The Midwest has more than four seasons, but we don’t usually talk about the others. There are long, dreary spans of time that bracket both ends of winter. The days we fight to slog through—head down, feet dragging—just to get to the other side. Newcomers fear ice, snow, and the cold of winter. Locals don’t. Winter is crisp and clear. Unambiguous. Winter can kill you, but you’ll see it coming. It’s the gray days that we dread. Gray days pull us down with the demise of green things, the monotony of slush.
This was probably not a helpful frame of mind.
I knew we were somewhere east of Hayward, but I was too unfamiliar with the area to know for sure. Justus finally turned off onto a winding gravel drive. Birch trees and firs lined the track, forming an umbrella, casting us even deeper into shadow. A few S-turns later and we were in the midst of a clearing with a grouping of buildings. To the right, a rustic two-story building hugged the shoreline of a small lake. Thick log beams supported the long porch roof, and a set of double doors divided the structure neatly into halves.
Justus turned into the pitted, gravel lot in front of the building and the van rumbled to a stop. He and Rachel were quick to grab my things from the back, anxious to get inside, out of the damp air. I hesitated, scanning the compound.
Opposite the lot stood a low cinder-block structure. Behind it and farther up the drive, an ancient post-and-beam barn squatted against a backdrop of thick woods. A rusty tractor, cannibalized for parts, stood mute and defenseless in the weeds surrounding the barn. A light shown from the lower level of the barn, and a breeze carried the clean scent of hay fighting for dominance over eau de la horse poop. Horse poop won. Whoever lived in the farmhouse set across from the barn had better like the scent.
The house, two stories also, sat on the same side of the drive as the hotel-like building. The setting sun filtered through branches and tree trunks and painted the house with rosy-pink streaks. Behind the home, glimpses of silvery lake sliced through the gaps between trunks and scrub brush.
“Hey, Letty. Get a move on. It’s cold.”
I grabbed the remaining bags and scrambled up the stone sidewalk after Justus and Rachel, passing a wooden sign which announced “Megiddo.” The name tickled a memory from the readings Tracy had given me.
A bigger-than-life carved statue of what I originally thought was St. Francis stood next to the sign. Closer inspection revealed an artist’s rendition in oak of a slenderized version of Father Abraham, arms spread in hospitality. Wearing robes yet.
The entrance let us into a wide, wood-paneled hallway with a set of doors halfway down on each side. The room on the left was open, light spilling into the dim passage. Glancing in, I spied three serviceable metal desks and mismatched file cabinets.
The end of the hallway opened into an enormous great room, the area dominated by a massive stone fireplace. Wide banks of windows ran the length of the wall on either side, unveiling a breathtaking view of the lakeshore. Impossible for me to ignore, but Rachel and Justus were immune to the grandeur. Aside from a casual, “This is the gathering room,” they continued on through the lodge. A stairway angling from the far-right-hand side of the room rose to the second floor. Another stairway flanked the left.
Justus piled suitcases at the foot of the former, smirking.
“This is the women’s section,” he said. “Valet service ends here. I’m not allowed up. Unless I’m invited, of course.” A dimple danced in his cheek.
Rachel rolled her eyes and shoved past him. “Nice try, Justus.” Looking at me, she said, “No males are allowed up. Ever.”
Ignoring her as easily as he had when she’d been battling the van door, he disappeared down a hall beyond the stair.
“You’ll have to come back and get the second load,” Rachel said.
She led the way up, turned right, and walked along the railing overlooking the first floor. Hanging my head over the side, I caught a bird’s-eye view of the Gathering Room. Two hallways branched off this main corridor. Rachel turned at the first and walked into one of four rooms.
“You’ll be sharing, of course.” Rachel dropped my bags at the foot of a twin bed. “Although why they put you in this room…”
“Is there a problem?”
She deleted the expression of worry from her face. “No, of course not. I’m sure everything is fine.”
I wouldn’t call it fine. The room held two twin beds, a couple of pint-sized dressers, two nightstands, and a scarred study table. No windows. Shitty lighting. I had regressed to dorm life.
“Supper starts at five o’clock in the cafeteria across the parking lot. Why don’t you relax, get settled in? Tomorrow someone will go over things with you.”
After hauling the rest of my stuff up the stairs, I flung myself face down on the bed and had a belated nervous breakdown. Much shaking. My belly hurt, and a dull, ominous pressure prophesied a raging headache. The more I tried to ignore it, the worse it got. Fear of my brain squishing like a grape and leaking out my ears finally forced me up. Probably not a good idea to be discovered by my new roommate shivering in the fetal position amidst a puddle of brains. I dug through my purse and, utilizing the typical alcoholic mentality—if two are good, three are better—dry swallowed three Extra-Strength Tylenol.
The foraging also uncovered my cell phone, which needed charging. It had zero service bars, which might explain Beth’s inability to get through to Jimmy. Sawyer County was notorious for lousy reception. Too many hills, too few towers. Hopefully, I could find a good spot somewhere that would pick up a signal. I also hoped I wouldn’t have to climb a tree. Those days were long past.
The process of elimination identified my side of the room, so I plugged the charger into the outlet above my nightstand. Stashing my purse and Bible in the stand and cramming as many clothes as possible into the dresser took all of ten minutes. There. All settled.
With forty-five minutes left to kill before supper, a near-to-bursting bladder drew attention to a major drawback of this living arrangement. Besides poor lighting, rummage sale furniture, and bunking with an absolute stranger, that is. We appeared to be short one bathroom.
An exploration of the upper level eventually led to a community bathroom. In addition to four toilets and a long row of chipped enamel sinks, it boasted three “individual” shower stalls. Flimsy plastic curtains offered scant privacy, but at least it was a step up from the communal showers we had all suffered in high school locker rooms.
Nerves strung as tight as a banjo, I tippy-toed up and down the branching hallways. Found lots of bedrooms. Twelve in all. Most of them double-occupancy, like mine. None had locks, which, while worrisome from a personal point of view, made a recon mission possible. Because I wouldn’t know what was behind the doors if I didn’t look, right? Knowledge is power and all that. Maybe I would walk in on Maggie packing her bags, and we could just grab Beth and head out.
Chapter Nine
Chili smells greeted me as I crossed the last few yards to the cafeteria. Inside, warmth and bustling workers created a homey feeling in the otherwise bare environment.
Rows of high-school-cafeteria-style tables with attached round seats lined the room. A serving hatch, with two women bustling around the far side, divided the kitchen from the eating area. A scattering of diners waited for the food. At one table, several women clustered together. Behind them, a man wearing a dirty Carhartt work coat, sat alone.
At my entrance, everyone froze. Eyes zeroed in on me, and for a brief moment, it felt like a cheap western. I struggled with the urge to say “howdy partners” in my best Eastwood drawl. A second later, one of the women broke into a smile.
“Maranatha, Letty.”
It took a moment for recognition to kick in. The dental hygienist from Corinth House.
“Maranatha, Myrtle.”
Now the other women smiled. Looking at their welcoming faces, I almost doubted that moment of flickering wariness that had flashed across their features. Almost.
I joined them,
forced by the construction of the banquet table to either slide sideways between the seats or straddle them like a truck driver.
“This is Seth,” Myrtle said, pointing over her shoulder. He gave a token nod, then looked away. “And that’s his wife, Jala.” Myrtle indicated one of the cooks. Jala noticed our attention—not difficult since she had been watching the whole time—and waved cheerily. A sharp contrast to her husband, both in manner and appearance.
Jala, plump and one of those eternally cheerful-looking people, appeared several years older than her husband. Seth, despite his sullenness, was an attractive man in his midthirties. They made an odd couple.
Myrtle had introduced the two people who were farthest away from us. Had she started with Seth because he was male?
“This is Baara,” Myrtle continued.
“We’ve met. At Corinth House, remember?”
The woman smiled at me, making her otherwise plain face pretty for a moment.
“I remember,” Baara said shyly. She pointed out a set of doors on the north side of the dining hall. “That’s the laundry. I do everyone’s clothes. You can bring me yours.”
The woman seated next to Baara introduced herself. “I’m Martha. You have an interesting name, Letty. It’ll be a shame to change it.”
“Why would I change it?” I asked.
From behind, Seth cut in. “Time to eat.”
He rose abruptly and walked to where the plates and silver were stacked next to the serving hatch. The women followed suit, lining up behind him. Further conversation was lost in the clattering and milling of hungry people. Taking my chili back to the table, I noticed that more people, Justus and Rachel among them, had entered the hall. As a man passed by our table, Martha whispered to me. “That’s Moses… and Cozbi.”
“His wife?” The woman trailing behind her husband had her head bowed.
Martha nodded. “He’s Abraham’s second-in-command now that Enoch left.”
Relieved to hear that people could leave, I was torn between exploring that or learning about Moses. Martha’s eagerness to talk about the latter tipped the scale.
“What’s he like?”
She was more frank than I expected. “Well, you’ve seen Cozbi,” she said. “I can’t imagine he’s easy to live with.”
“Does he insist on, um, submissiveness?” I wasn’t sure if she would answer, but she did.
“He calls it respect. But, listen, I’ve known Cozbi for years. She’s not as meek as you might think. She’s an out-worker at the sheriff’s department. I was surprised when Moses sought her out, but it was a good choice.”
Sought her out? Before I could ask more, the couple passed our table a second time, and Moses joined the men behind us. Cozbi sat next to him, quietly arranging her plate and bowing her head for grace. The men ignored her.
Throughout the meal, I kept my eyes open for Maggie and Beth. Martha told me that the dining hall stayed open until seven-thirty to accommodate members who worked in town. She explained that an “out-worker” was anyone with a job off church property. Like Baara and Jala, several people had full-time duties that kept them busy at the community, and were called “in-workers.”
“Which are you?” I asked.
“Technically, I’m an out-worker. But I work at the Elect’s restaurant, so it’s not really out in the world.”
“She’s the head waitress,” Baara chimed in. “Maybe you could work there too. I tried, but I made too many mistakes.”
“A church-owned restaurant?”
“The Elect owns a nice supper club near the casino. Several of us work there. We also have a gift shop and a small custom furniture store, but it slows down this time of year. We get a lot of summer people in this area and they like that stuff.”
“And our farmers market,” Baara added. “That slows down too.”
“Do you have a job, Letty?” Martha asked.
“I did, but I had to quit to move here.”
“That happens, but it’s also sign of dedication. That will be important to Father. I’m sure you’ll be blessed.”
I had been so focused on the conversation that I had lost track of the new diners who had entered the hall. The loud crash of a chili bowl meeting the floor shocked everyone. Chili splattered several feet in every direction, but the force of the impact had fountained the glop all over the woman who had dropped it.
Beth.
She stood with arms raised, frozen in midair in the universal don’t-shoot-me position. Brown soup dripped off her nose while beans and meat chunks decorated her hair like parade confetti. The only thing moving was her mouth, which writhed and grimaced, making little squeaks and snorts. Knowing my friend as well as I did, I knew her inability had more to do with trying not cuss like a factory worker than a lack of intelligence. Women flocked to her side, shrieking like sympathetic geese, swiping at her ineffectually with paper napkins. Jala and Talitha rushed out of the kitchen with damp towels. Through it all, the men sat staring blankly at the spectacle.
As Beth was led off to the laundry room, she slid a baleful glare in my direction.
“Maranatha,” I said, wiggling my fingers in a little wave.
I was digging into my second bowl of chili when Beth and her clean-up crew joined us. The mishap, along with the departure of the men, created a relaxed atmosphere that no one was in a hurry to end. I watched Beth closely, ready to follow her lead if she decided to recognize me. When she introduced herself, I knew. We weren’t going to admit we knew each other.
Turning my attention back to the group, I took care to include Beth equally in my curiosity. Coming after her chili catastrophe, ignoring her might be as suspicious as being too familiar.
I soon discovered that the two kitchen helpers, Jala and Talitha, were the resident gossips. Along with Martha, they talked more freely than Rachel, who had joined us, or Baara. Rachel’s appearance lent a slightly repressive quality to the discussion, at least initially. Baara simply tried to keep up with the free-flowing conversation. Myrtle, by virtue of her recent move, didn’t seem as caught up on the inner working of the church, but was familiar with its members.
This was as good a time as any to ask questions, but I wasn’t sure where to start. I was intrigued by the male-dominated aspects of the interactions I witnessed and wanted to know what Martha had meant when she had said that Moses had “sought out” Cozbi. I also wanted to learn more about who Enoch was and why he left, but decided that could wait. It would look strange if the first thing a newcomer did was try to find out how to leave. Instead, I chose another direction.
“Everyone has such interesting names. Is that a coincidence?”
“You’ll learn more about that,” Rachel said.
Thankfully, Talitha showed less restraint than Rachel. “We receive names from Abraham when we’re baptized into the Elect. It’s a sign of dedication and new beginning. Mine means ‘heavenly vision.” She giggled.
“Mine is a derivative of Jael,” Jala added. “It means “God’s servant.”
“I haven’t had my Naming Ceremony yet,” Myrtle said. “You have to be ready to take the Vow. And you can’t do that until you’ve lived at Megiddo for a while. Father decides when we’re ready, and it can take months depending on how quickly you learn to submit. It’s different for everybody.”
“Megiddo? That’s the name of the lodge, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s the name of the whole property. The Elect owns a hundred and sixty acres here as well as several properties in town.”
“I’m surprised,” I said.
“There’s a lot that will surprise you at Megiddo,” Beth commented. She had a Mona Lisa smile tugging at her mouth. I kept my face blank, ignoring what I thought was her oblique reference to my unexpected arrival.
“You mentioned someone would go over things with me.” I turned back to Rachel. “Would that be Moses?”
As expected, the women were shocked at the thought. Martha snorted softly, but smoothed her expression
at a repressive glance from Rachel.
“Moses is a busy man,” Rachel said. “It will probably be Maliah or perhaps Cozbi.”
“Maliah?” I said. “That’s a pretty name too. What does it mean?”
Talitha snorted. “Bitterness. And believe me, it works for her.”
“Talitha, that’s not fair,” Rachel interjected. “It’s not like we name ourselves.”
“Not fair, but not wrong, either,” Talitha said. “You, of all people, should know that.”
“But how come Maliah is still giving orientations?” Baara asked.
“Why not?” Rachel was irritated and trying, unsuccessfully, to hide it.
“I don’t know,” Baara continued, oblivious to the tension her questions were causing. “With Enoch gone, I don’t really know what her standing is anymore. Is she still higher than Cozbi?”
Heads turned inquisitively to Rachel. She hadn’t meant for the conversation to go in this direction as the clipped, tight quality of her next words proved.
“That’s for Father to determine. He will announce the standings when he pleases. Either way, I am sure Maliah will be treated with the respect she has earned.”
The women fell into abashed silence, then roused en masse in a flurry of activity, clearing dishes, gathering jackets, chattering in high, artificial voices. I fell in behind Martha and Baara as they left the hall. It was fully dark now and difficult to see. Ahead, the lights from the lodge shone out with a cold clarity, guiding us to it. Behind the lodge, I spied smaller buildings, cabins perhaps, that I had missed before. I sped up, hoping to ask Martha about them. When I heard Baara’s voice, soft but angry, I listened instead.
“I’m tired of her acting so big. My standing’s higher than hers anyway.”
“Well, I don’t have any standing. How about you boss me?” Martha’s voice had a gentle, playful tone.
I could hear the smile return to Baara’s voice. “Oh, Martha, I don’t want to be bossy. I just wish she wouldn’t get so snappy at me.”
The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4) Page 7