Stirred

But more than that.

Luther had taught me something. But it wasn’t what he wanted to teach me.

I didn’t need Luther to know I had to treat my friends better.

I didn’t need Luther to know I needed to treat myself better.

I didn’t need Luther to know I would be a good mother.

Luther hadn’t broken me. He’d simply taught me what Nietzsche already knew.

That which does not kill you makes you stronger.

The bottle hit his face with the crack of a Sammy Sosa homerun.

Glass shattered.

So did teeth.

Luther collapsed onto his side. I grabbed his knife. Knelt on top of his chest.

“Do it,” he said. There were shards of brown glass where his teeth used to live. “You’re just like me now, Jack. Kill me.”

I felt the rage build up inside me. All the men and women this animal killed. All he put me and my friends through.

Teeth clenched, every muscle in my body bunched up, I brought the blade to his throat.

A lifetime ago, I’d had the chance to kill a dangerous psychopath but arrested her instead. Alex Kork. It was a decision I paid for dearly when she escaped and went on another murder spree.

But I didn’t regret the decision.

I wasn’t like Alex. Or Luther.

I wasn’t a killer.

“I’m nothing like you,” I said, tossing the knife aside.

Then I grabbed his head and introduced it to the concrete.

“I won’t kill you, Luther.” I bounced his head off the floor a second time. “But you will tell me where my baby is.”

I slammed his head once more, his eyelids fluttering, pupils rolling up into the top of his head.

Then I patted him down, found his plastic zip ties, and bound his hands behind his back. Tight. I used three ties, just to make sure. I also bound his legs with four more, dragged him through the sand, and then used four more to attach his ankles to the metal leg of the torture chair.

This was one psycho who wasn’t going to come back to haunt me.

I was going to haunt him, until he gave me my child.

I stumbled to Harry.

Checked his pulse.

Strong.

Looked for injuries, saw his head was bleeding.

Pushed away his hair, matted and stuck to his scalp, fearing the worst.

The bullet had grazed him, leaving a big gash, but had apparently bounced off his thick skull.

Went to Herb.

Checked his pulse.

Weak.

Two shots in the stomach.

I touched his belly, and Herb groaned.

“I’ll get help,” I told him.

He smiled weakly. “Jack Daniels saves the day again.”

“We can figure out who saved who when we’re all out of here.”

Then I went to Phin.

My man was sitting up, clutching his side.

He also smiled at me. “That’s my girl.”

I felt his pulse.

Weak.

“I’m so sorry, Phin. For everything.”

“How’s the baby?”

My eyes teared up.

“Beautiful. She has your eyes.”

He reached up, clutched my hand. “We’ll find her.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “I love you, Phin. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, babe.”

“And I love all of you!” Harry had woken up. “Even you, fat ass.”

Somehow, we all managed to get to our feet, clutching each other, supporting each other, limping and crying and ragged and battered and shot and needing urgent medical attention.

But not broken.

Goddamn it, not broken.

We got out of the Violence circle, stumbled down a dark hallway as one, like some dysfunctional, lopsided machine, and came to another iron door.

There was a plaque on it.

CIRCLE 9: TREACHERY

He from before me moved and made me stop,

Saying: “Behold Dis, and behold the place

Where thou with fortitude must arm thyself.”

Inferno, Canto XXXIV

I was hesitant to enter, ready to backtrack and find another way, sick to death of Luther’s games. But there could be more i

I pushed open the door.

This room wasn’t elaborate like the others. In fact, it looked more like a large storage closet than a circle of hell.

No wind. No freezing muck. No fire. No human waste. No pe

Just a single man, chained to the wall, a gag in his mouth, surrounded by reams of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper—pasted to the walls, stacked at his feet, sheets of it even stapled to his chest and legs.

One word repeated on every single page, across what must have been thousands and thousands:

lutherlutherlutherlutherlutherlutherlutherlutherlutherluther…

The man was naked, emaciated, covered in scars.

His gray hair and beard were long.

He was unconscious.

Somehow, I knew who it was, even though he looked nothing like his book jacket photo.

It was the author. Andrew Z. Thomas.

I left the boys and walked up to him, removing the ball gag.

He had no teeth.

“We’re going to help you,” I said, but he was unconscious.

I tugged on the chains. Solid.

“We’re go

Herb and Phin elected to stay with him, not being able to handle stairs. McGlade went with me, and we found the control room after thirty minutes of searching.

It looked like a high-tech television studio. Monitors covering three of the walls, all hooked up to cameras in each of Luther’s circles and throughout the town. On one of them I noticed a Greyhound bus, parked in a warehouse. I searched each in turn, looking for my daughter.

Didn’t see her. But she had to be close.

She had to be.

“Found the key box,” McGlade said. “And lookee here.”

On a table was a giant pile of wallets, purses, and cell phones. I spotted my iPhone case immediately and turned it on, thrilled to have three bars of signal strength and full 3G. Using the Maps application, I found my exact location. We were in Dirk, Michigan, outside of Detroit.

I dialed 911, identified myself, and asked for cops, search teams with dogs, and several ambulances.

“Anything else?” the awed operator asked.

“Better send animal control, too,” I told her. “There’s also a grizzly bear.”

“A what?”

I hung up, going back to studying the screens, trying to think like a psychopath, like Luther. He’d pla

He must have.

So, goddamn it, where the hell was she?

“Oh, shit,” Harry said.

I saw he was looking at one of the monitors.

The one labeled VIOLENCE.

I saw the torture chair. The broken bottle. The streaks of blood on the floor.

But Luther was gone.

I only slept because they gave me something, and when I jerked myself awake it was in a panic that I was still in Luther’s chamber of horrors.

But a quick look around confirmed that I was still in the hospital.

Afternoon, as evidenced by the sun streaking in through the curtains.

I glanced at the clock next to the TV and confirmed it. Ten after three.

I absentmindedly patted my belly, surprised that it had gone down.

When I remembered what had happened, the hurt came back.