Page 32 of The Preachers' Promise
He smirks, and Mal shakes his head, but his lips twitch.
Mal sits up straight. “Shit, he’s here.”
Walking down the long stretch of empty road is a thin man with dyed orange hair. Grabbing the electrical guy wasn’t too hard. He was parked a way down from the facility, and no one was around, but Timothy is walking down the street in broad daylight and near the tall walls that surround the building. What if they have security cameras on the outside?
I don’t even think. I just act. I jump out of the van.
“Hey.” I wave him over as he approaches the gates. “Hey, buddy. Can I borrow you for a moment? Do you work in there?”
I point at the gates, and he hesitates but then, thank God, he walks over. People always seem to trust uniforms, even if it’s only the electrical guy.
As Tim approaches me, I walk around the far side of the panel van, away from the building, and as I had hoped, he follows. When he steps around the side of the van, away from any possible prying eyes, I relax a little. I glance up and down the long stretch of road again, and we’re clear for traffic.
I jerk my chin at the building. “Can you tell me how I get inside? I’m here for a job, but I’ve been hitting the buzzer for the past ten minutes, and no one is answering.”
He frowns. “Strange. Someone should be at the reception desk.” He glances at the gates, then back to me. “I can take you in.”
Over the guy’s shoulder, I see Roman stalking him like a big cat and its prey. A length of rope is in his hands. As soon as he gets close enough, he hooks the rope around Timothy’s neck and yanks it tight.
The shock in Tim’s eyes quickly morphs to terror. A strangled sound forces its way from his mouth, but the rope around his throat has cut off his airways. Mal jumps out of the van with the tape we stole from the electrician. He slaps it over the man’s mouth the moment Roman loosens the rope. We don’t want to kill the poor fucker.
“No need,” Roman says calmly. “I will need to borrow your identification, though.” He unhooks the lanyard from around Timothy’s neck. “And your clothes.”
Tim is barely conscious, and he doesn’t put up a fight. Malachi opens the rear doors of the van, revealing the electrician, still bound and gagged. The electrician sees us with another man, and he gives a muffled yell against the tape across his mouth, and bucks and thrashes. He’s hogtied, so he won’t cause us any trouble.
We bundle Timothy into the back as well. We can’t risk these men making a scene or banging on the van walls while Mal is in the car waiting for us, so I turn to them. “We’ll let you go once this is over with. But either of you try to make a run for it, or create any noise, and it won’t end well for you.”
I give them what I hope is my best deranged stare. It’s pretty crowded in here now, so I step back out and shut the doors, just in case someone walks past. A few minutes later, the doors openagain, and Malachi and Roman jump out. Roman is now wearing Timothy’s uniform. Problem is, it’s several inches too short on both the arms and legs.
“You look like you’re wearing kids’ clothing,” I comment.
He holds out an arm, displaying his bare wrist. “Yeah, it’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”
My own borrowed uniform isn’t much better. We just have to hope no one looks too closely.
15
OPHELIA
The medicationmy new friend gave me has done the trick.
I still feel woozy, but I’m conscious, at least. I wonder how they thought I was able to take part in group therapy if I was sound asleep. Or maybe they prefer it that way—we’re less likely to cause a disruption if we’re out of it.
The drugs they’ve given the other patients must be working, too, as no one causes any drama as we file our way into a large hall. We’re like a line of zombies, shuffling along, heads down, eyes glazed. I wonder what everyone else has done to end up here. We’re a mixture of all kinds—young and old, male and female, black and white. The only thing we share is the aura of defeat that surrounds us all.
I can’t let the staff realize I’ve taken something I shouldn’t, so I keep my head down and my eyes half shut as I shuffle along. A circle of chairs is placed in the middle of the room, and bodies fill the seats. Obediently, I take my place, too, and sit with my hands in my lap, with my chin down. A skinny boy who can’t be much older than me sits to my right, and a middle-aged woman sprouting a moustache is on my left. Someone has bad body odor, but I can’t pin down who. Maybe it’s one of the staff.
“I see we have a new face today,” the large female nurse with the wheat blonde hair says brightly. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”
My stomach sinks as I realize she means me.
I don’t want to talk, but I get the feeling she wasn’t really asking. “Ophelia,” I manage to say around a thick tongue.
A dozen glassy gazes turn in my direction.
“Speak up, dear.”
The way she says ‘dear’ doesn’t feel like it’s meant with any affection.
