Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set

by Bridget E. Baker

  “I hate you,” I say.

  He grins. “You’ll need to work on more creative attacks if you want to wound me. That one’s pretty cliché.”

  “Hand me a weapon and call off the guards and we’ll see how creative I can be.”

  He snaps. “You are my daughter, you know. I knew it the second you tricked me back at the Palisade Palms. I've always been too clever for my own good. It's my primary failing. I spend a lot of time on my knees asking God's forgiveness. But don't worry. I'll discipline that cleverness out of you, now that we have you back. There's a bonus lesson in here for you too, you know.”

  I want to spit on him. Or shoot him with a real bullet this time.

  “The second lesson is in betrayal. Familial betrayal cuts the deepest, of course. You reminded me when you tricked me and then shot me. I needed that reminder not to trust anyone, other than the Almighty.”

  He points and two guards grab me. One grabs my right arm, but the other grabs me at the base of my neck, pinching me and pulling my hair at the same time. I cry out, and Josephine winces. They drag me through the first door on the left side and toss me onto a white cot. The one who held onto my neck yanks out a chunk of hair when he finally releases me. I whimper and curl into a ball on the cot, one hand to my stinging scalp.

  Solomon's voice carries through the walls. “I think you need the time alone, but your mother worries about you. She insists you have the nicest room, the one with a window, and two cots. She's a good woman, so I've decided to humor her.”

  Two more guards drag Wesley into the room, and toss him on the other cot.

  The door shuts with a clang and the guards lock it behind us.

  I should be furious with Solomon, with my mom, and most of all, with myself.

  I should be, but my heart has no room for anything but despair. I collapse into a heap and sob. You'd think I'd be used to it now, but somehow, losing Sam the second time hurts even more than the first. I hate that Solomon’s right. Disappointment is worse on the heels of hope.

  12

  I'm not sure how long I cry, face down on my cot, before Wesley finally approaches me. I'm guessing a while. He doesn't say a word, but he does sit down next to me, put an arm around me and pull me against his chest.

  It helps to know someone else understands, and that someone else cares. But as soon as the hurt eases, I feel worse for taking comfort from someone Sam can't stand. Sobbing and crying and whining are things I usually detest, so I breathe in and out and in and out and I force myself to stop. I sit up and wipe my eyes, breathe in and out a few more times and downshift my gasping sobs to streaming tears. Eventually the tears transition to hiccups.

  I didn't make the selfish decision to come for Sam alone. Rafe wanted to save him too, and Wesley, for his own reasons, agreed. We all knew I might be held here, and it was a risk we took. My job now isn't to cry and moan, and throw a fit. That's the sort of juvenile behavior Solomon expects from me. I need to do something he won't expect instead.

  “Can I say something. . . controversial?” Wesley asks. “I’m really not trying to stir things up again, believe me, but I feel like I need to ask.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you believe him? I mean, if we take him at face value, he lied about Sam being alive to get you here. What if he's lying again now? He might not even think it’s so bad, since it’s a lesson or whatever.”

  I shake my head. “I don't know. I don't think we can believe anything he says, and I'm not sure where that leaves us. He had a reason to lie about Sam being alive. To get me here. He has no reason to lie about him being dead, at least, not that I can think of.”

  Wesley shrugs. “To hurt you. Or in his twisted mind, to teach you a lesson?”

  I flop back on the cot. “Let’s assume initially that he’s telling the truth. If he is, our major issue is that we’re prisoners now. The Marked need us, and we can’t get away.”

  Wesley nods. “True enough.”

  If I focus on getting out of here, I can stop thinking about Sam long enough to be useful. That’s a far cry better than sitting around bawling.

  “We only really have two weapons in our arsenal. First, Solomon may need more of my blood at some point, and he wants to keep me alive for that. Second, none of his people know he's Marked. He may not be Marked by tomorrow, and may in fact be immune hereafter, but he'd have some explaining to do if someone sees him with a rash, especially since he didn't tell anyone about it.”

  Wesley grunts. “That doesn’t even address the fact that he became Marked by the Tercera he kept on hand for who knows what nefarious purpose.”

  “Sadly we don’t have a way to prove that. I left the dart guns and darts at the Palms. I doubt his people will be keen on trusting my word, not based on his messenger Arthur’s opinion of me.”

  “We'd need to be able to reach his people for that to matter at all.” Wesley taps his lip with his index finger. “And once his rash is gone, no one will believe us.”

  “These guards certainly won't believe anything I say.” I frown. “I think the first thing on our list should be checking out of this prison cell. We were stupid enough to walk right in here, without any proof Sam was alive or even present. Maybe we're smart enough to sneak back out.”

  We both stand up and examine our surroundings. WPN doesn’t have many prisoners, which means this cell hasn’t ever been tested. The only window is ten feet or so above the ground floor. I leap up in the air toward it and Wesley snorts.

  Even standing on a cot, I doubt Wesley could reach it. The room itself is small, with only two cots, a small table and two chairs. The table protrudes from the wall on an iron arm. The chairs are bolted into the tile floor on all four feet. A small door in the corner leads somewhere other than the main hallway.

  I open it, and the door itself barely clears the edge of the toilet. A roll of toilet paper sits on the top of the toilet tank, and a small, metal sink opposite the toilet is the only other thing in the bathroom. No soap, towel rack or towels. I step back out. I suppose I should be glad we have a toilet in a separate room with a closing door.

  “We seem to be alone in here,” I say. “What about the window?”

  Wesley squints. “We might be able to smash it, possibly with a leg from one of the cots, but I'm sure there's a guard outside, if not in the hall. If we go that route, we need to be ready to deal with an immediate, and possibly lethal, response. Though I doubt your sweet father would give them orders to kill you, at least not until his rash is gone for good.”

  I swear.

  “They've gotta feed us, I assume,” Wesley says. “That may be our best way out.”

  I shake my head. “Sneaking out won't help. There's an island full of ignorant zealots between us and the bridge. What we need is an ally here who will help us. Someone we can convince to side with us by telling them about Solomon’s duplicity. Someone close enough to see and believe us.”

  I wrack my brain, but other than the guards, no one comes to mind.

  Wesley sits in one of the chairs, tapping his fingers on the table now instead of his lips. “What about your mother?”

  I groan. “Relying on her help is like asking a dog to bite its own master. Useless idea. Or maybe you've forgotten that her betrayal is what got Sam shot?”

  Wesley stands and begins pacing. He's tall and the room's small, so watching him pace reminds me of my aunt's Newton's cradle, four little metal balls that swing back and forth on a pendulum. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but click and clack, click and clack tirelessly.

  “One of the things I had to learn in Administration,” Wesley says, “was how to identify and spot women and children suffering from abuse. They don't act like you or I would, and it's not their fault, either. If Solomon's been abusing your mother for years, well, she could've wanted to help you, but maybe she couldn't help herself much less anyone else. In fact, she might not even know that he’s wrong.”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “See? Useless.”


  He shakes his head. “Not useless. I wish I'd paid better attention, but actually there are a few things I remember about what motivates abused women to finally escape their abuser. Things that might help us if we could somehow foster the occurrence of one of them.”

  “Like?” I ask.

  “First, a truly awful assault, one that leads a victim to believe they might actually die at the hands of the person beating them can result in the victim fleeing.” Wesley runs his hand through his hair. “We can't really count on that, though.”

  I sigh. “I really doubt she'll help me, and I think he's too smart to do anything very awful to her right now. I’ve drawn too much attention to it.”

  Wesley sits down next to me. “It's not about smart or dumb. It's about trained behaviors. His brain is warped, and it's twisted hers up, too. The next thing I remember likely won't help either. Sometimes women leave if they discover the man's having an affair. Beatings they may feel they deserve, but they frequently won't tolerate infidelity. And for some reason, men who abuse physically are commonly unfaithful.”

  “Ironic, given she left my dad for him.”

  “Yeah, that's true. But people rationalize things, right? Anyway, there were others, but I can only think of three. The first two are hard to manipulate, but we may be able to use the last thing I recall. The number one impetus for abused women to flee an abuser is fear of irreparable harm to their child.”

  That hits me like a slug to the gut for some reason, and tears spring to my eyes. Again. I wipe them away. I won't cry for her, not right now, not when her concern for me has only gained me two things. A cell with a window, and a cellmate to plot with. She doesn't deserve my compassion or my pity.

  Besides, Wesley's wrong. She doesn't give a crap about me. The last time she had to choose between us, she raced back to Solomon. “She doesn't even know me, Wes. Besides, Solomon brought me here, by his own words, to hurt me. If my mom was against him harming me, she'd have done something then.”

  Wesley sits on his cot. “Technically he said he brought you here to teach you a lesson. He didn't bring you to do you physical harm. In fact, has he physically harmed you a single time since you met him?”

  I nod. “He slapped my face minutes after we met.”

  Wesley nods. “There's a difference between beating someone and disciplining them and I wonder whether that crossed the line. Or at least, she’ll see things like that, right? Abusers spin things, and rewrite the narrative, all while undermining a woman's sense of worth. The abused women rewrite history frequently, especially strong personalities, because they can't accept they might be . . . Well, weak, or easily taken advantage of, I guess.”

  “Okay, which makes our plan what exactly?”

  Wesley shrugs. “I don't have one, not really. But if we wanted to get your mom on our side, Solomon would have to beat her within an inch of her life, which I know isn't ideal, or cheat on her, which seems unlikely to happen or be revealed out of the blue. The only other option is. . .”

  “He'd have to beat me, severely. So that it’s clearly not a matter of discipline, but an actual attempt to physically harm me.”

  Wesley winces. “I guess so, yeah. I’m just spitballing here, obviously.”

  I guess if my options are to take a beating by a dictator, or rot slowly in here while a hundred thousand Marked kids waste away and die, well. It's not gonna be fun, but bruises and broken bones are still better than widespread death and destruction.

  I drop my face into my hands and mumble. “At least it shouldn’t be hard to get him to beat me senseless. I seem to have a natural affinity for pissing Solomon off.”

  13

  Josephine brings us dinner in a basket later that night. Several kinds of sandwiches, soup in a ceramic tureen with a lid, several kinds of fruit, and a large carafe of ice-cold milk. I think about refusing all of it, but if we do get out of this, Job's going to need my blood. I need to be eating as well as I can so I can produce all the antibodies the Marked may need upon my return.

  Wesley, Josephine and I eat in painfully awkward silence.

  Wesley widens his eyes at me several times, suggesting I bond with my mom. After all, unless she cares about me, she’s not going to flee my dad for hurting me. I want to win my mother over, but I don't know how to do that. It’s not like I’ve ever studied how to be charming to a parent.

  “It’s too bad you don’t have a piano in here,” Wesley says.

  “Oh?” Josephine raises her eyebrows. “Do you play?”

  He shakes his head. “Ruby does, and she sings.”

  I close my eyes. It’s like a horrible chapter out of Pride and Prejudice. Next thing I know, he’ll be telling her I’ve got four thousand pounds a year.

  “I’d love to hear you play once your father lets you out.” Her smile is forced and I make myself return it.

  After I've eaten one turkey sandwich and another roast beef sandwich, and drunk a full container of milk, Josephine shoves a bowl of orange slices into my hands.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. “But I think if I eat another bite I might pop.”

  “You don’t eat nearly enough,” Josephine says. “You look as fragile as a bird, like one good yank could break your wrist.”

  I’m heartily tired of people calling me puny, scrawny, and commenting on how I must not eat enough.

  “She’s always been like that.” Wesley’s eaten even more than me, but he stuffs the end of his second banana into his mouth with a grin. “There’s never quite enough to go around in Port Gibson, and she always shares whatever she has with everyone else.”

  “Not here,” Josephine says. “Here we have more than enough, so eat up.”

  I eat the orange, one section at a time, savoring the burst of tangy juice as it explodes on my tongue.

  “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Solomon. I appreciate it,” Wesley says. He pats his stomach, right on top of his six-pack, and I can't help rolling my eyes. “I can't remember the last time I ate this well.”

  “Speaking of that.” With a grin on her face, Josephine pulls out a box from behind her back. When she lifts the lid, I see two slices of dark brown cake.

  I gasp. “Is that chocolate?”

  “Ruby, darling, we took over ocean ports. One of those is in Tabasco, Mexico. That region has always been responsible for more than seventy percent of Mexico's chocolate. That's why we travelled so far to re-settle it. Most of the trade takes place by ship, but your father and I fly down at least once a year. I'd love to take you the next time we go. It's a beautiful place.” She runs a hand over my hair, pausing to pull on a curl. I want to bat her hand away, but I don't.

  As stuffed as I am, I’d never turn down chocolate in any form. Josephine hands a plate with a large slice of three layer chocolate cake with chocolate frosting to me, and another to Wesley.

  I lean back on my cot, trying to make room in my overfull belly. Even though she said cocoa isn’t rare here, chocolate’s so valuable in the rest of the world that suspicion takes hold.

  “Why are you bringing us cake?” I ask. “Is there some kind of hidden lesson in this? Did you secretly make it using cockroach flour, or lace it with some kind of laxative? I can already anticipate the moral Solomon will mouth over me while I’m cramping in misery. ‘Gluttony always results in misery’.”

  Josephine shakes her head, but I plow ahead. “Or maybe you’re just trying to keep my energy up in case Solomon needs more blood?”

  Josephine frowns. “I'm your mother Ruby, and I love you.”

  “Oh, and that's why you let Solomon toss me in a cell? As long as I get to keep my friend along and there’s a window, it’s fine? I can definitely see how much you two love me.”

  Wesley says, “I think Ruby's wondering whether King Solomon knows you're here with chocolate cake and sandwiches.” What I really want to know is whether there’s a crack into which I can drive a wedge.

  “I told him I was bringing you food.” Josephine’s eyes look anywh
ere but at mine, and I know she’s not telling me everything. I doubt Solomon knows she’s treating us to the best meal we’ve had in weeks, aside from the chowder and swordfish banquet from earlier today.

  Wesley puts one hand on hers. “Did he know you were bringing us cake? Oranges? Of course neither of us would like him to . . . Well, we'd hate if this made him mad at you.”

  She tries to scoot her chair closer to mine, and frowns in dismay when it won't move. “Darling no, don't worry about me. You're in a cell, it’s true, but try to think of this as an extended time out. You're our only child. We want you to have the world, such as it is now. Your father hasn't had any practice with teaching and managing children. We're doing the best we can with limited experience all around.”

  In Josephine's mind, locking me in here is evidence of some kind of tough love. Draw a firm line with the new daughter, because she’s an errant, ignorant child who needs direction. What does that make Wesley? My security blanket?

  I exhale heavily. “I don't need a time out Mom, and I am your child, but I’m not actually a kid anymore. You may not have seen me grow, but I’m an adult.”

  She beams at me. “Every time you call me Mom, I just. . .” She sits up straighter and adjusts her sweater set. “I know you aren't a child, I do.”

  “You sure? You cut the crust off my sandwiches.”

  She frowns. “I’ll admit I still mourn for some of the things I missed, but I know you’re grown.”

  “You need to treat me like an adult.”

  “You did throw a tantrum and infect your dad with a deadly illness a few days ago.” She clucks. “We're trying to help you here, but we need you to meet us halfway.”

  I throw my hands in the air. 'We' this, and ‘us' that. She'll never pick me. This entire plan is doomed.