My footsteps slow. It reminds me of being a little girl when I didn’t want to go wherever my father was taking me and I dragged my feet until he was forced to pull me.
“What?” Victoria asks over her shoulder. She sounds aggravated.
I speed up. “Are we actually there when they’re put out?”
“No,” Victoria says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I know what Mark Laird did, but I still don’t want to watch his punishment, have to listen to him beg for mercy he doesn’t deserve and definitely won’t receive.
“How many are there?”
“Three today,” Victoria says. “All men. ”
“Is that typical? The number, I mean?” President Lattimer never gives us details about who is being put out. There is always gossip in the market and I’ve heard my father talking about it with neighbors, but no official accounting is ever released. Probably because while the threat of being put out serves to keep us in line, knowing actual names and numbers might cause people to question what’s happening.
“It varies,” Victoria says. We start up the stairs, turning sideways against the flow of people heading to the cafeteria. “We do this every month, and a lot of times there’s no one. The most I can remember is five at one time, but that’s unusual. That was a bad winter. ” She glances at me. “Generally, all men, but not always. ”
“Does President Lattimer come?”
“No. ”
“Of course not,” I mutter. “That would be getting too close to the dirty work. ”
Victoria stops in her tracks, and I almost slam into her back. “Watch yourself, Ivy,” she says. She doesn’t sound angry, so much as concerned. “You’re his family now, but you can still overstep your boundaries. ”
My throat is instantly bone dry. I manage to give her a tiny nod. I don’t think President Lattimer would hurt me. It wouldn’t be good for public relations to punish his newly minted daughter-in-law, especially after the speech he gave me about valuing my opinion, and the way he always tries to come across as benevolent. He’s more the type to hurt other people in my stead—Callie, my father—people whose punishment would be even more painful to witness than my own, the same way he killed my mother as a way to hurt my father.
Victoria pauses in her office to grab a stack of files from the edge of her desk. Then it’s back down the stairs to the basement. On days like this, I wish for the elevator, but it’s considered an unnecessary use of electricity.
“Do we give them anything?” I ask, skipping down the steps at Victoria’s break neck pace. “Before we put them out?”
“Like a going away present?” Victoria asks with a humorless laugh.
“No, of course not. But water, maybe? Or a map?” Even as I ask the question, I know the answer.
“Nope. ” Victoria yanks open the basement door and holds it for me to pass through ahead of her. “Besides, a map would be only a guess on our part. We have no idea what’s out there, either. ” She points toward the corridor where the gun room is located. “This way. ”
I manage to pass by the closed door without glancing at it, although the urge is strong. We take another right and, huddled at the end of the hall, are three men in shackles. David and another guard lean against the wall.
David sees us coming and pushes himself away from the wall. “Hey, Victoria,” he says. “Mrs. Lattimer. ”
“Ivy,” I tell him. From the expression on his face, I know it will be a cold day in hell before he ever brings himself to call me anything other than Mrs. Lattimer.
“Hello,” Victoria says. “Everything going according to procedure?” Her voice is brisk and businesslike. She doesn’t look at any of the prisoners.
“Yes,” David says. “Just waiting for you to bring the paperwork so we can get them out of here. ”
“Sorry we’re a little late. ”
“That’s okay. ” David flaps a hand behind him at the men. “They’re not going anywhere. But it’s a long walk. Sooner we get started, the better. ”
“Absolutely,” Victoria says. She flips open the first file in her hands. “You know the drill. ” She hands David a pen and holds the file steady while he signs the paperwork inside. I tune them out and turn my attention to the prisoners.
The oldest one is probably in his fifties, with a hard paunch of belly and downcast eyes. Sweat stains the armpits of his shirt and moistens his forehead. Next to him is a small, wiry man who reminds me of a rodent, all his features pinched toward the middle of his face and sharp front teeth resting on his bottom lip. He’s not sweating, but he’s breathing fast. I can hear his labored inhales from where I stand. The final man is Mark Laird. I glance at him and he gives me a tentative, sad smile, looking for all the world like a wronged man valiantly accepting his fate. But that cunning, calculating gleam in his blue eyes gives him away. He’s already sizing up his situation, figuring out what can be used to his advantage. He’s obviously done with begging.
I don’t want to look at him. His eyes on mine make my skin crawl. I can hear the voice of the little girl he hurt crying inside my head. But if I look away, he’ll know he’s scared me. And that is worse than meeting his gaze.
“All set,” David says from behind me, and the second guard straightens up from his relaxed slouch against the wall. It seems like there should be more formality, something more dramatic to mark the moment, but David simply moves past the prisoners and pushes open the door in front of them. It opens directly to the outside and the bright sunlight streaming in makes us all squint. I put up a hand to shield my eyes.
“Come on,” David says gruffly to the first prisoner in line, the older man, “get moving. ” The man hesitates for only a second before shuffling forward, following David out into daylight. The other two have no choice but to do the same, as they are all chained together. The second guard brings up the rear, the door swinging shut with a hollow bang behind him. I lower my hand, sun spots still shifting before my eyes. The hallway is eerily quiet. I think I can still hear the men’s chains jangling from outside, but I know it’s only my imagination.