Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I squeeze the trigger once, cutting him off. A deafening crack echoes off the stone walls. The bullet slams into his thigh. He screams. Eyes wide with disbelief, he stares at the bloody hole.
“Still not gonna give up the code?” I aim for his stomach.
He grits his teeth and glares at me.
“All right.” I tuck the gun away and let out a hollow cackle. “Hang tight, I’ll be back.”
Leaving him alone in the darkness, chained to the wall and bleeding, the way he left me many, many times as a child, feels less like righteous retribution and more like a sick circle finally completed.
Upstairs, the house hasn’t changed much.
Not sure how much time I have before one of the disciples comes to investigate all the noise I’ve been making in the basement, I hurry to my father’s office.
No one will call the cops. My father’s always managed to instill a fear of law enforcement and government agencies in his people. That doesn’t mean I want to deal with their questions.
Nothing’s changed in his office either. Same heavy, dark wooden desk with a Bible and telephone. Nothing else to clutter the surface. Same sick, twisted paintings of hell—naked men and women hanging over open flames—on the walls.
The vault’s on the far wall, concealed behind a piece of wood paneling. I run my fingers over the slick surface, searching for the groove to reveal the hidden door.
Click. Cheap wood panel scrapes against the thin carpet as I drag it open, revealing a thick steel door with a combination lock.
Fuck.
I grip the Glock and stare at the safe. I don’t want to add to my scars or accidentally kill myself if the bullet ricochets off the steel door.
People are simple creatures. Always use a number that’s easy to remember. Birthdays, anniversaries, wedding dates. First, I punch in various versions of my father’s birthday.
A sharp bleat and flash of red after each number says I’m wrong.
He’s not sentimental enough to use my mother’s birthday, is he?
I try that anyway.
Nothing.
Should I return to the basement and try a few different torture devices? He used a cane on my bare ass one time. That stung like a motherfucker, and I couldn’t sit down for a week.
Whoever spares the rod…
Proverbs 13:24.
My breath steadies as I approach the keypad again. I punch in 1-3-2-4.
The lock beeps twice and a small green light flashes.
Damn, I should’ve known to start with Biblical numbers.
The heavy vault door swings open with a metallic groan. Gideon and I never went inside when I was a kid. I always envisioned it as a shallow space in the wall where he stored some extra cash. Maybe a weapon or two. My parents never had flashy jewelry or anything else you’d normally stick in a safe.
In reality, it’s a walk-in vault the size of a large storm shelter. Maybe it was originally intended to be a safe room for the end of days. I have to duck through the doorway, but once I’m inside I stand tall.
Nope.
While it’s big for a safe, it’s still an enclosed space. I step out and push the heavy door all the way open, pinning it in place with my father’s large, leather office chair.
Reassured I won’t accidentally lock myself inside, I return to the hidden room.
Guns line one entire wall. Not a surprise. He taught me to shoot when I was barely old enough to hold a gun. Never knew he had enough weaponry to outfit a small army stashed away, though. Long arms, shotguns, and handguns. Shelves at the back hold boxes and boxes of ammunition.
While I’d love to take this arsenal with me, I can’t risk driving across the country with Jezzie, my father’s bones, and a truck bed full of guns.
And I don’t plan to leave this house standing when we go.
The opposite wall holds more shelves and what looks like more personal items. Backpacks, duffle bags, folders, boxes, women’s purses.
I start at the far end and open a shoebox.
Stacks of cash.
Now this I’ll happily take with me. The stacks appear to be hundred-dollar bills. Quick math adds up to at least sixty-thousand dollars in this box alone. What the fuck?
I flip the lids off the other shoeboxes and find more stacks of cash. Another holds gold bars.
He made us live like peasants when he had this much money stashed away. Where did it all come from?
Can’t get distracted.
I move on to a gray metal box. Thankful it’s fastened with a simple clasp, I flick it open and stare. Documents. Identification.
I sort through driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, and birth certificates. Some names I recognize. People who lived on the farm for short periods of time.
My father would say they left for the temptations of the outside world. Their hearts weren’t pure enough to accept God’s salvation or whatever bullshit.