Startled, she pulled her hand away, but after carefully counting her fingers, went back to giving him a good petting.
“Nice looking pigs,” Tanner said, hoping to start things off on a friendly note.
The man nodded. “Nearly fat enough for eatin’.” He let his eyes wander to the four nuns. “All of them yours?”
“We most certainly are not!” exclaimed Sister Margaret. “I’ll have you know we’re devout servants from Our Lady of the Angels Monastery.”
“Angels, you say?” He mulled on that while working a wad of chaw from one side of his mouth to the other. “What you folks doin’ ’round here?”
“Rescuing prisoners,” she said accusingly.
“I see.” He pulled the pinch of tobacco from his mouth and flicked it down to the pigs. The fattest of the bunch hurried over and gobbled it down.
Sister Margaret looked past him at the woman peeking through the window.
“Are you keeping that woman against her will?”
“I s’pose you’d have to ask her that.” He turned and hollered, “Hattie! Get out here so these folks can set you free.”
The woman moved to stand in the doorway. Her condition was abundantly clear, pregnant, probably six months or a little more.
“Free from what?” she hollered back.
“Me, I reckon.”
“A little late for that now,” she said, stroking her swollen belly. “Where were they ’fore you got me like this?”
“You sure? Cause I don’t want you kept against your will. Take anythin’ you want ’cept for the pigs,” he said, chuckling.
“Funny,” she sneered. “Now get your sorry backside in here. We got work to do ’fore nightfall comes.”
The man turned back to Sister Margaret.
“I don’t s’pose that offer extends to me?”
Sister Margaret said nothing.
“Yep. That’s what I thought.” He turned and meandered back to the door, muttering, “Against her will. That’s a good one, all right.”
Tanner looked over at Sister Margaret and smiled.
“I’m thinking there might be a lesson in that somewhere.”
“Oh?” Her voice was haughty. “And what might that be? That not everyone requires saving?”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He turned and continued along the gravel path.
Sister Margaret and the other nuns followed. Samantha took a moment longer to give a few parting scrubs to the pigs before hurrying to catch up.
The trail took them around a large counterclockwise loop. At the far end, they came upon two long hangars with grain silos out front. A handful of low bay doors on one of the hangers stood open.
Tanner turned to Sister Margaret. “You and the ladies hold tight.”
She nodded.
As Samantha headed off with Tanner, Sister Elizabeth could be heard saying, “Shouldn’t she be staying with us too?”
Sister Margaret’s response was as succinct as it was telling.
“Don’t even get me started.”
Tanner and Samantha walked to the closest of the bay doors. Inside were jumbled piles of antique furniture, some surely dating back two or three hundred years. Chairs, tables, cabinets, even doors and window frames lay about. The air was laced with the unmistakable odors of wood stain and sawdust.
“What’s all this for?” she asked, stepping out from behind him.
“Must be for the exhibits. Either that or someone’s a serious hoarder.”
She traced her fingers along the arm of a rocking chair and carefully sat down. The wood creaked under her weight but held.
“It’s probably better if you don’t sit on any of this,” she warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Stuff’s probably eat up with termites.”
She hopped to her feet. “Termites!”
“Oh yes. They’re terribly dangerous.” Tanner held up a hand and made a little pinching motion with his index finger and thumb. “The little devils crawl into your ears and chew right through your brain.”
A flash of fear crossed her face, but it quickly melted away.
“Well then, I guess you wouldn’t have anything to worry about,” she said with a grin.
He ruffled her hair. “You’re getting wise to my ways. Shame.”
They exited the building and headed toward one of the silos. A rickety metal ladder ran up the side.
“Climb up and see if you can spot the old dairy farm,” he said.
What would have been met with heated debate months earlier elicited only a resigned sigh.
“Fine. But next time you get to do it.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up a hand.
She slipped the rifle over her head.
“Were you ever even a Boy Scout?”
“For a while.”
“I suppose you got kicked out.”
He made a pained face. “I’m hurt. I really am.”
“Yep. That’s what I thought.”
Samantha turned and hopped up to grab the first rung. Her upper body strength had improved significantly, and she was able to pull herself up the first few rungs without the use of her legs. When she was about twenty feet off the ground, she stopped.
“Can you see it?” he called up.
Hanging by one arm, she leaned around to get a better look. In the distance, she could make out the parking lot and even the blur of the old station wagon. To the right of the lot was an oddly shaped building with a bright red roof.
She pointed. “That must be it over there.”
Tanner tried to peer through the trees but couldn’t get eyes on the building.
“Is it octagonal?”
Samantha studied the building. It could have been octagonal. Then again, it could have been round, square, or half a dozen other shapes. Hard to tell from a distance.
“I think so.”
“You do know what an octagon is, right?”
“Of course I do,” she said, starting back down the ladder. “It’s the shape of the signs you ignore every chance you get.”
As she neared the bottom of the ladder, he scooped her off and gave her a quick tickle before setting her on the ground.
“You’re going to break a rib one of these days,” she said, rubbing her side. “And then how are you going to feel?”
“I’ll feel fine. You’ll be the one with the broken rib.”
She shook her head, but there remained a playful grin on her face.
“Brute.”
“Sissy.”
Together, they walked back to Sister Margaret and the nuns, Samantha giving Tanner a few good pushes to the shoulder to pay him back for the tickling.
“Well?” said Sister Margaret.
“That way,” he said, pointing.
Without offering anything more, Tanner wheeled about and started walking. Sister Margaret hurried up next to him as Samantha stayed back and began talking to the nuns about how one joined “the nunnery.”
“Did you find the dairy building?” asked Sister Margaret.
“We think so.”
“You think so?”
“We’re debating on Sam’s knowledge of shapes.”
Sister Margaret glanced back at Samantha. She was feeling of Sister Elizabeth’s habit, like a tailor looking to make a suit.
“You and she have a… a different relationship. I see that now.”
“Yeah, so?”
She offered a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“Perhaps it’s not all bad.”
Tanner cocked an eye in her direction.
“Careful, Sister. I might think you’ve decided we’re not the dysfunctional heathens you first took us to be.”
A thin smile came to her lips.
“I said no such thing.”
Tanner wasn’t sure if she was denying ever saying it, or denying having changed her mind. Either way, he figured it really didn’t matter.
Staring at the trees ahead, she said, �
��Thank you for not abandoning Sister Clare.”
“I don’t quit in the middle of anything. Not my way.”
She nodded. “Why do you think they separated her from the others?”
“You heard the man. She wasn’t cooperating.”
“With what?”
“Being their slave bride, I suppose.”
She shook her head in disgust.
“What are you going to do if they won’t let her go?”
“Whatever I have to.”
“Might I at least ask—”
“No,” he said gruffly. “You may not.”
Her eyes tightened. “When I asked you to help me, I didn’t know you were a walking wrecking ball!”
“Ooh, I like that!” Samantha said, hurrying up beside them. “Tanner Wrecking Ball Raines. It has a nice ring to it.”
Tanner glanced over at Sister Margaret, who seemed to understand that their talk was over.
“Just remember,” she said quietly, “God will hold you responsible for whatever you do.”
He shrugged. “God can do what He wants, and I’ll do the same.”
They continued on, eventually abandoning the trail to cross through an Indian campsite, likely built in recognition of the many contributions Native Americans provided to early settlers. A handful of carefully constructed domed structures stood in the center of the campsite. All of them appeared to be empty.
As they passed by one of the domes, Samantha ducked inside for a quick look. The frame consisted of bent saplings lashed together, with bark and grass covering the walls. There was an earthy smell to the hut, reminding her of the night that she and Tanner had slept under the stars and feasted on rabbit and dandelions.
She smiled. It was a good memory, even if it did involve using socks to mop the water off plants.
She stepped back outside and found Tanner waiting for her. The nuns had continued ahead a short distance before stopping at the edge of the clearing.
“Why aren’t these tipis pointy?”
“Because they’re not tipis. They’re wigwams.”
She giggled. “Wigwams, really?”
“Call them wickiups or wetus if you like.”
She shook her head and marched on, convinced that he was making up words again.
Tanner smiled and fell in step behind her, satisfied that one day while paging through some dusty old American history book, she would come across the word wigwam and giggle with surprised delight. He was absolutely convinced that in the not so distant future, Samantha would proclaim that he, Tanner Raines, was the smartest person she had ever known. Well… perhaps not absolutely convinced.
Once past the Indian campsite, they trudged through a heavily forested area filled with thorny vines that seemed especially drawn to the nuns’ habits. By the time they stepped clear of the trees, Sister Margaret seemed close to taking Bernard of Menthon’s name in vain. Only the sight of the white octagonal building in the distance seemed to calm her enough to remember that the Patron Saint of Hiking had little to do with the prickly vines.
“This way,” Tanner said, skirting the tree line until they came up behind a long rectangular building. Based on its size and location, he thought it must have originally been built to house the dairy cows. The stench coming through small open-air windows at the top, however, confirmed that somewhere along the way it had been converted into a public latrine.
He peeked around the corner to study the octagonal building. It was quiet, no one going in or out. There was, however, a shiny gold Mercedes S550 parked in the driveway.
He turned to the nuns. “How many men have you seen?”
They looked to one another, unsure of who should answer.
Finally, Sister Josephine spoke up. “There were three men, all big and strong. The one guarding us at the huts was the smallest—”
“And the most handsome,” added Sister Eunice. When Sister Margaret cast a disapproving look her way, she shrugged. “Not that I noticed.”
“Don’t forget about the old doctor,” added Sister Elizabeth.
Sister Josephine cringed. “I wish I could.”
“Tell me about him.”
“They called him Dr. Langdon. He wore a white lab coat and talked a lot about the importance of good genes and sound moral values. He asked us questions to see how smart we were.” She looked to her feet as if suddenly ashamed. “He also examined us.”
“To make sure you were healthy?”
“It was more than that. It was… personal.”
Sister Margaret placed a hand on her shoulder.
“He wanted to know if we were virgins,” explained Sister Eunice.
“Why?”
“I suppose to see if we were worthy of marrying his men. He said we were to become like Adam and Eve, repopulating the world with people who were superior in every way.”
A funny thought came to mind, and Tanner did his best to smother a grin.
Sister Margaret took notice. “Is there something amusing about all this?”
“No disrespect to the young ladies,” he said with a polite nod, “but kidnapping nuns to start a superior race is like hotwiring a Yugo to enter the Indy 500.”
“Oh really? And just who would you kidnap?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some proud Viking shieldmaidens.”
Her face twisted with confusion. “Viking shieldmaidens?”
“Women who would charge bare-breasted onto the battlefield, sword and shield in hand. Now that’s what a master race is built on.”
Sister Margaret’s eyes grew wide, and she seemed at a complete loss for words.
Satisfied, Tanner turned to Samantha. “You ready to go do this?”
“As ready as a Viking princess.”
“I’m pretty sure we weren’t talking about princesses,” he said, leading the way.
“Oh Tanner,” she said with a smile. “Don’t you know? We’re always talking about princesses.”
Chapter 11
Papa Doyle lived less than a half-mile away, through a thick forest of oak and shortleaf pine, and Mason decided to make the trek on foot. Bowie tagged along, occasionally stopping to uproot a mushroom or buried acorn. As he trudged his way through the bedding of dried leaves and broken branches, Mason was reminded of how therapeutic nature could be. There was something incredibly peaceful about walking through a forest with a dog at one’s side, smelling the odor of pine and listening as squirrels flitted overhead.
According to Porter, Papa Doyle’s property consisted of a little more than eighty acres, including farmland, grazing land for livestock, and land set aside to grow Christmas trees. Doyle’s father had come over from Ireland, and to hear Porter tell it, Papa Doyle had become something of a cross between traditional Irish farmer and Virginia hillbilly.
Mason also learned that Papa Doyle had three grown sons and a young daughter, all of whom had managed to evade the pandemic thanks to rural living, a decent stockpile of necessities, and a bit of dumb luck. His wife, Olivia, however, had not been as fortunate, and what little bit of neighborliness the family once had, vanished with her passing.
As Mason stepped clear of the trees, he came upon a young man chopping firewood. The boy was in his late teens but thick-chested and as strong as a mule. He swung the axe like someone who had done it so many times before that it had become mindless rote—the swish of air followed by the inevitable crack of wood splitting in two. Each time he split a log, he tossed the pieces onto a pile sitting next to a makeshift stove.
The young man was either so focused on the task at hand or, more likely, had fallen into daydreaming, that he had yet to see Mason or Bowie standing twenty feet away.
Mason looked past him to study the Doyle family home. It was a two-story, A-frame structure, badly in need of a paint job but sturdy enough to weather a hurricane. Bed sheets hung from nearly every window, dangling down like deflated balloons.
As if coming out of a stupor, the young man spotted Mason and raised his axe defensiv
ely.
“Who are you?” he barked.
“I’m here to talk to your father.”
His eyes cut over to the house.
“What about?”
Mason touched his badge. “My business is with him.”
“You’re the law?”
“More days than not, I am.”
The boy tightened his grip on the axe.
Mason placed his hand on the Supergrade. It was hardly a fair fight, but he made no apologies for bringing the better weapon.
“I came here to talk, but if you insist on something else, I can oblige.”
The young man seemed to lose his nerve, setting down the axe and hurrying toward the house. Seconds later, he emerged a bit more confidently with his father and two older brothers following close behind. To say that the Doyles were big men would be like saying that redwoods were big trees. Papa Doyle was particularly massive, with a hard, swollen belly and a blonde beard that was as thick as a lion’s mane. He carried a pair of wire-frame spectacles in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.
Bowie tucked his head and let out a warning growl.
“Easy, boy,” said Mason. “We’re uninvited guests on their land. Let’s see if we can get this done without hurting anyone.”
Papa Doyle stomped down the wooden porch steps, his three boys moving to stand behind him, their eyes and fists equally tight.
“What the hell are you doing on my property?” Doyle said, fumbling to don his glasses without whacking himself in the eye with the bat.
“I’m here on behalf of your neighbors.”
“What neighbors?”
“The folks living over at The Brambles.”
“The mentals?”
“Mentals?” Mason said with a disparaging look. “Really?”
“Better than what I wanted to say. What’s this all about anyway?”
Mason had thought about what he was going to say on his way over, and the best he could come up with was to appeal to the man’s better judgment. Neighbors had to learn to live together. It was a truism as old as mankind. Seeing Papa Doyle in the flesh, however, made him second-guess the effectiveness of any such argument.
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) Page 13