Page 37 of Relentless Charm
“Wake up,” someone shouted and King froze, certain he’d been discovered. His instinct was to run but he knew if there was even a chance this wasn’t about him, he’d have a better shot by holding his ground.
“What is it, James?” A man with a long beard and a ripped flannel shirt sat up by the dwindling fire and wiped at his eyes.
“Who the hell is supposed to be in the trailer right now? It’s empty.”
King scanned around. There was no trailer in sight. This had to be off in some other location. But the fact that it was currently unmanned was certainly pissing James off. That had to mean something.
“Buck’s out there,” a voice in the darkness answered, sounding timid. King was picking up on the fact that in the absence of Bailey’s father, James was the leader. And his anger rose with every word.
“Buck? You all let Buck go out there on his own? What is wrong with you? He’s probably running through the woods naked right now. Tom and Bill, you go find Buck. Jones, you go to the trailer before the thing burns down.”
“Yes sir,” they all called back as they jumped into action.
“Everyone else get up. There is penance to pay for this mistake. Get the coals.”
The flutter of movement was like a super nova, bursting to life. Flashlights kicked on. Men jumped from the places they were sleeping. One man grabbed a small shovel and started stirring the coals around in the fire to bring them back to life.
King clutched the tree he was crouched behind and tried to makes sense of what was happening. The men circled the fire. He counted fourteen. Knowing three had been ordered away and Buck was apparently streaking through the woods, that made eighteen men in the camp.
One by one, King watched as they fell to their knees, their words all meshing together like out-of-tune instruments all playing different songs. Instinctively, his hand moved to his holstered weapon. Something about what he was watching felt inherently dangerous. Not just to him but to all those men around the fire.
They chanted wildly and howled as James took hot coals at the end of the shovel and pressed them against the men’s backs. No one ran. No one spoke out. They seemed to revel in the pain and punishment. For all King thought he understood about these people and this place, he was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.
Never in his life did he realize something invisible like faith could have such a throttling grip around so many necks all at one time, squeezing out their existence and leaving them a shell.
For a brief moment an image crossed before his eyes. He was the one around the fire, Lou the person laying hot coals against his body. Demanding something of him. Something that his gut knew was wrong. And the demons that remained inside King were suddenly staring back at him. So obvious. Omnipresent.
The thought resided in his chest. A whisper. One he tried not to hear but it reverberated against his ribs and rattled its ghostly chains through his body.
I am not so different from these men.
He lost his breath at the thought and took a reckless step backward, a twig cracking beneath his feet. Some of the chanting ceased suddenly. He steadied himself, but his gut told him he was too late. He’d given away his location.
They knew he was there. He was outnumbered and outgunned. It was time to move.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Bailey sat by the bedside, her mother's shallow breathing the only sound in the room. The air was heavy with the stale smell of illness. Bailey couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness wash over her. She knew her mother's time was running out, and despite everything that had happened, she couldn't help but feel a sense of loss.
In the silence, lost in thought, her eyes wandered to the small bedside table. It was strange to think of how many happy memories her mother had here. She would die loving her husband, loving Cinderhill. Never realizing how dangerous both were for so long.
Bailey had always believed there would come a time when her mother would come around and realize just how poisonous the cult had been. How many lies were told and how disproportionate the punishments were to the perceived crimes. Bailey’s heart had held on to the hope that she and her mother would one day balance teacups on their laps and smile at each other as they finally saw things clearly together. It was now sinking in... that would never happen.
Wiping a tear from her cheek, she focused on the small drawer in the bedside table. Something drew her to it, and without realizing she was doing it, she opened it and peered inside.
At first, all she saw was a few pieces of jewelry and some old photographs. But then, she saw a stack of letters, tied together with a piece of string. She recognized her father's handwriting immediately.
Bailey's heart began to race as she picked up the letters and began to read. The first few were mundane, filled with talk of everyday life for him since he’d been arrested. But as she read on, the letters grew darker, more sinister.
What Bailey never knew were the details of what her father called the Master Plan. He’d mentioned it often and she’d heard talk of it in hushed whispers around Cinderhill but the particulars were never shared with her.
Now she saw it in black and white. A takeover. Spreading out Cinderhill into nearby towns and sharing their ideology far and wide. The goal was to expand their reach and influence throughout the state and beyond. He had even talked about violence, about hurting those who stood in their way.
It was madness. They had absolutely no realistic ability to grow beyond what they were. They had no resources, and even though some people of Cinderhill were hungry for the toxic message her father was spreading, the masses all over the world would not be swayed to believe him. It was laughable, but at the same time his grandiose beliefs were scary.
Bailey felt sick to her stomach as she read on, realizing just how far her father had gone down the path of madness and how her mother had followed him blindly.
The further she read into the stack of letters the worse it was. Clearly her mother had told him she was not well and he in turn twisted that news into some sort of prophecy. James and his men were likely told the same. Her mother’s illness could only be cured by what he called the rebirth of the holy land and deep penance. That until they returned and reclaimed Cinderhill, there would be no peace for any of them. Even from behind bars he was pulling the strings.