Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series)

by Melissa Brown

  “Lost boys?” I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

  “It’s what we, on the outside, call the boys who are kicked out of your compound. The ones who end up out here. It’s based on a story called Peter Pan. The lost boys have no parents; they’re all alone with no guidance. They have to raise themselves, many of them with little to no money. It usually leads to drugs, crime, and many other things I’d rather not mention.”

  “I see.” The thought of Isaac becoming a lost boy made me sick to my stomach. The idea of him scrounging for food and shelter increased the anger already festering in my brain.

  I’ll never let that happen.

  “He and Brinley are going to talk to some of the guys they know, see if anyone’s willing to come forward. It’s a tough thing for most to talk about, for obvious reasons. In fact, I’m surprised your boy said anything, quite honestly.”

  “He’s blunt and honest to a fault, always has been.” I shrugged. “He came home terrified of the pain he was feeling. He didn’t understand it, and I think he was still in shock.”

  “Got it,” Cooke said. “It’s going to take some time to get the ball rolling. We have to get him here for a statement before we can issue a warrant. Can you bide some time until then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tip your hand. We don’t want the prophet to suspect anything. Can you keep Isaac quiet?”

  “His mother and I are the only ones who know. He’s not very social with the other kids, but I’ll ask him not to share this. I know he’ll listen, he’s a good boy.”

  “He is,” Aspen said with a nod.

  “My concern is this: Clarence told my son that he had forty-eight hours before he would be gone from the compound.”

  “He can stay with me if you—”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  Aspen touched my forearm. “Paul, he’ll be safe.”

  “That’s not it.” I shook my head. “I promised my boy he wasn’t going anywhere. I promised him, and I intend to keep that promise no matter what.”

  The detective’s face fell. “I’m not sure what to say. He’s safer off the compound.”

  I held my chin high and puffed out my chest. “Well, that’s where you and I differ, Detective. I happen to think my son is safer with me.”

  He held his hands out in front of him. “All right, all right, I get it.”

  “We can hide him,” Aspen said, rising to her feet.

  “What?”

  “Yes. You can pretend to take him off the compound if the prophet demands it. You pretend and make everyone think he’s gone, even the rest of the family. But we hide him somewhere in the house. We could use your study; it’s tucked away on the other side of the house, far away from the bedrooms. And it has its own bathroom. It could work.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not convinced. “The idea of submitting to my brother makes me furious. I think I should tell him that he’ll never be rid of me or my boy and that if he ever lays a finger on—”

  “No!” Aspen and the detective shouted in unison. I glared at them, dumbfounded and resentful they were on the same wavelength in their thoughts.

  I threw up my arms in frustration and placed them on the top of my head as I paced the room. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because then he’ll know, Paul. He’ll know that you’re onto him.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “No, she’s right,” Cooke interjected, and I gritted my teeth in response. I hated having him in between my wife and me. Hated it. But I needed his help and was therefore at his mercy.

  “Fine, so I keep my mouth closed. Then what?”

  “I think Aspen’s onto something. Keep Isaac hidden as best you can. Stage some sort of evacuation of him, his stuff. Make the family think he’s gone, bring him here and he can give his statement. Then, when everyone’s asleep you can take him back, sneak him in so no one knows.”

  “And Sarah? Can I tell her?”

  “No, it’s in her best interest to think he’s gone.”

  “What? No, I can’t do that to her—she’s been through enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul. I don’t want to hurt her any more than you do, but it sounds like it’s the way to go. Sarah isn’t one to hide her emotions well. Everyone, especially Flora, will see right through her if she tries to pretend.”

  She was right and I knew it, but the idea of putting Sarah through any more distress pained me greatly. “All right, fine. Only for a short time, right? You can get these charges pushed through quickly?”

  “As fast as humanly possible, I promise. I just have to check in with Porter, make sure he’s still meeting with these guys soon.”

  “All right. And what can I do on my end?”

  “Like I said, play along with the prophet, pretend to kick Isaac out, but bring him here. I’ll take care of the rest.” Detective Cooke extended his hand to me once again. “Thanks for being on board. We needed you more than you know.”

  I let his words set in and I locked eyes with Aspen. She pressed her lips together tight and smiled, nodding slowly. I smiled at her and then looked back at the detective.

  “All right, Detective. Let’s get it done.”

  Chapter 21

  Brinley held Porter’s hand ever so tight as they sat in his old apartment on Wilson Avenue. Not much had changed since the last time she’d been there; same furniture in the living room, same posters on the walls, same garbage piling up in the kitchen. The smell was also what she remembered from her visits in the past—a stale, dank odor hovered throughout the two-bedroom apartment and nipped incessantly at her nose. Porter’s cousin Charlie had agreed to gather as many of their fellow former FLDS friends as possible, and he’d managed to get twelve guys to show up on that dreary Sunday afternoon. Some had left many years ago, like Porter. Some were taken under the wings of Charlie and others within the last year. The living room was filled with sullen faces. It was obvious to Brinley that several of them were on something, while others seemed scared of their own shadows and wouldn’t dare do something forbidden by their religion—in the hopes of one day being welcomed back.

  That day wouldn’t come for any of them.

  Charlie’s apartment was the natural location for this gathering as many of the young men seated in the littered room had either lived there, gotten high there on a regular basis, or simply felt safe within its walls. And with Porter and Brinley’s home being almost an hour away from town, it was much more likely for the guys to actually show up to Charlie’s place.

  “Thanks for coming,” Porter began. It was imperceptible to anyone but her, but Brinley could hear a slight cracking in Porter’s voice. He was nervous, and for good reason. This subject was one so private, so personal and raw. It was nothing to be taken lightly and a topic that was difficult to broach. “I know Charlie and I haven’t told you too much yet, but that’s what today is for.”

  “You guys planning something against the prophet?” one boy asked, his eyebrows wide and shaky.

  “Yeah, so if you’re not comfortable with that, it’s best you go. I don’t wanna force anyone into anything you don’t wanna do,” Porter said, scanning the room.

  “Into what exactly?” another guy asked. He was around Brinley’s age, and she wasn’t quite certain but she thought she remembered him from the compound. Rick? Ryan? Rob?

  Porter hesitated and Brinley squeezed his hand tight, offering him the most comforting expression she could possibly give. She knew he was grateful to have her there with him, thankful to have her by his side as he came face to face with the unimaginable horror of his past.

  “The prophet is raping and abusing kids. He’s been doing it for at least ten years now. He lures them into the temple where he and a bunch of creeps tie them up, beat the shit out of them, and rape them. Then, at least for the guys, he kicks them out. I don’t know if he’s doing this to girls or not, but he’s, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “He’s definitely doing it to guys.”

>   “Seriously?” one of the boys with a baby face asked. “How do you know?”

  Porter hesitated for a moment, his eyes drifting to make contact with Brinley’s. She tightened her grip on his hand and nodded ever so slightly.

  “Because I was one of them . . . but the statute of limitations keeps me from testifying. It happened more than seven years ago, so there’s nothing I can do. But it happened to me, and I know I’m not the only one in this room who went through that. I know it.”

  The room fell silent. Brinley’s eyes tiptoed from one face to another. Some stared with their mouths agape, while others seemed to retreat within themselves staring at their laps, the floor, anywhere but the eyes of the other people in the room. For those guys, her heart sank. They were, most likely, the victims of the prophet. Porter’s grip on her hand tightened.

  “There’s a detective, a good one, who’s building a case against the prophet, and he needs as many people to come forward as possible. I know you guys don’t want to get dragged back there, but if anyone here went through that, if anyone . . .” He cleared his throat again. “If you’re willing to talk to the police, then let me know. You don’t have to say anything now, just . . . just talk to me. Or call the number on the card.”

  That was her cue. Brinley stood, retrieved Detective Cooke’s business cards, and passed them to everyone in the room. A few of the boys mumbled thanks, but most kept their eyes on Porter as they held their hands out for the card.

  “The prophet’s a smart motherfucker,” a guy said from the leather recliner. “It doesn’t matter what this detective does, he’ll get away with it. Clarence Black has cops in his back pocket, always has.”

  Porter shook his head. “That may be true, but I trust Cooke. He’s a good man, and he’s on our side. Believe me, guys. I wouldn’t come to you if this wasn’t for real. All I’m asking you to do is think about it.”

  The guy in the leather recliner stood, dropped the business card on the table, and slipped his baseball cap on. “No, thanks.” He walked to the door and slammed it behind him.

  Porter shrugged. “That’s fine, I get it. It’s not gonna be a picnic. I know that guys. But just think about it, all right? We have an opportunity here.”

  The kid in the leather recliner scoffed. “To do what? Embarrass ourselves? Drag ourselves through the mud all over again?”

  “No.” Porter shook his head. “I mean, yes. Yes, it’ll be embarrassing. Yes, it’ll be fucking horrendous to relive this shit. But what about our younger brothers and sisters, huh? What about them? What if we can save them? What if we can save each and every one of them? Isn’t it worth it—all the shame and humiliation—isn’t it worth it?”

  The tips of his fingers were shaking as he scanned the room, finally looking down at the floor. “Just take the card, sleep on it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  The room was quiet as most of the young men left the apartment, Brinley watched in disappointment as several of them left the detective’s card behind.

  “That’s what I was afraid of, man,” Charlie said, sinking into the sofa and sipping his beer. “They can’t talk about it.”

  “I know,” Porter said, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s a fucking nightmare.”

  “Maybe some of them will reconsider,” Brinley said, hope still permeated her voice.

  Porter gave her an appreciative smile, but she recognized it right away—it was the one he used when he was humoring her naive notions, the smile he used when he knew her intentions were pure but highly misguided in the outside world. That smile made her stomach clench as she knew he’d already given up hope.

  “Maybe it’s best to just let the detective handle it. You already said there’s someone on the compound, right? Some kid who just went through this? He can testify.”

  Porter and Brinley both nodded. Jonathan had called two days prior to let them know that Isaac Black, the son of Paul and the nephew of the prophet, was one of his latest victims.

  “Yeah. He did this to his own nephew. That fucker has no shame whatsoever.”

  Charlie shrugged dismissively. “So, let him testify. He’ll have his family to support him . . . unlike these guys who have no one.”

  “He’s just a kid, though. He could back out, get cold feet. I wanted Cooke to have more witnesses.”

  “It is what it is, man,” Charlie said with another sip of his beer. His voice was detached, insensitive. He’d left the compound on his own accord when he turned seventeen and never considered returning. When Porter first discussed having this meeting with other guys from the compound, Charlie balked at the idea. He felt it was a private matter for each person to work out on their own. In her gut, Brinley wondered if Charlie had also been a victim of the prophet. Because of the statute of limitations and his apprehensive attitude, she knew it was best Porter not push the issue.

  “Porter?” a voice said from the front door. One of the boys who couldn’t make eye contact during the meeting was standing at the threshold of the apartment.

  “Yeah?” Porter walked to the door to join him, and Brinley walked away from the two men, giving them space. Despite their soft voices, though, she could hear their conversation.

  “Hey, Jared.”

  Stealing a small glance, she could see the flushed cheeks on Jared’s face. He was one of the younger men; she estimated he was still a teenager. A feeling of conflict rose within her chest. Of course she wanted the case against the prophet to be strong, but as she studied his round cheeks free of stubble and his baby-blue eyes, she secretly hoped he hadn’t been victimized.

  He’s just a baby.

  “I, uh . . . I’ll talk to him,” Jared said, his voice squeaking slightly. “To the detective.”

  “Oh,” Porter replied. “Thanks, man . . . and I’m . . . you know, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

  “When did you leave the compound?” Porter asked.

  “Last year,” Jared answered. “I’m probably the only one who’ll talk, though. You know that, right?”

  “I do . . . and that’s okay.”

  “But there are others. I know there are. People say all kinds of shit when they’re fucked up. Half the guys in here were in that room, maybe more.”

  A frightful chill ran down Brinley’s spine. She turned to her husband, who was unfazed by Jared’s estimate. He was all too familiar with that knowledge, and it broke her heart.

  Porter nodded, placing a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “I know, but we can’t force anyone. They have to come forward on their own. Like my wife said, maybe they’ll sleep on it and change their minds.”

  Brinley knew that last sentence was disingenuous, but it didn’t bother her. She knew Porter was attempting to make things easier for Jared, to comfort him with the idea of others telling their stories in solidarity.

  Jared pressed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head back and forth. “Doubtful, but that’s okay. I want the prophet to pay and if it means getting up in court and telling my story, then I guess that’s how it has to be.”

  “Thanks, man. I’m here if you need . . . well, anything.”

  Jared smiled with his eyes, still pressing his lips together. Brinley could see his relief.

  “Where are you staying?” Porter asked.

  “My cousin, Ralph. He’s regular LDS and his family’s pretty cool. They have a guest room and don’t charge me rent.”

  Porter nodded. “Nice.”

  “I’ll get my own place eventually. Thankfully my cousin doesn’t make me go to church on Sundays.”

  A sardonic laugh left Porter’s throat, and Brinley smiled in understanding. Neither of them had considered attending church services of any kind since leaving the compound. Her cousin Tiffany had suggested she and Porter consider joining the mainstream Mormon faith, but that was something neither of them was interested in. She knew that might change in the future, but for now she understood as well as anyone the desire to leave relig
ion out of one’s day-to-day after experiencing life on the strict compound.

  “Yeah, in our house Sundays are for sleeping in. I get it.”

  Jared smiled, a genuine smile of relief and gratitude. “I’ll call the detective tomorrow morning. And I’ll be in touch.”

  When Jared left the apartment, Porter placed both hands against the door and sank into the wood. Brinley walked to him, placing a hand on his back.

  “You okay?”

  He turned to face her, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bloodshot, but there was relief in the relaxed nature of his brow, respite in the smile that crossed his face. He wrapped an arm around her and placed a kiss on her cheek.

  “Relieved. A room full of abused kids and I didn’t think I’d get one of them to talk. Jared might still change his mind, but I’m hoping he won’t.”

  “I don’t think he will,” Brinley said, shaking her head. “I could see the same relief in his face. His secret isn’t weighing him down anymore. He can breathe again.”

  Porter nodded. “I know how that feels.”

  “And now you can go, knowing that you’ve done your part. You can let go of that guilt.”

  Porter opened his mouth to speak, but Brinley continued. “I know it’s been eating at you—that it’s been too long for you to testify. But now you can go to Bridgewood and focus on you, on getting better.”

  Recently they’d made arrangements for Porter to visit Bridgewood Pines, an in-patient substance abuse center. He’d signed up for a twenty-eight-day program and was planning to leave in a few short days. Brinley knew it was paramount for him to find others to testify before he could give his full attention to his treatment. The house would feel so empty without him and Brinley was, in some ways, dreading those twenty-eight days, but she knew she could handle it. She’d handled much worse, after all.

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Now it’s in Cooke’s hands. I’ve done my part. I just wish I could sit on that stand, ya know? Sit on that witness stand, look that bastard in the eye, and help send his ass to jail for the rest of his life. I wish . . .”