The Capture (24 page)

T
HE OTHERS HAVE DRIFTED
off to sleep, but Hope remains by the fire, mind racing. She wonders what Maddox and Gallingham are up to. Remembers her family. And most of all: thinks about Book. Was it just plain idiotic to think she could turn off her feelings for him?

But then she remembers Miranda—can't shake from her mind the sight of her head resting on Book's shoulder.

It's better this way,
she thinks.
If I allow myself to love, I'll only get hurt.

As her eyes gaze into the wavering flames, she absently strokes the locket around her neck. Like the Sisters and Less Thans themselves, this little charm has been through hell and back: flood and fire, blood and bullets. It's nicked and tarnished and scorched and
singed, but that doesn't diminish what it means to her. She can still imagine her parents' faces through the thin metal.

And now she's discovered the note, it's not just their faraway gaze, but words of encouragement and love. It's almost like her dad is sending a message from the grave—willing her to carry on.

Hope's fingers stop and clutch the locket. What if it's more than that? What if it's more than mere words of reassurance? What if her dad was actually trying to tell her something?

With fumbling fingers, she removes the locket from around her neck and places it in her palm. She snaps it open. Her thumb and index finger pinch the picture of her father and the tiny slip of paper behind his photo. She unfolds the paper. Even though the words are seared into her brain, her eyes pore over the short paragraph.

To Faith and Hope

Dear girls. Either you get this or you won't, but if you do. Know that I love you. Know that I believe in you. Either way, your mom and I have been so proud to raise two such amazing daughters who don't give up. Remember your mother and do what's best.

Dad

Is it possible there's something there she didn't see before? Some hidden message? Some clue her father is
giving her from the grave?

Hope reads the paragraph once more and a thought occurs to her: she doesn't understand the punctuation. Why are the first and second sentences separated? Or, more to the point, why is there a period after the first sentence? Why is there a period after the greeting? It makes no sense. Unless . . .

Her hands are shaking as she examines the tiny scrap of paper once again. Maybe he was doing something with the first letters. Maybe that's why he made two sentences out of one.

So
Dear
would be
D
.

Either
would be
E
.

Know
is
K
.

And so on, until she arrives at six letters.
D-E-K-K-E-R.

Dekker.

A person, if she's not mistaken. She's heard the name before, but can't recall why or when. She thinks Book mentioned him once.

She scrambles over to Flush and gives him a hard nudge. He's sleeping on his side with Argos tucked against his chest. They both look up.

“Is it morning already?” Flush's words are slurred with sleep.

“Shh. I have a question. Dekker. Who is he?”

Flush tries to focus. “Sergeant Dekker? A real prick. Used to give Book shit for some reason.”

Hope suddenly remembers. The cruel sergeant who pulled his pistol on Frank when she was hiding in the attic.

“Thanks,” she says, patting Flush on the shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

She returns to her spot by the fire and studies the note again, her eyes landing on that final sentence.
Remember your mother and do what's best.

What was her father telling her? That Dekker was somehow involved with her mother's death? Is that what he was getting at?

If so, Hope wonders how he knew. He returned to the house only once, to give his wife a proper burial, but he never spoke about the experience, and Faith and Hope never asked. All Hope remembers is that he came back with a hard glint in his eye.

Maybe he'd discovered more than just his wife's skeletal remains; maybe he'd discovered clues.

If so, then Hope needs to add another name to the list.

Thorason, Maddox, Gallingham . . . and Dekker.

O
NCE THE MAJOR SENSED
us standing there, his eyes slid open. I hadn't seen him since the summer, the night at Camp Freedom when he told me Cat was alive. He'd lost maybe a hundred pounds since then, and his bones pressed against his skin.

Cat fell to his knees by his father's side. “What happened?” he asked.

Karsten took a long moment to swallow before he spoke. “Westbrook,” he finally croaked. “Aims to kill us all.”

Cat shook his head in disbelief. “But why you? You're not a Less Than.”

Karsten tried to force a smile. His teeth and gums had turned black. “Found out . . . about my son.”

He turned away and coughed—a deep, gagging sound that reached the depths of his lungs. Was it my imagination or were there drops of blood on his pillow?

Cat began flexing his hand, balling it into a tight fist before straightening it out again. Karsten's eyes landed on me, his face more skull than flesh and blood.

“Remember Final Solution?” he managed.

“Of course.”

He gave a sober nod.

Cat and I shared a look. Those mass graves were for real. Chancellor Maddox intended to kill everyone off, then bury them and hide the evidence. Cat's face went rigid, his eyes blazing. He reached out and took his father's hand.

“We want to free you all. Take down the Brown Shirts in the process.”

“Won't . . . be easy.”

“We've faced big odds before.”

It was true. But never odds like this.

“All warfare . . . is based on deception,” Karsten murmured.

“The Art of War,”
I said, remembering the book from Camp Liberty. Back when I was a prisoner, someone used to leave books for me in my trunk; I never did know who.

Karsten managed the weakest of smiles. “So you got it?”

I could only imagine the shocked expression on my face. “That was you,” I heard myself say.

He nodded and said, “Promised . . . I'd look out for you.”

“Promised who?”

“Who else?” he asked. “Your grandmother.”

My head was suddenly swimming.
He knew my grandmother?

“How?
When?
”

Before he had a chance to answer, a coughing attack folded him in half, bending him like a pocketknife.

“Come on,” Cat said. “Let's get out of here and let him sleep.”

Even though I was impatient to find out more, I agreed.

We grabbed some spare coats and blankets and made our way down the long aisle. Many of the LTs were now awake. As we passed, some managed to prop themselves up on an elbow. Most remained lying on their sides, their hollow eyes wide with pleading. I wondered if they thought we were the stuff of dreams. Once-familiar ghosts come to taunt them in their sleep.

Help us get out of here,
their expressions read.
Help us live.

If only we knew how.

We returned to camp. Cat didn't utter a word. Whenever I glanced over at him, his jaw was clenched, his stare a million miles off.

After I told the others what we'd seen, looks of shock and disgust passed across their faces. Even Argos buried his snout in my side and gave a soft whimper.

“How many are left?” Hope asked.

“Seventy-five or so,” I answered. “Maybe less.”

“Anyone beneath the tennis courts?”

“Didn't get a chance to check. If so, they'll be in even worse shape.”

“So who can help us out?” Flush asked. “Red?”

“Unlikely.”

“Major Karsten?”

I shook my head. He was more skeleton than person.

“So who?”

“Maybe a dozen of 'em,” I said matter-of-factly. “But that's it.”

The sobering reality of the situation settled on us like the hovering smoke from the campfire. A log popped in the fire, and orange embers exploded skyward. No one said a word. Finally, Cat got up and strode angrily away. The rest of us stumbled to bed.

I woke a few short hours later when a boot nudged my chest. My eyelids fluttered open . . . and there was Cat looking down at me.

“Get up,” he said sharply.

Fuzzy with sleep, I tried to make sense of the situation. Although the eastern rim of mountains glowed pale and golden, the sun had yet to rise.

“Can it wait?”

“No,” he said, and walked away. I sighed and threw the blankets off.

I followed him as he went tromping through a meadow. What was so urgent that needed talking about right now?
Before the sun was up.
And why way out here? Then I noticed someone had carved a series of concentric circles on the trunk of a thick pine tree fifty yards away.

Before I could figure out what was going on, Cat bent down and retrieved something from the ground. He slapped it against my belly.

“Show me how this thing works.”

It was his artificial arm from the Compound. I couldn't believe he'd kept it.

“So you gonna teach me or not?” he prodded.

“Right,” I said, somewhat dazed by the fact that Cat was asking for my help.

The prosthesis was carved from oak, meant to attach to the elbow and serve as a forearm. Hammered to its base was a swatch of leather with some adjoining straps; the leather would circle the stub that was his elbow and the straps would wrap over his shoulder. It was simple, it was uncomplicated, it was primitive . . . but it would work.

“What're these things?” he asked, referring to the two curved pieces of wood that jutted from the end and tapered off to fine points.

“Pincers. They're fixed in place, but they'll act like fingers.”

“They look more like claws.”

“Well, they're not,” I said. “They're supposed to be fingers.”

He grunted but said nothing.

I helped him into the contraption and tightened the straps until his new arm was snug against his old.

“Now what?” Cat asked. It was odd hearing him ask
me
for instructions.

“Now you need to make it an extension of your arm.”

He rolled his eyes and muttered something beneath his breath.

“I'm serious. If you let it remain a separate thing, you'll never master it.”

“It's a piece of wood,” he pointed out.

“It's your
arm
,” I countered. “It's like what Frank said about an archer and his bow. There's no knowing where one ends and the other begins.”

His face softened—slightly. “Now what?” he asked impatiently.

“Now you fire an arrow.”

He looked at me as if judging my sanity. “Well?” he asked, eyes gesturing toward his weapon. “You gonna give it to me or what?”

“I think you can get it on your own.”

As if to spite me, he picked up the bow with his
right
hand.

“Go on,” I said.

He tried to shift it to his left, but it slipped between the pincers and clattered to the ground. When he tried it again, the same thing happened. And the next time after that.

“This ain't gonna work,” he said, kicking a pinecone with his foot.

“You're right. If you give up, it's not going to work.”

“I'm not giving up.”

“Looks to me like you're giving up.”

“I'm not giving up.”

His neck and face turned beet red, and for a second I thought he was going to tackle me to the ground and beat the living hell out of me. Even though I outnumbered him two arms to one, I knew there was no way I could take him.

When I pretended to look away, he transferred the bow to his wooden fingers. Unlike before, he took his time, understanding he couldn't match his former speed. He had to learn a new quality: patience. Not in his current vocabulary.

As he worked, his tongue stuck out of one corner of his mouth. Beads of sweat popped on his forehead. Finally, the pincers managed to balance the bow's grip.

He reached for an arrow, and because it was his
right hand dealing with it, that part was as smooth and effortless as ever. He raised the bow, rotating his left arm just enough to maintain the pincer's “thumb” in the special notch I'd added to his bow. He pulled the arrow back, held the draw, and let it fly.

A piece of bark went flying as the arrow grazed one side of the tree. The woods were silent, as if all of nature was waiting to see Cat's reaction.

The expression that settled on his face was an interesting mix of emotions. He was dissatisfied he hadn't hit the bull's-eye, even more upset he hadn't hit the circles at all, but the fact he'd come close—on his
first attempt
—seemed to give him hope.

“
Maybe
this'll work,” he grumbled, and then picked up another arrow. He fired, and it landed with a resounding
thwack
at the base of the tree, just inches from the circle's bottom arc. By the time he was drawing the third arrow, he had forgotten I was there. By the fifth, he was landing arrows in the circles, gaining confidence, and I was easing away, happy to know Cat was once again one of us.

T
HE NEXT DAY THE
snows come. Not dry, fluffy flakes, but the thick, heavy stuff. It piles atop their blankets, their clothes, nearly smothers the fire. While Camp Liberty gets only a dusting, where they are—farther up the mountain—it measures a good foot or two. That on top of what was already there. To make their plan work, they need to act fast.

Everyone stays busy. Cat spends countless hours at the archery range, Book and Twitch fiddle with explosives, and Hope and the others divide their time between carving arrows, constructing crossbows, and sewing. Lots and lots of sewing.

By night they huddle around their meager campfire and review their plan.

They gather for a final meal. Scylla has managed to bag four squirrels, and they roast them on a spit. They eat in silence, knowing that after tonight things will be different. They will either be dead, captured, or surrounded by grateful Less Thans.

“To freeing the Less Thans,” Flush says, raising his canteen in a toast.

“To freeing the Less Thans,” the others repeat.

As they pack up and collect their few belongings, everyone works in silence, surrounded by their private thoughts. Hope can't take her eyes off Book. She knows this may be the last time they'll be together.

“Hey,” she says, drifting to his side.

“Hey,” he says back.

Their eyes meet—and then instantly dart away. Hope may have promised herself not to fall for him, but the fact is, she wants nothing more than to run off with Book and hide far away somewhere deep within the woods. To live the life her parents lived, cut off from civilization, just the two of them, forever and ever, amen.

But that isn't possible and she knows it.

“I just want you to know,” she says, “that whatever happens tonight, well, thank you.”

Book seems surprised. “For what?”

“For saving us. For saving
me
.”

“You saved me too,” he says. “We're even.”

Tears press against her eyes, so she turns her back, continuing to pack arrows into quivers.
Why did I make that silly decision to not let him into my life? What was I thinking?

“Where will you go when we're done?” Book asks.

“Back to the Sisters,” she manages to say. “I promised Helen I'd join up after we freed the Less Thans.”

“I'm sure they'll be glad to see you.”

“Mm.”

It's true, Hope thinks. They will be glad to see her. And she'll be glad to see them. But what she really wants is for Book to convince her to stay with him. To say,
Don't go. Let's make a life together—you and me.

But he doesn't say it. And she silently scolds herself for even imagining the possibility.

“And you?” she asks.

“Get these guys to the Heartland. Beyond that, who knows?”

She nods. The reality is they stand little to no chance of making this happen. A ragtag collection of Less Thans and Sisters up against a camp of Brown Shirts? No way they can pull this off. But they have to trick themselves into thinking they can. Why bother otherwise?

“There's one other place I'd like to go as well,” Book says. “If you'll let me.”

“If I
let
you? What're you talking about?”

“Your childhood home. I'd like to take you to your mom's grave.”

Now it's not just tears, it's a lump the size of a plum lodging in her throat. Her muscles go all slack, and when she dares a glance at Book, he's staring right at her. Their eyes lock.

“Yes, I'll let you,” she says.

She opens her mouth to say more, but no words come. Hope doesn't know exactly what she wants to tell Book—doesn't know what she's
able
to tell Book—but she knows exactly what she wants to happen.

She wants Book to wrap her in his arms, wants to feel his breath tickle her ear and to inhale the sweet fragrance of his musky scent, wants to feel the caress of his hands against the small of her back and her body pressed against his. Not out of sheer desire or physical longing but something else.
Need.
C
omfort.

Maybe even something more—like
love
.

But neither one says or does anything. Finally, Book whispers, “For Faith.”

The tears jump from Hope's eyes. “For Faith,” she manages to say.

“Live today,” he says.

“Tears tomorrow,” Hope finishes.

She smiles gratefully . . . and turns away.

By now, everyone is packed and ready to go. They douse the fire and hike down the mountain single file, plowing through the snow. No one speaks a word, and Hope wonders if she and Book will share a moment together ever again.

They crouch in bushes and watch. Even though the hole—the mass grave—is no deeper than when they first saw it, the Brown Shirts have built a fire there, an enormous bonfire in the earthen pit. Hope wonders why. Is it to burn off the downed trees they've bulldozed, or is it there for other reasons? Reasons having to do with incinerating corpses?

One thing she knows for sure: Dr. Gallingham is present, directing the soldiers how best to feed the flames. Just seeing him makes Hope's pulse race, and her fingers grip her spear. But she knows now is not the time.

A Humvee pulls up and Chancellor Maddox steps out. When Gallingham sees her, he retrieves a small metal box—identical to the one on that deserted country road. He opens it reverently and removes a tiny object. The chancellor takes it, placing it in her briefcase.

Hope and the others have seen enough. They circle the camp and reach the western gate, slipping through the gap in the chain-link fence. Only Twitch and Argos stay on the outside. The other seven tiptoe from one building to the next. Book leaves the group at the back of the Quonset hut; Cat separates a few moments later. Flush leads the remaining five, stopping at the back of Camp Liberty's storehouse. They wait, crouched in shadows.

Time passes. Hope tries not to worry, but the fact is
that Book is out there by himself. The thought of him fills her with a million regrets.

They hear a bird cry—three times—and Hope begins to count aloud. At ten, they hear two muffled explosions: one from the western part of camp, one from the east. Scylla throws herself against the storehouse door. The jamb splinters and they rush inside.

A siren wails, and the camp is bathed in illumination—towering banks of floodlights. Then the sounds of shouting and distant footfalls.

“Everyone good to go?” Hope asks.

The others nod. Even Four Fingers seems to understand what's expected of him.

They move quickly through the aisles, grabbing supplies. As they reach the second floor, Hope hesitates by the window; she can just make out the entrance to the Quonset hut. Three Humvees come to a sliding stop, slinging snow and dirt. Brown Shirts pour out, rifles drawn.

Scylla tugs at Hope's sleeve, but Hope can't tear herself away—because the Quonset hut is exactly where Book is. He's inside that very building.