Scars Of Defiance (3 page)

“You sure know how to make a girl feel good, Riley.” She
turned her back to him and walked toward the door.

He crossed the room in four quick steps and spun her around
by the shoulders. His fingertips dug into her skin, and the frantic sound of
his voice frightened her. “You’re not taking me seriously, Sierra. Listen to
me! You’re a prisoner here. I can help you escape, but you have to trust me.”

“I can’t do that. You only want to even the score with
Victor. You’re mad at him, more than you want to help me. Leave me alone,
Riley, or I’ll tell Victor what you’re up to.”

The door burst open and several armed guards entered,
followed by Reginald Rawlings. “What’s going on in here, Sierra?” he yelled.
His eyes moved from her to Riley with a heated anger. Riley quickly released
his grip on her and stepped back.

She turned her back to Riley. “Nothing. We were just having
a little discussion. But we’re done now, aren’t we, Riley?” She looked over her
shoulder.

“Oh yes, we’re done.”

Sierra picked up on his intended double meaning. The look in
his eye and the intent behind it scared her as he calmly reported to Reginald: 
“Sierra was asking me how to escape from the palace, and I strongly advised her
against it.”

Astounded, she quickly looked back at Reginald. “That’s not
true! He’s lying! He came to me with — ”

Reginald cut her off by slapping her across the face with
the back of his hand. She was so stunned that she stumbled backwards into
Riley. Riley held her under her arms to give her stability. Her eyes instantly
filled with moisture. Not tears — that would be giving Reginald satisfaction.
She gained her own footing once again and pushed Riley away.

Reginald stepped closer to her. “You are nothing but an
insolent, immature, unappreciative girl who has yet to learn her place around
here. I shall take it upon myself to teach you.” He turned to his guards and
flicked his hand toward the door. “Take her to the blue room.”

Sierra remembered the long walk to the blue room,
appropriately named because when you left it, you were covered with blue
bruises. She remembered being crumpled on the floor after her first beating and
the many times she had been pushed through the doorway since then. The cruel
memories brought the fresh sting of tears to her eyes.

Reginald’s lecture preceding her first beating sealed her
suspicions. “You are here, alive, because of me,” he said. “And this is how you
thank me? By trying to escape? I have cushioned your life since you were seven
years old, giving you every opportunity and letting you experience things no
other girl your age would ever dream of. You should be grateful. If there were
still a throne to this kingdom, you would be heir to it. Now, my son will marry
into the royal line that the people of this country cling to so dearly. You
will bring peace to my reign. But if you think for a second I’m going to allow
you to flee, think again! I will teach you until it sinks into your obstinate
mind.”

The next four months consisted of several attempted escapes
followed by beatings and lectures. It didn’t matter how many times Reginald
beat her. It didn’t deter her from trying to escape. It only strengthened her
resolve to make sure she would never again be subject to cruelty by a man’s
hand.

In Sierra Montgomery’s mind, escape was preferable, but
death was acceptable.

She reached to her upper left arm and tightened the knot of
the fluorescent orange bandana. She knew how it worked. She knew what to
expect, but it still left her uneasy. Once on the ground in Baylend, assuming
she was still alive, she would need to make her way to the town of Slaterville,
located on the lake’s northern shore. There she would have to wait on the side
of the road until someone came for her. The orange bandana identified her as a
crosser in need of assistance. Hopefully a caregiver would come by to pick her
up. Hopefully they would be good caregivers.

She had heard stories about crosser homes and the horrible
things that sometimes happened there:  the abuse, the fleecing of money, or the
betrayal of the defector just to get the reward money from Reginald Rawlings
for turning them in. It loomed in the back of her mind, but she’d still take
her chances. She had nothing left in Rendier and nothing to lose.

The pilot yelled over the speaker, “Folks, we are nearing
the drop-off point. Good luck and God bless.”

The door opened, and a rush of freezing wind forced its way
through the cargo hold. People were already jumping out of the plane, and
Sierra’s heart raced so fast she thought it might explode.

Everyone ahead of her had already slid down the bench and
jumped out. Now it was her turn. Bravely, she stood in front of the door. The
wind was unbearably cold and felt like glass shards ripping the flesh from her
face. The helper patted her back and placed the ripcord into Sierra’s hand. She
jumped into the blackness, counted to five, and pulled the cord.

The jolt of her chute opening sent her stomach to her toes.
The icy wind was nothing now as her face was completely numb. She was glad, a
little, that the dark prevented her from seeing how far the ground was below
her. She brought her wrist to her face and glanced at the face of the elaborate
altimeter-watch that her father had given her when she turned sixteen. The
glow-in-the-dark dials and numbers were barely visible. Three thousand feet, it
said. She looked below into the darkness as she fell.

It seemed like an eternity as she glided down through the
gloom. Then she broke through the underside of the clouds and saw the lights of
the town named Slaterville. She checked her altimeter. Eight hundred feet.
Soon,
very soon
. She readied her body for impact. Roll when you hit, she’d been told.

The ground was coming up fast, and she saw the ice now. She
could see strange movement on the ice. No, not on the ice —
in
the ice.
The other jumpers had crashed through the ice!

No! No! She wanted to be back on the plane. She wanted to be
anywhere but here at this moment. She was about to plunge into the freezing
water of the lake. The ice wasn’t thick enough! This was not the death she
would have chosen.

Her feet connected with the ice in a spot still intact, but
not for long. She attempted the rolling technique, but the force cracked the
thin ice. She plunged under the freezing water completely. So cold! So black.
No air!

Struggling to remain calm, she reached up to her parachute
cords. Her chute was still on top of the ice. If only she could follow the
cords back up to the surface without pulling the chute under, she could get
some air into her lungs.

She kicked her feet and carefully guided her body up the
cords to the broken ice above. When her head broke through the surface of the
lake, she took a sharp intake of frozen air and coughed violently. She could
hear the eerie shrieks and screams of other crossers caught in the ice on the
other side of the lake. She looked all around to see if anyone was near her.
She couldn’t see anybody.

Sierra’s body felt heavy and frozen. Cold was a long time
ago. She was simply an ice cube bobbing up and down in an enormous punch bowl.
But at least she was alive, for now. She had to get out and make her way to the
town if there was to be any hope of surviving.

Her chute was caught in the ice. She pulled on it gently,
hoping she’d be able to use it as a rope to get on top of the ice.
Unfortunately, the ice was too thin to support her weight and cracked beneath
her elbows. She inched forward and tried again. The thin ice broke again as she
tried to pull herself up on top, so she continued to inch toward shore. The ice
was getting thicker, but not thick enough. She had to disconnect her parachute
from her harness because it was holding her back. Then using her elbows, she
pounded at the ice in an effort to break it so she could advance toward shore.

Staying afloat wasn’t a problem, thanks to her bubble coat.
Staying awake was another story. Her body didn’t seem to be cold anymore. In
fact, she felt warm — almost hot. Yet the water on her face and hat had frozen
to a thin layer of ice.

She noticed that the yells and screams had subsided. Her
kicking was all but a standstill now, and she felt so tired and lethargic, but
she was close to the bank of the lake. Her foot struck something hard.

It was the ground. She had reached the shallow depths. Now
if only she could stand up and climb on the ice. She was so weak, so tired. If
she could just rest a little first, then she’d have enough strength to get out
of the lake. The last thought that crossed her mind before she slipped into
unconsciousness was of her father. He had a smile on his face.

Chapter 2

Paul Bronson drove his faded blue Datsun through the streets
of Slaterville with his palms beating the steering wheel in time to the song on
the radio. The roads were choked with snow and increasingly dangerous as the
blizzard raged on. He let out a compassionate “Oooh, man!” as he passed a
vehicle that had slid off the road into a ditch, but he didn’t stop because a
tow truck had just arrived. The tune on the radio blared out
Another One
Bites the Dust
by
Queen
, and Paul chuckled at the irony of it all.

He directed his focus back to the task at hand:  looking for
orange bandanas. Not just any orange — a distinctive fluorescent orange, and it
would be tied to someone’s arm, the sign of a crosser. He had already picked up
four, all male, and delivered them to his family’s home. They still had room
for two more if he could find anyone else.

Paul lived with his parents, his older brother Sam, and his
grandmother on his father’s side. His family operated a crosser home, and
crosser season had just begun. As soon as the lake froze over, they came in
swarms. They always arrived under cover of darkness, usually on the coldest
wintry nights, when their tracks were quickly covered by snow and detection by
the Rendier secret police was least likely.

He had been told earlier in the day that a plane would be
coming that night, and his mood headed south. All throughout the winter months
his life centered on crossers — pick up the crossers, hide the crossers, shop
for supplies for the crossers, drive the crossers to Northtown, scout for more
crossers. He was tired of it. He was almost twenty years old and wishing very much
that he could get out of the house, wishing to get out of this tedious life.

“When will it end?”
he wondered. Paul had recently
expressed his frustrations to his mother, Elsie. “When will they stop coming?”
he asked. “When do we get to live a normal life?”

“Shame on you, Paul!” Elsie snapped back. “The least we can
do for those poor unfortunate souls is offer them aid. Without us, they would
die in that Godforsaken country. You need to stop thinking about yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he sulked.

She exhaled and looked at the floor. “No, I’m sorry, Paul. I
shouldn’t expect you to feel the same way your father and I do. You have every
right to choose the direction your own life will go and decide if you want
something different for yourself. The world doesn’t stop spinning because of
one country’s atrocities. We choose to help the defectors because we understand
their situation, but that doesn’t have to be your choice.”

“Everyone in this family has helped crossers. If I choose
not to, then I’ll be looked down on, won’t I?”

“No, sweetheart.” Paul had a soft spot for his mother, and
he loved it when she called him sweetheart, but right now he felt she was
placating him. “You shouldn’t have to do something you don’t want to do. If
your heart isn’t in it, you can’t effectively protect a crosser.”

“I understand, Mom. I also understand that without learning
to take on greater responsibilities, I won’t ever be able to make an informed
decision.”

“And yet, until your heart is in it, we can’t give you any
greater responsibilities. I don’t mean to pressure you, and I’m certainly not
trying to push you out of the house, but have you thought any more about
college?”

“Mom!” Paul rolled his eyes and shifted on his feet in
annoyance.

“No worries. You’re always welcome to stay here and continue
working with us just as you’ve always done.”

“As errand runner and crosser-picker-upper, I know. I don’t
plan on leaving any time soon.”

“Take your time. Sam didn’t decide till two years ago, and
he’s twenty-six.”

Paul knew better than to complain, but it didn’t stop him
from wishing for a different life, something more normal, like what his friend
next door, Greg Bidell, had. Greg’s family had been their neighbors for upwards
of ten years. Greg and Paul were the same age, and they hit it off right away
when Greg moved in.

When Greg told him his family was going to start housing
crossers a few years back, Paul opened up and told him his family was already
doing so. Up to that point, Paul had only been allowed to tell Greg they ran a
bed and breakfast.

There seemed to be a unique kind of trust between Paul and
Greg, and it gave Paul the support he needed in his out-of-control world, where
his life didn’t seem to be his own.

Greg was the only person who seemed to understand Paul’s
situation and his frustrations. Paul couldn’t gripe to his parents about
feeling useless and wanting more independence, or they’d just tell him to stop
being selfish. He couldn’t talk to his older brother Sam about his worries
about being unprepared for adulthood without being chided about being immature.
He only had Greg to unload on, and Greg was always a good listener.

But Greg also made him think. He would point out to Paul
that there must be some kind of invisible force that was keeping him and Sam at
home and not out pursuing life. Of course, Paul wasn’t old enough to do so, but
Sam was. Was there some kind of force, as Greg had said, keeping them there?
Was it guilt? Was it respect? Was it duty?