Chapter XXII. 2007 #3
They were going to take her and lock her away on Retreat, and Brianna and her mother were going to die. She would never see them again.
“This doesn’t have to be hard, Camilla. Let’s make it easy on everyone, okay?”
She snorted. “Easy? Sure.”
The men stepped closer, their hands upheld in a gesture that was meant to placate her. They meant no harm. This was for her own good. Didn’t she know?
A shuffling came from somewhere over her right shoulder, but she didn’t let herself turn. Better to keep her eyes on Pastor Trent and the other leaders who had not stopped their slow progression toward her. She didn’t think she could outrun all of them.
“You need to go with them, hon.”
Her father’s voice slammed into her like a weight.
She felt herself drift up and out of her body, felt her head turn to look back at her father, who stood on the stairs with Grant, a bloodied handkerchief pressed against his nose.
She followed that trail of blood down his chin and shirt, glad to know she’d done it.
“Daddy,” she began, but Pastor Trent was on her, his hand gripping her wrist as he pulled her into his chest, his other arm wrapping around her so she was pinned against him. Immediately, she began to thrash, her legs kicking as she screamed for a god that had turned his face from her.
He dragged her backward, and she let herself go still, the full weight of her body gone slack.
A small bit of advice from something she’d seen on the internet about what to do during an attempted abduction.
He stumbled against her dead weight, his grip loosening so she was able to free one arm.
She drove it directly backward into his balls.
He dropped her fully then, his hands cradling that hideous thing he likely valued more than anything else in his pathetic little world. She pushed off him, angling her body toward the tree line that would let her disappear and take her to the Dark Sisters.
But she’d forgotten about the other church leaders and the rumors of what they carried in case of a difficult woman. She’d heard the whispers when the women returned to services, how they had to be broken under 50,000 volts of electricity. All in the name of God.
She heard the sickening crack of the Taser, and the world tilted, her teeth clacking together with enough force to break her back molar as she convulsed and then dropped to the ground.
Between them, the men lifted her easily and bound her hands and feet with zip ties before stuffing her into the back of the Range Rover. Her head lolled as she watched her father emerge from the dark of the house, his hand against Trent’s back as he spoke.
“Comfy back there?” One of the men turned to face her from the driver’s seat and grinned. She tried to spit at him, but her muscles were still twisted into an uncontrollable rictus, and saliva dribbled down her chin.
“Should have put a muzzle on her,” the other man said as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“Is Pastor Burson coming?”
“Said he’ll be by later. Has some loose ends to tie up first.” He flipped his visor down and checked his teeth.
The edges of Camilla’s vision went blurry, and the last thing she heard before she slipped away was the sound of the engine turning over and her father telling them to drive carefully. After all, they had precious cargo.
“I’D REALLY HOPED not to see you back so soon.”
Camilla’s mouth tasted of vomit and blood, and every inch of skin felt bruised as she reluctantly opened her eyes.
She looked up at Barbara, who leaned over her and wiped at her face with a damp washcloth.
They’d put her back in the same room. She wondered if they’d kept it for her since the day she was born.
All those years waiting for her to come and take her rightful place as the bad-girl preacher’s daughter.
“But I missed you so much,” she croaked.
“I see your sense of sarcasm is still intact.” Barbara sighed and dipped the washcloth into the basin at her feet. “I trust you remember how things work around here?”
“I can’t stay.”
“I don’t think you have a choice.” She nodded at the zip ties still circling Camilla’s wrists and ankles.
The mattress beneath her wasn’t the plush bed she had last time, but the thin cushion of a hospital bed, complete with rollers.
Her heart sank as she looked at the metal side rails.
It was better for moving her without allowing her to walk.
Whatever their intentions were for her, it didn’t involve anything voluntary.
Barbara passed the cloth over her face again, her lips pursed as she examined her work.
“Good enough for now. I’ll get your meds ordered, and then in the morning, after you’ve taken your second dose, we’ll see if you’re calm enough for a shower.
” She retrieved the basin, stood, and made her way to the door.
Camilla watched her go, wondering how long Barbara had worked for her father. If she’d once been a scared young woman forced on Retreat or if she’d always swallowed all the bullshit she’d been fed with a smile on her face. If she ever woke in the middle of the night in a panic without knowing why.
“Do you remember your Purity Ball, Barbara?”
Barbra looked back at Camilla. “Of course, I do.” She smiled. “It was perfect. One of the best nights of my life.”
“You ever have nightmares about it?”
“Why would I have nightmares about that?” She turned and resumed her walk to the door, but Camilla noted how she avoided answering the question.
“Have any scars? Maybe on your thigh? Maybe can’t remember how you got them?”
She paused, mid-stride, and Camilla knew she’d hit a nerve. She wondered how many women in Hawthorne Springs had sister scars on their thighs.
“If you need anything, we’ll be watching,” she said, and pointed at the ceiling where the crown molding concealed the camera’s eye. Camilla had felt it was there during her previous stay, but at least now she had confirmation.
The lock fell into place behind Barbara, her footsteps silent in the plush carpet.
Camilla twisted her wrists and ankles, but the zip ties didn’t budge.
What if she had to pee? Would Barbara come in with a bed pan?
Or would she have to piss herself and then sit in it until someone finally came to clean her up?
Tears sprang to her eyes. She’d tried so hard. She’d thought being good and doing everything her father expected would give her the time to figure everything out, but not even her best efforts were enough. It was the role she’d been raised for, and she couldn’t even do that right.
She should have been less afraid, should have gone to the tree sooner rather than falling in line with her father’s distractions. The trip to Paris, and clothes, and dinner parties, and champagne, and Grant Pemberton. Now, she would suffer for it.
Again, she flexed her hands against the ties, the plastic cutting into her flesh, and she screamed.
She didn’t care if the camera heard, or if she was being a disturbance.
She screamed again, and the rawness of it soothed her somehow.
Fuck every single person who helped her father run his bullshit bloodsucking empire. She would see them all in hell.
The door beeped, the lock clicking open, and Camilla bared her teeth, ready to scream again at Barbara, who’d come to muzzle her or inject her with something to keep her silent.
But the person coming toward her wasn’t Barbara. She was younger—Camilla’s age—a sweep of dark hair pulled back in a braid. She carried a glass of water and a paper ramekin. The medication Barbara had promised.
She set the water on the bedside table, the ramekin still in her hand as she advanced on Camilla and unsheathed a pair of heavy-handled scissors from her front pocket. She leaned in to Camilla’s ear and whispered, “Keep screaming. And keep still until I tell you to move. You understand?”
Camilla shrieked, dug her heels into the mattress, and tried to push herself away from those wicked blades.
She should have known. It would be easier if she were dead.
A problem solved. The sympathy and support for her father would be at an all-time high if he were to lose his wife and daughter.
His wife had been so ill. It only made sense that his daughter would have caught the same illness.
They would order closed caskets out of respect for Pastor Burson.
No one wanted to see such beauty laid to waste. A clean, easy, simple solution.
“Good. That’s good.” The woman bent over her, the scissors making a wicked snick as they opened, and grasped the zip tie at her wrists.
Camilla bucked, but the woman knelt on the bed, leaned her body weight against Camilla, and pinned her down.
The metal was cold against her wrist as the scissors slid against the delicate skin there.
Camilla closed her eyes. She’d pictured something bloodier, but opening her wrists was easier.
Less splatter to clean up later. She choked in a breath, and wondered if her fear would release along with her blood. There would be some solace in that.
There was a slight pressure, and then a snap as the zip tie released. Camilla’s eyes opened in surprise as the woman slung a leg over to straddle her, the paper ramekin in one hand, the scissors in the other.
“Don’t move. Keep your hands exactly like they were.” The woman’s voice was still barely a whisper. She shifted slightly, her body arched so she could reach Camilla’s ankles. “Scream again. Try to throw me off.”
Bewildered, Camilla did as she asked, her screams filling the room as she felt that cold slide of metal again, the pressure around her ankles releasing as the woman cut the ties.
“Move your head. Back and forth. Like you’re fighting me off.” She leaned her arm against Camilla’s chest, her thighs clenching to keep Camilla still. “It has to look convincing.” She jerked her head toward the ceiling and resumed her work.