The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4)

by Donna White Glaser

  I groveled.

  Flinging over onto my stomach, face to the ground, I clutched at Father’s pants leg.

  “Forgive me. Oh, please. Forgive me.” He pulled his legs out from my grasp and backed away. I barely restrained myself from croaking a plea for alms. Would have been over the top, even for this ridiculous scene. Rising to my knees, I lifted tear-filled eyes to the men. Moses’s expression softened, but whether from lust or pity was anybody's guess. Father’s face, on the other hand, remained inscrutable. He glanced around the yard as if suddenly realizing the bizarre spectacle we made.

  “Bring her inside,” he growled. Pivoting, he strode up the stairs and into the house.

  Moses continued to stare down at me. Meeting his eyes, I waited in silence. He held his hand out as if asking for the next dance. Placing my hand in his, I dropped my eyes submissively, letting him help me to my feet. He gathered my scattered books. Still silent, I followed him into the house.

  Chapter Twelve

  The room just off the hallway appeared to be an office converted from a bedroom. One wall was devoted to books, the other a windowed panorama of the lake. Strangely enough, Father’s desk, a large cherry behemoth, was arranged facing away from the view. Taking one of the small wooden chairs placed in front of the desk, I sat before him.

  I felt like Goldilocks sitting in the wrong seat. My knees were higher than usual. Behind the desk, Father was ensconced in Papa Bear’s chair. Thronelike, the red brocade wingback chair held him aloft, floating against the dramatic backdrop of the lake.

  These chairs were rigged.

  Moses declined to sit, choosing to lean against the bookcase, skirting the edges of my peripheral vision. If I wanted to look at him, I had to turn my head. I didn’t. Instead, I faced straight ahead, keeping my expression soft, eyes nonconfrontational. Hands folded in my lap, knees together, feet tucked under. Such a little lady.

  “Maranatha,” Father said.

  “Maranatha, Father. I am so sorry—”

  “You are forgiven, child,” he said. “Let us speak no more of the matter.” Worked for me.

  He studied me. His brown eyes scanned my body from head to toe, emphasizing how disheveled I looked. Hair like a banshee, twig accessories jabbing through the fabric of my clothes, and bloody knees staining my skirt from the inside out.

  “Abigail sent—”

  Father flung a hand up like a traffic cop, and I stuttered to a stop. Lips pinched, he shook his head. Permission to speak denied.

  I kept quiet, waiting for him to take the lead. That he would want to regain control of the situation was a given. How he obtained it would tell me a lot about him and the dynamics of the community he had created.

  “You are a traveler,” he said eventually. “You are weary. Alone and confused about your place in this world. You are looking for a place to belong.”

  We were going mystic.

  I raised wide, wondering eyes and clutched my hands together so the knuckles stood out white.

  “Do you know your path, child?” Second time he called me “child.” Had he forgotten my name or was this an affectation with him?

  “No, Father.”

  “The book of Romans tells us ‘all things work together for good to those who love God.’ In Ephesians, we are told ‘In Him, we are predestined according to the purpose of Him who works all things according to the counsel of His will.’ What does this tell you, child?”

  Good question. I thought about what Tracy had told me about misinterpretation of scripture and wished I still had my Bible. Father waited for an answer.

  Ever since the first Peace meeting, I had been psyching myself up in preparation to give a whole-hearted acceptance to joining the church. My role depended on it. Inexplicably, I found myself balking.

  “That… God will… lead me to my path?”

  Must have been the right answer. Father bestowed a warm smile on me.

  “And what was in your path?”

  I gasped with pretend awe. “You were, Father.” Of course, if he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be sitting here with blood running down my legs. “Still… this just seems so…”

  “No one will force this on you, child. But you must understand that to not make a choice is a choice in itself. Don’t be fooled into thinking you have all the time in the world.” His voice was gentle, his eyes lit by the soft entreaty of a benevolent parent to a misguided youth. Father, indeed. “Society has become lulled into a narrow focus on today, on immediate gratification. ‘Live for the moment.’ ‘Chase your dream.’ ‘Everyone deserves to be happy.’ The world is numb to the signs all around them.

  “The End is coming, child. You must have recognized the signs yourself or you wouldn’t have come as far as you have. What causes you to doubt now?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it doubt, exactly. I do see terrible things happening, and I want to be ready. I just want to understand what exactly would be expected of me. Nobody has explained your doctrine. I was meeting with Maliah, but then the police showed up.”

  His lips thinned, telling me that he had been alerted about the police. “Ah, yes. Well, no wonder you are hesitant. And you didn’t have much time before arriving at Megiddo, did you? There is usually an extended period of preparation. However, events have become more rushed of late for reasons beyond your awareness. Persecution is a sign of the chosen, you know.

  “Essentially, we are a group of people who are dedicated to purifying ourselves for acceptance by the Holy Spirit.”

  “By ‘acceptance,’ do you mean accepting Christ?”

  The hesitation was slight, but I had been watching for it. “Accepting Christ is only the first step,” Father said. “There are many, like yourself, who have accepted Christ halfheartedly. Conditionally. Those who aren’t willing to sacrifice their hold on this world have no place in the next. The book of Revelation tells us ‘a remnant’ will prove worthy, but many will not.”

  “What do you mean by purified?”

  “You must embrace a way of life—be baptized into it, in fact—that centers on the three elements fundamental to spiritual purity. Today’s Christianity has lost touch with these elements. They are shunned and even cause disgust. In fact, few Christians realize how their disobedience in refusing to practice these elements has crippled the Church.”

  “What are they?”

  “Confession, atonement, and sacrifice. Fully two-thirds of holy scripture is dedicated to the instruction and understanding of these practices, and modern day Christians are repelled if sermons address them. Yet even Jesus said, ‘I come not to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it.’ The First Coming did not invalidate the Old Testament as false religions would have us believe. It is not obsolete. The King will be returning as a warrior, as a judge, and those worthy of the Elect will be allowed to enter the Kingdom because of our ongoing obedience to purification as scripture commands.

  “You will start with confession,” he went on. He nodded at the journal in my lap. I flicked a dead leaf off it. “The journal you’ve been provided with will be your confessional. Write down your sins—those of the past and those of the present—and study them so that you might see how the Enemy works inside you. Later, we will work together—you and I—in cleansing you of the evils of this world. You are an impure vessel, my child. This isn’t your fault, but you must learn the ways of cleansing. It starts with confession. Later, you will be instructed in the other disciplines.”

  As an active member of A.A., the practices of confession and atonement weren’t strangers to me. They saved my life, actually. Sacrifice, on the other hand, sounded a little worrisome. As did the idea of writing down all my sins so I could hand them over to this wily old man. Talk about blackmail potential.

  “The world does not hold the answers for you. You’ve searched and now, you have found.”

  “Yes, Father.” I spoke as if I’d just met the man who’d discovered chocolate. Who wouldn’t stand in awe and gratitude?

  �
��We will talk again,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  Maybe it was nap time.

  Moses moved to shoo me out the door. I hated being dismissed so soon, but I went docilely. He led me to the door, but then blocked it, hand on the knob.

  “Father does not talk with anyone unless he calls them forth himself. You should consider yourself very lucky.”

  Raising my eyes to his Pez face, I said softly, “I do.”

  He flushed, but not with anger. Averting his eyes, he opened the door, letting me pass.

  After the police left, Maliah secluded herself in her bedroom, and both Eli and Moses stayed “in conference” with Father at the farmhouse. Planting myself in the cafeteria with Jala and Talitha, I was able to ride the wave of gossip and innuendo that flooded the community.

  Baara was the first to arrive and the only one who didn’t bother with a pretext. She slipped over from the laundry, a windowless room that connected to the kitchen building through an enclosed walkway. I quickly learned she was a frequent visitor. But not the only one. Other in-workers and any of those with a day off from their community jobs manufactured excuses to visit the kitchen and speculate. Even Rachel unbent enough to stop into the kitchen for tea. The fact that the church office, where Rachel worked, possessed its own electric kettle was charitably ignored.

  I may have “inadvertently” disclosed that the police were talking to Maliah. Silly me.

  Opinions varied, but each was received, debated, and scrutinized for accuracy with delight and high excitement. Clearly, Enoch’s desertion from the Elect, as well as his wife, had been an ongoing scandal and a mystery within the church. And therefore was of all-consuming interest to the friends he had left behind. Father had placed a ban on discussing the subject, but the horse was out of the barn now and nothing would hold it back. Every now and then, someone would throw in a token admonishment about the evils of gossip, but after a brief moment of silent homage to the ideal, we ignored it.

  Explanations for Enoch’s flight from the Elect fell into three categories: worldly, religious, and sci-fi.

  “Money,” Talitha whispered in a raspy voice designed to be heard across half a football field. This signaled a “secret” that she wanted everyone to know.

  “What do you mean?” Baara asked.

  “I bet Enoch has been skimming money for ages. Father probably got suspicious of him, so he took off.”

  “Nonsense,” Rachel cut in. “Even though Casper is our treasurer, Abigail keeps the books and we work in the same office. I would have heard if there was any embezzling going on.

  “Besides,” she went on. “Enoch is so devout. He would never steal.”

  Baara seemed troubled. “Maybe he was good while he was here, but he left. He returned to a life of sin. He turned his back on Father and rejected The Way.”

  “I don’t know, Baara.” Rachel’s voice softened. “We all have struggles, but I can’t believe Enoch would turn his back on God, even if he left the Elect. Perhaps he just needed some time to… meditate.”

  “Doubt will open the door to Satan,” Baara said. “You know that. It lets Satan in. I think Enoch’s sins of the flesh got hold of him. You know his special demon was lust. And then he fell.”

  Rachel’s face flushed. Turning her back, she went to the sink to wash up.

  We fell silent, and Jala tactfully disappeared into the pantry. When she emerged, she looked as guilty as if she had succumbed to all seven sins simultaneously.

  “Well, now. I sure don’t want to be the one to lead anyone astray, but I don’t believe in letting good food go to waste. After all, Job enjoyed good food and was considered righteous.” Defiantly, she brought out a package of generic cookies and plopped them on the counter.

  “Yay!”

  Baara was shushed, and we fell on the cookies like raccoons on a trash barrel. God was good. We waited until the only thing left was the crinkly plastic tray and cookie breath before returning to feast on the scandal. One sin at a time, after all.

  “But why do you think the police were here?” Jala asked. “Did Maliah report him missing?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “She didn’t know they were coming.”

  “Oo! Maybe he was abducted.” Talitha tossed a new theory into our midst.

  “Abducted?” Rachel’s face scrunched in disbelief. “Like by aliens?

  “No, silly, by the feds.” Talitha said. “We’re supposed to be alert for persecution. ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.’ And Revelations tells us that…”

  “Yes, but if the feds kidnapped Enoch, why on earth would the police be coming to announce it?” Rachel interrupted irritably. “Why wouldn’t they just let sleeping dogs lie?”

  “Okay. Maybe Enoch is on a secret mission,” Talitha pushed on. “Maybe Father sent him to spy out the land like Joshua did in Jericho.”

  “That’s even sillier than the feds, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Well, I sure hope there’s no Rahab in the picture,” Jala said. “Although Enoch grew up in Las Vegas, so it’s not like he hasn’t seen a prostitute before.

  “Besides,” Jala continued. “Rachel’s right. I’ve never met anyone as devout as Enoch. I betcha it was some kind of family emergency or something. Maybe someone took sick.”

  “Then why didn’t he just say so instead of slinking off like he did?” Talitha said. “Father would have given him permission. I mean, he even let Rachel go see her kids in the middle of all that chaos. Megiddo was like a ghost town with all the searchers out. More than one person thought you would have been more useful here at the church than with your kids, Rachel.”

  Rachel flushed again. “My son had pneumonia. The point is: I did have permission. Father apparently believed I could be spared. Casper didn’t go, either. Do you doubt Father’s judgment in these matters?”

  “Of course not.” Talitha’s turn to flush.

  I was surprised at Rachel’s mention of a son, especially since there didn’t appear to be any children at Megiddo that I had seen. To keep the topic on track, I cut in with a question of my own. “What searchers?”

  “Father was concerned about Enoch’s well-being,” Jala answered. “He sent the menfolk out to search for Enoch. I have to confess I always wondered if Enoch had taken off to start his own church. He is such a natural leader.”

  “To be a leader of a church, he would need better control of his flesh urges,” Baara said.

  I wanted to hear more about flesh urges, but just then, like an ambulatory visual aid, Justus walked in. Jala squeaked “Uff da,” and the conversation stopped.

  His eyebrows rose as he took in the disrupted party atmosphere. When his gaze settled on Baara, the young woman began to fidget.

  “We didn’t eat any cookies, Justus.”

  “Oh, Baara,” Rachel sighed.

  Jala and Talitha plunged into lunch preparations, talking in emphatically innocent tones. Justus looked amused.

  “But I said we didn’t,” Baara whined.

  “Did you save me any of the cookies you didn’t eat?” Justus said, grinning. The playfulness lit up his face.

  “No,” Baara said. “I was hungry.”

  Justus turned to me, still smiling. “Gabriel sent me to show you how to care for the dogs. Are you good with animals?”

  “I’m a quick study.”

  “That’ll come in handy,” he said, making it sound faintly sexual. He backed to the door, keeping his delft-blue eyes locked on mine. “You comin’?”

  Uff da.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I like dogs. In fact, when I was little, we had Bruno, a happy-go-lucky German shepherd mix that my dad used to sneak in the house when mom wasn’t looking. When we had to move off the farm, Bruno mysteriously disappeared. I’ve had commitment issues with canines ever since.

  Justus led me around to the back of the barn to a chicken-wire enclosure that served as the kennel. The howling started before we tur
ned the back corner, and at our approach, a roiling mass of fur and slavering tongues churned the dirt in front of the latched kennel doors. My original count of ninety-seven dogs tapered down to five as the mutts sorted themselves out. A fat, floppy Basset and her mini-me beagle sidekick were responsible for the ear-splitting baying. Leaping and cavorting duties had been delegated to a lab mix, a leggy boxer, and a frenzied, bald rat. No, wait. Chihuahua.

  “Settle down.”

  All but the beagle obeyed Justus. Fat Basset rolled on her back, belly up, wiggling like furry Jell-o. The other three sat, tails kicking up dust as they wagged their pleasure. Justus opened the door, the pack piled out, and the hysteria amped up again. Justus ignored them and headed to a covered plastic barrel next to the barn wall. The group divided their loyalties—the boxer and Bassett fawned at my feet while the other three made concerted leaps at Justus as he scooped dry food out of the barrel into six dented metal bowls.

  Wait a minute. Six?

  “Are we missing someone?”

  Justus didn’t hear me over the din, so I shouted my question again. In answer he whistled shrilly and pointed to a separate kennel I hadn’t noticed before. A black-and-white mass of compact muscle popped to its feet at his whistle. Pit bull. Oh, joy.

  I was abruptly deserted as Justus spread the bowls out on the ground. The silence was broken only by the slopping sounds of dogs eating and measured panting from the still-unfed pit bull.

  “Here, Domino.” Justus approached the enclosure and slid the bowl through a slot in the door. “He’s a good guy, but most people are afraid of him. Just slide his food under and leave him alone.”

  Leave him alone. Can do.

  “Why are all these dogs here, anyway?”

  “Domino belonged to Enoch. I’m not sure what they’re gonna do with him. Maliah don’t want him. Most of the others are strays. We let them have the run of the property during the day, but Baara must have forgotten to let them out this morning.”