— I Corinthians 2:5

Wakeman Pells woke up with a sharp ache on the left side of his neck that felt as though someone had jabbed an ice pick into it. He also had a throbbing left ear that was so warm it could have been lit by a match. Wakeman’s neck and ear provided painful evidence that he had fallen asleep sitting on the floor with his left ear plastered to the door.

He spent most of the night sequestered in his room after being caught snooping around the Soul Scouts’ inner sanctum, but he was determined to snatch any scrap of conversation he could out of the air of Robert Bailey’s house. He was ordered to his bedroom indefinitely after Stuart Kolleen showed up and restored some semblance of order to a situation that easily could have spiraled out of control, in Wakeman’s estimation.

Robert seemed to relish waving his gun about, while frequently pointing it at him and even shooting it once through the ceiling of his own house! Thankfully, Stuart showed up minutes after Robert called him, and his first order of business was relieving the home owner of his weapon. Relunctantly, Robert handed the gun to Stuart.

Then, without a word, but wearing a solemn and weary look on his face, Stuart pointed Wakeman to his room. Wakeman slowly trudged to the guest room, while Robert added, “And don’t come out until we tell you. I have more than one gun in this house, you know!”

Wakeman ignored the threat and instead shut the door and immediately cupped his hand to his ear to catch any exchanges between the men. He couldn’t make out many of the words, but it was clear to him that Robert and Stuart had a very heated conversation. The voices eventually faded, and Wakeman assumed they carried their lively chat into the Soul Scout room.

Still, he stayed pushed against the door in case their voices spilled out of that room. Eventually he fell asleep … but now he was awakened by voices … coming closer.

Wakeman cringed as he moved to stand up, rubbing his neck and then his ear. He smoothed out his rumbled clothes as best he could and made himself somewhat presentable.

The door opened and three men stood in the doorway — Robert, Stuart and a man Wakeman had yet to meet. He was shorter than the others, but he immediately gave Wakeman the impression that he was the trio’s highest ranking officer. He also clutched what looked like an antique book close to his chest, as if he were afraid that someone was going to take it away.

He was the first to speak.

“Hello, Wakeman. My name is Gerald Lowe,” he said, holding out his hand and offering a weak smile. “It is time that you learned a bit more about the organization I started — Soul Scouts.”

*         *         *

Caisee Pells found a strange thing amidst the ceaseless waves of fear she endured while tied and gagged in a chair in some strange place.

Hope.

While hope didn’t make the fear go away — or even dull it much — it did give her mind something to focus on other than her unstable future. Her constant prayers seemed to help feed it, too.

She swallowed hard to bury her fear of the unknown when a man and a woman entered the room. She was determined to look them in the eye, no matter what they did or what they wanted. They may have her bound to a chair and silenced with a gag, but that didn’t mean she would give them the pleasure of seeing her look away in fear. She had to appear strong and determined, even if deep down she felt very little of either.

She had no idea what was going to come next — her imagination gave her a few wild ideas, but she tried to silence them with a gag of her own.

The man looked familiar, but she couldn’t conjure a name or context to go with the face. The woman was beautiful and young, but she gave off a vibe that immediately made Caisee fear her more than the man.

I don’t know who you are, honey, but something tells me that you have a nasty sting.

Moments later her intuition was proven correct when the woman began prodding the man to beat her. But he seemed reluctant, even as he held a hand just inches from her face, seemingly ready to spring to action and strike her.

“Do it. Hit her,” the woman yelled behind him. “This is the sister of the man who killed your wife, after all. She needs to see how serious we are about finding her brother.”

It was Doyle Logan, husband of the woman her brother, Wakeman, was accused of hitting and killing with an automobile! He had been outspoken to the media about wanting justice for the death of his wife, and even though Wakeman steadfastly denied having committed the crime, he was the only person in the car when the police surrounded it soon after the accident.

They arrested Wakeman, who was later treated for shock, and by all appearances he would be convicted of manslaughter and for playing a role in an armed robbery. The other suspect was never found, and Wakeman never said who it was either.

The last time she saw Doyle was after authorities discovered that Wakeman had skipped town before the trial. She and her family were grilled by police for hours afterward, and Doyle Logan had even come to their door, threatening Caisee, her mother and father with a litany of nasty things if they did not tell him where Wakeman had run off to.

The truth was they didn’t have a clue where he was.

Doyle must have followed Tate and myself all the way here in hopes of finding Wakeman. I hope Tate is all right. Hopefully he is talking with the police and they are searching for me.

“But she wasn’t driving the car that day or even riding along. 

Probably wasn’t anywhere near the store,” Doyle yelled at the woman. 

“And I don’t think she knows anything. I think she is trying to find him, too.”

Caisee was shaking now, growing increasingly frightened by the argument that was playing out in front of her and her fear that she and Wakeman could end up dead as a result. Still, she wanted her captors to know that she was as clueless as to Wakeman’s whereabouts as they seemed to be. She only felt convicted by God that Wakeman was living somewhere in Duluth, but she wasn’t about to tell them that.

She began nodding feverishly and managed a muffled “mmm-mm” through the gag.

The woman suddenly pushed Doyle out of the way and roughly slapped Caisee hard on both cheeks. The pain was intense, and bright lights flashed in her eyes with each slap. Caisee let out two muffled shrieks and tears began coursing their way down her face. 

Long strands of her raven hair were held to her face by those tears.

“Ha. That’s how it is done, Doyle,” the woman sneered. “You may not have the stomach for this, but I do. You would be wise to remember the contract you signed with us. We’re not some club that gives out refunds. Once the job is started, it runs until completion. You would not want to cross my bosses.”

Caisee endured several slaps, punches and taunts for the next several minutes. Physically defenseless, her only escape was to retreat spiritually and grope for solace through a disjointed prayer that was interrupted with every blow her body suffered.

And it was in that far corner of her mind that she found hope again, just as she had when she first awoke in this room, bound and silenced and afraid. She was still nervous about the future, but she believed more than ever that Wakeman was indeed living in Duluth.

And she also believed more than ever that despite being caught in a situation entirely out of her control, the two people standing before her were not the masters of her future either.

Soon the woman began turning more of her attention to Doyle than to Caisee. The beating eventually stopped and their argument was taken into another room, and Caisee could only hear rumors of whispers seeping through the rotting walls.

She remembered something the woman had said: “You would not want to cross my bosses.”

She was curious … Is the mob in on this? Who does she work for?

It was then that a thought popped into her head, a somewhat childish thought, but one that seemed to come from that corner of her mind where she huddled around hope.

I don’t know who your bosses are, lady, but my Boss is bigger, stronger and on my side. He is the one in control here.