Page 18 of Creed (Rock Hard Mountain Men #3)
Outside in the fresh air, I could hear more sounds of life. There were people nearby, whispering just out of earshot. I felt their presence like the glow of hot coals.
Most telling, however, was the lack of sound.
Even outside, I didn’t hear any of the noise one would expect in a big city, like the rumble of traffic, the wail of an ambulance in the distance, or the ding of a shop door opening.
If anything, this place sounded similar to Creed’s home, just a few buildings mostly surrounded by nature.
Wherever we were, it must be remote. Probably just some little spot out in the middle of the wilderness where the cult had carved out a living for itself.
I didn’t need Creed’s expertise to tell me that our location would make escaping even harder.
We weren’t taken very far. Based on the number of steps I took, there couldn’t have been more than fifty feet from our prison to our new location.
After being led up another staircase and through several doors, I was unceremoniously shoved around until the backs of my legs bumped against something soft and I instinctively sat down.
I found myself seated on a very comfortable couch.
Creed joined me a moment later, forced to sit on the couch beside me, and then the bags were removed from our heads.
Once again, Chester Grieve sat before us in his wheelchair.
The first time we’d met him in a plain, undistinguishable room. Aside from the carpet, it would have looked no different than a storage room.
This time, however, we were clearly in a more regularly used room. There was art on the walls—vague religious images I didn’t recognize—and the furniture was made more for comfort than function.
On the table next to the cult leader was a stack of folders and other various papers. He was reading through one of them, not even looking up to acknowledge us.
I was about to open my mouth and demand to know why he’d brought us here, when Creed grabbed my leg just above the knee. The slight squeeze of his fingers was a clear message for silence.
At least this time our hands weren’t bound like they’d been before. Several men armed with impressively large guns stood near the door, blocking the only exit. Escape wasn’t possible, but the freedom to move my arms was still an improvement.
If Chester Grieve wanted to continue pretending that we weren’t there in some sort of weird power play, I was happy to let him continue sitting there as long as he wanted. I was in no hurry to go back to our small, oppressive room.
Eventually, when it was clear that neither Creed nor I would speak first, the cult leader finally set aside whatever he was reading.
“They tell me you haven’t made any progress with the journal.”
He only addressed Creed, not even sparing me a glance.
Creed openly scoffed. “If that’s what your people told you, then they’re idiots.”
Insulting the people who literally held our lives in their hands seemed like a bad idea, and I swallowed down the fear that bubbled up in my chest. Creed’s hand squeezed my leg again, offering a small gesture of comfort. He seemed completely confident, so I had to assume he knew what he was doing.
“I’ve made progress,” Creed went on to explain. “I just don’t have an answer to give you yet.”
For a moment, it looked like Chester Grieve wanted to get angry, but then he took a deep breath and right before our eyes the man settled back into a calm focus.
“Never mind that. You’ve still got time to break the code for us. I trust that you’re working hard.”
The “or else” at the end of his statement went unspoken, but it was still heard by everyone in the room.
Creed still never wavered and met the cult leader’s gaze without flinching.
“If you didn’t bring us here to discuss the journal, then what do you want?”
Picking up the top folder from the stack near him, Chester Grieve started flipping through it again.
“I want to talk about you, Mister Landry. Your mother was Beatrice Landry, maiden name Sherwood, and your father was Arthur Landry. You were an average student with no real prospects growing up until you decided to join the military right out of high school. Since then, you’ve received many awards and accolades for your service.
Several of your missions have earned you some impressive medals, including the Purple Heart. Is that correct?”
I felt Creed’s hand tense on my leg. He still looked calm on the outside, but I could tell that Chester Grieve suddenly rattling off information about his life shook him.
“You’ve done your research about me,” he said, biting the words as much as saying them. “Why? You already knew I was a soldier. What good will knowing my parents’ names do you?”
“Not much,” Chester Grieve sighed as he closed the folder. “You’ve barely spoken to your parents, or any of your family, since you left for the service. But I’m curious about one thing.”
He leaned forward as far as his wheelchair would allow.
“Why would a man with plenty of living family, and even a dear friend waiting for you, choose to buy a random patch of land that he has no connection to?”