She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  Accepting the paper, Liam shook his hand, thanking him. Back in the car, I turned to face him.

  “We’re both aware I’ll be returning tomorrow, but you don’t have to come back, Liam. I’ve already asked too much of you as it is. You’ve got Kendra, the kids, and yourself to worry about. Truth-be-told, you don’t need this drama. I’m capable of finishing by myself.” He’d put his neck on the line enough for me over the years, and even more so currently. I wasn’t an idiot. He had a family who were far more important than me and this mess. If anything happened to him because of me, I’d never forgive myself. Years ago, when faced with uncovering the shady politicians, I went in alone. This would be no different. Nick’s wellbeing was at stake, and I’d be damned if I didn’t see this through.

  Liam didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up his cell phone, and made a call.

  “Mr. Robbins, this is Liam Stevens. How are you?”

  A pause, while Topher spoke. I could hear the weasel’s voice babble through the receiver.

  “That’s fantastic news. I’m happy I was able to boost their ratings. Listen, I have a family emergency, and won’t be able to make it in tonight or tomorrow while Kendra and I deal with it. Put Gregory Cage in my place. I trained the kid. I’m confident he’ll do the same as I would, and will crush it.”

  More chatter.

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Robbins, which is why my wife and I need to attend to this personal matter.”

  Fully expecting to hear screaming from Topher’s end, I heard nothing.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep you posted, and appreciate it. See you Monday.” With that he hung up. Staring me straight in the eyes, he spoke again. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you do this on your own. We started this together, and we will end it the same way. Doesn’t matter I didn’t create you, Jill. You’re still one of my kids. Got it?”

  His words caused a lump to form in my throat. I hadn’t felt this secure in a long time. Since the passing of my parents, and the downfall with Nick, often I’d be left feeling alone, abandoned, even when in a room surrounded by people. A tear rolled down my cheek as a feeble, ‘Thank you,’ was whispered.

  Choked up by his own emotions, he cleared this throat. “You’re the undercover investigator here. What’s our next move?”

  “Shockingly enough, it’s kind of an easy one,” I said, a slight optimistic smile grew from my lips. In less than twenty-four hours, by the grace of God, Nick would be home, and this nightmare would end.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nick

  Since spinning the epic tale of how I’d fallen for Sarah, and she for me, Warren joyfully accepted the coupling, promptly moving us into a room of our own on the forbidden second floor. Explaining this wasn’t what I was ready for, the personal desire fell on deaf ears. He kept insisting this was a blessing from God so Sarah and I could bear children for our group family. Sarah was all for it, but the thought of creating life with this woman didn’t sit well. Often, I’d stay awake until the early hours of the morning suggesting I was working on log books for Warren regarding the sessions conducted, or I’d head up early and pretend to be asleep when Sarah came to bed. If backed into a corner, I’d lay beside her and makeup stories about my past, expressing how moving slow was most comfortable due to lingering pain, to which she begrudgingly agreed. However, some nights she acted like an animal in heat. Those days were difficult to avoid. With the exception of a handful of times, satisfying her urges, then telling her that’s all that mattered–her pleasure, did the trick. The few evenings when I had no other choice but to sleep with her, I’d pretend to climax. You’d think this would be the worst part of the hell I single-handedly created, but it wasn’t. Sarah’s insane, irrational jealousy took the prize.

  When I’d conduct sessions with other females in the house, she’d stalk by the closed door, lending an ear to make sure nothing sexual was going on–trust me, it wasn’t. If I helped, spoke to, did chores with, or basically was in the same room where women were present, she’d practically lose her damn mind. She’d storm out of the space, yelling, screaming, stomping her feet. Being aware of her psychological state, I was always able to calm, and provide reassurance my loyalty remained strong for only her, but the childlike behaviors didn’t stop. On Jillian’s worst day, she’d never been this bad.

  “I have to see some of our sisters today, Sarah. You cannot spy on my sessions, nor stand outside the door, and must remind yourself whenever you feel the urge to explode, nothing is going on between me and anyone in this house. Should you feel threatened, worried, or scared, take a few deep cleansing breaths. Count, hold, and exhale the way I showed you,” I requested, while dressing.

  “Yes. Anything for you,” she cooed, still lying in bed.

  “Please, Sarah. I have a lot of work to accomplish today. Every interruption is a setback, and every setback is less time for us to spend together.” With a smile and a wink, I headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Brother Nicholas. Brother Noah and I will be heading into town in a few minutes to pick up the supplies we ordered, and a few things for the storm coming in later,” Warren informed. “Would you mind keeping an active eye on things around here in our absence?”

  “Of course, Brother Warren. While you’re gone, I’ll have a group go out back and pre-treat the walkways. The rest can bring in wood for the fireplaces, get extra blankets on the beds, and start prepping meals for the day. I’ll go out front, alone, and salt the porch and a path to the mailbox. When you return, I must begin sessions.”

  “Thank you, Brother Nicholas. You’re a godsend. We’ll try not to be too terribly long.”

  “Take your time. Sister Ruth said she feels a blizzard coming in her joints. You may want to stop by the market and grab some extra food, just in case.”

  “We planned on it.”

  Noah lumbered into the kitchen in his typical lowered head, shoulders slumped, eyes firmly focused on the ground avoiding all social or emotional contact, fashion. Everyone in the house, except him attended sessions. He refused. I couldn’t decide if he didn’t want to speak with me, or if Warren wouldn’t allow it. Even though based off impressions, he required the most therapeutic support, I didn’t push, because I didn’t need him to stage the revolt against Warren. I’d have liked to have had an opportunity to help him, but wasn’t about to force the issue. Who the hell knew what might pop out of Pandora’s Box? Too risky.

  “Be safe,” I said as the two men walked out the front door.

  The ‘flock’ weaved in and out of the first-floor rooms while I sat at the table sipping coffee. Wind whipped against the side of the house, causing branches to scratch against the glass windows. The sky, eerie and gray. Alone with my thoughts, attempts to figure out what happened next developed. All I came up with was none of these people were even remotely close to believing the truth, that Warren Lessor was no savior, but rather a psychopath. I’d dug such a deep grave with him and now Sarah, it was anyone’s guess how long I’d be stuck here plotting my escape. Being I slept upstairs, several attempts to enter Warren or Noah’s room failed. The damn doors were always locked. A defeated depression seeped into my soul. This was it. This was my new life. I’d end up having to marry Sarah in some sort of whacked out ceremony hosted by Warren and his weirdo cousin, and made to breed, creating more mentally unstable individuals for this cult. Silver lining–the marriage wouldn’t be legal by any stretch of the imagination due to a lack of an official state sanctioned license, and the tiny fact I was forced into this already married. The men and women brought here by Warren were good people, damaged, but possessed strong moral compasses. Each one held a secret story which slowly unraveled during sessions. I could help them, this was never called into question, but there were days where I felt all of this work was stupid and foolish. Perhaps this place of ignorance, avoidance each lived in, was best. What was the point of anything anymore? If Warren’s ‘flock’ wanted this life, why would I screw
that up for them? Once they were freed, introduced back into society–if that day ever came, would they be okay, or would they be screwed up beyond belief?

  It’s all right to be tired. It’s fine to be done. It’s not a sign of weakness to want out. Life is never without choices, though. You may not like the ones available, but never-the-less they are very much so present. If you decide to run out that door, there’s a chance Warren will find and kill you, or Jill. That’s not an option. If you stay, you’ll probably never leave.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bottle of bleach. One cupful and I’d be dead. For the first time in my life, I wrestled with suicidal thoughts. Death was the only way out. I had faith in Jillian, but that confidence had dwindled. By now I was sure she’d have figured everything out, but hadn’t. Maybe she stopped trying. Maybe she saw this as a blessing–freedom from an awful, phony existence. Was there really anything out there for me on the other side of that door?

  You know there isn’t. Stop lying to yourself.

  “It’s time,” I whispered, running hands up and down my face aggressively. Rising, moving to the plastic bottle, I lifted it off the floor. Unscrewing the cap, I paused, waiting for the rational side of my brain to kick on, begging me to stop this, to keep fighting, but it never came. All I heard was, ‘This is the only way out.’ Steady hands tilted the liquid to my lips. The fumes burned nostrils. Eyes stung. One swallow later, I’d be at peace.

  “I’m sorry, Jill,” I mumbled, before a sudden sound stopped the action. I heard scraping metal coming from the back door lock. With none of the ‘flock’ outside, they were either in the basement, or doing chores in the family room, Sarah still lounging in bed, I put the bleach down, straining ears to hear more. The lock clicked open, and the light tapping of feet against the floor sliced through the silence. Body snapped into fight mode, taking hold of a chef’s knife on the counter. Clutching it tightly, knuckles white from the firm grip, I flattened my back against the wall, waiting for whomever dared to enter this insane asylum to make a move.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jillian

  The moment Liam dropped me off at my house, I placed a call to Lyla.

  “Hey, Jill. What’s up?” she asked, cheerily.

  “I need one last favor,” I said.

  “Anything. Shoot.”

  “This stays between us, Lyla,” I warned.

  “That goes without saying, Jill. I haven’t said anything to anyone, my fiancée included in that, about babysitting your home, pretending to be you while you and Liam went out. If you think I’d betray your trust now, then you really don’t know me, and when you return to work, you need to find a new assistant,” she challenged.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been a rough ride, but that’s no excuse.”

  “Forget about it. How can I help?” Lyla’s chipper nature was what caused me to hire her in the first place. Her qualifications were subpar, this was her first swing at the assistant bat, but she proved herself to be a valuable team member in short order. Always ready, willing, and able. Besides, everyone has to start somewhere.

  I spent the next several minutes vaguely filling her in on what had been going on. Not wanting to give too much away because I wasn’t sure if anyone had tapped my phones, or positioned listening devices around the house, I had one simple request. Tomorrow morning starting at nine, hawk my social media. When a live feed came up, get anyone possible on all platforms to share the hell out of the feed, and to call Agent Timothy Wilder at the FBI. With tremendous apprehension, she agreed.

  Sleep eluded, so I spent the overnight hours mentally preparing, creating checklist after checklist. By the time Liam showed up, I was ready to go. Thankfully, not one single new van was parked outside the front gates. The ride out east, long and tedious. Nerves were caught somewhere between fierceness and fearfulness.

  We parked outside Jamison’s store before the sun rose. He saw us from the front window and invited us in to keep warm and have a cup of coffee. With no desire to, Liam urged we did, saying the distraction was necessary to calm mental strain and pass time. While the two men chatted about their children, wives, and lives, I paced the aisles, restless to get over to Lessor’s house sooner rather than later, toying with the American Flag camera pin I tacked to my coat collar. The device was from my beat reporter days so I could catch everything witnessed while taking down Nassau County’s dirty politicians. When eight-twenty rolled around, I approached Liam.

  “What’s the best way to get to Lessor’s home from here? The GPS says it’s a straight run, but if you know a better route, I’m all ears,” Liam asked Jamison.

  Glancing at the cell phone map, Jamison replied. “There really aren’t any safe side streets around here. You’d be going off-road. In that Subaru you’ve got out there, if the storm should pull in earlier, you’ll get lost or stuck. I suggest heading east out of here, but stopping about a half a mile before the house. There’s this huge, overgrown, bunch of trees, shrubs, weeds, and sticks off to the right. The kids around here hide in there to drink, smoke, or make out. Back into the mess, kill the car lights, and wait. You’ll have a clear view of the road. Warren’s van is tan–only one around here. Spotting it shouldn’t be an issue. When he drives by, wait two, three minutes, then pull out. Keep going east, and you’ll see his house on the left with the goose and gander mailbox. There’s no gate or anything like that. Drive right up.”

  “Thank you,” Liam said, smiling warmly, shaking Jamison’s hand.

  “Good luck, Liam. I’ll text you when he gets here, and again once he leaves. I hope you find your husband alive and well, Miss. You have my number. Call if you need anything, anything at all.”

  With a nod we left, following Jamison’s directions to the letter. As promised a cluttered heap of greenery came into focus. Backing up using the guidance of a deep set of tire tracks, we sat, waiting, but not for long. Roughly ten minutes later, Lessor’s tan church style van rolled down the road. Two men were in the vehicle.

  Nerves ran high for both Liam and I as we approached the home. Turning onto the gravel driveway, breath caught in my throat. It was do or die time. No mistakes were allowed.

  “Listen, Jill. I don’t know what we’re going to find in this house, but you have to be prepared and ready for whatever. Nick might be inside. He may not. Other people could be in there too. No idea. It quite possibly is a house of freaking horrors. Once we get inside, start rolling. Lyla will take care of the getting the FBI out here. We stick together. Don’t you dare leave my line of sight. We have to hold on and stay alive just until the authorities get their asses here. Closest precinct is about fifteen minutes away. They’ll be dispatched first. Ready?”

  “Yeah.” Calling upon Nick’s advice pertaining to anxious situations, I took a series of deep breaths through my nostrils, holding the air in for a few seconds, exhaling through my mouth. My headspace had to empty, had to free itself from the magnitude of the situation so I could do this, and do it well. Nick’s life depended on it.

  “Back door,” Liam instructed.

  The rear lock was a simple deadbolt. I’d picked a ton of these back in the day. Extracting a bobby pin from my ponytail, I went to quick work on the tumbler. Liam surveyed the windows not seeing a soul inside. The catch clicked, and the door opened. Entering, Liam went first, grasping a pocketknife. Pressing the back of the lapel pin, a dim red light indicated I was streaming across all social media platforms. Between Lyla blasting the feed and my over one million followers, a slight sense of peace found its way inside my crazed brain. Cautiously, we made our way into what appeared to be the kitchen.

  Breathing was shallow, catching in my windpipe. Hands shook, despite the mental warning to cut the crap and to get my head in the game–that Nick’s existence was at stake.

  “Move one more inch, and your ass is mine. Try me. I’ve got nothing to lose,” a fierce masculine voice warned.

  In an instant the tone registered.

  “Nick?�
�� I whispered.

  Nothing. Silence.

  “Nick. Nicholas Winters,” I said, again, a lot firmer, and louder.

  “Jill?” the voice questioned.

  Moving in front of Liam, a calculated risk was made. Boldly marching into the kitchen, the concern over potentially being shot, stabbed, or knocked out, vanished. It was a chance I had to take. Too much time had passed since Nick vanished. If he was on the other side of the wall, another second wouldn’t be spared.

  A shocked gasp escaped lungs the moment the space came into clear focus. It was Nick, alive and well, dressed in all white, clean shaven, practically bald head, holding one hell of a huge knife. Dropping it upon realizing the situation was safe, he took hold of my body, clinging to it tightly. Relief like never experienced caused my body to buckle at the knees. The nightmare was finally over.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nick

  The second I heard Jillian’s voice I truly thought my mind was playing tricks on me. It wasn’t until she made her way into the kitchen, hands up by her sides, my brain believed this was for real. Grabbing her, I gripped her slender body, holding it close. The emotion, indescribable. However, as quickly as happiness entered, it vanished twice as fast.

  “You’ve got to get the hell out of here, immediately, Jill,” I urged.

  “Not without you,” she demanded. “Let’s go. Lessor is in town at a hardware store with his cousin. We have time, but not a lot.”

  “Move your asses. We can sort through all the details later,” Liam said, coming into view from where Jillian initially hid.

  “Besides you two, who else is here?” I asked, concerned over how many others might be in the direct line of fire.

  “Just us,” Jillian answered, tugging my left arm, pulling me to the back door.

  “There’re others in here–taken, like me. We have to get them out of here too, Jill. They’re sick, and need help.”