Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2)

by Melissa Brown

  Click.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I whispered, maneuvering the pins further into the lock, feeling the pins release and the lock pop open. “Yes!”

  The Prophet’s large office was completely enclosed, so I was able to turn on the light switch next to the door. It was a tidy space, with a walnut desk and a leather chair. A laptop sat upon the desk, and several binders lined the shelf behind it. Four filing cabinets filled one wall. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work, searching for anything I could find.

  I began with the laptop. Opening the lid, I peered at the screen, wondering where to begin. Although I was familiar with computers (many of the men owned one, and I was quite seasoned with my cellular phone), I had never actually used one before. The screen prompted me to enter a username and password.

  Oh no.

  There was no way I could possibly know either of those things, and I didn’t want to waste any precious time by guessing. With tight shoulders, I closed the laptop and glanced around the office.

  The binders.

  Swiveling in his chair, I reached for the first binder I could find. Sermons. Pages and pages of sermons. The next binder held religious education materials for the children, lesson plans and other such paperwork. I inspected each and every binder on that shelf, only to find perfectly legitimate materials. Nothing suspect whatsoever.

  I moved to the file cabinets, walking my fingers along the manila folders that poked up from the drawers. Family names were listed on the folders. Quickly, I found Paul’s thick folder and opened it to find documents on Paul, as well as every single one of his wives and children.

  I turned to Paul’s first. In the Prophet’s script handwriting, the details of Paul’s transgressions against his brother were listed. Randomly, I turned the page to an entry for over a decade ago.

  January 8: Raised his voice to the Prophet inside the temple.

  February 1: Ungrateful for second wife assignment. Note: Prolong gift of third wife until he’s deserving and repentant. He deserves to panic and grovel.

  February 23: Late to priesthood meeting, not apologetic enough for my liking. Yet another reason to postpone third wife.

  The list went on and on, and most of the “offenses” were rather minor. My heart sank for Paul. Regardless of how he treated me during our last confrontation, I knew he was a good man. Misguided, of course, but not evil like his brother. If only Paul had been named Prophet instead of his older brother, our compound would be a very different place.

  Without hesitation, I found my file within Paul’s folder and scanned the earlier years, and moved on to the current one. My mouth hung open as I read his reflections on me.

  October 2: Silly, stubborn woman. I have no idea why Paul wanted her so badly.

  October 13: Snooping around the temple during business with C.R. Will deal with her at wedding this weekend.

  October 15: Surprised by her moxie. I’ll need to keep an eye on this one. She may be smarter than she seems.

  Not wanting to read another word, I retrieved my phone and snapped a photo of the initials under October 13th’s entry. I wondered if CR was indeed the man with the leathery skin. At this point, I’d take whatever information I could possibly gather for Jonathan.

  After scanning the rest of the files, only recognizing family names and deeming them harmless, I closed the file cabinet drawers and leaned against the wall, unsure where to look next, pushing back the fear of defeat that was creeping over me.

  That fear disappeared when I noticed the closet.

  Again, it was locked, and I knew with every fiber of my being that if the Prophet felt the need to place two locks between anyone and what was on the other side of that door, that my answers probably resided there. Removing the hairpins from my pocket, I set to work, quickly popping open the lock and opening the closet door.

  The pounding of my heart was so loud, I worried that, impossible as it might be, someone might hear the blood pumping like thunder through my chest. Placing my hand against my heart, I turned on the light and studied the items in the small room. Copies of the Book of Mormon were stacked in the corner, next to an old paper box marked Donations. Leaving no stone unturned, I opened each holy book, holding them upside down to allow anything hidden inside to slip out, but nothing did.

  Kneeling down, I opened the lid of the box and peered inside. A leather-bound ledger was the only item inside it.

  Defeat washed over me.

  “Damn it,” I whispered, quickly covering my mouth, shocked that I’d used profanity.

  The ledger listed last names and dollar amounts. Disappointed, I closed the book and placed it back in the box, and then sat on the floor of the closet with my head hanging in my hands.

  It’s no use. He’s covered his tracks; there’s nothing here.

  A war raged in my head as one side of my brain insisted I walk away, pack up my children, and leave the compound that very night. If we were quiet enough, no one would know we were gone until morning. Certainly, Brinley would allow us to sleep on her floor until I could get myself on my feet.

  The other side of my brain screamed, No! Keep looking! Don’t give up!

  Sighing, I pushed up from the floor, leaving the closet and office open as I walked to the staircase behind the chapel. The temple only had one additional floor, where religious education was held, as well as priesthood meetings for the church elders. I doubted there was anything to find, but I had to try. I could never look back on this night, knowing there was more to the temple to search. No, I had to see this through.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I was overcome by the darkness. Swallowing hard, I retrieved my flashlight again and the soft glow urged my body to calm, for my breathing to slow and my hands to shake a bit less.

  The classrooms were tidy, with schoolwork, folders, and bulletin boards. Nothing felt out of place or odd. But when I scanned the perimeter of the room, I realized that it also had a closet, or a connecting room of some kind.

  My trusty hairpins opened the lock, and I walked into the carpeted room. An unfamiliar mix of odors wafted to my nostrils: masculine body odor and what might be blood were all I could discern from the unpleasant smell. The room was much larger than the Prophet’s closet, and when I turned on the light, I could see why.

  A gasp left my lips as I stared at it.

  It was a bed, but unlike any bed I’d ever seen. The mattress was covered in a plastic sheet and elevated several feet high into the middle of the room, with a step surrounding its perimeter. Two wooden handles sat at each end of the odd contraption.

  But what froze my blood was the sight of the six chairs that formed a circle around the bed, and what that meant.

  An audience.

  My stomach lurched as I studied those simple chairs—the exact same chairs the children used next door to learn about Heavenly Father and the celestial kingdom.

  Bile rose in my throat as my attention was drawn to the chest of drawers in the corner. With shaking hands, I removed my phone from my bag and snapped several pictures of the bed and chairs before slowly walking to the old wooden chest.

  My hands trembled as I opened the first drawer. There were two large boxes of replacement plastic sheets. With hesitation, I opened the second drawer, scared of what I might find. My throat ran dry and I gasped again when I saw the drawer’s contents. Three large boxes of condoms, just like the one I’d found in the new temple. Bottles of something called K-Y Jelly, but it didn’t look like food of any kind. Towels and duct tape.

  The sight of that simple, benign roll of tape made the contents of my stomach rise. I barely made it to the wastebasket next to the chest before vomit spewed from my mouth and tears sprang from my eyes. As I knelt before the plastic bin, clutching it with every bit of energy I had left inside my body, all I could think about was my sweet baby. My Ruthie.

  Was this horrific room in her future if I allowed her to marry that monster? Was this where he brought his wives? Did he lay with them in fro
nt of those men? Did he tape their hands, their feet, their mouths? Pictures flashed in my head, pictures of my baby girl tied down by the Prophet, forced to do unspeakable acts while the man with the leathery skin watched her scream out in agony and horror.

  I had to get her out. I had to protect her, to forget this mission to bring down the Prophet. I had to save my girl.

  Then who else will see this room? Who else will be tortured? You can’t abandon your people, Aspen, you can’t! To be silent is to be enslaved. You’ve come too far to run away.

  My head spun and beads of sweat gathered above my upper lip as I peeled myself off the floor, forcing myself to take photos of the contents of the drawer, careful not to move anything from its place.

  I closed the drawer and lifted the wastebasket from the floor. If I left it like this, the Prophet would know I’d been there, that I’d found this sickening room. So I carried the basket down the hall to the bathroom, flushing its contents and then rinsing it out in the sink. Once I’d dried it with a few paper towels, I returned it to its place and locked the door behind me.

  The office! I didn’t lock up!

  I made my way back to the office and into the closet, ready to turn off the light and make my way home. But something told me to study that ledger one more time. Call it intuition, call it covering my tracks, but I knew in my gut that I hadn’t given it enough of my attention, assuming the Prophet had simply listed his donations.

  Then why isn’t it with his other binders? Why is it inside a box in a locked closet?

  I sat cross-legged on the floor of the closet and wiped the lingering tears from my eyes. Then I opened the ledger to the first page, studying the names I’d glossed over earlier, names I didn’t recognize.

  Rodriguez $300

  Cohen $150

  Penowsky $300

  Labriola $300 (x2)

  Rodriguez $150

  Rodriguez $150

  Levinson $300 (IOU—follow up next month)

  There were only a handful of bloodlines on the compound—the Barlows, Blacks, Cluffs, Jessops, and Steeds. I knew them all. In comparison, these names were ethnic, different, foreign. These were the men he was leading into the temple, the men to whom he’d promised the “product.” My hands trembled as I shoved the leather book into my bag, knowing that Jonathan needed to see everything I could provide.

  I was giving him proof. The proof he needed to arrest and punish our Prophet. I returned the empty box to its spot in the closet. Unable to wait another moment, I called Jonathan. He answered immediately.

  “Yeah.”

  My voice was hoarse and burning pain shot through my throat as I spoke, but I didn’t care. I had to tell him, I had to hear his voice.

  “I have it . . . I have proof.”

  “What did you find?”

  “It’s disturbing. I took pictures. I’ll show you when I get there. Can I come to your house?”

  “Now? It’s one o’clock in the morning, Aspen.”

  “It can’t wait! You have to see—” My voice broke, and tears formed in my eyes once again.

  “Of course. I’ll pick you up. Go to the corner of Ridge and Canyon Street, and I’ll be there waiting, all right? I don’t live nearby, and I don’t want you walking alone at this time of night.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “Be safe.”

  “I will.”

  “Little House?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

  Startled by the sound of a door closing, I placed the phone on the Prophet’s desk and turned my attention to the chapel. There was no mistaking that sound—someone was inside the temple! My head whipped around as I searched desperately for an escape, but the only one that existed led to the chapel.

  You’re not alone, Aspen! Close the door! Hide!

  I held my breath and sprinted for the door, closing it as softly as I could, and then switched off the lights and slumped down to sit against it. My heart pounded with harsh thuds and the room spun as my lungs deflated. Panic consumed me as the creaking floorboards of the chapel grew louder. I could hear the clicking of loafers against the wood.

  He’s here. He’s found me.

  I held my breath and waited . . . waited for the office door to open, for the Prophet to catch me, for him to cast me out of my home. For my world to come to a screeching halt, to lose everything and everyone that I held so dear. To leave without having the chance to hug my precious babies.

  But then, as if Heavenly Father could feel my desperation and anguish, the footsteps changed, became more distant with each passing second. Within just a few minutes, I heard a door slam once again. They were gone.

  Breathe, Aspen. Breathe.

  I waited another minute, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. I had to be sure that whoever had walked through the chapel was really gone from the building before I could emerge from the office. Still surrounded by darkness, I cracked the door open quietly and peeked my head out, scanning the chapel. I was alone.

  Running on my tiptoes, I crossed the chapel to the exit and clutched my knapsack, sprinting in the cold night air. Sprinting to Jonathan who waited in a small red car just where he said he’d be. I climbed into the car, feeling the seat envelop me in the safety of its warmth.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded, my throat dry, my brain hazy. “I think so. Someone came into the temple, right after we spoke. But they left . . . at least, I think they did.”

  Jonathan’s brow knitted as he put the car into Drive. “Let’s get you to my place. I’ll get you something to drink and we’ll talk about it. For now, just sit back and relax, all right? You did good.”

  Numb from head to toe, I nodded, pressing the back of my head into the headrest and closing my tired eyes.

  You did good.

  I could only hope it wasn’t in vain.

  Chapter 27

  “Repent, always repent . . . and if you’re lucky, Heavenly Father will forgive.”

  —The Prophet, Clarence Black

  Aspen

  The gravity of my situation settled in as Jonathan brought his car to a stop in a dimly lit parking lot, shut off the engine, and turned his body toward mine. He cleared his throat, running his fingers through his thick mass of unruly brown hair. He adjusted his glasses and tipped his head forward, looking at the brick building behind me.

  “This is me.”

  It was the middle of the night and I was about to enter the home of a Gentile, and a man who wasn’t my husband. That in itself was considered an unforgivable sin in the eyes of Heavenly Father, but I knew it was a necessary means to an end. This couldn’t wait. Jonathan had to know the vile happenings at the temple, to know what the Prophet was up to—the lives that he was ruining. The poor, defenseless lives . . .

  Without another word, we walked together into the brick building and climbed two sets of stairs before Jonathan unlocked the door to his apartment and welcomed me inside.

  With my hands linked together in front of my abdomen, I walked slowly into his home, taking in every detail. The walls were stark white and empty, no pictures or paintings hung on them for decoration like Gentiles tended to do. The apartment was large, with a sitting room and a galley kitchen. Stacks of dirty dishes threatened to spill from the porcelain sink, and the countertop was covered with empty pizza boxes and Coke cans.

  He shrugged, removing two cans from the countertop and tossing them into the already overflowing wastebasket. “I, uh . . . I wasn’t expecting company. It’s the cleaning lady’s day off.” He winked.

  “That’s all right.” I offered a weak smile, the best one I could muster under the circumstances.

  When I first met the detective, his sloppy, wrinkled shirts made me wonder if his wife was neglectful. But now I was certain that he lived alone. From the sweatshirts draped over the dark leather sofa, to the coffee table covered in newspa
pers, cups, and cans, it was obvious this man was single. His apartment was by no means dirty, just severely cluttered and untidy. It could most certainly use the expertise and know-how of an organized woman.

  “I’m a pig; I know.” He walked to a leather armchair and cleared it of its clutter. “Have a seat.”

  Standing just a few feet from the doorway, I hesitated to accept his invitation. My presence in his home was improper and embarrassing. “I should probably stay here, if that’s all right with you.”

  His cheeks reddened as he stood up straight, looking confused and slightly insulted with his knitted brow and arms pressed close to his body.

  “You know I would never try anything, don’t you? I’m here to help, not cause more problems. Come on, have a seat. Please?”

  Snap out of it, Aspen! Why are you worrying about your modesty? About proper behavior? The Prophet is whoring girls out to Gentiles! Sit down, you foolish woman!

  “All right.” I nodded and walked to the chair, sitting gingerly on the edge of the sturdy leather.

  “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

  “Water would be nice, thank you.”

  Jonathan nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a glass of ice water. I thanked him and drank the cool liquid, feeling my burning throat respond immediately to its calming sensation. I pressed the glass to my chest and nodded, closing my eyes.

  “Now.” Jonathan scratched the top of his head and sat down on the couch opposite me. “What happened over there? Are you ready to talk about it?”

  I nodded, feeling my eyes blur with tears. “Um, it was worse than I thought—than we thought. So much worse, Jonathan.”

  I pinched my eyes shut, shaking my head as I attempted to get the image of that bed out of my brain. “There was a bed.”