Eye Spy

By Kevin J. Hallock

Eye Spy is a 106,000-word paranormal thriller about a psychic agoraphobe, the bodies he visits, the sister who saves him, and the people they protect.

CJ lives in fear. Fear of the outdoors. Fear of strangers. But his fear disappears when his mind secretly hitchhikes in someone else’s body. Undetectable, he goes where his hosts go, and he senses what they sense.

As a spy hidden beyond others’ eyes, he has foiled robberies and solved murders with the support of his sister Steph. Now, they must save a kidnapped teenager from a cult leader who believes the teen is destined to bear his child.

But when CJ’s mobile mind is noticed by other psychics, CJ and Steph’s attempted rescue becomes a struggle for survival.

Eye Spy is a Sojourning Souls story.

Edited by Arlene Prunkl, 2011 Finalist for Canada’s Tom Fairley Award for Editorial Excellence

Cover art by Steven Novak

Ebook designed, formatted, and converted by 52 novels

Bonus: This book also includes the short story Dead Doughboy Walking (Sojourning Souls #1). Dead Doughboy Walking can also be downloaded for free from many online retailers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985785512

Book preview

Story

Chapter 1

September 23

Hiding Her Brother’s Body

Maize and Blue were running around the police car, wagging their tails, and Blue was barking in anticipation of a scratch on the head from the sheriff. And maybe playing catch with the slobber-covered ball Maize held between her teeth.

Steph Campbell darted away from the living room window.

A couple of throws and fetches is all the time I need to hide CJ. She slid the coffee table to open a path between the love seat and the couch, grabbed the back of CJ’s La-Z-Boy recliner, and yanked a couple of times to get it moving. They’d splurged on some chair coasters so dragging it across the maple floor was much easier than it used to be, especially with her unconscious brother in it like four—no, three now—sacks of potatoes. Still, it was no picnic, and soon she was breathing heavily. A crumpled Muskegon Chronicle, tufts of dog hair, and a chewed-up squeaky toy collected at the back of the chair as it plowed through the detritus of their lives. She was panting like a dog on a summer day when she finally reached the door to their parents’ room, throwing it open and pulling her brother inside. When the chair reached its usual hiding spot, she pushed the door shut.

Muffled farts sputtered inside CJ’s diaper, causing her gaze to swing to her brother’s blanketed body.

As Steph turned to leave, the inside mirror greeted her with flushed, pudgy cheeks and a sweaty brow. Nothing a little hard work can’t explain. Several strands of her brown hair had worked themselves out of her ponytail, dangling almost to her shoulder. She tore off the black elastic band and tidied herself before sealing her brother behind the bedroom door and heading back to the living room. A mouse-sized squeak from the front step warned her that the sheriff had reached the porch just before he knocked. As she opened the front door, the dogs whined excitedly and tried to push their way onto the porch with him, but Steph shooed them away.

I’m sorry, Sheriff. I was in the kitchen. I wasn’t expecting you until later this week, Steph said with slow, measured words to hide her heavy breathing.

The sheriff smiled. Everything okay?

She nodded, still catching her breath and trying not to show it.

The FBI got a reliable sighting of Lauren near Detroit, he said, limping into the living room. And e-mailing attachments leaves a trail computer techs can follow, so instead, I brought out the security camera stills they’re circulating. Removing his cowboy hat revealed matted silvery hair. Even with his hat off, the sheriff towered over her. He paused, noticing the jumbled furniture.

What’s going on? He leaned a little on the couch.

I’m going to mop, as you recommended.

The sheriff nodded. About time. Stuff like that’s good to do when you’re trying to reduce the 24/7 stress of a search and rescue. You can’t be on all the time, or you burn out. His face grimaced more than usual and his breathing seemed a little labored.

Why don’t we sit down? Steph suggested. I’m exhausted. You must be tired after that long drive out here, she said sarcastically as she gestured at the sofa.

You bet. It took fifteen minutes today. Thirty years ago it took half that. He grinned a little at her jibe and hobbled to the end of the couch, where the springs were firmer.

Steph knew the sheriff’s face hid the severity of his pain. CJ had told her of the agony that stretched from the sheriff’s right knee through his hip that was now a rusty ball and joint without grease. Every grinding step was torture, especially when a snowstorm was headed across Lake Michigan toward the island.

I also included pictures of several more suspected members of the cult that the FBI is certain kidnapped her, and the latest info on their leader, Melvin Rieter, a.k.a. the Archmessiah, the sheriff said after both of them were comfortable. Is CJ awake? I’d love to show him the photos. A rubber-banded folder appeared from inside his coat.

No, he’s upstairs. He spent all night surfing the web, looking for leads. A quick glance confirmed her parents’ door was still shut. Out of respect, the sheriff would never go in; he and their parents had grown up together.

When I was twenty-two, I pulled all-nighters all the time, so I know how tough this work is. As he handed her the folder, the sheriff studied the ceiling as if he were trying to catch a glimpse of CJ. I was in a rush, so the pictures of Lauren are somewhere in the middle there, tagged with a pink Post-it. He hunched forward, resting both elbows on his knees.

Steph flipped through the interleaved photos and papers. The sheriff had provided photocopies of most of the materials, but his copier was terrible at capturing fine details. There were many fuzzy pictures of a brown-haired, blue-eyed Lauren, some stamped Lauren Danielle Becker, age 13. Forms described dozens of possible cult members, some with photos, most without. Steph scanned the list until she found Martin Walsh, age 40, occupation: librarian.

So that’s CJ’s current lead suspect. No wonder he nicknamed the guy Bug Eyes. Those glasses he wears are terrible.

There were pages and pages of phone and e-mail tips, little check marks and notes dotting most of the entries. Saw in a dream. False. False. Out for the reward. False. The last couple of pages detailed dozens of leads received after midnight the previous night.

So many recent leads? Steph held up a sheet with six names highlighted by yellow stripes.

Twenty-five thousand dollars generates a lot of false hope. The highlighted ones are from people who reported seeing her in the casino.

How is the FBI going to check them all out?

They’ll farm out as much of it as they can to the police. My next stop is the casino. The sheriff paused for a minute as she continued flipping through the file. Oh, I meant to copy that list for you and CJ.

Not a problem. CJ doesn’t use law enforcement leads that much.

The sheriff shook his head. I still don’t get how he does it. Open-source information is okay, but—

Me either. I just work here. Steph quipped, hoping he’d drop the usual how-do-you-do-that routine.

People still ask me about finding that missing nurse’s body near her boyfriend’s hidden fishing hole, and about how I caught those would-be robbers in the Apple Island Casino before they did anything. All I can do is shrug and say, right place, right time, right info. If you could just give me a little something… The sheriff’s eyes once again begged for more information.

Does he always have to bring up CJ solving Nurse Nancy’s murder? And CJ stumbling across those robbers while spying on Doris Morris inside her casino?

Steph continued their all but scripted conversation. And we really appreciate those answers you give. CJ still can’t handle the attention—maybe next year.

The sheriff nodded.

Finally, she reached the grainy security camera stills of a young white girl at a convenience store counter standing next to a guy in a biker’s jacket. This is it?

It’s the most promising lead they have.

She studied them for a few minutes. Thanks. Keep us posted. CJ is still focused on the Muskegon area.

The sheriff returned the folder to his pocket, pulled out a blank white envelope, and handed it to her.

What’s this?

A letter stating—for reasons I won’t explain because it’s none of your instructor’s business—that you should be given a deadline extension, just in case you need a little extra time to get your college classwork done.

Thanks, but you didn’t have to. Steph was touched by the gesture, though she didn’t know whether the letter would mean anything to her instructor, whom she knew only online. But it couldn’t hurt.

You’re doing good work, and if the letter isn’t enough, let me know if you need me to call a prof or two to get you more time to finish your assignments. I won’t tell them exactly what’s going on—that’s our little secret—but I’ll make certain they’re extremely generous with their deadlines. He flashed a fatherly smile that reminded Steph of bouncing on one of his knees as a girl, with his daughter Kris bouncing along on the other.

Thanks. I’ll let you know.

Is the cell phone still working fine?

Yes. Thanks for loaning it to us. Steph knew they’d never be able to afford it on their own.

It’s not me. It’s the town that generously pays for your cell phone so you can call for help no matter where you are on your property. He sighed, wobbling a bit as he rose and limped to the door. Well, I’m off to the casino.

She stood on their porch and watched the sheriff walk to his car. Someday we’ll tell you what’s going on. But right now, the sheriff wouldn’t believe. Nobody would. They’d all think she and CJ were crazy.

The bubble-topped car rocked its way down the driveway as the dogs yelped, begging the driver for a little more attention.

Steph went back into the house; she needed to continue her search for Lauren. She slid CJ’s body back into the living room before facing the cluttered farm table that was the adjoining dining room’s centerpiece. On the table, a wall of books and folders surrounded an aging desktop computer like a fort. The sheriff had given them the computer several years ago when the department had bought two new ones. It at least ran faster than their parents’ dinosaur.

I hope there aren’t any new sobbing statements from Lauren’s parents. Weeping news conferences were hard to watch, but CJ needed kidnapping updates. Before beginning, Steph sat and stared at the family photo screensaver for a few minutes as it flipped through their family’s past.

Her father in his typical dirty overalls and plaid shirt standing in front of apples outside the cider press. No matter how tired he was, their father had always played with them in the evenings. Board games. Cards. Hide and seek. I miss him.

Steph, CJ, their friend Kris, and her cousin Jake wearing swimsuits as they splashed around Quarter Lake as pre-teens. Kris and Jake were so close before he discovered heroin. She cried hard at his funeral.

Steph in a shawl and peasant dress, done up as Hodel for her high school’s performance of Fiddler on the Roof. Our teacher said I had a lot of raw talent, for whatever that’s worth.

CJ conked out on the couch with a string of drool dripping onto the cushion following a delicious Thanksgiving dinner. He’d fallen asleep watching some cop-show marathon on TV. He still loves those shows.

She ended the reminiscing with a tap of the spacebar and got to work.

• • •

The microwave clock’s green numbers read 6:37 p.m.

Steph finished cleaning the macaroni and cheese off her plate and packed the leftovers into a nukeable plastic container. At least there was food if CJ wanted something when he got back from sojourning, whenever that would be. A sense of invincibility during his sojourns had settled on CJ over the past few months, and he kept pushing himself to sojourn longer and longer. He wasn’t as cautious as he used to be.

What about your body’s health? she’d press him. What if somebody else can sense your presence?

Those were questions he now dodged, saying, Don’t worry so much. You’re the only one who knows when I’m sojourning with them.

But how do you know? Doris Morris always acts weird when you sojourn with her.

Major Domo’s just an old drunk. Nobody can sense my sojourning mind but you. We’re like those twins with superpowers, except not twins.

Cartoons aren’t based on facts. If I can sense you, somebody else probably can too.

But he wouldn’t listen, and because he needed to be out there looking for Lauren, Steph didn’t press the issue. She shifted his chair so his body was facing the setting sun—it was the best time of day to add color to his face—before returning to the computer. A part of her wanted to skim some news sites just in case, but there was really nothing more she could do for Lauren right now, and she hadn’t even begun to think about her first English 103 paper. Its outline was due in two days.

Maybe I should write a short story about being the actress Becky Samuels for a day. That’d probably work for Mr. Writing-Should-Be-Fun. Writing about what I do every day would be too dark.

Her teacher lived in that happy place known as academia, with which reality should never intersect. She continued to weigh her options as she stared at the flipping hourglass on her computer screen and waited for Word to open.

September 23

A Bag Lady’s Body

Finally.

The bag lady CJ’s mind was sojourning with turned onto Martin’s street, pushing her clanging grocery cart filled with cans and bottles. Her striped gray cat trotted beside her, its pupils dilating and contracting as it scampered between shadow and street lamp. The bag lady smelled like a musty fart and her mouth felt as if she’d licked a dead rat.

What left that aftertaste? CJ thought.

He would have preferred someone else, but he’d been sojourning from person to person for almost two hours, waiting for somebody to walk close enough to the black and white police car parked in front of Martin’s apartment building. The Department of Public Works had blocked off both ends of the street with Work in Progress signs, although CJ couldn’t see how one truck and two people drinking coffee near an open manhole cover constituted work. Unfortunately, CJ had arrived after sunset and the cop car had been parked directly beneath a street light so that the officers inside were hidden by shadow-tinted windows. The only thing he could see was the occasional glowing ember, followed by a puff of smoke from the driver’s side. If he couldn’t see the person, he couldn’t sojourn to them. On the upside, while Rat Mouth was ravenously hungry, she had only a couple of stiff joints, so she didn’t have any chance of unseating the current reigning champ for body in the most pain: the sheriff.

One street light away from the police car, Rat Mouth rummaged around in somebody’s green plastic garbage can. Two pop cans clanged into her collection before she pulled out a pizza box that CJ prayed was empty—she was so famished that she’d probably eat anything. It wasn’t empty.

Her stomach growled like a starving dog. Cockroaches scurried away and plopped off the box as she picked off some wax paper that had stuck to the cheese and pepperoni. Pungent mold spots dotted its edges.

Sometimes sojourning sucks.

As she picked off several large chunks of mold before pushing an entire piece of pizza into her mouth, CJ once again wished he could whisper in the ears of those he sojourned with; he would have begged her not to eat food from the garbage. Her cheeks stretched almost to the breaking point—a small snake swallowing a giant frog—as she gulped it down. The mold mixed with the dried toppings left her mouth parched and acrid. She rooted around in the garbage a few more minutes, excitedly grabbing several water bottles only to curse and throw them to the ground after discovering they were empty.

Cut that out.

The bag lady lurched back and twisted to see an older white cop, late fifties or early sixties, sticking his head out the driver’s-side window with a cigarette clenched between his teeth. Don’t make us take you in, he added out of the right side his mouth.

Saved. CJ’s mind sojourned into the cop.

The car window whirred almost closed, leaving a crack for the driver’s puffs. Rat Mouth scowled at the cop before throwing the pizza box into her cart and rattling off in the other direction. Her cat perched itself on a nearby fence, fixated on the police car.

I came out last week and my trash was scattered across the street. I hate bottle people, and I’m not a fan of cats either, CJ’s cop said.

Don’t have much love for either myself. The baby-faced black officer in the passenger’s seat sipped his coffee from a Starbucks paper cup. So, when Martin was a kid, one of his neighbors suspected him of killing her pet dog.

Really?

Nothing concrete, but she felt certain— He paused. So, you’re not going for the promotion they announced two days ago?

CJ’s officer shrugged his shoulders and took a long drag, pulling smoke into his burning lungs. It felt as if CJ were swallowing smoke from a bonfire of garbage. Chain smokers had lungs filled with crap, and CJ always felt as though they were gasping for air.

Street lamps lined the dingy building’s front lawn, their weak light making the structure’s mottled brick face look almost uniform. Flanking its entrance, two tattered fir trees barely reached the first floor of its three stories. CJ’s officer’s eyes came to rest on Martin’s third-story apartment.

At least your eyes work well.

He scanned Martin’s apartment building.

Well, I’m going for it, Baby Face said. Sergeant Mackie loves patrol officers who show initiative, so I’m trying to memorize every case file I’m even remotely connected to.

You pester me like my wife. I skimmed this guy’s file. And even that says he’s not particularly important to the investigation. The detectives want him to feel pressured, so they assigned a patrol car to park in front of his building. Lucky us. CJ’s host coughed a couple of times, pieces of goo rattling around in his lungs as if he were dying of pneumonia. A memory of the rhythmic click of life support echoed in the back of CJ’s mind, but he quickly silenced it—this time.

Everything we do benefits the investigation, and knowing this guy’s case file will help with Mackie, which will get me that promotion.

Maybe. Crappy Lungs lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply before resting his hand on the steering wheel. Tingling pains in his knuckles made the cigarette tough to hold still, jumbling the smoke as it streamed skyward.

Baby Face remained silent under Crappy Lungs’ smoky stare.

Baby Face looks a lot healthier, thought CJ. His mind sojourned to Baby Face.

Everything became fuzzy, as if a camera were losing focus. The trees were now blurry shadows and the building’s windows became smudges. CJ could barely make out Martin’s window. And you’re allowed to use a gun? Even if Martin walked out the door, you probably couldn’t see him.

Crappy Lungs continued. You’re still baby blue, so Mackie will love you knowing that crap. That ship has sailed for me.

Baby Face focused on his lukewarm coffee. The stench of cigarettes clouded up the car, making him roll down his window before bringing the cup close to his face. Baby Face inhaled deeply, but smoke still overpowered the coffee’s aroma.

The lights in the apartment went out.

Right on schedule, said Crappy Lungs. The soft green light of his watch flashed on his face when he checked the time.

Baby Face glanced at his partner’s watch and then back at the now darkened apartment.

If only we could wave. Crappy Lungs exhaled out of his open window into the cooling fall night. Then he’d know we know he’s watching us.

Aren’t you going to glance at the building? Baby Face leaned back in his seat, more interested in his coffee than looking at the blurry building. Out of the corner of the young cop’s eyes, it appeared that Crappy Lungs was staring right at it.

The grass is always greener… CJ sojourned back to Crappy Lungs. Come on, skipper—I just need you to see some part of Martin.

A slit appeared in Martin’s blinds, and for a split second, the street light caused a pair of eyes to sparkle.

Gotcha. CJ’s mind sojourned into Martin’s body.

From Martin’s unlit living room, the darkened black and white car sat still under the street lamp. For a moment, light glanced off the cat’s eyes as its head twisted toward the apartment before it disappeared into the night. The skin under Martin’s beard was parched and itched as though he’d baked his face in an oven. Heavy glasses flattened his nose. You really need some lotion, skipper.

Martin turned away from the window. The blinds snapped shut as he paused to readjust his own eyes to the darkness. The background slowly transformed from a black void into a room filled with shadowy shapes against a gray background. Martin shuffled toward a chair-shaped blob and settled in. His hand lurched as he was zapped by a tiny flash of static electricity while turning on the lamp.

Even your carpet dislikes you.

The darkness evaporated, leaving behind a barren living room. Half-filled light brown bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling were the only company for two gray reclining chairs that flanked a lone unfinished pine lamp table. Martin pulled a well-worn Bible from the top drawer, where it sat next to the Book of the Archmessiah, and reverently turned its thin pages until he found what he was looking for.

At least it’s not that bizarre Book of the Archmessiah the police think was written by that religious fanatic Melvin Rieter who calls himself the Archmessiah.

As he mouthed the words, Martin’s index finger slid along the text like a blind person feeling Braille.

You stiff-necked people, with uncircumcised hearts and ears! You are just like your fathers: you always resist the Holy Spirit! Was there ever a prophet your fathers did not persecute? They even killed those who predicted the coming of the Righteous One. And now you have betrayed and murdered him—you who have received the law that was put into effect through angels but who have not obeyed it.

Martin flipped between passages describing how the righteous were always persecuted, how they needed faith, and how they would be rewarded in heaven. Glances every ten minutes at his plastic-banded digital watch made time pass painfully slowly.

Maybe the FBI was right. Maybe this guy’s a dead end.

CJ’s previous cases had had short suspect lists, but picking people to sojourn with to find Lauren was no different from hunting deer wearing a blindfold. Initially, CJ had used the FBI and police profiles discussed during their briefings to identify leads, but those proved a waste of time. Even today’s hot new suspect, whom the police were really excited about, had yielded nothing.

He had first sojourned with Martin a few days ago, whom he’d nicknamed Bug Eyes because his bloodshot eyes looked ready to burst from his head. The fishbowl glasses didn’t help. Like everybody else associated with the Archmessiah’s cult who had gone underground right after Lauren’s kidnapping, Martin had been brought in for questioning at a police station where CJ was collecting intel while sojourning with Doug, whatever his last name was, the FBI agent. During the interview, Martin had pretended to be nervous and panicked about the possibility of going to jail, said he’d love to help in whatever way he could, and all sorts of other crap. But something didn’t make sense—his heartbeat was slow and steady, as if he were performing a well-practiced script.

He sighed. If only I could dip into Martin’s thoughts, even a little.

For the most part, the police had bought the act. They’d concluded Martin probably wasn’t directly involved, but he was likely withholding information, so they decided to stress him a little by adding an obvious police detail to follow him around. Meanwhile, the FBI insisted that more valuable surveillance resources be used on other people, but after spending the entire day with one of those, CJ’s gut told him Martin was more promising.

Aside from Martin’s repetitive religious activities and his itchy beard, CJ’s only complaint was his dry, itchy eyes; he never seemed to blink, making his bulging eyes continually in need of Visine. His tie was always a little tight, but not enough that CJ felt strangled.

Martin reverently placed the Bible back in the drawer, nudging it to exactly where he’d taken it from, and shut off the lamp before looking through the blinds again. The police were still there. Then he flicked on an overhead light. He glanced at his watch—midnight—before grabbing A Time to Kill from one of his bookshelves and sitting back down.

A closet John Grisham fan? Wouldn’t your nutty friends be surprised.

Praise be to God and the Archmessiah he sent to us. Martin’s quiet librarian voice barely interrupted the silence as he opened the book.

After pulling a small pad of paper and a pencil from the table’s second drawer, he began flipping through the book. On the inside cover was stamped Muskegon Public Library, but its inside pages had been marked up profusely. Many of the book’s letters and numbers were outlined by various shapes scrawled with ink of different colors. Red squares, black triangles, red and blue circles.

Huh?

As he turned the pages, he meticulously copied each letter circled with blue, which formed an obvious message:

praIse Be tO tHe Lord!

tHe tiMe of His rEturn is fAst apProaching!

toMorrow. 10 AM. tHe pEaCh GRoVe PiCk-uP.

You clever little bastard.

Praise be to God and the Archmessiah he sent to us. Martin closed the book and tore the strip of paper off with the message, shoved it in his mouth, and gulped like a kid forced to eat his vegetables. The dry, pointy edges scratched all the way down.

So much for the evidence.

CJ released his grip on Martin’s body, and his mind sprang home.

• • •

Dull throbbing from petrified muscles greeted CJ, his out-of-shape frame punishing him for leaving it still so long. Popping from his elbows and neck joined the clickety-clack of Steph’s typing as he struggled to sit up.

Martin’s going to someplace called the peach grove tomorrow, maybe to see Lauren, he bellowed.

Shit! Steph said as she lurched back. I’m going to put bells on you someday.

Sorry I startled you. He knew she hated it when he did that. He untangled the blankets that mummified him and stood, the cracking from his back reminding him of a tree crashing to the forest floor. Spots filled his vision and he wobbled as the room swirled around him.

You shouldn’t get up so quickly. Writing Made Simple flew off the desk as she rushed to help him back into the chair, preventing him from crashing to the floor like her textbook. It’s just after midnight. What took so long?

I’ve been gone eighteen hours? He tried to confirm the time, but the spots that forced him back into his chair also hid the hands of the old tick-tocking clock standing on the fireplace’s mantel.

You’re white as a sheet, and parched. You’ll pass out if you don’t drink something. We’ll call the sheriff after that.

CJ was too woozy to argue; instead, he rubbed his face with his hands. Steph’s fading footfalls changed from wood to kitchen tile. A cupboard opened and closed, echoed by the refrigerator door. Steph came back with a cup of orange juice and a damp washcloth.

Thanks. He gulped it down, leaned back into the chair, and closed his eyes. The coolness settled his body as his sister wiped his face down several times before leaving the wet cloth on his forehead. The spots faded, the merry-go-round stopped.

A minute later, the beeping of Steph dialing the phone jarred him from his recovery. Wait a second. Don’t call the sheriff.

But we should let him know what you’ve found. Steph’s thumb was poised to finish.

I haven’t found her location. He told her what happened at Martin’s, omitting Rat Mouth’s pizza delivery.

The FBI doesn’t need the decoded note that he ate, just the book, Steph said. The code doesn’t sound too hard to crack.

CJ paused. I hadn’t thought of that. But how will they know where the peach grove is?

They might be able to figure it out. And they’ll see all the other messages in the book, which could help.

Maybe, but then the cult would know something was wrong, and they might move Lauren. We don’t even know if this peach grove is where she’s at. I think we need to keep at it at least one more day. The book isn’t going anywhere.

Steph threw the cordless phone onto the table before slumping into a chair. How can we wait? Tears welled in her eyes.

Still a little lightheaded, CJ wobbled over and leaned on the table. Don’t worry, Steph. We’ll find her. If not tomorrow, soon, but we can’t do anything more tonight.

Steph dabbed her eyes with some Kleenex. I just wish we could get to her faster. Are you taking the 6:00 a.m. ferry again?

Yeah. Martin will probably leave early to try to lose the Muskegon police.

I’ll stop by the sheriff’s after you go to give him a little update.

She shut off the computer and helped him upstairs, where they collapsed into their beds.

September 23

Three Weeks? Three Months?

What child is this/ who, laid to rest/ on Mary’s lap/ is sleeping?

The rusty bed creaked as Lauren curled up tight and smothered both ears with her holy pillows, which were as stinky and grimy as she was. She still heard the muffled music crackling through the tiny silver speakers hanging from one of the ceiling’s bare wooden boards. She wanted to cry, but her parched eyes refused to leak any more. Her hoarse voice might manage a scream, but he would punish her for it and no one would save her. No one could hear her.

The thick white walls stifled all sound, including her fists when she raged against one of them. They were also one of the few clean things down here. Dirty concrete floor. Flickering fluorescent lights that tired her eyes. No clock. Three folding chairs and an outdoor patio table. A half bath with the door removed, letting the odor of a movie-theater restroom waft around. She didn’t see a camera, but there probably was one. The creepy fat guy lumbering above probably enjoyed watching her pee in between bringing her food and water three times a day. Sometimes, he was disturbingly nice, especially when he acted like a friendly father.

What is Dad doing right now? Is he worried? He has to be looking for me. Are the police helping? If I can only get home, I swear I’ll obey my parents’ curfew. I’ll even eat whatever Mom serves me, no complaints, even grapefruit.

The fat man was always smiling and talking about how good his wife’s cooking was, which it wasn’t, how obedient his kids were, and how he was doing Lauren a favor by keeping her safe and setting boundaries. God rewards the good and punishes the wicked, he said over and over.

At first, the constant Christmas carols had been a little soothing, reminding her of presents and parents and home. But as the steady stream of soft lyrics continued, they sliced into Lauren’s mind like a river cutting a path through a canyon. Her teachers told her it took years for a river to erode rock, but eventually it dug deep. She never wanted to hear another carol again—ever.

Three bottles of Poland Springs water sat on the table at the other side of the room. She tried to stand, but a tug yanked her back. The white robes they made her wear had snagged on the bed frame again. The robes were the only thing washed, and they had to be white. Jesus sweated and suffered, so should you, the fat man kept saying. How she would love to cut up the robes, if only she had something to cut with, but she was still sore from the spanking he had given her the last time she was evil. She hadn’t been able to sit for a day. A glimmer of grim pleasure flickered inside her when she remembered his face—wide eyed and slack jawed—when he saw the bits of Bible scattered about her room like giant snowflakes. She wished she had a picture. Then his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. Lauren could still feel the board beating her as his wife held her down.

She tensed as heavy footsteps thudded across the ceiling. Please help me, she whispered, knowing nobody could hear her.

She untangled her legs, drank some water, and grabbed her new Bible. One of those little green ones that movies show in cheap hotels, or dirty people hand out on the street. He would be mad if she hadn’t finished the assigned six chapters by her next breakfast. She’d waited too long. She should have done it sooner. If only she had a clock.

Please don’t let the fat man come too soon. She gripped the pillow around her head and began reading as fast as her blurred eyes allowed.

Good Christians, fear/ for sinners here/ the silent word is pleading.

September 24, 5:30 A.M.

Pursuing the Peach Grove

CJ woke up when Steph turned on his bedroom light.

Come on, we got to get you into the chair. She was already dressed in jeans and a blue sweatshirt. He was still in his t-shirt and boxers and used a sheet as a toga while hunting for clothes.

I spend so much time in it, he said. We should really buy a more comfortable one, like that one we saw online last week, or maybe a massage chair. Being comatose all day required the right outfit, and the gray pair of crumpled sweat pants crowning a pile of not-really-dirty laundry near the end of his bed was the perfect choice. With a little more digging, he found a black sweatshirt.

"Two hundred dollars is too much for a chair. Grab a blanket. We