Chapter One
Wednesday, November 20 Suffolk County, Massachusetts, on
the Neponset River
Eric Pratt leaned his head against the cabin wall. Plaster
crumbled. It trickled down his shirt collar, sticking to
the sweat on the back of his neck like tiny insects
attempting to crawl beneath his skin. Outside it had
gotten quiet - too quiet - the silence grinding seconds
into minutes and minutes into eternity. What the hell were
they up to?
With the floodlights no longer blasting through the dirty
windows, Eric had to squint to make out the hunched
shadows of his comrades. They were scattered throughout
the cabin. They were exhausted and tense but ready and
waiting. In the twilight, he could barely see them, but he
could smell them: the pungent odor of sweat mixed with
what he had come to recognize as the scent of fear.
Freedom of speech. Freedom from fear. Where was that
freedom now? Bullshit! It was all bullshit! Why hadn't he
seen that long ago?
He relaxed his grip on the AR-15 assault rifle. In the
last hour, the gun had grown heavier, yet, it remained the
only thing that brought him a sense of security. He was
embarrassed to admit that the gun gave him more comfort
than any of David's mumblings of prayer or Father's
radioed words of encouragement, both of which had stopped
hoursbefore.
What good were words, anyway, at a time like this? What
power could they wield now as the six of them remained
trapped in this one-room cabin? Now that they were
surrounded by woods filled with FBI and ATF agents? With
Satan's warriors descending upon them, what words could
protect them from the anticipated explosion of bullets?
The enemy had come. It was just as Father had predicted,
but they'd need more than words to stop them. Words were
just plain bullshit! He didn't care if God heard his
thoughts. What more could God do to him now?
Eric brought the barrel of the gun to rest against his
cheek, its cool metal soothing and reassuring.
Kill or be killed. Yes, those were words he understood.
Those words he could still believe in. He leaned his head
back and let the plaster crumble into his hair, the pieces
reminding him again of insects, of head lice burrowing
into his greasy scalp. He closed his eyes and wished he
could shut off his mind. Why was it so damned quiet? What
the hell were they doing out there? He held his breath and
listened.
Water dripped from the pump in the corner. Somewhere a
clock ticked off the seconds. Outside a branch scraped
against the roof. Above his head, a crisp fall breeze
streamed in through the cracked window, bringing with it
the scent of pine needles and the sound of dry leaves
skittering across the ground like the rattle of bones in a
cardboard box.
It's all that's left. Just a box of bones. Bones and an
old gray T-shirt, Justin's T-shirt. That was all that was
left of his brother. Father had given him the box and told
him Justin hadn't been strong enough. That his faith
hadn't been strong enough. That this is what happened when
you didn't believe.
Eric couldn't shake the image of those white bones, picked
clean by wild animals. He couldn't stand the thought of
it, bears or coyotes - or maybe both - growling and
fighting over the ripped flesh. How could he endure the
guilt? Why had he allowed it? Justin had come to the
compound, attempting to save him, to convince him to
leave, and what had Eric done in return? He should have
never allowed Father's initiation ritual to take place. He
should have escaped while he and Justin had a chance. Now
what chance was there? And all he had of his younger
brother was a cardboard box of bones. The memory brought a
shiver down his back. He jerked it off, opening his eyes
to see if anyone had noticed, but found only darkness
swallowing the insides of the cabin.
"What's happening?" a voice screeched out. Eric jumped to
his feet, crouching low, swinging the rifle into position.
In the shadows he could see the robotic jerks of the
others, the panic clicking out in a metallic rhythm as
they swung their own weapons into place.
"David, what's going on?" the voice asked again, this time
softer and accompanied by a crackle of static.
Eric allowed himself to breathe and slid back down the
wall, while he watched David crawl to the two-way radio
across the room.
"We're still here," David whispered. They've got us -"
"No wait," the voice interrupted. "Mary should be joining
you in fifteen minutes."
There was a pause. Eric wondered if any of the others
found Father's code words as absurd. Or for that matter,
wouldn't anyone listening in find the words strange and
outrageous? Yet without hesitation, he heard David turn
the knobs, changing the radio's frequency to channel 15.
The room grew silent again. Eric could see the others
positioning themselves closer to the radio, anxiously
awaiting instructions or perhaps some divine intervention.
David seemed to be waiting, too. Eric wished he could see
David's face. Was he as frightened as the rest of them? Or
would he continue to play out his part as the brave leader
of this botched mission?
"David," the radio voice crackled, channel 15's frequency
not as clear.
"We're here, Father," David answered, the quiver
unmistakable, and Eric's stomach took a dive. If David was
afraid, then things were worse than any of them realized.
"What's the situation?"
"We're surrounded. No gunfire has been exchanged yet."
David paused to cough as if to dislodge the fear. "I'm
afraid there's no choice but to surrender."
Eric felt the relief wash over him. Then quickly he
glanced around the cabin, grateful for the mask of
darkness, grateful the others couldn't witness his relief,
his betrayal. He set the rifle aside. He let his muscles
relax. Surrender, yes of course. It was their only choice.
This nightmare would soon be over.
He couldn't even remember how long it had been. For hours,
the loudspeaker had blared outside. The floodlights had
sprayed the cabin with blinding light. While inside the
radio had screeched on and on with Father reminding them
to be brave. Now Eric wondered if perhaps it was a thin
line that separated the brave and the foolish.
Suddenly, he realized Father was taking a long time to
respond. His muscles tensed. He held his breath and
listened. Outside, leaves rustled. There was movement. Or
was it his imagination playing tricks on him? Had
exhaustion given way to paranoia?
Then Father's voice whispered, "If you surrender, they'll
torture you." The words were cryptic, but the tone
soothing and calm. "They have no intention of allowing you
to live. Remember Waco. Remember Ruby Ridge." And then he
went silent, while everyone waited as if hanging by a
thread, hoping for instruction or, at least, some words of
encouragement. Where were those powerful words that could
heal and protect?
Eric heard branches snap. He grabbed his rifle. The others
had also heard and were crawling and sliding across the
wooden floor to get back to their posts.
Eric listened, despite the annoying banging of his heart.
Sweat trickled down his back. His fingers shook so
violently he kept them off the trigger. Had snipers moved
into position? Or worse, were agents getting ready to
torch the cabin, just as they had done in Waco? Father had
warned them about the flames of Satan. With all the
explosive ammo in the storage bunker beneath the
floorboards, the place would be a fiery inferno within
seconds. There would be no escape.
The floodlights blasted the cabin, again. All of them
scurried like rats, pressing themselves into the shadows.
Eric banged his rifle against his knee and slid down
against the wall. His skin bristled into goose bumps. The
exhaustion had rubbed his nerves raw. His heart slammed
against his rib cage, making it difficult to breathe.
"Here we go again," he muttered just as a voice bellowed
over the loudspeaker.
"Hold your fire. This is Special Agent Richard Delaney
with the FBI. I just want to talk to you. See if we can
resolve this misunderstanding with words instead of
bullets."
Eric wanted to laugh. More bullshit. But laughter would
require movement, and right now his body stayed paralyzed
against the wall. The only movement was that of his
trembling hands as he gripped the rifle tighter. He would
place his bet on bullets. Not words. Not anymore.
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