Maelstrom

by Susanna Strom

  Nicole guided me to a small corner table.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. She walked over to a communal table spread with food, then returned in a few minutes carrying a mug of chicken broth and a thick slice of bread. “I figured your poor stomach wouldn’t be up to anything heavy.”

  “No cinnamon roll?” I joked.

  I took a sip of the steaming broth, then nibbled on a corner of the bread. I hadn’t eaten bread since the last time Miles hauled out the solar oven. Shaking my head, I squashed the recollection. Memory was not my friend, not when I was playing a role. I lifted the mug to my lips and blew on the broth.

  “Cinnamon rolls are reserved for the chosen few.”

  “Like Rebecca and Justine? What’s so special about them?”

  “Rebecca and Justine are...well...they’re Eves. They’re the first two of Pastor Bill’s Eves.”

  With all of Pastor Bill’s talk of recreating the Garden of Eden, it wasn’t hard to imagine what role his Eves played in his congregation. “Do you mean that they’re his wives?” Nicole nodded, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. “The first two? How many wives—I mean Eves—does Pastor Bill intend to take?”

  “Four.”

  Shocked, I gaped at Nicole.

  Nicole bent over the table and continued in a low voice. “Pastor Bill said that after much prayer and studying of scripture, he concluded that God wants him to take four wives. Four is an important number in the Bible. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The four Gospels. The four angels standing at the four corners of the earth. And Jesus was descended from the fourth tribe of Israel.”

  Bile rose in my throat. I wasn’t raised in a religious household. I’m practically a heathen, but even I was scandalized that Pastor Bill twisted scripture—sincere people’s holy book—to serve his own selfish purposes. The man was a gross, horny creeper who used religion to justify bedding hot young women. Rebecca and Justine had paid a high price for their cinnamon rolls and prettier dresses. I hoped they signed on willingly.

  “How about you?” I asked. “Are you in line to become Eve number three?”

  “Me? No. I’m much too old.”

  “Old? You can’t be more than forty.”

  “Forty-one.” Nicole touched the gray roots at her hairline. “An Eve must be fecund.”

  Fecund? Capable of producing many offspring. With Pastor Bill. Ew. My stomach curdled, and I shuddered. I’d rather die than sleep with that disgusting….Wait a minute...My breath caught in my throat.

  “Why did you bring me here, to the church camp? Is Bill looking for another Eve?”

  Nicole sat up straight. She reached across the table and took my hand. “Listen to me. I have something to tell you, but you absolutely must not react in a way that draws attention to us.”

  “Okay.” Nicole had been acting oddly all day. If I hadn’t been so distracted by learning about the Eves, it would have occurred to me to ask her what was up before now.

  “Pastor Bill told everybody that with a bomber on the loose, we all need to be under guard at a central location.”

  “Because the bomber killed Ripper and Kyle and Sahdev,” I said.

  She leaned forward. “Ripper and your friends aren’t dead.”

  “What?” I reared back, too stunned to remember caution.

  A man at a nearby table glanced our way. Nicole’s grip tightened on my hand and her eyes flashed a warning. I jerked my head, acknowledging the reprimand.

  Play it cool.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes. An hour ago I overheard Pastor Bill talking to Deacon Gary on a two-way radio. He sent the deacon to keep an eye on your friends and to report back on what they found. They weren’t in the cabin when it exploded. Pastor Bill told Gary to let him know as soon as Ripper heads back this way.”

  I hunched over and a trembling took hold deep in my core, grief shaking loose and rattling my rib cage as it escaped.

  Ripper wasn’t dead? Pastor Bill had lied? Of course he had. Would the same man who told me that I was dying from the flu hesitate to tell me that the man I loved was dead?

  I swallowed. “Why? What does Pastor Bill want?”

  “My guess? You.”

  “Me?” I lifted my eyes to hers. “You’re Ripper’s friend. How could you be part of this?”

  “When I lost Chimney and my boys, I didn’t think I’d survive,” Nicole said. “Then Pastor Bill showed up. He told me that the flu was part of God’s plan and that all our sacrifices served a greater purpose. I believed him.” Nicole’s voice was heavy with reproach. “Turns out he’s a liar. A con man. And I’m a fool.”

  “So you think Bill set this whole thing up in order to make me his Eve number three?”

  Nicole blanched. “No, not his third Eve. His fourth. He’s already selected his Eve number three.”

  “Who?”

  “Hannah. They’re supposed to be married in two months, as soon as she turns eighteen.”

  “What?” I whispered. Horror blanked my mind, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Hannah has no idea that Pastor Bill has been grooming her to become one of his Eves,” Nicole continued. “He said she’s perfect for the role. Docile. Deferential. Dutiful. Willing to do whatever is asked of her. And of course, she’s young and healthy, likely to give the pastor many strong children.”

  Docile. Deferential. Dutiful. I fought the impulse to leap to my feet and throw my chair across the room. She’s an actress. She’s faking it. It’s all part of her big mind fuck. But of course, that declaration would only make things worse for the girl and put her captors on alert. If she had any idea what Pastor Bill had planned for her…

  My head was reeling, my emotions in an uproar. I didn’t have the flu. I wasn’t doomed. Ripper, Kyle, and Sahdev were alive. Resolve filled my heart. Somewhere beyond the armed guards and the fence, my friends waited for me. Levi waited for Hannah. Whatever it took, whatever it cost, Hannah and I were getting out of this place and were staking a claim to our happily ever afters.

  FOURTEEN

  Kenzie

  “Think of it as a series of concentric circles,” Pastor Bill said. His voice rose as he warmed to his subject. “God is at the center of everything, in the position of greatest power and authority. I occupy the circle closest to the center. My four deacons, the next. My male parishioners, the next. Women, the next. And finally, children in the outer circle.”

  He’d shown me the chapel, the kitchen in the back of the dining hall and the greenhouses, and now we followed the perimeter of the lake, walking toward the laundry.

  “So, God’s the bullseye in this analogy,” I said, imagining an archery target, where a competitor would score ten points for hitting the central ring. Proximity to the almighty gave Pastor Bill a high-value position, while those of us languishing in the outer rings—women and children—held only a piddling worth, one or two points at best.

  “An apt description.” Pastor Bill smiled.

  “That’s interesting, but I’m curious.” I clenched my hands into fists, fighting the urge to pummel him. Discretion might be the better part of valor—and I’d keep up my act—but I couldn’t resist poking at his sexist theory. “In this system, does a man who’s an unbeliever rank higher or lower than a godly woman?”

  “You mean a man like Ripper?” Despite his pleasant expression, his eyes betrayed his cruelty. Reminding me of Ripper’s alleged death. The bastard. He sighed, a long-suffering sigh that conveyed both displeasure and frustration. “The ungodly—those who have willfully chosen to reject God and his emissary—have no standing in our hierarchy.”

  He turned toward a cabin on the edge of the lake and jogged up the steps to its entrance, then he opened the door and bowed, inviting me to enter before him. Pastor Bill was a piece of work, combining courtly manners with lectures about a woman’s place in the grand scheme of things.

  A pair of middle-aged women were hard at work scrubbing clothe
s against old-fashioned washboards in a wooden tub.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Wiping her palms on her apron, the taller of the two women approached Pastor Bill. Frequent exposure to water and detergents had left her hands red and chapped. Dishpan hands, Aunt Debbie had called the condition. Washing clothes by hand must have been one of the least desirable jobs in the camp.

  “Good afternoon, Ruth. I’d like to introduce you to Mackenzie Dunwitty, who’s recently joined our community.”

  “Mackenzie.” Her gaze swept me over from head to foot, her eyes assessing, not exactly unfriendly, but wary.

  “Hi, Ruth. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She nodded once. “Will Mackenzie be joining us to work in the laundry, sir?”

  “Perhaps. God has not yet revealed his plans for Mackenzie, but since he answered my prayers and allowed her to recover from the flu, I’m certain that he has a very special role for her to play in our congregation.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Ruth murmured. She bowed her head, but not before I saw a flash of sorrow—or perhaps anger—in her eyes. How often had she been introduced to young women—fecund young women—who may have caught the minister’s eye. Ruth was well into middle age, with softening jowls and lines creasing the corners of her eyes, but she still looked several years younger than the pastor. How demoralizing must it have been to realize that the minister was looking for wives, and although younger than him, she had aged out of contention. If I were her—if I bought his holy man act—I’d be pissed and disappointed, too. I wonder what she’d think when she discovered that I wasn’t the only young woman in line to be an Eve, that old Bill had his eye on a girl five years younger than me.

  “We’ll let you get back to your work,” Pastor Bill said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I followed him out of the cabin and back onto the path that circled the lake. We walked in silence for a minute, before the pastor turned to me. “Now that I’ve shown you to all of the spheres of activity within the women’s realm, do you have any sense of where your talents would be best employed?”

  Spheres of activity within the women’s realm. He’d shown me the kitchen and laundry. Next up were the greenhouses. Cooking, cleaning, and tending vegetables. His regal language did nothing to conceal the fact that he was talking about drudge work. Those were my choices? I could be queen of the kitchen, sovereign lady of the laundry, empress of the veggie patch? My lips pulled back into a sneer, which I managed to convert to a smile. Barely.

  “Back in Portland, I used to help my cousin take care of his vegetable garden and his chickens. If I’m allowed to choose, I’d like to work in the greenhouses.” Away from the main buildings and closer to the fence. Empress of the veggie patch, it was.

  “Excellent,” Pastor Bill said. Dappled sunlight highlighted his thinning hair—disguised by a creative comb-over—and the rogue bristles poking out of his ears. “Our dear Hannah also asked to work in the greenhouses. She should be there now. I’ll escort you there, and Hannah can explain your duties.”

  “I’d like that,” I said with genuine enthusiasm. Hannah had no idea that Ripper was alive. Once I was alone with the girl, I could tell her about all of Pastor Bill’s lies, and we could begin to plan our escape from Camp Golden Rule.

  When we entered the first greenhouse, we found Hannah thinning out a long bed of carrots. At this elevation, the unpredictable frosts made gardening outside unreliable, so it made sense to grow vegetables in a protected environment. Hannah looked up and smiled a welcome when she saw me.

  “I’ll leave Mackenzie in your capable hands, my dear,” Pastor Bill said, inclining his head politely. Now that I knew his plans for the girl, I caught the tell-tale gleam in his eyes when he looked at her.

  Hannah stood, smoothed down her long denim skirt, then shoved her bangs off her sweaty forehead.

  “How did you manage to score a denim skirt?” I asked, as the pastor turned to go.

  “I told Pastor Bill that I needed to wear something sturdy if I was going to spend so much time on my knees. You know, pulling weeds,” Hannah said. “He just laughed and told the women in the communal closet to give me a denim skirt.” She glanced at my gingham get-up and winced sympathetically. “Much better than that nursery school fabric most of the skirts are made from.”

  Oh, Jeez. She told him she anticipated spending a lot of time on her knees? No wonder that pastor had been so accommodating of her request. I shuddered and glanced at Pastor Bill’s retreating figure.

  As soon as he was a safe distance away, I clutched the girl’s arm. “Ripper and Kyle and Sahdev are alive, and you and I are going to figure out a way to bust out of this joint.”

  FIFTEEN

  Kenzie

  Hannah and I spent the next day thinning and weeding the raised vegetable beds. We hauled bucket after bucket of water from the lake to the plants, sweaty, exhausting work that taxed my stamina. The work wore me out, but the intel I gained while crisscrossing the camp made the fatigue worthwhile.

  Two men guarded the gate at all times, checking every car that entered and exited the compound. Every fifteen minutes, a pair of armed men passed by the greenhouse as they patrolled the perimeter. Razor wire topped the six-foot tall chain-link fence that separated Camp Golden Rule from the woods. That had to be new. Pastor Derek wouldn’t need razor wire to keep the wildlife at bay.

  In the middle of the afternoon, two men strode toward Hannah and me as we pushed a wheelbarrow holding six empty buckets toward the lake. The men hogged the center of the walkway. Instead of indulging in a game of chicken—which I doubted we’d win—I steered the wheelbarrow to the side of the path, out of their way. They passed by without sparing us a glance. Just as Hannah had told me, women were invisible, as long as we were going about our duties.

  Good.

  “Is there a toolshed on the property?” I asked Hannah.

  “You mean for gardening tools?”

  “No. Not for gardening tools,” I said in a low voice. “We need a pair of wire cutters and some heavy-duty gloves.”

  “Oh!” Understanding brightened Hannah’s face, and she bumped her shoulder against mine. “Good thinking.” The path forked and Hannah pointed to the left, away from the lake. “The toolshed is just past where they store the equipment.”

  Hannah stood guard outside the clapboard shed while I searched the well-organized interior. A pair of wire cutters hung from a hook on a pegboard. I stashed them in my pocket, then frowned at the black outline of the cutters that remained on the pegboard. Uncle Mel had done the same thing—hung tools on a pegboard then outlined each one with a permanent marker—so it was easy to put each tool back in the correct spot. Shoot. Now it was painfully obvious that the wire cutters were missing. Nobody better notice and come searching for them. I found a pair of Kevlar work gloves, perfect for handling the razor wire that topped the fence, and slipped them into my other pocket.

  Hannah and I retraced our steps to the lake, filled the buckets, and made our way back to the greenhouse. I hid the gloves and cutters behind a rake before turning to Hannah. I’d been reluctant to broach the subject, but with our escape plan coming together, the girl needed to know the stakes. “You need to know something. Nicole told me that Pastor Bill intends to make you his third Eve. He plans to marry you as soon as you turn eighteen.”

  Hannah blanched, her expression revealing both horror and revulsion. “How soon can we make a break for it?”

  Good question. If we cut the fence and ran away during the day, we’d have no more than ten minutes before the guards passed by the spot and noticed the cut wire. If we could manage to escape in the middle of the night, they might not see the break in the wire until daylight. We might not be missed for hours. Of course, at night we’d have to cut razor wire and climb over the tall fence in the dark. If we used a flashlight—and we’d have to swipe one—we’d run the risk of drawing the guards’ attention.

  And what about the wire cutters? If somebody not
iced they were missing, Pastor Bill might order a search of the camp. The guards would be on the watch for any escape attempt. Crap. My mind juggled the risks and benefits of all possible scenarios.

  “I need to think on it a little while longer,” I replied.

  We pushed the wheelbarrow to the lake once again and hauled more water for the thirsty plants. When the chapel bell rang, summoning everyone to the dining hall for dinner, I dropped onto the ground, wiping the perspiration from my face.

  “Still much better than working in the kitchen or laundry,” Hannah said with a sigh. “And better company, too.”

  “Amen, sister,” I agreed, mimicking the pious language we heard from so many fellow campers. Hannah burst out laughing at my solemn pronouncement, and we bumped fists. Offering me a hand, she pulled me to my feet and we walked toward the exit. A bucket of water, a bar of soap, and towel sat on a bench near the door, and we took turns washing our hands and faces.

  “It’s Wednesday. That’s spaghetti night,” Hannah said as we began to follow the path toward the dining hall. “A million times better than tomorrow. Thursdays are dump soup night.”

  “Dump soup?” I asked, frowning at the unpalatable name. “What’s that?”

  “Just what it sounds like. They dump all the leftover vegetables and meats into a pot, add broth and rice or noodles, and make a soup. Last week, they added freaking tuna fish to the soup.” She stuck a finger down her throat and mimed gagging.

  Coo-coo-coo-uh-coo.

  Hannah and I froze in place.

  “Did you hear that?” she demanded, grabbing my arm.

  Coo-coo-coo-uh-coo.

  “Yeah.” I nodded.

  “That’s Levi.” She turned around, scanning the woods beyond the fence. Not ten feet from the chain-link barrier, the leafy fronds of a fern parted. A face peered out from the foliage.

  God, fate, luck, somebody had offered us an opportunity.