Sara began to lose control. She recognized it happening, knew the reason why, and still couldn’t stop it. Rage coursed through her, and it wasn’t directed at whoever was hurting Meadow.
It was directed
And then the screaming stopped. Sara stood still, listening.
Crickets and nothing else.
The silence came with a real measure of relief. But at the same time, Sara feared it meant Meadow’s death. The fear trumped the relief, the weight of the realization threatening to sink Sara into the ground. Having one of her kids run away was bad enough. But Meadow actually dying? Dying when it was her job to protect him?
Sara fell apart.
Laneesha sidled up to her. She’d been walking with her fingers in her ears, and in the moonlight her face glistened like a wet plum. Sara hugged the teen, who hugged back, and they spent a moment sobbing.
Martin touched Sara’s hair.
“We have to keep going, hon.”
“But Meadow… he’s…”
Martin pulled Sara in close, and she felt herself melt into him. “I know. But we have other kids that need our help. We have to be strong for them.”
Sara nodded, wiped a fist across her face, rubbing away tears, and began searching for the next ribbon. As she walked, she raged against the conflict going on inside of her. One part, grateful the screaming had ended. The other, angry at herself for being grateful. Add this shame to the horror of murdering a man, and Sara questioned her capabilities to counsel children, or anyone else for that matter. Her job description required empathy, along with the ability to dispassionately disconnect. Sara seemed unable to do either.
That made Sara even more disgusted. On top of everything going on, she had to throw herself a pity party.
“We should be there soon,” Martin said, coming up behind her. He spoke deliberately, a measure of pain in his voice.
Sara knew this was a completely inappropriate time to bring it up, but she did anyway.
“Martin. You haven’t signed the divorce papers yet.”
He was silent for a moment, then said. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. But if that’s what you really want…”
“What I really want is you.”
In the darkness, his hand found hers.
“Then let’s not give up on us yet,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Can I hold Jack? That screaming…well…it got to me.”
Sara understood completely. She gave her sleeping son a kiss on his head and passed him, sling and all, over to his father. Martin slipped the straps over his shoulders and patted Jack’s back. It was something she’d seen dozens of times before, and the thought of never seeing it again was devastating.
If—no—when they got out of here, she would do everything she could to make their marriage, and their family, work.
“How many ribbons have you counted?” Martin asked.
“Ten or eleven.”
“If we’re going in the right direction, the campsite should be very close.”
“Or we’re heading toward the lake, and will have to retrace all of our steps. We need to pick up the pace, Martin. If there’s any chance Meadow is—”
Laneesha’s scream cut Sara off. She rushed over to the teen, flashlight bobbling, and aimed the beam at the large hill of rubble the girl was facing.
The hill was well over ten feet high, and stretched on for dozens of yards. It was pale gray, made up of what appeared to be stones and branches.
Laneesha clutched Sara’s shoulder, hard enough to make her wince. It pushed Sara closer to the mound, and in a moment that seemed utterly surreal, Sara realized that those weren’t stones and branches.
