by Toby Neal
“Not if I can help it. Too much sitting around, and the phone reception is shit out here.” Dunn was nothing if not consistent. So much for her idea that he was sitting around watching videos.
On the fourth day, Sophie, working alone at the center of the labyrinth, wove some of the lauhala she had made into a basket. She looked up as Dougal Sloane approached her.
“Good afternoon, Mary.”
“We meet again. Is this our special place?” Sophie wanted to charm him—but not too much. She was relieved he hadn’t sought her out before now.
“Jessie Sparks told me you might be interested in an opportunity to get closer to Sandoval Jackson.” The man certainly got to the point. “I came on behalf of our leader. What do you think of Sandoval Jackson after being here a while?” Sloane sat beside her, looping his tattooed arms around raised knees. She’d observed him during their yoga classes and he was ridiculously strong and flexible—but the bulk of his muscles had to come from some weight equipment—maybe in the one wooden building on the compound that she’d seen him go into daily.
“He is an amazing man. Everything he says has layers to it.” Sophie kept her eyes modestly down as she tucked a stray bit of the fibrous leaf into the basket’s curve.
“And he is taken with you as well. He told me so himself.”
Sophie had not noticed any particular interest from Jackson. It was news to her that the cult leader was observing her. Her cheeks heated with nervous tension, which she hoped would translate into blushing interest. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“You’re a different type for him. He likes variety.”
“Just what a girl wants to hear.” Sophie ducked her head to hide her annoyance. She hated being called “exotic,” let alone “different” and “variety.” She had better things to do than be some old white man’s fantasy—role or no role, it was racist. She slashed a fraying end of fiber with the sharp little paring knife the woman teaching the workshop had given her.
“I meant that as a compliment.” For the first time, Sloane’s confidence seemed to stumble.
“I’ve been wondering something. What happened to the children’s mothers?” Sophie kept her voice soft with difficulty.
Sloane seemed to sit up straighter beside her. “They moved on.”
“And left their children here?”
“I don’t see how that’s anything to do with this.” Sloane narrowed his eyes. “This is just an initial encounter. It will still greatly enhance your possibilities of moving forward on the reincarnation wheel.”
It chilled her how much these people believed Jackson’s self-serving lies. “It seems odd to me that they had children with Jackson and then left.”
“Their purpose with him had ended—and we aren’t looking at you for that role.”
So Sophie didn’t rate being a baby maker for Jackson. Of course not. The women who became “wives” had money to put in the cult’s coffers, and her cover identity Mary Watson was a mere data entry clerk. Sophie could push no further. “What do I need to do?”
“Meet with Jackson alone. Tonight. And see how it goes.” Sloane picked up her hand, stroked her knuckles with his thumb. She felt his breath on her neck. “There’s no pressure to do anything that you don’t want to do.”
Liar. Sophie removed her hand gently. “I appreciate that.” She gathered her basketry materials together. “Tell me where and when.”
Sandoval Jackson’s large yurt in the corner of the compound was beautifully appointed. The interior was draped in woven tapestries, and silky Persian carpets created luxury underfoot. Window openings covered with screen admitted air that flowed through rooms within the yurt, defined by gauzy drapes.
Jackson met Sophie at the doorway and took her hands in both of his. She resisted the invisible pull of his charisma as he greeted her. “Come in, my dear.” Jackson gestured toward a low table upon which rested a pot of tea and two cups. Seating was furnished by plump pillows. “Join me for a little refreshment?”
What could be discovered by pretending to be interested in a sexual encounter with the cult leader? But she had a job to do. Marcella wouldn’t be scared of this role. Sophie squared her shoulders and put a smile on her face. She followed him across the front room. Through a gauzy white hanging, she could see a large bed draped in red coverings. She looked away quickly and sat across from Jackson on a small pillow. She accepted the cup of tea that he poured for her and her hands trembled. “I’m nervous.”
Jackson smiled. His deep brown eyes held a soulful glow and it felt good to have his gaze on her. “You don’t need to be. Dougal suggested that I get to know you better. We are both just travelers on this journey.”
So this meeting had been Sloane’s idea, as she’d suspected. What was that man’s motive? Sophie sipped her tea. It tasted of jasmine and honey. “I’m curious about your relationships with women. It all seems rather unusual.”
Jackson chuckled. “I guess to outsiders it is. But we in the Society understand that these bodies are merely outward expressions of an inner truth. And your truth is particularly beautiful.”
“I thank you for that.” Giving him a measure of truth felt intuitively right. “I’ve been through a lot actually. My first marriage was not good.”
“Then perhaps God has brought you here for healing. You have nothing to fear from me.” Sophie looked up at Jackson. His expression had not changed: he regarded her calmly, kindly.
“Then what happened to your first three wives?” The question popped out of her mouth.
Jackson’s face seemed to freeze. His lids lowered. He looked into the surface of his teacup. “They had new assignments.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they moved on.”
“Literally or metaphorically?”
Jackson met her gaze, unflinching. He stood with a graceful, fluid movement, remarkable for a man of his age. “I think our visit is over. We would not be a fit, I regret to say.”
Sophie stood as well. She inclined her head. “Thank you for your patience. I meant no disrespect.”
He did not reply.
Sophie exited and walked down the steps of the yurt. Dark had fallen early, with a massing of clouds over the steep walls of the valley. The promise of a storm had brought a damp thickness to the air that increased the apprehensive tightness in her chest.
She’d tipped her hand. This was why she was better behind her computers. Coming out here had been a mistake. Getting back and retrieving the phone, hidden under her mattress, was imperative. Sophie sped up, hurrying along the graveled pathway toward the group sleeping yurt.
“Going somewhere?” Dougal Sloane’s silky brogue caught her from the shadows at the same time as his hand clamped around her arm just above the elbow. “Sandoval tells me you weren’t his type. You ask too many questions.”
Sophie hunched her shoulders and pretended a sob. “I’m so sorry. My ex was abusive, and I’m just not ready…”
Sloane kept a grip on her arm and swung in front of her to block her escape. “It’s time we had a private talk.” He towed her down a side path toward the two-story wooden building where he spent a lot of time. She’d never been inside, nor been told what it was used for. Could she still bluff or fake her way out of this?
No. Nothing good could come from letting this man get her inside that building.
Sophie yanked her arm down, breaking his grip, and spun away. But he was faster than expected. Lashing out with a fist, he hit her in the back of the head.
Sophie flew forward and fell to her knees, reeling. Quick. Experienced dirty fighter. A lot bigger than me.
She curled her fists, filling them with gravel as he leaped after her, grabbing her by her short-cropped, curly hair. Unfortunately, her hair was still long enough that he could get a grip and yank her back onto her feet. The pain was excruciating, bringing tears to her eyes, and she gave a cry. She flung a handful of the gravel into his face, and though he cursed, he kep
t towing her toward the door.
Sloane was clearly intent on getting her inside the building before she could attract any attention.
Which meant she had to scream. Sophie opened her mouth just as he yanked her forward against his side and clamped an arm over her throat in a yoke chokehold, cutting off her air. He tucked her under his thick arm like she was tiny, not a five foot nine athlete.
Sophie went limp, letting her body weight drop, hoping to loosen his hold—but that just tightened the chokehold on her neck. Her vision dimmed as he strode rapidly toward the door of the building, her feet dragging on the ground.
Sophie caught her feet back under her enough to push up suddenly, arching up to fling the handful of gravel into Sloane’s face. He gave a furious grunt and his arm loosened. Sophie got her feet under her and kicked him backward in the knee. His leg buckled.
She spun loose from his grip, jumping backward into a ready stance. As he came after her with an inarticulate growl, she nailed him with an uppercut and then a left knee kick. He staggered back, and she moved in, taking advantage of his surprise at her aggressive attack to hit him with kick and punch combinations until he was up against the wooden wall, his arms up to protect his head—which left his kidneys and midsection for her to work over.
He rallied the moment she backed off to see if he was giving up, coming at her in a charge that caught her around the waist and drove her backward, lifting her off her feet. He heaved her up and threw her over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of her.
So far their struggle had been a quiet one, marked only by grunts and gasps and the rattle of gravel. She had to make noise, but couldn’t draw a breath with his shoulder in her diaphragm as he spun and headed back toward the door again.
He smelled of sweat, rage, and musky garlic, and he outweighed her by close to a hundred pounds. She could tell by the grip he had on her ass that rape was on his mind, right after he beat the shit out of her.
Sophie arched up with upper back strength, flinging herself backward, using his shoulder as a lever—and the power of her move broke his hold so that she landed on her feet in front of him.
She dodged a huge roundhouse swing and drew enough breath to scream.
“Bitch!” Sloane snarled, and lashed out with his left foot, getting her in the side. Sophie groaned as air whooshed out of her and her ribs buckled. Rolling with the momentum of Sloane’s move, Sophie pistoned off of her right foot and landed a punch to his jaw, rocking his head back—and she kept going, dodging under his reaching arm and leaping for freedom.
If Mary Watson hadn’t worn dresses, she might have gotten away.
Sloane’s fist captured the billow of her above-the-knee skirt. The garment tightened over her body, bringing her to a stumbling halt. He grabbed her hair again with the other hand and yanked her off her feet.
Sophie’s scream was as loud as she could make it, but he punched her in the head and an abrupt explosion of colored light extinguished her voice.
Chapter Eighteen
Sophie woke in stages: a redness behind her eyelids. A sense of lying flat. And then a booting up of her hearing. Familiar voices were right above her.
“What do we tell them?” Jackson sounded worried.
“We tell them she was unstable and has had a nervous breakdown.” Sloane’s voice was tight with unspent anger.
Sophie’s body sent pain signals from various points, but mostly from her ribs, which, if not broken, were seriously bruised. Her head throbbed. She kept her eyes shut, breathing evenly with difficulty.
“We tell them she’s in the infirmary. If anyone even asks, which I doubt they will.”
“Some of the retreat participants may.” Jackson was moving away, by his feet echoing slightly on the creaky, hardwood floor.
“Send Zeus to tell the group she’s sick and going home, and to pack up her things.” Sloane said. “They won’t ask him anything, and even if they did, he doesn’t know anything.”
“Good idea.” A pause. “What are you going to do with her?” There was a quaver in Jackson’s voice.
“It’s best you don’t know; don’t you agree?” Sloane growled.
Sophie felt a draft of cool air over her exposed thighs as Jackson opened a door—dear God, her skirt was rucked up around her waist. The door shut behind Sandoval Jackson.
Sophie struggled against the instinct to curl up and hide herself, remaining sprawled and limp as if still unconscious. She had a pretty good idea, now, who had dealt with Jackson’s wives, and how he could maintain such an air of innocence.
Plausible deniability. Jackson didn’t know because he didn’t want to know.
Now all she needed to find out was where the bodies were—but she might be getting a grave herself when that happened.
“I know you’re awake.” Sloane must have bent close, because his voice sounded right next to her ear.
Sophie lashed out—and he caught her fist, engulfing it. She heaved her body toward him, but he landed heavily on her injured side with his knee, wringing a cry out of her that was quickly cut off as he dropped his forearm across her throat and leaned on her neck.
“I didn’t want to have to resort to this,” he said conversationally. “But I think I’m going to need to restrain you for the things I have planned.” Sophie tightened her abs and flung her leg up, catching him on the back, and though he grunted, he didn’t move. Her vision was dimming. “You’re the first woman to actually punch me. You’ve got a fist on you, I’ll give you that, Mary Watson—but I can’t say that I care for it overmuch. It’s going to cost you.”
Sophie thrashed, and got one hand from beneath her body. She grabbed his ear and brutally twisted. Sloane gave a howl as the cartilage tore. His weight lifted off her as agony took priority, and she rolled out from beneath him. Her breath was stolen by the pain of her ribs, but driven by the elemental need to survive, she sprang for the door and wrenched at the knob.
It was unlocked.
Sophie flew down the low wooden stoop and ran as hard as she could without breath, without direction, the headlong flight of extremity. She reached the first of the many outbuildings, and dove around the side of it into the deep shadows.
Her mind searched frantically for a way out as she sidled to the next building, listening for the sounds of pursuit. On one of her perambulations around the compound she’d noted that the razor wire she’d cut hadn’t been fixed—but she had no way to climb the twelve-foot wooden wall. She hadn’t seen the dogs that confronted them during their first raid, and that was a good thing—but if ever Sloane had a reason to set them on someone, it was now.
She heard a rush of footsteps behind her and the sound of Sloane’s muffled voice speaking into a walkie-talkie. “Check under and around every building. She can’t get out.”
Sophie slid along the round exterior of a yurt, looking for an opening. If she could just hide for long enough, she could work her way closer to the gate or the gap in the wire, and find some way to escape. Worst-case scenario, she’d have to hide in the compound until Dunn came for her.
And Dunn would come for her.
Sophie knew that about him already, for a certainty.
A tiny bubble of hope expanded her ravaged chest. The safety measure of having him camped nearby, which had seemed such a waste of resources, might now save her life.
She could hear more footsteps running, but she still had a chance to get closer to the gate and the fence opening. She sprinted between the buildings, keeping to the darkness, ignoring the pain in her side, the bruising of her other injuries. She made it three buildings closer to the entrance of the compound before huge, bright arc lights came on, throwing the compound into brilliant light and burning her retinas.
Sophie flattened herself against the yurt she was hiding behind as the compound lit up like high noon. A small roof overhang provided her a shred of shadow, but it wasn’t near enough. She had to get out of sight.
The yurt she was beside was raised off the grou
nd on a wooden platform, with a latticework covering hiding the support posts. Sophie sidled along, tugging at the lattice until she found a loose corner. The edge lifted and she pulled, trying not to break the brittle wood.
The wood gave, with a loud crack. She lifted the broken section away and crawled through. On her hands and knees, she replaced the broken piece as best she could, fitting it into the gap she’d made. She was still holding it when she heard the rush of feet past her hiding place.
Sophie held the lattice still. She made sure it was in place and crawled backward, deep into the shadow under the building’s center.
The soil was damp, and smelled moldy just from the humidity of the Big Island’s steamy atmosphere. It was very dark in comparison to the glaring lights outside.
She heard the patter of the dogs’ feet and saw them go by, leashed by a handler. Those Shepherds weren’t scent dogs; she could tell by their raised heads—they were looking for her visually, so perhaps she was safe for a little while. She’d smeared her scent all over numerous buildings, and now was far from the edge of this one.
But how was she going to get out? How could Dunn reach and find her?
She didn’t have to have all the answers. She just needed to catch her breath, rest a bit, and get a plan. Sophie lowered herself carefully onto her uninjured side, the most comfortable position she could find.
But now that she’d escaped, her body wanted to tell her all the things that were wrong.
The brutality of her ex’s attacks had taught her to be the fighter she was, to handle pain and conflict and rise above it. She reminded herself of that, as hopelessness tried to rise up and swamp her mind.
She must have lost consciousness, or fallen asleep, because when she woke she heard the sound of sirens.
The grey pearl of new day had replaced the harsh artificial light. Stifling moans of pain, Sophie got up on her hands and knees and crawled to the entrance point she had made, trying to see out.