Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series)

by Melissa Brown

  Twenty minutes later, I climbed the stairs of the apartment on Wilson Avenue. I could hear the heavy metal blaring from the apartment at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, and I shook my head knowing these naive little shits were leaving themselves vulnerable to a host of crimes. But if my memory was correct, the only thing they valued was their video game console. And their drugs, of course.

  Applying a small amount of pressure on the wood of the door, the raging music assaulted my ears and I looked around the corner to peer into the galley kitchen. Aside from piles of pizza boxes and empty beer cans, there was no one to be found. The air was heavy and wreaked like a landfill. The stench bit at my nostrils, and I swallowed hard to resist the dry heaves that threatened to climb out of my throat.

  A young woman with piercings in both eyebrows, her nose, and bottom lip, stumbled around the corner and stood like a deer in headlights, staring at me. I let a few seconds pass, but then I couldn’t stand the awkward silence as she ogled me.

  “Hello,” I said, tilting my head forward.

  “Yeah, hi.” She scratched her chin, then her neck, and quickly her left arm. A red rash lingered on her pale skin as she returned her attention to me. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Porter’s. You seen him?”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied me. Maybe she was trying to place me, or maybe she was searching for a sign I was law enforcement. Either way, she was way too loaded to do anything about it. But her hesitation told me all I needed to know. He was there. Somewhere in the shithole of an apartment, I’d find Brinley’s husband.

  Walking around the girl, I rounded the corner of the kitchen and entered the living area. Three guys were passed out on the couches, and one was face down on the floor, a pool of vomit below his chin.

  For fuck’s sake.

  As much as I wanted to ignore them all, my role of police officer took over and I knew I had to check for a pulse. I crossed the room and turned my head to the side to avoid the pungent stench lingering heavy in the air. Pressing two fingers to his carotid, I searched for a pulse.

  C’mon, damnit. C’mon.

  Knowing a call to 911 was imminent, I felt the familiar beating of his artery raising to meet my fingers. Lub, lub, lub. Relief poured from my mouth as I exhaled, patting the kid on the shoulder before rolling him to his side and continuing my search for Porter. I had to get him out of there before making that call.

  The first door I opened was the bathroom. A guy was passed out in the bathtub while a girl vomited into the toilet, her red hair falling into the bowl. She pulled her head up with absolute annoyance and yelled, “Occupied!”

  I put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry, just looking for Porter Hammond. Is he around here?”

  “No clue,” she muttered before retching into the bowl.

  Quickly, I closed the door and opened the next one. Next to the bed was a guy curled into a ball. When I rounded the corner, I saw his familiar blond hair and scruffy beard. His clothes were wrinkled and he only had one shoe on, but it was him.

  “Porter, you okay?” I asked, walking to him. He raised his head from the carpet; tiny imprints from the fibers left red marks on his skin. His eyes were as red as those marks and deep, heavy circles sat beneath them.

  “Aw shit.” He shook his head as he rose to a cross-legged position. “Don’t haul me in, man, I just . . . please don’t haul me in. Brin’ll kill me. She’ll fucking kill me.”

  “She’s worried about you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Why? I’ve only been gone, what? A few hours?” His voice was panicked and his eyes carried a maniacal twitch. He was high as a fucking kite.

  Fucking meth—destroyer of lives.

  “She said you’ve been gone for a couple days,” I said, patting his shoulder. “Have you slept?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, Charlie gave me some crank . . . just a little, you know? Just to calm me down, but now my head is fucking racing and I can’t focus and I can’t face her, Cooke, I can’t. She’ll leave me. She’ll fucking leave me.”

  His hands shook as tears poured from his eyes, bloodshot and raw. I shook my head in response, trying to offer him the calmest demeanor I could. Moods were contagious, especially in times like this.

  “She’s not going anywhere, she just wants to know you’re okay.”

  “I’m not.” He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “I’m not okay.”

  “I see that. But we can fix it.”

  “No, you can’t . . . nobody can. I’m a fucking mess—ruined. Ruined for life.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “It’s true, Cooke. That fucker ruined me for the rest of my goddamned existence.” He sniffed and wiped his nose. “Brin deserves better, she does. She does, she does, she does,” he rambled, rocking back and forth.

  That fucker? Who was he talking about?

  “What do you mean? Who ruined your life? Your father?” I searched my brain for Porter’s reason for leaving the compound. I was pretty sure his father made the decision for him to leave. Was that who he was talking about?

  “No.” He closed his eyes tight, his words were covered in tears but that didn’t stop him from rambling a mile a minute. “I can’t do it, man. I can’t. I know you need one, but I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  Confusion wrapped its grip around my brain. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Okay, slow down,” I said, patting his knee. “I’m not following.”

  “You said you need a victim, on the phone you said that . . . but I can’t. Please don’t make me.”

  Oh shit. No. Not Porter.

  A boulder formed in my gut and everything became clear. I knew who “that fucker” was. That fucker ruined my friend’s life. That fucker let men rape Porter Hammond while claiming to be the mouthpiece of God and leader of thousands of innocent lives.

  “Do I understand what you’re saying? The prophet did this? He abused you? He assaulted you when you were living on the compound?”

  He swallowed hard, pressing his eyes tight, unable to make eye contact. But he nodded.

  “I can’t tell her, man. I can’t. It’ll ruin her—she’ll never look at me the same way again.”

  “Brinley?” I asked, and he opened his eyes, fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. “She loves you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Once she knows, we’re done.” He shook his head again in a crazed rhythm with his rambles. “We’re done, we’re done, we’re done.”

  “I disagree,” I said calmly. “She’s in this for the long haul.”

  He ignored me, staring off into space.

  “Can you tell me what happened? I know it was a long time ago, but—”

  “What the fuck do you want me to say?”

  “Let’s start with the basics, okay? What time of day was it?”

  “It was late . . . I’d been off with some of the guys . . . we met in the woods to get high.”

  “Meth?”

  “No, just pot . . . just enough to numb out a little bit, ya know?”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I was walking past the temple, and the prophet was standing near this tree, just standing there like a fucking creeper.”

  “And?”

  “And he told me he knew what I was doing. That I was walking a fine line or some shit. I don’t remember, man.”

  “That’s okay, just give me the basics.”

  “He said I needed to talk to him in his office. So I did . . . but once we got inside, someone punched me in the fucking face. When I woke up, I was in this room, and my hands were behind my back . . . fucking taped together and . . .” His voice cracked as he let out a feral cry. “Don’t make me . . . I can’t say anything else.”

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else.”

  “I should’ve fought them off, I should’ve done something, but I-I couldn’t, man. I couldn’t do an
ything. They beat the shit out of me, and I could barely move . . .” He threw himself back on the floor, as if the carpet would protect him. He clutched the fibers with his fingers, his knuckles turning white. His eyes closed tight and I imagined he was doing his best to block out the horrid memories.

  “Did they . . . ?” I couldn’t finish the question.

  Again, he nodded, his lips pulling into a disgusted sneer. One that matched my own. I swallowed hard and kept asking questions. I had to know what happened to him.

  “How many times?”

  “I lost count,” he whispered, and goosebumps rose on my arms.

  “Shit, Porter. That’s more than anyone should have to endure. Ever.” I tried to keep my voice soft and comforting in order to keep him calm, but my stomach was churning and my brain was reeling.

  How could I not have seen this sooner? It wasn’t the girls the prophet was after. No, the girls were far too valuable as commodities for the men of the community. No . . . it was the boys. He’d use them for his clients’ sick desires, then toss them out of the compound before they could accuse him of anything. No one would miss them as there weren’t enough wives to go around. It was the perfect, infallible plan. One in which the victim was violated not once, but three times. Beaten, raped, and then abandoned.

  I’m gonna fucking kill that piece-of-shit prophet.

  I swallowed hard. “And then what happened? After the abuse.” I already knew exactly what happened, but I had to let him say it. I had to know that my gut feeling was correct.

  “Then he fucking kicked me out. Made my mother drop me here with a suitcase and a hundred dollars.”

  Yep, the perfect plan. That sick, twisted piece of shit.

  Porter punched the floor, raising his voice to a bark. “And I knew it was coming—he told me it would, that no one would believe me, that . . . that . . .”

  “That what?”

  “That God was punishing me for being a bad seed. That this was my penance to Heavenly Father. He repeated it over and over while they . . .” He stopped, unable to verbally acknowledge that he was raped repeatedly by the prophet’s clients. “That I deserved everything I got.”

  “And you believed him, didn’t you?”

  “Still do.”

  His words made me shudder. I placed one hand on each of his shoulders, lifting him back to a seated position. “Listen to me. You were a child, an innocent child. He took advantage of you and so many other kids. He’s using your innocence to make money—lots of money. You didn’t deserve anything that happened to you, do you understand me?”

  “What kind of man lets that happen to him?” he demanded, clenching his teeth. “What kind of man am I?”

  “You weren’t a man, Porter. You were a kid.”

  He slumped his shoulders, shaking his head. “I just need another hit . . . another hit and it’ll go away; it’ll all go away.”

  “Is that why you do this to yourself? To make it go away?”

  He ignored my question, scratching his chin and neck. I sat, staring at my friend, finally understanding so much more about him—about who he was, about why he was addicted to such a heinous drug as methamphetamine. It was all an escape. An escape from abuse he never should have endured. An escape from the secret that lingered and the therapy he never received. And an escape from the family who turned their backs on him when he needed them the most.

  “I know you need me, man. You need a victim, but I can’t. I just can’t. Please don’t make me do it. I know I should save those kids—I should, but I just can’t do it.”

  Statute of limitations prevented Porter from pressing charges or testifying in a trial. He was pushing thirty years old, and this happened when he was a teenager. Anything more than seven years prior was inadmissible in the state of Arizona.

  Goddamnit.

  “I won’t, I promise. But you have to get some help. Some therapy, a drug treatment program, something.”

  He hesitated but then nodded, his face slightly more relaxed as the reality set in that he wouldn’t have to press charges against the prophet. “Okay.”

  “And you have to tell Brinley.”

  He shook his head vigorously once again, placing his hands on my shoulders. “No, no way. I can’t. I’ll lose her.”

  “The only way you’ll lose that girl is if you keep disappearing for days, if you keep destroying yourself, Porter. Don’t underestimate that wife of yours. She’ll support you, I know it.”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead as he looked up at the ceiling. “How do you say that? How do you tell your wife that you’re damaged fucking goods? How do I? I don’t know how to do that.”

  “We’ll figure it out, but if you don’t do it—if you don’t tell her, you’ll never beat this. You won’t. It’ll hang over you like a plague, and you’ll never be free. Never.”

  He said nothing in response but nodded his head as he stared off into space.

  His voice cracked. “You really don’t think she’ll leave?”

  “I’m certain of it. That girl left the only home she ever knew . . . for you. She’s not going to leave when you need her most. It’s not going to happen. I know that’s what your parents did, but not Brinley. Not Brinley.”

  “I can’t go home like this. Not again. I promised her I was done with this shit.”

  “You’ll come home with me, all right? You can sleep it off, and I’ll let her know you’re safe, that you’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

  He hesitated again. “So, you’re not gonna arrest me?”

  “No, but I have to get you out of here before I call 911. There’s a few kids out there who could use a once-over by the paramedics. Let’s get you to your feet.”

  Porter clutched my arm as I pulled him to a standing position. “Do you know where your other shoe is?”

  He glanced around the room. It was covered with dirty laundry, food containers, and beer cans, but no shoes.

  “No fucking clue.”

  “All right, then. One shoe it is.”

  He slid off his other shoe and tossed it behind him. “Fuck it.”

  And so, with a quick text to his wife and a call to 911, I took Porter to my car and drove him to my apartment. By the time he was covered in blankets on my couch, he was coming down from the meth.

  “You really think she’ll stay?” he asked, calm yet still anxious.

  I nodded, taking a seat in the chair opposite him. “I do . . . honestly. Just sleep it off. We’ll figure out how to tell her in the morning.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  My phone buzzed with a text. It was Jesse.

  -Where is he? Is he fried?

  -He’s sleeping it off at my place. Long story, but I’ve got him.

  -Thanks, Jonny.

  Closing my bedroom door behind me, I knew there was another text to send. Calling up Aspen’s contact info, I simply wrote:

  -Must discuss breakthrough in the case. Urgent, please call. Seriously, Aspen, this is a game changer for everyone involved.

  I knew Porter couldn’t press charges or testify, since his abuse took place more than seven years prior. A judge would have his testimony thrown out within seconds. But it was still a huge development in the case . . . one that could possibly point us in the right direction for victims assaulted within the right time frame. Once he was sober, I’d press him for more information—more names of people who might cooperate with us . . . who might be willing to press charges. And I’d do whatever it took to present that piece of shit with a warrant for his arrest.

  With or without Aspen, I would make Clarence Black pay for his crimes against humanity. I would do that for the people of the FLDS. I would do it for Porter Hammond.

  Chapter 14

  With key in hand, Porter hesitated on the front stoop of his home. His fingers quivered as he pressed them into the door, followed by his forehead. He stood there, pressed against the cool door, knowing she was on the other side
—still worried sick, probably pacing their tiny cottage, wondering when he’d arrive.

  He hadn’t seen her in three days—since his phone call with Jonathan. He’d pulled his truck into the driveway, only to abruptly throw it in reverse and head to Charlie’s apartment—his old place. Someone would be getting high there—they always did. He could get a little something to take the edge off before going home to Brin. He could capture the guilt inside his chest and trample it with a little bit of crank, just enough to forget about that phone call, to forget about the case against the prophet, to deny that his involvement would help anyone.

  But it never really accomplished any of those things. Not ever. However, that didn’t stop him from craving that escape, it didn’t stop the pleasure centers of his brain from their confusion. It didn’t stop the addiction that consumed him no matter how much he tried to deny having a problem.

  He was through denying it. He knew it was time, but he needed one more minute of silence. Before admitting everything to Brin, before studying her face for disgust and disappointment. Before telling her he was finally ready to tackle his addiction with the help of professionals. He knew the moment he unlocked that door, his life would change.

  He hoped Brinley would be with him for that change. He tried so hard to trust their vows, to trust the woman he loved with every fiber of himself. He tried, but fear is a tricky thing and it can wreak havoc on anyone’s ability to confide, to be vulnerable. And Porter’s fear had been running the show for a very long time.

  Running his fingers through his disheveled hair, he inhaled deeply, blowing the air out of his mouth as he inserted the key and turned the lock. When the door opened, Brinley hopped from the couch and tackled him with a hug, gripping his shirt so hard he could feel the fabric pinch. He wrapped his arms around her and the tears started flowing the second he opened his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Brin. So sorry.”

  “Shh,” she said as she gripped him harder. “I’m so glad you’re home. Let’s not say anything, okay?”

  If only it were that simple.