She ignored his dig, intent upon her objective. She asked herself: where were they, exactly? She didn’t see a house, or indications of a residence nearby, or directional signs. It was simply a deserted road: the gravel path winding past old, immense trees that cast great swaths of cool shadow, fringed with thick shrubs that prevented her from seeing what lay beyond the lane’s borders.
They must have walked at least a quarter of a mile, by Mallory’s estimation, when they traveled around a sharp bend in the path and finally spotted a figure about twenty yards ahead. Someone wearing loose-fitting white clothing, literally from head to toe; it looked like some sort of religious costume, similar to a nun’s habit.
“I think that’s a woman,” Mallory said. Her heart raced. Liz?
She hurried forward.
“Right behind you,” Ben said.
12
It wasn’t her sister.
As Mallory neared the stranger, she realized it was a woman, but she was much younger than Mallory expected. It was a girl—really, a teenager. The flowing veil she wore concealed her hair, and framed a youthful, ebony-skinned face. She was petite, fine-boned. She might have been seventeen or eighteen years old, certainly no older than twenty.
The girl occupied herself with a strange task: she was trimming a wildly overgrown rose bush using a pair of garden shears that looked too big for her small hands to wield.
“Hello there!” Mallory waved, drawing closer.
The girl pivoted in their direction. Her large brown eyes widened, her lips parting in an unmistakable expression of surprise. But she didn’t speak. After gawking at them for a beat, she averted her gaze, pressed her lips together, and resumed trimming the bushes.
What the hell? Mallory thought.
The girl’s clothing must have been unbearable in the summer heat. It enwrapped her almost completely; the only areas of her body left exposed were her face and hands. Mallory saw perspiration beading her forehead, patches of dampness on her loose-fitting garments. Yet she worked diligently, as if she would be struck down on the spot if she allowed herself a moment’s distraction.
This section of the property looked more cultivated than what they had encountered so far. Mallory noticed the rose bushes, and past them, a plain wooden bench, painted white. A water well stood near the bench, a metal pail lying next to the old brick cylinder.
Mallory’s sense of displacement was as sharp as the sunlight searing her arms. She felt as if she might have stumbled upon a re-enactment of a scene depicting life a hundred years ago; that this girl was really a paid actress and could not truly be out here wearing a robe in ninety-plus degree weather trimming a rose bush.
Why wouldn’t she speak to them? Was it against some code? Was she forbidden to interact with strangers?
“Miss?” Ben asked. “Where do you live? Is there a house nearby?”
Silent, the girl ignored them. She continued pruning. Mallory wondered who had assigned her this task. Someone in the family, perhaps? Perhaps the “father” of whom her niece, Tabitha, had spoken?
“Let’s move on,” Mallory said. “I don’t think she’s allowed to speak to us.”
“That’s nonsense,” Ben said. In a louder voice he asked, “Young lady, what’s your name?”
He might as well have been speaking to a mannequin in a clothing store. The girl didn’t even look at them again.
Her behavior chilled Mallory. What sort of person or group held such powerful influence over an individual that they were afraid to engage in the most basic conversation, too terrified to make eye contact?
Shaking his head, Ben joined Mallory. They advanced along the tree-lined road, the sounds of blades slicing through plants fading behind them.
“Is this real?” he asked. “That was some of the most bizarre crap I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. Is my sister going to be wearing some crazy cult outfit? Will she refuse to speak to me? To look at me?”
Sighing, shuffling along, Ben shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Listen, you couldn’t pay me any sum of money to make me turn back now,” she said. “I’ve got to find—”
The chorus of barking dogs cut off her words. Deep, resonant barks that came only from large, barrel-chested canines. Coming from somewhere ahead, and rapidly growing louder.
Mallory’s pulse raced. She looked around for somewhere to hide, found nowhere to go. A dog would easily track them by smell, and they were too far away from the gate to make it back before the dogs reached them.
“That doesn’t sound like a welcoming committee,” Ben said. “We’re trespassing.”
Mallory swung her backpack off her shoulders. Hands shaking, she unzipped one of the front pockets and dug inside for the miniature canister of pepper spray.
“Whatever you do, don’t run,” Mallory said. “It’ll only make it worse.”
Three Rottweilers exploded out of the bushes. The canines were males, enormous, each of them weighing as much as a grown man. Growling and snarling, showing teeth, they surrounded Ben and Mallory in a loose circle.
Mallory had the pepper spray in her hand, but it would have been of little use against the vicious pack. She couldn’t spray all three of them at once, and from their coordinated movements, the dogs appeared to be highly trained and would surely attack if provoked.
“Do you have any dog treats in that bag?” Ben asked. He let out a nervous chuckle. “Crap. I wasn’t ready for this.”
“If they wanted to attack, we’d be dead already.” She sounded calmer than she felt; it was all too easy to imagine those dogs’ needle-sharp teeth tearing out her throat. “They’re detaining us.”
“Detaining us for who?” Ben turned around in a tight circle.
A piercing whistle sounded, three short bursts.
Two robed figures emerged from the woods.
13
The whistle had an instant effect on the dogs. They stopped barking. Tongues lolling from froth-ringed mouths, the canines rested on their haunches almost as one, their dark, alert eyes still fixed on Mallory and Ben.
The two individuals strolled toward them. One of them was a man, tall, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned. He looked young, in his early twenties. He wore a loose-fitting sky-blue robe and dark shoes, but unlike the girl in white Mallory had seen, he wore nothing on his head; his head was completely shaven. A silver whistle dangled on a chain around his thick neck. His eyes were flat as stones, his face resting in a placid expression of indifference.
But the other? Mallory did a double take.
“Tabitha?” Mallory said.
“I should have known you would find us, Aunt Mallory,” Tabitha said. She came forward, breaking the circle of the dogs. She opened her arms to receive Mallory into a hug.
Feeling as if she were in a dream, Mallory hugged her back. Her niece wore a sky-blue robe that matched the man’s; her hair, styled in the short, neatly trimmed Afro, was free as well.
“We didn’t want to trespass,” Mallory said. “But after our first meeting ended so poorly, for which I apologize, I had to find you, my family.”
“Of course,” Tabitha said. She inclined her head toward Ben. Ben introduced himself and offered his hand, but Tabitha did not accept it. She kept her distance and studied him with cool interest. Ben retracted his hand, cleared his throat.
“And he is?” Ben said, motioning toward the young man.
“This is my brother, Nimrod,” Tabitha said. “He doesn’t speak much. He manages our dogs.”
Nimrod clapped his hands. The dogs rose and clustered around him, tails wagging.
My nephew, Mallory thought. It felt surreal. Liz’s son.
She could see her sister’s features in both these children; there was no mistaking the genetic bond. No matter how the rest of this adventure turned out, she was grateful she had come this far.
“We saw a girl.” Mallory gestured behind her. “W
earing all white, trimming flowers. We tried to talk to her, but she didn’t respond.”
“The Brides have nothing to say.” Tabitha waved her hand dismissively, and then extended that same hand to Mallory. “Come, Aunt Mallory. Father would like you to meet the family.”
14
Tabitha clasped Mallory’s hand in hers as they traveled the shady, tree-lined lane. Her hand was warm, her grip tight. It struck Mallory how different the girl’s demeanor was compared to when Mallory had first met her at the restaurant in Macon. No longer a stranger navigating the foreign outside world, but in her element at home, Tabitha was talkative and animated, displaying a level of poise Mallory had rarely seen in such a young adult.
Ben kept pace a few steps behind them. The eerily quiet Nimrod and the equally silent dogs brought up the rear.
The Brides have nothing to say, Tabitha had said about the girl in white. The comment jangled like a broken bell in Mallory’s mind, but she was careful to avoid asking too many questions. As tough as it was to bite her tongue, she had learned that, sometimes, observing and listening would supply all the answers she needed.
Besides, she was there to locate Liz, and no one else.
Ahead, finally, a residence came into view.
“This is where we live.” Tabitha pointed. “This is Sanctuary.”
Mallory was unprepared for the appearance of the house. She had expected something rustic, fitting of a technology-shunning sect living apart from modern society. Mobile homes in poor repair. Poorly constructed shacks. Maybe even a farm with a dilapidated barn and people sleeping in pine straw like animals.
But Sanctuary was a mansion.
She estimated it was least ten thousand square feet, perhaps larger. It was white, designed in the ornate, Classic Revival architectural style that had been common in the antebellum days of Southern cotton plantation estates. Two floors. Enormous white pillars flanking the grand entrance. Balconies framing the windows. A huge veranda with swings and rocking chairs. It sat on a perfectly manicured swath of lush green lawn; crepe myrtles and dogwoods had been integrated artfully into the landscaping, alongside colorful beds of roses, mandevilla, and lantanas.
“It’s breath-taking,” Mallory said, and meant it. “It’s not what I expected.”
“You expected mud huts?” Tabitha laughed lightly.
Mallory’s face burned. Tabitha patted her arm.
“It’s quite all right,” she said. “I didn’t share much information with you earlier. But as you see, Father provides for his family.”
“And my sister?” Mallory asked. “Your mother?”
“Mother?” A shadow fell across Tabitha’s eyes. “It’s best for you to speak to Father.”
What did that mean? Tension knotted Mallory’s stomach. She reminded herself to go slow, to avoid hammering Tabitha with questions and risk angering her like she had last time. This might be the last opportunity she would get to find Liz.
Two more women wearing white labored outdoors. One of them used a push broom to sweep the winding walkway that fronted the mansion. The other woman washed the exterior windows on the lower level, using a bucket and various hand towels.
As they drew closer, it was clear to Mallory that these women were young, too, in their late teens or early twenties. Although Black, none of them looked alike.
Neither of the women looked in their direction, or spoke, as their group approached the house.
“Are these Brides also?” Mallory asked.
“Hard, virtuous work develops character,” Tabitha said, as if repeating a memorized slogan. Her eyes sparkled. “You were going to ask why they work so hard, yes?”
“The question crossed my mind,” Mallory said.
“Each of us in the family has a purpose.” Tabitha cocked her head. “What is your purpose, Aunt Mallory?”
“I’m a newspaper reporter,” Mallory said quickly, not liking the turn in the discussion.
“That is only a job that provides a livelihood. What is your purpose?”
“Hmm.” Mallory chuckled. “Can I get back to you on that, please?”
“I’d suggest you seriously consider it.” Tabitha’s eyes glinted. “Father enjoys discussing such . . . stimulating topics. He is not a frivolous man.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
They reached the estate’s entrance. The veranda was pine, polished and immaculate. The door, fashioned from oak, was wide enough to accommodate a truck.
Tabitha put her hands on the brass handles. “Follow me.”
15
Mallory’s amazement with Sanctuary continued when she stepped into the entry hall. The hallway was wide, the hardwood floors buffed to a mirror-like polish. An immense crystal chandelier fringed with gold hung from the ceiling. Ahead, a grand spiral staircase with intricately designed wrought-iron balustrades swept upward into a shadowed upper level.
Several large paintings were displayed on the white-painted walls, in gold leaf frames. From a quick glance, it looked as if the portraits featured the same subject: a bespectacled, bearded Black man of indeterminate age. In one piece, he stood at a podium delivering a sermon in a chapel to an assembled multitude of beatific young women; in another he posed like the figure of The Thinker in the famous sculpture by Rodin, dark eyes brooding as he pondered some weighty topic; in another he sat at the head of a banquet table creaking beneath a cornucopia of rich foods, passing out plates heaped with delicacies to the hungry women clustered around.
Although the content of the paintings disturbed Mallory, they had been created with stunning artistic skill. Who was the man featured in each piece? Father? Who had created these amazing, strange depictions of him?
She had a few suspicions in that regard.
Ben came inside with them; Nimrod and the dogs vanished elsewhere. She was eager to get Ben alone to learn what he thought of what he had seen thus far, but that would have to wait until after they met the man of the hour, Father.
Another of the Brides—to whom were they married anyway? Mallory shuddered to wonder—was on hands and knees buffing the hallway floor by hand like Cinderella, face lowered to the floor, not looking up as they neared. Tabitha guided them past the girl as if she were no more than a piece of furniture. She led them into a high-ceilinged room that Mallory recognized was a parlor, of sorts.
The chamber was opulently decorated. Another gold-fringed crystal chandelier dangling from the cathedral ceiling. Persian rugs draped across a cold marble floor. Heavy, ornate curtains flanking the double-sash windows. More bizarre yet brilliantly executed surrealistic artwork featuring the mysterious bearded man. A raised wooden platform dominated one end of the room, a high-backed, throne-like leather chair standing in the center, currently vacant. Four upholstered wingback chairs were clustered around the throne.
Pale light issued from the numerous Tiffany lamps distributed throughout the cavernous space.
Mallory didn’t see any evidence of modern technology: no televisions, no telephones, no contemporary appliances. But clearly, the family drew power from the town’s electrical grid, and she remembered the surveillance camera she had spotted at the gate. They weren’t quite the Luddites that Tabitha had claimed.
“Father will be with us shortly.” Tabitha hurried toward the arched doorway. “Wait here, please.” As she left them, her footsteps echoed along the main corridor.
Alone at last, Mallory turned to Ben. He gawked at their surroundings like a paparazzi photographer who had slipped into a celebrity’s mansion.
“What’re you thinking?” she asked.
“Huh?” Ben blinked as if surfacing from a trance. “Whose money is paying for this place? That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Father must be wealthy,” she said. “Or he’s got well-heeled benefactors.”
“Who are the Brides?” Ben scowled. He lowered his voice to a whisper, but the scowl remained. “They’re teenagers, it looks like. Whatever’s going on here, it can’t be legal, Mal.”
“There’s something not right here. These kids are working like slaves. We can’t turn a blind eye to that.”
“I’m not here to save the world.”
Ben blew out a heavy sigh. The purring of an engine drew Mallory’s attention. She spun to the doorway.
A man entered the parlor. He sat in a motorized wheelchair. He bore a striking resemblance to the figure depicted in the paintings she had seen hanging in the house.
“Aunt Mallory,” Tabitha said, strolling a few feet behind the wheelchair. “Father welcomes you to Sanctuary.”
16
Mallory and Father stared at each other.
Mallory’s breath caught in her throat. Everything about Sanctuary was upending her expectations.
Firstly, he was young. She expected an elderly gentleman, but this guy might have been only in his late thirties, barely older than she was.
The wheelchair, too, was unexpected.
Just like in the paintings of him, Father had a long, thick beard that reminded her of the beard worn by the NBA player, James Harden. A shaggy Afro. Darkly tinted glasses. He was slender, dressed in a black suit, a black shirt, black leather loafers. He even wore black gloves.
He stared at her for what felt like a long time.
“Hi,” she said, breaking the silence. “I’m Mallory.”
He came toward her, motor humming, wheels whispering across the marble floor.
“Welcome to the family, Sister Mallory.” He had a soft, mellifluous voice, the voice of a choir boy.
He reached forward and clasped her hand. His gloved grip was gentle and cool.
Although the glasses mostly concealed his eyes, she felt him studying her, probing her, but as he was looking deep into her, she was measuring him, too.
“I’m Ben Whitfield.” Ben broke between them and offered his hand. “I’m Mallory’s partner.”
“Yes.” Father briefly shook Ben’s hand. He swiveled back to Mallory, tenting his fingers in his lap, slightly cocked his head like a curious child.
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