“Elder wife?” I ask. “How many wives does he have?”
She seems confused by that question too. As if it’s obvious. “We are all the brides of Father Tom,” she says. “As God intended.”
Harmony has noticed us talking. She comes striding over, long skirt flowing behind her, and snaps, “Sister Lyrica, back to your work, please. The young brother has no need of your conversation.”
Lyrica hurries off, taking my empty bread plate and bottle of water. I got to drink only a little bit of it. Harmony stares at me for a long moment, then starts to leave. It’s weird. She doesn’t look like my mom, but there’s something about her. Maybe it’s the angry look. I don’t feel like she’s angry at me. Just . . . angry.
I ask, “Do you think all this is right?”
She turns to face me. I’ve kept my voice low, the way she did hers when she warned me.
“Do I think what is right?”
“How he treats you.” I look around the room. “All of you.”
“The Lord says, Ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands,” she says. “I obey the commands of the Lord.”
Yeah, but she doesn’t like it. I can see that. I wonder if Father Tom sees it, too . . . but if he does, why would he put her in charge?
Then I remember what Lyrica said. She is responsible for all the sisters.
Just like Sam’s responsible for anything I do wrong here. Putting her in charge means she has to cooperate, or other women get hurt.
The bread was delicious, but now it feels heavy in my stomach. Like I’ve eaten in the underworld, and now can never leave.
She leans over to sweep crumbs from the table into her palm, and while she does, she whispers, “Don’t go to the falls, whatever you do.” Then she straightens up. “Now come with me. I’ll show you where you are to sleep.”
“I want to see Sam,” I tell her.
“That area is off limits.”
She’s not going to argue about it. She just moves off to dust the crumbs into the trash, and looks at me, waiting for me to move. I have to decide whether to follow her. I remember what Lyrica said again. If Harmony is responsible for the women, she’s probably responsible for me, their guest, while I’m in her company. Which means if I take off on my own, she’ll be punished along with Sam.
I can’t take that chance.
I follow.
21
GWEN
There’s a pressure inside me like a scream. It squeezes my heart and lungs, and no matter how deeply I breathe the pressure doesn’t ease. Driving away from this strange, temporary alliance feels like being stripped bare. We need real help. Real options.
J. B. may be able to give us that.
We drive away from the Belldene compound, bouncing over the rutted, narrow track that leads back down to a logging road; Belldene boys are stationed at the gates to open them and lock them up after us. We eventually come to a two-lane country road, which is practically civilization compared to where they live. It’s so remote that they have plenty of warning for anyone coming up there; if law enforcement shows up, they have plenty of time to hide evidence.
I hate that I owe these people.
Lanny’s been quiet, too, but she suddenly says, “Mom, what if Sam and Connor get away? What if they come home and we’re not there?” My whole body aches from a sudden rush of emotion, because the idea of them coming home is so powerful. So impossible right now.
“If they do, they’ll let us know,” I tell her. “Either one of them would call us, or call the police, and we’d hear immediately.” I pull my phone out. “It’s always on, honey.” I realize that’s a risk. The kidnappers could have Sam’s phone, unless they trashed it as Mike Lustig thinks they probably did; if they didn’t, they now have a powerful tool to trace me. He’s got an app on it that allows tracking of my phone. I have to breathe through another surge of anxiety. Normally I’d ditch our phones and get new ones.
I have to remind myself that if they have the phone, if they turn it on, I can track him.
I check. It’s off.
I have a flash of Remy Landry’s mother baking cookies for a son who doesn’t come home to eat them, and my mouth goes dry, my skin cold enough to show gooseflesh. No. That’s not going to happen. Not to us.
“We should go home,” Lanny says, but she doesn’t mean it, not really. Our home’s been made toxic by the men who broke into it. By the shotgun blasts in the drywall. By memories. She’s imagining walking into a place without that lingering damage, and the reality would be very different. Neither of us could feel safe there now.
“J. B. will help us,” I tell her. And I pray that I’m right, because if she can’t, my next call has to be to the FBI. That’s a trigger I’m deeply afraid to pull. If the FBI gets officially involved, good things can happen . . . but so can bad. Ruby Ridge. Waco.
Connor and Sam could get caught in a very deadly crossfire.
“But what if they—”
“If they can get free, they will. And God help anybody who gets in Sam’s way of protecting Connor.” I’m trying to believe that. Trying to make her believe it. And it works, a little; the insistent, choking pressure inside recedes enough that I feel like I can breathe again. I look down and check the gas gauge; it’s an automatic thing born of living out in the country. We’ve got plenty.
But it comes to me in a sudden wave that although my SUV burns a fair amount of gas, that RV must burn a hell of a lot more.
And all of a sudden, I know how we’re going to narrow down our search area. There can’t be that many gas stations near a cult compound.
“It’s going to be okay. I promise,” I say, and for the first time I actually think it might be true. She doesn’t answer, but she nods and closes her eyes. She looks exhausted, too, poor kid. I’m not tired at all. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again, at least not until I have my son and Sam back safely.
I call Kezia and tell her about my gas station idea; she likes it, and says she’ll start working on it by phone, and send the information on to the TBI and state police. And, God willing, that won’t turn out a total disaster. I can’t stop it. But I can try to make contingency plans.
The drive to Knoxville takes a torturously long time, and inside my brain a horrible litany of the abuse that my boys could be suffering loops over and over and over, and I have to keep my hands firm on the steering wheel so they don’t shake. It feels like a relief when I spot the office building in the distance, and I park and hustle the girls upstairs. My key card gets us inside the plain, solid door, and we step inside the large open-plan office. Lots of desks, and some of them are occupied with people doing computer work; for some of J. B.’s investigators, that’s the only kind they do. For others, their desk is just a place to type up reports and take calls.
I don’t even have one, officially. I just claim one of the desks without a nameplate whenever I’m here, which isn’t that often. That’s the agreement I have with J. B.
Her office is a glass box near the back in the corner; she has all the blinds raised, and she sees me coming. She meets us halfway and gives me a hug. “Hey,” she says. “How are you?” She shoves me back to take a good look, and shakes her head before I can try to lie. “Never mind. I know how you are. Lanny, hi. And I recognize Vee Crockett, of course.” She would, from Wolfhunter. Her glance toward me clearly says she has no idea why Vee’s with us now, and I don’t try to explain. “Hey, girls. Why don’t you go back there to the break room and grab some snacks while I talk with Gwen?”