Page 83 of The Captive Missing

“Jason doesn’t like politics.”

“All the better,” Clay reasoned. “He’s an influencer, whether he likes it or not.”

“And you want to use that influence?”

“If it’s for the good of the people, then why not?”

“For the good of the people, but also for the good of you, right? It opens a place for you to assume power.”

“Someone has to have the power, Val,” Clay pointed out. “Why not someone willing to set you all free?”

Chapter 24

That night, Val found herself in yet another strange bed in a long line of unfamiliar surroundings. After the compound had finished a group dinner, she had been shown to her bedroom, which was situated on the second floor. Outside, the wind was whistling. Fall was coming, and with it, the promise of an icy winter.

Dinner itself had been subdued. Overflowing plates of spaghetti had been served family style on a series of long tables that ran the length of the back porch. There was hot baked bread slathered in garlic butter and fresh green salad dotted with cherry tomatoes. Propane heaters were positioned every so often. They provided a comforting warmth against the evening’s chill.

Sitting amongst the Militia, Val noticed some of the trees in the yard had leaves just beginning to turn. The valley would soon be a symphony of reds, yellows and browns, excepting of course for the evergreens. Clay sat at the head of the table with the others ranging down either side.

Val settled in next to Connie, content just to listen to their banter in reserved silence. She still wasn’t used to so much talking. Cambric didn’t like a lot of talking.

But the free men, and women, they didn’t share in her compulsion. Their talk was full of friendly joking, boisterous outbursts and the occasional stomping of boots. The pigs were getting plenty fat. Maybe Tony should stop feeding them so damn much. The cows needed another pasture cleared. Angela would ride one for twenty bucks and a fifth of whiskey. The chicken coop could use with some new wire. What, no volunteers?

Val’s brow furrowed. They could eat what they wanted and say what they wanted and no one did anything about it. She had forgotten what that was like. And it was that small slice of remembering, that finally got to her.

Later that night, when she sat heavily on the edge of her queen-sized bed, Val felt the first crack. It split suddenly, like the seam in a pair of pants you had been testing for too long. Her careful veneer, the outward serenity that she had clothed herself in out of necessity. It shattered.

Shoulders trembling, uncontrollable sobs ripped themselves from her throat. For despite all of Clay’s talk of freedom, when Val had asked him to call her husband, his answer had been a gentle, but firm, no.

This is a process, he had said. You must be patient and trust it.

All the buzz words from Agent Finn and the code words from the underground rolled out of Clay’s smart mouth and into Val’s completely captive ears. He assured her they would talk about it again, that eventually she would see Jason, and her son, too.

But the awful truth was, from where Val sat, she had been lifted out of Cambric’s control and placed firmly in the hands of the Militia. She was a pawn still, like she had been her entire life. The worst part of all, she thought, was the throbbing hope that had filled her at arriving here. She believed she was within an inch of seeing Jason again. That would put her one plane ride away from reuniting with her son. But that was a lie. A false, ugly, hateful lie. She was nowhere near either of them. Nowhere at all.

Bordering on hysterical, Val fell back on the mattress and clutched at a pillow. Burying her face deep into it, she screamed and screamed until her throat felt raw and bruised from the work of it. The last thing she recalled before passing out, was the continued sound of her own anguished moaning.

* * *

The following morning, she woke at sunrise to the crow of a rooster. Lifting her aching head from the mattress, she rubbed at her sore eyes and tripped towards the windows. Outside, the first rays of yellow sunshine had begun to crest the eastern ridge of the valley. It was sorrowful and beautiful.

A grayish haze had settled amongst the buildings of the compound. Far below, men were already up and at their work. A pair strode together towards the red barn, heavy jackets protecting them against the early chill.

Inhaling, Val smelled the first tickling aromas of a country breakfast. Her stomach turned sour. Her appetite, along with her emotions, had gone off. The steady self-control she had once exercised now eluded her. Pushing her way into the attached bathroom, she sat heavily on the toilet seat and endured another round of crying.

At some point in the late-afternoon, Connie made her way up to the bedroom and rapped gently on the door. Val sat reclining on the floor, her back pressed up against the wall just below one slender window.

Earlier in the day, she had opened it wide. A tickle of air brushed over her hair as the sounds of the earth entered her room. All day she had listened to the lowing of the cows, the calling of the sheep and the grunting of the pigs. Once those sounds became familiar, her ears began to pick up bird song and the whisper of leaves.

“Val dear-” Connie lifted her voice. “Please come down. There’s someone new here who would like to speak with you.”

Not bothering to answer, Val felt only a vague curiosity. She had heard the rumble of a motor about two hours before and swiveling up on her knees had observed the arrival of a silver SUV. Its occupant, a single blonde female, strode directly under the protective cover of the porch and out of sight. Val didn’t recognize the new woman, so had no real interest at the time, but Connie seemed a well-meaning person and Val felt an underlying obligation to respond.

“Alright,” Val answered, and ducking her head Connie retreated back out her door.

Getting up, Val dusted at her t-shirt with shaky hands before running her fingers through her mass of hair. A bit unsteady on her feet, she tottered to the door and felt the twist of the old brass knob in her hand. It creaked as she opened it onto the narrow hallway, the farmhouse seemed filled with them.

The same walnut flooring from downstairs was repeated on the second level as well. Val’s bare feet padded silently over the worn surface and down the stairs.

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