Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [397]
“I did take it,” Eric offered as a weak defense.
It was the truth, or at least part of the truth. Besides, hadn’t Father taught them that it was okay to lie, cheat and steal as long as the end justified the means? Well, the end was now Eric’s own survival. Then he realized something for the first time. How stupid of him to not realize it sooner. Neither Brandon nor Father had any idea what had happened after the shoot-out. They had no idea what the agents had asked him or what he had told them. How could they? All they knew was that he was still alive and in the midst of the enemy.
But maybe they didn’t care about what had happened. They certainly didn’t care about him or it wouldn’t have taken this long for Father to send someone. No, the only thing they cared about was what he might confess, though there was nothing he could say. What could he tell them? That Father had tricked them? That he cared more about guns and his own protection than he did about his own followers? And why would the FBI care to hear about that?
“I don’t get it,” Brandon whispered. “Those capsules are supposed to be enough to drop a horse.”
Eric looked into his friend’s eyes. He could see Brandon didn’t believe him. His friend’s jaw was taut. One hand clenched the phone, the other was a fist on the small ledge.
“Maybe mine didn’t have as much,” Eric said, continuing the lie. “Lowell packs dozens of those. Maybe he didn’t pack enough into the one I got.” But even Eric wasn’t convinced by his own emotionless voice.
Brandon looked around again. Two seats down a large, greasy-haired woman began to sob in loud, sloppy gulps. He leaned even closer to the glass, and this time he didn’t bother to hide the anger. “That’s bullshit!” he spat in a low, careful voice.
Eric didn’t blink. He didn’t answer. He could be silent. He had done it for two whole days while prosecutors and FBI agents screamed into his face. He continued to sit quiet and straight, telling himself, commanding himself not to flinch, while his heart pounded against his rib cage.
“You know what happens to traitors,” Brandon whispered into the phone. Those same eyes that only moments ago couldn’t meet Eric’s were now holding him, pinning him to his chair with their hate. When had Brandon’s eyes become so black, so hollow, so evil? “Look for the signs of the end,” Brandon said, “and just remember, this could be the day.”
Then Father’s messenger slapped the phone’s receiver into its cradle. He shoved back the chair, its metal legs screeching against the floor. But he walked out with his usual calm, cocky strut, so that no one else would notice that he had just personally delivered Father’s curse of death.
Eric should have felt relief that he had survived Brandon’s visit. Instead he felt sick to his stomach. He knew what Father was capable of doing. The man seemed to have special powers. In the past, there had been members who had left, all of them traitors. No one left without being a traitor. Eric had heard plenty of stories, and then there were the ones he knew firsthand.
The most recent one to leave was Dara Hardy. She had given the excuse that her mother had cancer and Dara wanted to spend her last days with her. But Father insisted that if her story had been true, Dara certainly would have taken him up on his generous offer to bring the ill woman to the compound. Never mind that Father didn’t allow any medications and preached that doctors were a selfish indulgence. After all, he alone could heal and would take care of his members. Dara Hardy left. Exactly one week later, she was killed in a car accident. Her mother died without Dara at her bedside.
Eric wondered what freak accident they would use with him. Would another prisoner accidently scald him in the shower? Would more cyanide find its way into his food? Or would a guard come into his cell late at night and make it look like he had hanged himself? One thing he knew