RUNAWAY TWINS (Runaway Twins series #1)

by Pete Palamountain

  Biggars didn’t like the news one bit, and against all Sheba Hill protocol he leapt to his feet in protest. “What’s this?” he stammered. “What’s this all about?” His jowly round face was scarlet with anxiety and fury, and he was breaking the primary commandment of the Sheba Hill society: never question the Prophet. He was sovereign and no dissent of any kind was tolerated.

  “Settle down, brother,” the Prophet said smoothly. “God has appeared to me personally and made it clear that—”

  “But, sir…there’s no need to—” He now realized he was going too far, and he looked around to see who was watching and listening.

  The Prophet hurriedly dismissed the congregation and took Biggars by the arm and led him to a small alcove off the main auditorium.

  After shooing their little brothers out the front door, Rachel and Janie crept back inside the temple to see if they could overhear what Biggars and the Prophet were talking about. The two men’s voices were muffled, and the girls knew if they were to understand what was being said, they needed to make it to a position behind the marble pillar that stood about ten feet from the alcove. They measured each step carefully, halting when there was a pause in the men’s conversation and creeping forward again when the men resumed talking. At the pillar, Rachel looked into her sister’s bright green eyes and indicated with a nod that they should both squeeze into the space between the pillar and the wall.

  “God makes the final decisions in these matters,” said the Prophet.

  “Yes, yes, I know. But why is it necessary to cancel—”

  “Because God has told me the Lemon girls are to be my wives.”

  “No, wait,” Biggars stammered. “You got Mary, and now you want her sisters. That’s not fair. I’ve always been loyal—a good soldier and I deserve—”

  “Yes, you’re a good soldier, and I need you and count on you. You’re my most trusted aide. But God makes these choices, not me.”

  Biggars lowered his head submissively. “I know that. But it hurts, and it doesn’t seem right.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  The Elder assented, but his voice was weak and unhappy.

  The twins stared at each other in astonishment. The fire had not saved them after all. It had given the Prophet the excuse he needed to claim them as his own. Janie gasped at the thought, and Rachel reached out and covered her sister’s mouth with her hand. But the men had heard the sound, and they stopped their conversation abruptly. They remained silent for several long moments, and then Biggars said, “What was that?”

  “Hold on,” the Prophet said, “let’s see.”

  The girls burrowed into their nook, folding into each other’s arms so they could slip deeper into the narrow space behind the pillar.

  The men began to search the chapel to see if anyone was present. They examined the aisles toward the back entrance and then turned to walk toward the front near the altar. Seeing nothing, they grunted with satisfaction. “No one,” said the Prophet.

  The girls held their breath; and Janie reached out and tucked the hem of her dress under her leg. She motioned for Rachel to do the same, for the blue material from their long dresses was extending beyond the pillar and out onto the hardwood floor.

  The men moved down the aisle in the direction of the rear exit, and as they passed the pillar their faces came into view. The Prophet’s expression was one of control and self-satisfaction, but Hank Biggars’ face was contorted with rage, and his eyes were filled with hate.

  When they were alone, the twins eased out of their hiding place and went out through the side door behind the dais. They ran to the gazebo, and when they were seated on the familiar safe bench, they turned to each other in dismay. “What now?” asked Rachel.

  “I don’t know,” said Janie, “but I know one thing for sure. We are not going to end up like Mary.”

  “We’ve got to get away,” said Rachel, “get to Sheba, get some help.”

  They were startled by a sound at the base of the gazebo, about five feet below where they were sitting. They jumped up at the same time and saw a boy disappearing into the nearby woods. He had apparently been sitting on the grass with his back against the latticework. He was carrying a book in his hand.

  “Do you think he heard us?” asked Janie.

  “How could he help but hear.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell?”

  Rachel shrugged. “Probably. They’re all brainwashed in this place.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “I think it was the new boy Justin—the one who came in with his aunt a couple of months ago.”

  “Maybe they haven’t had time to brainwash him yet.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  4

  A Reluctant Bride

  One week after her thirteenth birthday, the twins’ older sister Mary Lemon had become the tenth wife of J.J. Flack, the Prophet of Sheba Hill, a hatchet-faced, black-eyed, Doberman pinscher of a man in his fifties. Some years earlier, he had decreed she was to be the wife of Elder Hank Biggars, his trusted aide-de-camp; but the Prophet watched her as she developed, and when it became obvious she was going to blossom into an extraordinary beauty, he claimed her for himself. Elder Biggars didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do because the Prophet ruled the Sheba Hill Temple with an iron fist.

  Rachel and Janie Lemon were eleven at the time, and they were told that one day they would replace their sister in Hank Biggars’ harem. They were supposed to look forward to their thirteenth birthday when they would step in as his sixth and seventh, or maybe his eighth and ninth wives, depending on who caught his fancy in the interim. He was fat, in his mid-forties, arrogant, and cruel; and to say Rachel and Janie were not eagerly anticipating the day when they would join his family, would be the understatement of the century.

  Mary didn’t live up to the expectations of her bridegroom, for almost immediately after her wedding, she descended into a physical, spiritual, emotional, and mental funk that turned her into a zombie in a polyester housecoat. Her decline was astonishing to see, and by the time she reached her fourteenth birthday, everyone in the compound knew it was unlikely she would live to see fifteen. Rachel and Janie were devastated. They loved their older sister and they begged their mother and father to help Mary, to save her. But Seth and Esther Lemon’s response was to go to the Prophet and ask him what he thought about Mary’s deterioration. He assured them she was fine and healthy and was merely going through a stage that would soon disappear as she recognized God’s working in her life. Seth and Esther were satisfied with his answer, as they were with every answer the Prophet gave them. They belonged to him, body and soul, and for them to question his judgment or his decisions was inconceivable.

  Rachel and Janie were considerably less impressed. They suspected that the only god the Prophet worshipped was himself—but they were too young to fight him, too young to contest his will, too young to help Mary. “Maybe we should go back to Mother and Father,” Janie said, “try to convince them to do something.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Mother is dominated by Father, and he’s not going to make any waves. He likes things the way they are.”

  “He doesn’t want Mary to suffer.”

  “That’s not what I mean….Father is forty-four years old. He has four wives and he wants more. If he causes trouble he’ll move down on the waiting list, and he knows that.”

  “Then Mother—”

  “Mother doesn’t think for herself anymore. We both know that. No, it’s up to us to help Mary. We’ll have to come up with a plan.”

  “What kind of a plan, Rachel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But before they could organize their ideas or even think the matter through clearly, Mary died, and the plan to save her became meaningless. The Prophet said it was a stroke, but the twins knew better. Except in very rare instances, children don’t get strokes. Mary had given up. She’d stared into the future and had seen no hope,
no love, and no reason to continue living.

  Rachel and Janie Lemon were determined they would not share the same fate.

  At Mary’s funeral Elder Hank Biggars, their betrothed, tried to comfort the girls by assuring them Mary was in a better place. But all he succeeded in doing was to turn their stomachs and to cause Janie to agree there was little doubt their sister was in a better place. Biggars was too pompous and self-absorbed to pick up on the broader meaning in Janie’s comment, even when she muttered under her breath that it wouldn’t be hard to find a better place than Sheba Hill, Montana.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “a better place.” As he spoke, his greedy pig’s eyes carefully evaluated the twins, and it was obvious he was thinking about the day when they would become his brides.

  Rachel and Janie exchanged glances and shared a moment of silent determination. Such a marriage would never take place, not if they could prevent it.

  “I despise him,” said Janie, after Biggars departed.

  “He’s an easy man to despise,” Rachel said.

  The twins did their best to avoid Elder Biggars and the Prophet during the next year, but they were not entirely successful. On many occasions they felt both men watching them, studying them. The girls knew as they approached their thirteenth birthday, they were emerging, changing, growing into graceful young women—still awkward, but with unlimited promise. And they were certain their keepers knew also.

  Fortunately, Biggars and the Prophet couldn’t give undivided attention to the twins’ development, for this was a difficult period for the church. The sect was buffeted by the authorities, by rejected relatives who wanted their family members back, and by former church members who had left the movement and were now attacking from the outside. The leaders couldn’t breathe; and they spent most of their waking hours hiding the truth about their beliefs from those who would like to do harm to the organization.

  Rachel and Janie desperately wished to escape from the Sheba Hill Temple, to run away, to find refuge. The problem was they didn’t know how. They thought they might go into the town of Sheba to see if any of the newcomers would help them; but there were now new rules against leaving the compound. Before the trouble with the outsiders, all of the children, teenagers, and young adults had constant access to Sheba. After all, the town was essentially an extension of the Sheba Hill congregation. Church members owned most of the businesses and ran most of the institutions. There was no risk of what the leaders called negative influence, because there were few residents or visitors who didn’t subscribe to the doctrines of the Sheba Hill Temple. But with the onset of the trouble, this began to change. The FBI was in town looking for witnesses to crimes against minors, and everyone knew it; and the girls thought if only they could steal away from the compound and make it to the FBI’s temporary office, they would be safe. They would never have to sit across the breakfast table from Elder Biggars and listen to him expound on why they were so lucky to be a part of his family. The very thought caused them to double and redouble their planning.

  And yet, the more they concentrated and schemed, the less practical their ideas seemed. The temple guards were everywhere—especially at night; and every exit from the compound was covered. The Prophet explained he was protecting his flock from the harassment of outsiders, so all could focus on the things of God and not on the things of the world. But the twins knew that while he certainly didn’t want to let outsiders in, he was also deathly afraid of letting rebels out.

  “We can’t get out and we can’t stay here,” said Rachel, “not with our wedding coming up in less than four months.” Her bottle-green eyes were filled with frustration and anger, and she hurled a schoolbook against the bedroom wall, causing a small figurine to fall from the shelf. It didn’t break, and she put it back in place.

  “What can we do?” asked Janie. Her tear-filled eyes were lighter than her sister’s, a brighter green, like undiluted antifreeze. Everyone knew the surest way to tell the girls apart was to look at their eyes. But those who knew them best also knew another way to identify them was to see who had taken the lead, for Rachel was the more aggressive of the two.

  “Don’t cry, Janie,” said Rachel, “we’ll come up with something. I’ve been working on an idea.”

  “What?”

  And they began to plan their night run to Sheba.

  5

  The New Boy

  Twelve-year-old Justin Patrick missed his father, his uncle, and Alaska. He missed the treks the three of them made into the back country; and he missed the rescues his father organized to save the lives of stranded climbers, skiers, and downed pilots. He missed the survival lessons, the rugged Alaskan wilderness, and the camaraderie he shared with the two men in his family. His aunt was now the only family he had left. The landslide had taken his father and his uncle, and his mother had died when he was an infant.

  Aunt Ruby was not blood family. She was Uncle Garth’s wife and related to Justin only by marriage. While Uncle Garth lived, she seemed as solid and stable as her husband; but after his death she began a long decline culminating in her leaving Alaska for Montana and the Sheba Hill congregation.

  Justin was devastated by her decision. After he and his aunt had moved into a small home in the Sheba Hill compound, he went to her and said, “How can we be part of this?”

  “These are good people,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “The Prophet loves us,” she said.

  Justin scowled. “He loves himself and young girls.”

  “Try to believe in the Prophet,” she said. “He has your best interests in mind.”

  Justin closed his eyes in disgust. “I don’t believe in him, Aunt Ruby, and I never will.” His expression was intense, and his pale blue eyes were defiant. “As soon as I’m able, I’m going to get out of this place.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Justin. Where would you go? Who would you go to? I’m all you have—me and our new family here at Sheba Hill.”

  “And your new husband and his other wives?”

  “Elder Tate is a wonderful man, and I’m fortunate he wants me for his wife.”

  Justin shook his head. “One of his wives, you mean. If Uncle Garth knew what you’re doing, he’d crawl out of his grave and come drag you away from here.”

  “That’s not funny, Justin.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny.”

  After his aunt married Elder Tate, Justin tried to stay away from the Tate household as much as possible. He asked if he could continue to live in the small cottage he and Ruby had previously occupied, but the Prophet said Justin was too young to live alone; and besides, he needed the warmth of a family unit.

  Family unit? The Tate ménage was more like a zoo, with children running everywhere and wives in cages of their own construction. Justin’s only relief was to find ways to spend as much time by himself as he could. He often got up at first light and didn’t return to the house until after dark. Today was no exception. He’d snuck out before dawn, intending to skip chapel if he could get away with it. He went for a long walk along the outer edges of the compound, observing the temple guards for future reference. And then he took the wilderness survival book, written by his father, to the gazebo by the old covered well. He sat down on the grass with his back against the latticework and began to read. It was a cold late fall morning, and he shivered a bit; but cold or not, it was better than the Tate house and its monstrous hypocrisies.

  He heard the Lemon twins run into the gazebo above him, heard their sighs and exclamations of dismay, and then heard Janie say, “…We are not going to end up like Mary” and heard Rachel’s response, “We’ve got to get away, get to Sheba for some help.” He wasn’t quite sure what they meant, but he had his suspicions. He knew the twins were approaching their thirteenth birthday and when the date arrived they would be given in marriage to one of the arrogant old men—and he was virtually certain the girls recoiled at such a union. He was tempted to stand up, show himself and t
ell them he understood and was on their side. But he chose not to do so. He could have misinterpreted their conversation, and even if he was assessing the situation correctly, his sudden appearance might frighten them and cause them distress. He rose to his feet and strode quickly to the woods, hoping they had not noticed him.

  At dinner Sunday evening (always an unappealing event, with Elder Tate presiding at a table of browbeaten wives and children), Justin made it a point to find out all he could about the Lemon twins. The answers were positive, and the elder made it clear the girls were anxiously awaiting their marriage to one of the elders or deacons of the Sheba Hill Temple. Tate wasn’t certain who the bridegroom would be since the Prophet had cancelled the girls’ marriage to Hank Biggars; but he knew the Prophet would make a wise and appropriate choice.

  Justin stared at his new uncle and concluded that the odious old man could not conceive of a situation where young girls would not be delighted with marriage to a prominent leader in the Sheba Hill congregation.

  “Why all the questions?” asked Aunt Ruby.

  “I’m just trying to make friends,” Justin said.

  She nodded. “Good, good. It’s time you came out of your shell.”

  Elder Tate tightened his lips and said, “Keep in mind that those two young women will soon be dutiful wives. Don’t establish any improper relationships.”

  Justin nearly gagged on his food. Improper? Tate was warning him about being improper? Amazing. “Young women?” he said. “I thought they were still little girls.”

  “What?” Tate said, straining to hear.

  “Nothing,” said Justin.

  At school the next morning he came face to face with the Lemon twins on the landing of the main staircase. They all paused and stared at one another, but no one spoke. Justin considered blurting out that he sympathized with them, but he held his tongue. There were other children passing on both sides, and he didn’t want to be overheard. And he still didn’t fully comprehend what the twins’ attitudes were. He wanted allies, but he didn’t want to open a can of worms because of an incorrect assessment of the situation.