The Secret Fire by Whitaker Ringwald

Author:Whitaker Ringwald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-04-19T04:00:00+00:00

13

Jax

Clutching the map, I stepped cautiously out of the cell. I half expected to hear the ghosts of prisoners past, clanging their metal cups against the bars or dragging chains as they paced their cells. But it was quiet in the hallway. No signs of anyone walking around. No ghosts or brainwashed followers.

If I was going to pull this off, I needed to look like a member of the cult, dedicated to the one purpose. So I hurried to hallway five. The suits were hung neatly, in order of size. I grabbed the smallest pants, suit coat, and shirt I could find, then slipped into a room. I dressed quickly. The suit didn’t fit perfectly but it would work. I rolled up the pant hems so they wouldn’t drag, and tucked in the shirt. Once the suit coat was buttoned, I felt like a bank teller. Hello, how may I help you today? Would you like to make a deposit? Perhaps you’d like to deposit your brain for the one purpose?

There was a bin in the center of the room filled with discarded clothes—jeans, sweatshirts, tennis shoes—regular stuff that Ricardo’s followers had worn before being brainwashed. There was more evidence of their past lives: umbrellas, purses, and hats. One of the umbrellas had a name written on its handle—Dagmar Watson. How had Dagmar gotten stuck in this mess? Did her family wonder where she was? Did she have children? I felt so sad looking at the pile of clothing. Each item represented freedom taken away. I didn’t add my clothes to the bin because no one was going to take my freedom. I hated leaving my purple jacket behind because it had always been my good-luck jacket, and if there was one thing I could use, it was good luck. I slid my wallet into the back pocket of the blue pantsuit, along with my house key. Then I folded my jeans, shirt, and jacket and tucked them behind a radiator.

One of the walls was lined with shoe boxes, each containing a pair of black dress shoes. I decided to keep my sneakers, since I might need to run. Besides, those dress shoes made loud clicking sounds, and I needed to be as quiet as possible.

I read the brochure map again. Then I stepped into the hallway, and nearly bumped into a woman with short black hair. “The one purpose,” she said with a bow.

“The one purpose,” I said in my best robot voice. I also bowed.

She walked away. No questions about what I was doing, or who I was. She didn’t seem to notice my shoes, or the nervous sweat on my forehead. I sighed with relief. As long as I looked and acted like one of the cult, no one would question me. I had to stay confident. Had to act like I belonged.

I hurried to the hall with the offices. They were still filled with people, sitting at computers. But one office had a single desk, and the man sitting at it was old and bald.

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