He came back into view, close enough to trace his finger down her cheek. She barely controlled the shiver in her skin. “How about a taste? You can work out something with me now and shorten the ‘treat’ I have in store for you.” He raised his eyebrows.

  A sharp smell similar to Old Spice but with a vinegar undertone got the best of her. She cringed. “I’m not Brenda. But thanks.” Rachel turned her face to the side. Blech. He didn’t smell good to her. Too much work on seeming bigger than he was. His size was better for Brenda to seduce, too. Almost six inches separated Rachel and Gustavson and he was desperate to diminish the difference.

  He shrugged and moved away. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t offer to make this... better.” Gustavson chuckled and returned to the panel. He dawdled there for a moment, humming something under his breath.

  Identify his motivation before he gained more of an upper hand. Humming and smiling, chuckling even, seemed extremely out of character for him unless the payoff was good enough to jar him out of his normal personality traits.

  Sadistic man with a cruel streak. What would make him tick besides hurting others? No, wait. Why was the better question. That was his fuel. Hurting others. How was he going to hurt her? She could prepare for that. She could handle just about anything.

  Biting her lip to keep from talking, Rachel waited. The buttons would be electricity, water, heat, something to increase her pain or discomfort, draw out the tension. Nothing was attached to her head or skin besides the metal restraints holding her to her seat. Those would be the contact points. She clenched her hands to prepare.

  He pressed a button marked with a numeral one.

  Rachel held her breath.

  Chapter 7: Tom

  HE’D BEEN SHOT. ALL that time running and escaping bullets and other injuries and he’d been shot on the hill with his dad watching. He must have blacked out because he didn’t remember being transported to the room he was in, being hooked up to an IV, and stashed in a bed. A mirror reflected the grimace twisting his face.

  His damp shirt clung to his chest. He ducked his head to his underarm to check and see if the stale scent of sweat came from him. For the most part, he didn’t stink. He wouldn’t be surprised though. His last shower had been – who the hell knows when?

  He’d never had a thing for dark, contained areas. Especially cement-lined cubicle-sized closets.

  Lights overhead switched on. He blinked in the sudden glare.

  An accented voice, reminiscent of the voices in his house while the men had searched for him, filled the room. “Mr. Mason, welcome. You’re going to be a participant in an experiment. If you clear the ‘tests’, you’ll be free to go.”

  Tom’s eyes widened. He called into the room, unsure where to look or who to face. “What do I have to do?”

  A whirring sound preceded the blast of cold air that hit him in the face. The voice faded behind loud beeps from the IV monitor. “Survive.”

  Tom’s IV seemed to turn to ice. The drip slowed. Air conditioning blew on him, drawing goose bumps on his bare arms. He shivered. Where had his jacket gone? His legs were covered with bandages. He’d been cleansed and medically treated. The people who had him had to be better than Farnham and his gang. Right? His unattached wrist had a bandage wrapped around it and a stiff splint underneath against his skin bit into the webspace between his thumb and finger.

  All he had to do was survive? He’d survived so far. He could do it.

  First, he’d need to get a nurse or someone to adjust the temperature in the room. The AC directed frigid air onto his wet shirt and bare skin. Crap, he was freezing from the inside out.

  He’d survive. Where the heck is that nurse’s button?

  Chapter 8: Brenda

  EARLY DINNER DONE, Brenda corralled the kids into the yard. Trying to keep one eye on them and one eye on the sky, she showed them how to recover damaged plants from the smashed piles in the clearing. “Bring it over here, Beau.”

  The sky was empty. Not one cloud could be seen. Brenda leaned her hip against the largest boulder and bit her fingernail.

  Beau dropped the plant by Brenda’s feet. He squinted up at his aunt. “Where’d Kayli go? I’m bored.”

  Brenda squatted beside him. “Kayli’s over there looking for plants, like you.” She pointed toward the center of the clearing, but kept her eyes on Beau.

  He shook his head. “No, she’s not. I was just over there. That’s where I got this.” He pointed at the wilted plant at his feet and beamed like he’d invented gold.

  “She’s not over there?” Brenda stood and scanned the clearing. The little brown-haired girl couldn’t hide under boulders smashed so far into the ground they had skirts of dirt and trees.

  Her nephew knelt beside his plant and waved the leaves around like dancing arms. “Nope. Can I get something to drink?”

  Brenda grabbed his hand and walked him into the house. “Don’t leave this spot. I’ll be back.” He didn’t even acknowledge her as he moved around the kitchen getting a cup. Brenda tucked the butt of her sister’s gun into her palm. The next thing she’d do is shoot whoever the hell was interrupting the relative safety of Rachel’s home.

  If she could find Kayli first.

  Rather than run outside yelling for her niece, Brenda swallowed and ducked out the door. She edged around the front of the building, snuck through the lean-to, and out into the trees bordering the clearing. Kayli had better be sitting somewhere napping or pulling apart a flower. Disappearing crap isn’t funny.

  The late afternoon sun shot long shadows from the boulders where any small child could hide. Tension in the moment enhanced Brenda’s sensitivity to the fresh spring smell of dirt rising from the damp forest floor.

  Every step Brenda took seemed to snap or crackle and pop. Like a damn cereal.

  Kayli’s hair exactly matched the browns of the trunks and Brenda squinted through the rows and rows of trees spreading out from the circle. Where would a kid that small go? She knew the situation wasn’t safe. Smarter than most other 6-year-olds, in Brenda’s opinion, Kayli would know not to stray far. Right?

  Brenda shoved her backside against the nearest tree. She lowered the gun to her side and gasped. She’d been holding her breath and finally, biological need had forced her to breathe. She leaned forward and in a loud whisper, called, “Kayli? Kayli Parker, you better get over here.”

  The lack of reply brought back all of Brenda’s anxiety from the last few weeks. Sweat ran down her neck, the salt stinging her aggravated neck wound. Damn branding. She hunched over and ran to the next tree. And the next. Nothing moved in the clearing except the occasional misplaced tree root in the breeze.

  Kayli laughed. The sound echoed through the trees to Brenda’s right. Laughter meant she wasn’t dead. Yet.

  Brenda moved toward the direction of the sound. Murmurings whispered between the trees, but Brenda couldn’t figure out the exact location. “Kayli? Where are you, honey?” She froze, waiting for an answer, an indication of which way to move.

  The murmurings stopped and Kayli called out, “Over here, Aunt Brenda.”

  Brenda turned to her right and moved behind a thick grouping of bushes she’d passed on her way around the clearing. She tightened her grip on the gun. She needed to be prepared to shoot, if it came to that.

  But behind the brush, Kayli knelt in the damp grass and mud. She gripped a stick with moss wrapped around the tip. “Aunt Brenda! This is my friend. She’s reading me a story.”

  Irritated? Yep. Relieved? Hell, yeah. Brenda exhaled and lowered her gun, loosening her grip. “Kayli,” she sighed. “I thought someone had taken you.” Kneeling, Brenda glanced around the unfamiliar forest.

  Kayli’s laugh tinkled, and she jiggled her makeshift doll. “Aunt Brenda, you’re silly. There’s no one out here.”

  Brenda smiled at her niece’s bent head. “I guess you’re right.” Comfortable silence fell between them. Oddly, birds chirped in the background. The moment had a surreal flavor Brenda couldn’t quite grasp yet she didn’t want to leave either. Sitting there with Kayli, her sister’s miniature copy, sparked memories of growing up and hiding.

  A page rustled in the slight breeze. Two small, thick notebooks lay open on top of a dark backpack Brenda somehow recognized. “Honey, what do you have?” She leaned forward and grasped the books for a closer look at the odd shaped symbols and incomplete verbiage.

  As the words came more into focus, Brenda brushed the dirt and loose grass blades from the pages. She flipped one, then another.

  Kayli shrugged. “I found the bag by the door. I think it’s Tom’s. He left it here. Finders keepers, right?” She glanced up and rubbed the tip of her nose. “Sorry, I didn’t find more plants. I wanted to but I found my dolly. And...” She shrugged.

  Brenda couldn’t focus. Between Kayli talking and the secrets she’d discovered, too many thoughts whirled through her head. Suddenly ominous, the birds seemed to whistle back and forth about the codes in the first book. The forest became closed in and Brenda gasped against the sudden claustrophobic feel tightening around her chest.

  She stood. “Kayli, we need to get back. Grab your stuff, let’s go.” Brenda wiggled her toes. Her fingers tapped against the cold metal of the gun still in her hand. She shifted her eyes between her niece and the gaps in the trees. They could run, if attacked, but how far? How fast? How close were the people looking for Rachel?

  The distance to the house wasn’t as far as Brenda had thought. Inside, Beau sat at the table dropping rocks in his cup of water. He offered a sheepish smile and tried covering the small puddle beside his cup with his hand.

  Rolling her eyes, Brenda pulled Kayli through the door and shut it... tight. The clock on the wall showed it’d only been about seven hours since Rachel and Josh had left. It wasn’t long, but one of them had to accomplish their goal. Rachel had left on foot, with town being a short three hour hike straight through the woods and people’s backyards. Josh had taken the other four-wheeler and disappeared toward the south.

  Kayli’s loud yawn broke through Brenda’s calculations. She tossed the bag and books on the table and waved her hand at Beau. “Okay, guys, let’s get ready for bed. I’ll tuck you in, okay?” Then she’d figure out what the hell she should do.

  According to what she’d read, Rachel was the one leading the attackers.

  Chapter 9: Rachel

  RACHEL CLENCHED HER jaw and forced her eyes to stay focused on Tom. His shivering body jerked and spasmed as the lowered temperature attacked him from the inside out.

  Gustavson strode toward her from the control panel. With the short distance, his long steps didn’t slow until he was right up to her, his coffee-scented breath puffing in her face. “Recognize the Polar Method?”

  Rachel turned her face. Halitosis was one thing, but bad breath from coffee was one of the worst smells out there. She didn’t reply. Tom was cold, but he’d survive. His fear wasn’t in being cold anyway.

  But she glanced around the room. If he knew about the Polar Method, Daniel was close and the bastard was monitoring. She’d designed the Polar Method as a weakening device. Easy to recover from, but debilitating on the body more so than cuts, bruises, even hunger.

  Gustavson watched her. Waited for some acknowledgement or reaction. He harrumphed, backed up to the panel, and pressed more buttons.

  Another mirror, this one to her left, lit up, illuminating Josh strapped to the wall. Dirt smudged his torn shirt. The bandage she’d helped Brenda apply hung dingy and loose. His head lulled to the side, eyes closed. No chairs or other furnishings occupied the room. He lacked the IV Tom had and in fact had been afforded none of the comforts the teenager had. Maybe someone had a heart after all and was worried about the kid.

  Josh didn’t move.

  Gustavson waited.

  Rachel racked her brain for possible scenarios. The Polar Method wasn’t meant to break someone. It was designed to weaken the victim. She’d designed the test as a possible POW questioning device during the Rhode Island Psychology Project, but tossed it out after she’d tried it on herself.

  No one knew about it but Daniel. She’d burned her notes and the blueprints. And according to the release specialist, everyone was dead. Since Daniel was alive, most likely the release specialist had lied through his incisors.

  Daniel’s presence loomed nearer. He’d been her fall out, her ground, the person to bring her back from the darkness, if she survived the tests.

  If Daniel worked with Gustavson, then the little bastard wouldn’t have any reason stop until he got what he wanted. And Gustavson would enjoy it, judging by the look on his face as he watched Tom.

  Rachel cleared her throat and Gustavson turned to her, his eyebrows raised. She met his gaze, but couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  Eyes trained on hers, Gustavson reached over with his hand and flipped another switch.

  Andy appeared, broken and battered. He’d been cleaned, IVd, treated, but the treatment threw his injuries into stark relief. His lacerations and bruises stood out against his pale skin and even whiter dressings. Her husband blinked at the sudden light.

  Unable to tear her eyes from him, Rachel swallowed. He really wasn’t dead. He was right in front of her. Her fingers twitched, desperate to touch him, establish his presence in the whacked out version of reality she’d been stuck in. Her words burst free before she could restrain them. “What do you want from me?” At least her tone maintained some semblance of boredom, extreme opposite end of the spectrum with the chaos and fear bouncing around her mind.

  Gustavson looked at the captive men. “It looks to me like I want something from them.”

  And it did. But what could he want from them? She was the audience. Rachel hadn’t been trained for analyzing situations. Daniel had played the chess games, the action versus reaction in human behavior with regards to life or death matters. Rachel had been in charge of the players, inside their heads, their motivations, triggers, fears, and prohibitors.

  No one else knew that without one the other couldn’t be successful.

  Except for her and Daniel.

  Tom’s teeth chattered. The sound proof rooms hid the words Andy said. Josh still hadn’t moved.

  “Okay, I’ll bite.” Rachel inclined her head toward the captives. “What do you want from them?”

  Gustavson chuckled. He paced from window to window and poked at the glass with his gloved finger. “I’ll know what it is, when I get it.” He raised his hand and looked up toward the ceiling of Josh’s cell. “Shhhh.”

  Water from a chopped-off fire-sprinkler poured into the room. Josh didn’t move as droplets darkened spots on his flannel shirt.

  Stupid to dump water into a room that certainly had a drain. From Rachel’s seated position she couldn’t see the floor, but logic told her the drain would be there. Josh would be fine.

  An ache in her wrists warned her against showing too much stress in her body language. She needed to calm down. She spread her fingers, relaxing her pull on the cuffs, and slowed her breathing. Josh would be fine. Drains had a purpose. He’d be fine.

  Gustavson watched Josh for another moment. He yawned. Stepping to Andy’s window, he watched Andy continue to call out.

  A glazed look shuttered Andy’s eyes. He muttered something, his lips barely moving. Looked around, then yelled. At least the strain in his neck and wide mouth indicated he did. His confusion became more and more apparent.

  Andy leaned his head back and moved his lips. His eyes closed. His lips continued to move. He repeated the same word over and over. “Rachel.”

  Chapter 10: Brenda

  BRENDA CLOSED THE DOOR on the sleeping kids. What else was in Tom’s bag?

  She settled onto the futon in the living room and turned a small lamp on. Compared to the safety of her sister’s mountain home – even with bombed mountain side covering the clearing – the outside world could have disappeared, blown up, or returned to normal. She’d never know, ensconced in the quiet normalcy of tucking her niece and nephew in and lounging on a couch.

  Old-school canvas gave the knapsack a rough feel. Metal buckles and clasps clinked together when Brenda pulled the heavy bag onto her lap. Opening the flap and digging through socks and a sweatshirt, Brenda grabbed a dark device that looked like an ancestor to the cell phone. “What do we have here?”

  Buttons and lines for a speaker on the small radio offered little information. She’d never seen a walky-talky without a partner. Rifling through the contents, Brenda couldn’t locate a matching one. A radio needed a partner. Tom didn’t strike her as the type of kid to carry around a worthless piece of equipment.

  An antenna protruded from the top with the knob marked “vol”. To the empty room, she muttered, “What’s it gonna hurt?” She’d been on the run too long, alone, talking to a turned-off-radio was her form of entertainment.

  She turned the knob full bore. Nothing but static emitted and a green 00 flashed on the digital screen. She switched channels using the up arrow and the numbers moved to 01. Then 02. Still static. 03. 04. 05. Static. 06. Dead air. Which she had to admit was better than the obnoxious static.

  She rested the radio in her lap, the dead air breathing into the room like another person sat with her. The companionship was welcome, if not a bit offsetting that her loneliness had been partially assuaged by an inanimate object. A sigh escaped.

  The ceiling met her roving gaze. Anxiety welled up inside her. The urge to do, be, act, itched along her skin. But what? She was stuck in that house with the kids. And truth time demanded she admit fear for the information in the books sitting benignly at her side paralyzed her from reading further. She should be working on the books, not playing with some kid’s radio that didn’t wo—

 

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