One of Eden’s early residents had brought a Polaroid camera with them and had taken photos of Gideon, Mercy, and Rhoda in exchange for a custom wardrobe. Amos considered it one of his most satisfying transactions. Eventually the member’s camera had run out of batteries and film and had been left behind after one of their moves. The Polaroids of his first family were faded, but he could still see Mercy’s sweet toddler face, Gideon’s always-serious expression, and Rhoda’s incandescent smile.
These were among his most valued possessions. He never would have left them behind. But that Abigail had remembered them . . . I’m so blessed. Please, God, help me get my baby girl out.
This had to work. If they were caught, Ephraim would kill him like he’d killed the Comstocks, of that he was sure. And Abigail would be given to another family. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.
But if DJ didn’t pass by soon in his truck, he’d have to carry Abigail back through the gate to their house and hope no one saw them in the shadows. Amos had, hopefully, bought them a little time by going by the clinic earlier and coughing convincingly enough that Sister Coleen gave him some of the herbal tea she blended specially for coughs and colds. He’d gotten some of the tea for Abigail too, claiming that she also was coughing pitifully. Which Abigail wasn’t, of course, but it was unlikely the healer would mention it to anyone who’d know differently till tomorrow.
By then they’d be on their way to freedom or they’d be back home and Abigail really would have a cough, because he’d kept her out in the cold all night.
Sister Coleen had told him to get some rest and to take the next day off. That if she saw him going into his workshop, she’d drag him back into his house herself.
Exactly what he’d wanted to hear. Nobody would think twice now if he didn’t show up for work. Nobody would come to check on them for hours and hours, giving them time to get far, far away.
He knew that he couldn’t make it to civilization on foot. Not with Abigail. He didn’t know the way and had no idea how long he’d need to walk. Even if he carried her on his back, it was unlikely that they’d reach a town before they were discovered missing.
If that happened, it would all be over.
He needed to wait for DJ’s truck to come by, and then they’d begin their journey in earnest.
He breathed out in relief when he heard the chug-chug of the old Ford. DJ had appropriated Waylon’s truck when he’d passed on – his truck, his job, his place on the Founding Elders board, and everything else.
Amos wasn’t sure if it was even the original truck or if DJ purposely bought identical replacements to maintain the illusion of continuity. Of comfort and constancy. But it didn’t really matter which incarnation of Waylon’s vehicle this truck was. It was, simply, his and Abigail’s only way out.
Amos clutched Abigail closer to him and whispered in her ear. ‘Quiet, now. Please.’ She nodded against his chest and he sent up a prayer that his plan would come to fruition.
Sure enough, DJ’s truck slowed to a stop. Leaving the engine running, DJ jumped out and kicked at the tree that blocked the road. The tree Amos had cut down, creating the obstacle.
Don’t check it too closely, he prayed. Otherwise DJ would see that the tree had been chopped and the jig would be up. But DJ didn’t look at the chopped end, too busy dragging it from the road by its limbs.
Now. Now. Now. Sweeping Abigail into his arms, he quickly lifted her over the tailgate. Then Amos swung himself over, taking care to land lightly, hoping DJ’s grunts and curses covered the small sounds he had made.
DJ continued to wrestle with the downed tree and Amos used the time to take one of the blankets he’d wrapped around Abigail to cover them both, head to toe. He’d chosen the darkest blanket they owned and DJ’s truck was black. Please let us blend in. Please, God, hear me. Help me save this daughter.
DJ stopped cursing and Amos held his breath. This was the moment he’d feared the most. Don’t let him come back here for anything. Don’t let him check.
It wasn’t until the truck started moving that Amos began breathing again. Abigail snuggled closer, her little hand patting his chest, right over his pounding heart. She remained silent, though, just as he’d asked.
He had no idea where they’d end up. He had no idea what he’d do when he got there. He had no idea how much two hundred dollars would buy, thirty years later.
He only knew he had to get his Abigail somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. And then he’d find Mercy and beg her forgiveness. Hopefully she remembered him kindly.
Twenty-one
Snowbush, California
Tuesday, 18 April, 3.45 A.M.
Amos had no idea how long they’d been driving. He’d been doing his level best to keep Abigail warm. And to avoid puking, because the road they’d taken was bumpy and full of curves.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the back of a moving vehicle since joining Eden. Every time they’d moved the community, they’d packed this truck with the heaviest equipment, then hitched a trailer to the back. Not a nice trailer. A bare, utilitarian trailer that had held as many people as they could fit. Waylon, and later DJ, had managed to borrow or rent trucks and trailers for every move. Only Founding Elders and the oldest of their members were allowed to drive or ride in cars. The others, which usually included Amos, had sat on the trailer floor. Some were sad to leave the place they’d called home while others were excited to see where they’d end up.
At one point, at their peak membership, they’d needed seven trucks and trailers to make the move. That time Amos had been tapped to drive. He hadn’t seen much, though. Trees and more trees and a winding little road that disappeared into the darkness.
Because they always moved at night. Fear was the common emotion each time, because they’d been told that they were moving because the FBI was looking for them. Just as they’d looked for Koresh and the Branch Davidians.
Many of their members had joined after the horror in Waco, Texas, bringing tales of government atrocities. Some had brought newspaper clippings and grainy photos. The images had been horrific.
Amos wondered now if those had been fake, too. Whether real or fake, they’d served their purpose, increasing the compound’s fear of government control, of the loss of their rights to religious freedom.
Now, he realized, they’d simply given up their rights without a fight.
No more.
He held Abigail a little tighter, relieved that she’d made the trip as well as she had. She’d shown no fear and had, in fact, comforted him for much of the journey until her little pats to his chest had slowed and she’d fallen asleep. She was warm, her breathing even, and for a few minutes, he let himself doze.
Until he felt the truck slow. He stiffened, listening, but hearing nothing except the rumble of the engine. He swallowed hard, hoping the pounding of his heart didn’t wake Abigail. Fortunately, she was a very heavy sleeper. He focused on the direction they took, for no other reason than to keep himself calm. Or at least not actively hyperventilating, because Amos didn’t think he’d ever be calm again.