I almost didn’t hear Gabriel calling my name. Before responding, I inched the door open and peeked into the main aisle. No sense advertising my hiding spot if Gabriel had set me up. He was alone.
The aisle was at least fourteen feet wide with the stalls opening off it and bales of hay stacked along the walls. Gabriel stood next to the same stall Baara and I had talked beside. I peeked in. The horse—Granny or Nanny or something—remained in the back of the stall, head low, back leg cocked. It looked like it was sound asleep, standing up. How did she do that without tipping over?
I reined my flitting thoughts back to business.
I didn’t like our setup. Standing out in the open made me skittish as hell, and I almost invited Gabriel into the tack room. For a Marine, he looked awfully jumpy too. But though it made no sense, I was afraid he would think I was coming on to him.
“So what’s going on?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing good.” His voice sounded resigned and a little weary. Sad, even.
I waited.
“Father’s claiming Rachel committed suicide.”
“That’s nuts,” I said. “Does he think she stabbed herself in the heart? There wasn’t a weapon anywhere around her. And her hands were clean, not a drop of blood on them.”
“I know. I checked it out. She also would have had to drag herself from wherever she’d been hurt to the middle of the temple without anyone seeing and without leaving a blood trail. It’s just not possible. But that’s what he’s insisting.” Gabriel looked down at the ground. “And, um, because she supposedly killed herself, which is a sin, Father says she doesn’t deserve a Christian burial.”
“What does that mean?”
“In a nutshell, it means they’re not calling the police. Father wants us to take care of the burial ourselves.”
It took a minute to process that. “So are you going to dig a hole somewhere in the woods and, what, stuff her in it?”
Gabriel shook his head again but didn’t answer. He took a step toward the exit.
“Wait. What about Beth?”
“She’s not there. Not at the house, I mean. The only thing Father would say was that she was a… a spy for the infidels.”
“And what does that mean?” It couldn’t be good, and we both knew it.
“Look, I really don’t know. She’s not exactly the hot issue at the moment. I think Father just sequestered her while all this is going on. Once everything is settled, he’ll prob—”
“Settled? Are you kidding me?”
He scrubbed his face with his hands. “You’re going to have to look for her yourself. And then you two are going to leave. Understand?”
Oh, hell, yes, I understand.
“Look,” Gabriel said. “We’re not all bad. There’s just something going on. Something not right. We’ll… We’ll figure it out.”
He was gone before I could respond. I don’t know what I would have said anyway.
I had only gone three steps when I heard something moving around in the stall opposite. Baara emerged from the shadows.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Uh, hi, Baara,” I said. “I didn’t know you were, uh…”
She didn’t answer. She must have heard the whole conversation between Gabriel and me, but I couldn’t be sure how much she understood. We had been pretty plain, though. Suicide, blood trails, burying people in the woods.
“Baara, I’m sorry. Gabriel and I didn’t realize you could hear us. It, uh, must have been hard for you.”
An impish smile stretched over her face. “It was hard,” she agreed. “I stayed real quiet.”
She sure had.
I walked over and sat on a bale of unexpectedly prickly hay. I thought about moving, but Baara, trailing a musty sweat odor, had already joined me.
“You must have heard some scary things,” I went on. “I know Rachel was your friend. I’m sorry that—”
“She used to be my friend. Not anymore. Father said I needed to stay away, because she was filled with poisonous doubts and they could fill me up too.”
“Is that why you stopped the reading lessons with her?”
“Uh-huh,” Baara said. A wistfulness crept into her eyes. “I can almost read. I know my ABCs now and everything. Father said he would find me another teacher, but he’s a busy, busy man.” She sighed.
I glanced toward the door. I wanted to get out of there, but I didn’t want to leave Baara without learning what she would do with the information she had overheard. There was no telling how Father would react if he knew what I was planning and, worse, that Gabriel had helped me.
“Nobody should keep you from trying to learn,” I said, distractedly. “Maybe you could explain to Father how important your lessons are to you. Or you could just take lessons quietly. Like, on the side. Nobody would have to know.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Baara said. Her eyes widened at my duplicity. If she only knew…
“Baara, if reading is that impor—”
“‘Everyone must submit to the authority, which God has established. He who rebels against the authority is rebelling against God and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves.’ That’s in the book of Rome. Father is my authority. And he’s your authority too.”
“Right, but Father shouldn’t try to keep you—”
“‘Obey your earthly masters with respect and fear, and with sincerity of heart, just as you would obey Christ.’”
“Uh, Baara?”
She had started to rock, her eyes glassing over the way they had during Father’s sermon when she had worked herself up and hyperventilated. Fresh sweat beaded on her upper lip.
“Baara, it’s okay. I understand. It’s important to listen to Father. I get it.”
She turned to me, but though her gaze seemed to touch on my face, her eyes looked straight through me.
“‘Submit yourself for the Lord’s sake,’” she said in a distant, raspy whisper. “‘Submit to the authority instituted among men, to those sent by Him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right.’”
A terrible feeling of dread came over me. I sat silently, remembering bits and pieces of the last few days, trying to see if they fell into place. My heart sank. They did. It was possible. Except…
There were some aspects of the incident that I would have thought beyond this woman’s capabilities. I hoped so, anyway.
Meanwhile, Baara was speaking so rapidly her words tumbled over each other, spitting from her mouth as if a pressurized seal had been breached.
“…trust? Who? Not Enoch, not Moses, not Gabriel… Expect the judgment… Only me. Only me. The promise… by faith… He is the Father…”
I put my arm around her. She was quivering and damp from sweat. I rocked with her and made soft, soothing sounds. “Sh, sh, sh.”
After a few moments, I felt her shoulders relax just a bit, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. We kept rocking, but the pace grew less frantic, more rhythmic.
Her words slowed too, and became more coherent. And more frightening.
“Anyone who attacks the Father must be put to death. Anyone who curses the Father must be put to death. You must serve the Father wholeheartedly, with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind. Serve the Father, not men, and Father will reward everyone for whatever good he does as slave.”
I closed my eyes and decided to take the chance. “Baara?”
“Hmm?” she said.
“What happened to Enoch? He didn’t run away to Las Vegas, did he?”
“No,” she shook her head. “At first, Father thought he did, because that’s where Enoch used to live. And it’s a sinful city, so Father thought that’s where Enoch would go. That’s why he sent Moses there. And then Moses had one of his spells and Justus had to go get him. Justus told me Moses got drunk and was consorting with immoral women, so Justus had to do all the work.”
“What work?”
“I don’t know, but he had to take some
of Enoch’s clothes and things in a big suitcase. He got them from me because I do the laundry for everyone. Some of the clothes were still dirty too, but Justus wouldn’t let me wash them. I don’t know why he needed all those clothes anyway, because Enoch didn’t really go away like we thought. He came back to Father when all the rest of the Seven were out looking for him, and he yelled at Father.” Baara turned to me, her eyes wide in remembered horror. “He told Father he was wrong. Father was, he meant, which is just as crazy as crazy can be because Father can’t be wrong. Right? And I got so mad.”
“Where were you all?”
“At Father’s house. I was in the kitchen because I bring his supper over. He likes it hot, and I always hurry fast. They were yelling at each other. I got scared. So I went and peeked in the office door.”
“What did you see?”
“What I already said. Enoch was yelling at Father. Oh, and he had his suitcase and a duffel bag, and he said he was leaving and not coming back. He said Father was a bad man and a liar.”
Baara’s lips thinned to a slit and her muscles coiled beneath my arm. She shrugged it off as though irritated by the weight.
“That made you very angry,” I said.
She nodded. “I almost got in trouble. Father saw me peeking in and I thought he was going to yell at me.”
“But he didn’t?”
“No. He told me, ‘Baara, go call Casper.’ I went back to the kitchen because there’s a phone back there.” She paused, looking troubled.
“Did Casper come over?”
She shook her head slowly. “I went back to the office because I was mad at Enoch. I came and stood inside the door, just like a soldier, all straight and tall.”
I closed my eyes. “Did Father tell you to leave?”
“No. He just smiled a little, tiny bit, but I knew that meant it was okay for me to stay. Enoch pretended he didn’t see me, but I didn’t even care. And then Father looked right at Enoch and said, ‘Then he took his firstborn son, who was to succeed him as King, and offered him as a sacrifice on the city wall.’ Father looked so sad when he said that. And I knew why. Enoch was his son. Father used to call him that. And Enoch was highest in rank, like a prince. Father looked right at me. I knew what he wanted.”
My mouth dried and it took me a moment to talk. “What did Father want?”
“To sacrifice Enoch. And I was ready. I was the Flame that day. That’s what Father named me. The Flame. Remember I told you that?”
I nodded. “The Flame of God.”
She sighed; happily, it seemed.
“What did you do?” I forced myself to ask.
Her brow furrowed. She didn’t answer right away. When she did it was only to make a slashing motion through the air in front of us with her hand.
I nodded again. “You, uh, stabbed him? With a knife from the kitchen?”
“I knew what Father wanted. And I was happy it was me who could make the sacrifice. I know the Seven are supposed to be his right hand, but only Casper was still here and Casper is not the Flame.”
“No,” I agreed. “Casper is not the Flame.” Baara seemed completely calm now, but I no longer knew what might set her off. I was desperate to change the subject. “You… You must be very special to Father.”
“I am. He calls me the Daughter of Zion because I am obedient. He used to call Enoch his son, but now I’m his daughter.”
“Father must trust you an awful lot. I bet you know a lot more than people realize.”
She smiled and hugged herself. And nodded.
“I bet… I bet you even know where they took Beth today?” My heart thumped dully. I was taking a chance. She could easily think that telling me anything was betraying Father, and she felt as unpredictable as nitroglycerin. I badly wanted out of there before the “Flame” got set off again.
But she cocked her head, thinking hard. “Maybe to Sheol?”
“Sheol? What’s that?”
“That means Hell. We’re not supposed to go there. Except some people can, but only if Father tells them to. He never lets me go.” A shadow crept into her eyes.
It made me nervous, but I wasn’t sure if I was understanding her correctly. I tried again. “Is Sheol a real place? I mean, could I drive a car there?”
“Yes, but not today. Father took all the keys to the cars. When I took Father’s pasghetti over at lunch, I heard Casper tell Justus to get the ones at Sheol and bring them back too. They’re gonna lock all the keys up. Father is mad at Moses and Rachel, because people might get scared and leave him. Some of them really might. They aren’t obedient like me.”
“I bet not.”
Sheol, perfectly named, had to be the meth camp. I guessed they were holding Beth there. An image of the padlocked shed rose in my mind.
Baara stood abruptly. “Come on,” she said as she loomed over me.
“What? Where?” I jumped to my feet too.
“To Father,” Baara said. Her eyes had narrowed at my question. “To ask for forgiveness for your doubts. Otherwise, I can’t be your friend, and I like you, Leona. You’re nice to me.” She smiled shyly and reached over to touch my shoulder.
I almost corrected her, but then I realized she was referring to my new Elect name. Her eyes made me nervous. Despite a pleasant smile, they glittered with a frightening intensity.
“I… um… Yes, I probably should ask for forgiveness for… um…”
“For doubting,” she said patiently. “Doubt is a sin.”
She took my hand and started to lead me to the exit. Since that was the direction I wanted to go, I complied, but I was already planning my escape as soon as we hit the cold air. As we passed a stack of hay bales, Baara leaned sideways and tugged at something. A glint of silver arced through the dim light as she swung and punched me in the thigh with whatever she had grabbed. I screamed and shoved her sideways. She fell over the bales, landing on the cement floor with a grunt. The thing she struck me with had snagged for a moment on my skirt, then it fell with a clang. I snatched it up, staring stupidly at an instrument that looked like a severed pirate appendage.
Baling hook.
The thing in my hand gleamed evilly, despite the rust spots dotting the slender metal like clotted blood. My thigh burned and I realized I hadn’t been punched. I had been stabbed with the business end of the baling hook.
The bitch had stabbed me.
Baara got calmly to her feet. More frightening than anything else, a smile lingered on her lips. I braced myself, but she didn’t rush me. Instead, she just stood, her eyes scanning the walls.
My gaze skittered after hers.
My word, there were a lot of farm implements that could be used to end someone’s life. Just to the left of me, loops of twine dangled limply from a nail on the wall, useful for a little face-to-face choking encounter. They would be super nice for binding someone up too. A large pair of scissors dangled next to them on its own little nail. Lots of ways to cause damage with those. A pair of pitchforks had been propped in the corner just waiting to be used to scoop horse bedding and/or to be thrust into some poor slob’s chest. And, oh look, another baling hook—twin to the one currently dripping blood on my foot. My blood.
I snatched the scissors off their nail and held them in front of me, like a swordsman.
Baara seemed overwhelmed with so many options of murder weapons at her disposal. I decided not to wait. I lurched into a run, half limping, half stumbling, as I headed for the door. My back tingled as it anticipated a blow from behind, but when I made it to the exit and turned back, Baara hadn’t moved.
She still stood there, watching. Smiling.
I ran like hell.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I ended up taking refuge in the isolation shed, even though the streak of blood on the floor freaked me out every time I thought about it. The possibility of being discovered and locked in was worse. But at least it had a sink and toilet. And even better, I still had the scissors I had grabbed in the barn. I couldn�
�t stand to have the baling hook anywhere near me, so despite it’s proven effectiveness in combat, I slung it into the woods.
My right leg was slick with blood, although the bleeding looked like it was tapering off. The gash burned and throbbed, making my whole leg feel like it had been hit with a bat. Tendrils of panic started creeping into my body again, so I tried humming “Home On The Range” to reboot any fleeting stoicism I might have inherited from my Midwestern ancestors. When that didn’t work, I forced myself through several calming exercises. Eventually, I made myself admit the gash was only the width of my forefinger, less than a quarter inch deep, and only about four inches long.
Only. Ha.
Thank God I’d turned to sweets after giving up booze, thus giving my thigh a nice fatty layer of “protection” for the hook to plow through before anything vital was hit. Lemonade out of lemons, I told myself.
Then, just as I was complimenting myself on the pioneer-woman toughness I was displaying, my shaking fingers discovered a ragged flap that had been scraped off my skin like an apple peel, and currently dangled at the bottom of the gash. I leaned over and puked.
Screw tough.
I hobbled over to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth out and see if I could find anything to use to bind up the wound. The little room had been stripped of even the half-used roll of toilet paper, and they had shut the water off in anticipation of the encroaching Wisconsin winter. The scissors came in handy; I cut off a strip of my skirt and wrapped the material around my thigh. The wound still hurt like a bitch, but the action made me feel more effectual. More in control.
The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4) Page 27