had retired from the military a few years before he’d become a teacher. “How many kids does he have?”
“Four.”
“How old is he?”
“Do you know?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t. It’s not something we discussed. I can tell you this, though, he’s got a scar on his forearm from saving my hide.”
That fit, too. At least, the scar did. She didn’t know about the life saving part. She’d asked about the scar, and Essex had simply said that he’d been injured while serving in Iraq. “What’s his wife’s name?”
“Janet. Kids are Essex Jr., Eleanor, Eliza and Elliot. Don’t know what the E name thing is, but I told him he needs to cut it out,” he growled. “Now, if you’re done with twenty questions, how about we get down to business?”
“What business?”
“Getting out of here alive.”
Whether he was telling the truth or a lie didn’t matter. What mattered was that her arms were free, her feet were free. Soon the blood that pulsed back into her toes would calm, the throbbing pain would ebb and she’d have feeling back. That would make escape easier, and that was all she cared about. That and taking Elijah Clayton down. She might not have found evidence in his office, she might not have gotten her hands on something that could prove he was as dirty as the old hound dog he kept tied to a stake behind his house, but she knew he’d killed Joshua. Or had him killed.
Either way, Joshua’s blood was on his hands.
She’d known it the day she’d found Joshua, his hunting rifle in his hand, a bullet hole through his temple. She’d known Joshua. He was careful and cautious. He didn’t take chances. The accident that had taken his life wouldn’t have happened to someone like him. Couldn’t have happened. The police had bought the lie, though. Why wouldn’t they have? Even Joshua’s parents had believed it.
Lark had been too numb to question what she was told.
She’d let her in-laws plan the funeral, let herself be led through days of grieving. When it was over, she’d packed up a few things, left the compound because it was too filled with memories of the only man she’d ever loved.
It had taken a couple of months for the truth to settle in, for the nagging disquiet to be replaced by the certainty that there was more to Joshua’s death than a simple accident. She’d started digging, then, researching Amos Way, its history, its former members. There weren’t many of those. The ones she’d found hadn’t been willing to talk.
That hadn’t stopped her.
She’d kept asking, thinking she was clever enough to stay a step ahead of Elijah. Obviously, she hadn’t been.
She moved up the church stairs, the night dead silent, the compound still. Her in-laws were sleeping in their house, tucked safely away from whatever it was they’d run from. Life? Hardship? The world? Whatever it was, they’d been in Amos Way for nearly thirty years. They believed the lies, and they bought the status quo. They wanted what was best for the group, and they were willing to believe Lark was a thief, that she’d gone into the trailer willingly to commune with God and find the right path, rather than believe their leader wasn’t who he pretended to be.
That hurt, but she couldn’t think about it. Not when she finally had a chance at freedom. She knew the old church, the large sanctuary, the bell tower, the door that led into the cemetery. She knew how far she needed to go to make it to the fence. Joshua had taught her how to climb it. He’d taught her a lot of things. Mostly he’d taught her to love, to have faith, to believe that God had a perfect plan for all of their lives.
She wouldn’t forget those lessons.
Not ever.
And, she wouldn’t let his murderer go unpunished, wouldn’t let his death be for nothing. Someone had to bring Elijah Clayton down. The way Lark saw things, it might as well be her.
The man opened the church door, and she stepped inside, the dry cool air filled with the musty scent of time and age. She’d loved this place, had felt more at home here than she’d ever been anywhere before, but it wasn’t home anymore, and all she wanted was to escape. Maybe the man escorting her was Essex’s friend. Maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to trust him to save her. She’d save herself.
He closed the door, sealed them inside the century old building. Then, he took her arm and led her through the empty sanctuary.
* * *
Lark didn’t resist as Cyrus led her through the old church.
That surprised him.
He’d done his research before he’d approached John, and everything he’d learned about Lark had told him she was a leader, a go-getter, a survivor. Not that there’d been much to discover. Financial records only went back as far as her college days. She’d attended Towson University on scholarship, gotten a degree in elementary education. From what he’d been able to gather, she’d met her future husband there, moved into Amos Way after they’d married. Her husband had died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound nearly three years later. That’s what the police report had said.
Essex didn’t think Lark believed it.
That’s why he’d been worried when she hadn’t returned, why he’d contacted Cyrus and asked for help when the police couldn’t step in. This was what HEART did best—entering areas the authorities couldn’t or wouldn’t go, finding the missing, bringing them home.
“Sit.” He pressed her into the front pew and was surprised when she didn’t fight him.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice echoing hollowly in the empty building.
“To John and Elijah? Louis Morgan. Ex-military. Current mercenary. In other words, gun for hire.”
“Who are you really?”
“Cyrus Mitchell. I work for HEART.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t.” He didn’t have time to explain, and he wouldn’t have taken the time if he had it. HEART members weren’t in it for recognition or glory. They weren’t in it for money. Most were in it for redemption, for a chance to make sure no one else ever lived through the pain they’d experienced. Cyrus was no exception to that.
“I take it you’re not going to fill me in?” She brushed thick strands of hair from her cheek. He hadn’t turned on a light, but the darkness couldn’t hide the paleness of her skin, the narrow width of her shoulders. She looked more vulnerable than he wanted her to, more delicate than Essex’s description had led him to believe.
“Later. Right now, we have more important things to do.” He pulled an energy bar from his pocket, handed it to her. “Eat.”
“I don’t think so.” She thrust it back. “I’ve already been drugged a couple of times. I’m not going to let it happen again.”
“It would be stupid for me to drug you right before we make a run for it.”
“Run? You know how far it is to the nearest town?” she asked.
“Seventy miles.”
“Exactly. Running is not going to be an option.”
“Leaving is. That’s the plan. How we do it is going to depend on whether or not I can turn off the security system before John shows up.” He walked to the window that looked out into the church’s front yard. Moonlight spilled onto the lush grass. A few shrubs lined the path that led from the church to the residential area of the compound. Someone stood beside one of them, his shadowy form nearly blending with the dark outline of the bushes.
John. Cyrus didn’t have any doubt about that.
“Is