by Alex Gates
The Goodman’s horses and cows weren’t the only livestock on the farm. They treated the girls far worse than any animal. Jacob didn’t see them as people.
He used them as breeding stock.
And they rationalized their beliefs with gold bands on fingers too small to wear them.
How long did I have until the horrific bastard consummated his marriage with Mariam?
Could I make it in time?
Could I live with myself if I didn’t?
I crossed into Forest County after an hour and ten minutes. Adamski called, but I didn’t slow the car, taking the backroad turns without regard for my own safety.
“London, you got your warrant through a Forest County judge,” he said. “But you are to wait at the property line until you get back-up from the state cops, understand?”
“They aren’t there yet?”
“They’ll be there. Don’t do anything dangerous. If it gets hot, stand down. They’ve got kids all over the damned place. Don’t let anyone get hurt.”
Only the ones who deserve it. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the girls or children.”
“Or yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“Or the Goodmans.”
That was up to them. “No promises.”
I pulled off the main road, spitting dirt and gravel from under my tires. Adamski kept talking, but I ended the call and parked next to the troopers, wishing they hadn’t turned their lights on while they waited.
The sheriff used his car to block the path to the farm. He held an arm out as I approached. I practically threw my badge in his face.
“I’m Detective McKenna,” I said. “Why aren’t you inside?”
The sheriff carried an extra fifty pounds around his waist that didn’t look regulation to me. His shirt buttons stretch taut, and he rubbed his belly before giving me a passive wave. What he meant as reassuring seemed pretty damn condescending.
“This is all one big mistake.” He smiled. I didn’t. “I’m Ron Grimber, Sherriff. I’ve known Jacob Goodman for years. We’re all gonna go in together and just have a nice talk about this charity of theirs—”
“It’s not a charity. These girls aren’t here because it’s a shelter. They’re forced into marriage with the Goodmans. The women are pregnant because the Goodmans are raping them.”
Grimber bristled, brushing his fingers over the thick, black mustache covering most of his lips. “That’s quite a story, Detective.”
“I have my search warrant.”
“And that’s why we’re gonna go visit.”
The other two troopers were even less of a help. The smallest of the three—thin enough to see through with noodle arms that couldn’t have held the rifle in his car—talked on his phone to the DA. The other leaned against his car, unwilling to move.
“Did you hear me?” I seethed through clenched teeth. “They’re abusing the girls. Why aren’t you already inside?”
“Now, don’t go twisting those panties,” Grimber said. “We can’t go in yet.”
I let the insult slide. “Why not?”
“Because you ain’t the only one who got a weird call today.”
“Mariam called you too?”
“Nah.” He patted a pack of cigarettes on his hand before plucking one out. He didn’t light it, just set it between his lips. “One of their boys called our office. Playing a prank. I’ll have a talk with Jacob. Tell him we can’t have that sort of jokes around here, not these days.”
“What jokes?”
“The boy said it was dangerous to come on the farm. Told us to stay away.”
My chest tightened. “What did he say?”
“He said something about Armageddon.” Grimber pinched the cigarette between his lips. “I don’t follow that stuff. Gave me a quote too. Revelations 17:14.”
I pulled my phone, checking the verse with trembling fingers. Nothing was going to settle them, not until I had a gun in my hand, poised to fire.
I read the verse aloud. “These people will wage war against the Lamb, and the Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.” I stared at the sheriff. “They threatened war with anyone who steps on their land?”
“I told you. It’s a prank. Kids must be bored. Not much farming to do in January.”
I pushed past the officers, staring into the property.
They weren’t bored. They had their entertainment for the day.
Mariam.
“Detective, it’s just a prank, but now we got all these regulations to follow,” he said. “The state says we wait for the bomb squad.”
And every second we wasted was another that might be trapped Mariam with her new husband.
Who was it? One of Jacob’s sons? Nephews?
I wasn’t waiting. “I’m not under your regulations. I’ll radio if I have trouble.”
“Jesus Christ, lady!”
The Goodmans had committed enough atrocities in that name. I tucked my radio into my belt and ordered the sheriff and troopers to listen for my call.
“Can’t come to help you if you get in trouble.” He shouted after me.
“Then I better not get into trouble,” I said.
Even I didn’t believe myself.
I sprinted up the road to the farm, staying low with my gun drawn. My path dotted with enough shrubs and tall grass to pick a quiet and unseen trail towards the Goodman’s enclave.
But the farm was empty.
I approached the houses carefully, searching over my shoulder, in the fields, around the gravel walk-ways.
No one moved. No kids yelled. No laughter.
No one chopped wood or scattered feed for the birds. A fresh layer of snow had fallen—completely undisturbed save for the cleared paths.
Forty or more people lived on the farm, but today, the land had been deserted. The homes stayed dark, the barn unopened.
Where the hell did they all go?
I aimed for Anna and Jacob’s home first, though not even a footstep creaked from inside.
“Police!” I banged on the door with my fist. “Eve! Jacob! I have a warrant to search the property!”
I gave it five seconds before I dropped the diplomacy in favor of a solid kick against the door. The heavy wood refused to give. I crashed against the frame twice before it flung open.
Into silence.
Empty and dark.
Every curtain was drawn, and no one had flicked on a light. The home bathed in eerie stillness.
I exhaled, my breathing a shaky burst of adrenaline and confusion. Fortunately, my gun drew solid and still.
I turned the corner into the kitchen. What a difference a few days made. Anna had cleaned. The sink cleared of pots, pans, and dishes. No flour handprints dotted the stove. The room smelled sterile—bleached and thoroughly scrubbed.
“Anna!” Her real name echoed off the walls, a word unspoken for fifteen years. “Tell me where you are!”
Nothing.
The house didn’t even creak. The quiet scared me more than facing a dozen cocked rifles.
Jacob’s office waited at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open. Like everything else, he’d left it dark and cleaned. I’d spend more than enough time combing through his drawers and computer once I found the girls. But his space offered me nothing. The ornate bookcase and desk couldn’t hide anyone.
Damn it.
I backed away, taking the steps upstairs two at a time. The emptiness didn’t surprise me. Neither did the pretty guestrooms—one decorated for a little girl, the other loaded with cribs and supplies for an infant.
Where did they hide?
The curtains fluttered in the heat blown by the register. I let them move for me, peeking outside to scan the farm. The other homes remained dark and quiet—almost in mourning instead of celebrating a marriage.
What if the wedding had turned into a funeral?
My stomach clenched. I gripp
ed the wall, forcing the thought from my mind.
How would they have punished Mariam for calling the police on their imposed wedding day?
What sort of discipline would they inflict on a ten-year-old child?
And then I knew.
I stared at the barn, proud and crimson, standing silently in the far field.
“No…” I gritted my teeth. “No!”
I rushed from the house, sprinting into a bright, sunshiny day entirely too cheerful for the crimes committed under that golden glow. My boots crunched in the snow, slipping as I darted up the stone walkway towards the barn.
Louisa’s words beat at my brain, driving like a spike through any rational thought.
They hurt the girls in the barn. Demanded their repentance. Their blood. Their innocence.
What had they done to Mariam?
The barn had once appeared a jolly, stereotypical red. Now I feared touching the partially opened doors. The red bled through the wood, seeping crimson into the splintering frame. I peeked inside before pushing the doors open wide.
Quiet.
The haze of the morning glistened through the dust and bits of hay. The musty scent stuck in my throat, watering my eyes. Hell of a time to get allergies. Half of the stalls filled with hay, the others with machinery, tools, and extra storage for treated wood. Jonah’s old furniture stock.
At the end of the barn, the Goodman’s had built a storm shelter. No, a bomb shelter.
The thick metal doors were too modern and sterile to be anything but a bastion of paranoia. Though the other surfaces caked with dirt and hay dust, these doors had been cleaned. The smear of hand oils on the handle left cloudy prints over the metal. Big finger prints.
A man’s prints.
Was someone down there now?
Were they holding Mariam?
Why did it have to be a cellar?
Of all the places I dreaded to go…
Of all the nightmares I’d had…
But I’d escaped my basement. Mariam was still trapped in hers.
I hauled the doors open. The metal accidentally banged against the cement floor. The echo pierced the farm’s silence.
The steps faded into the darkness below.
And God only knew what waited for me.
I had no flashlight. I grabbed my cell instead, holding it against the gun as I descended. One step. Listen. Two steps. Squint into the shadows.
Water dripped from somewhere, but the basement didn’t have a moldy smell. The air was fresh, circulated somehow. Whoever used this shelter used it often.
A thick, metal door waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Now or never.
“Police!” I pulled the lever and opened the gate into the Goodmans’ personal hell. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”
But like everywhere else…the basement was empty.
No.
The complex was empty.
My cellphone flashed over the cement. This wasn’t a storm shelter or a canning cellar. The structure chilled me, and not just the solid, windowless walls and earthen cold.
Nothing good happened this deep underground, where no one could see, hear, or help.
My steps echoed in the shadows. Hollow. Whatever they had built was large. Too big. The little light cast from my phone couldn’t cover the entire space nor would it.
What sort of bomb shelter had multiple rooms?
Four rooms branched off the main hall, sealed with heavy, immovable doors. I brushed a shoulder against one. It didn’t budge. A strip of metal glinted in the phone’s flashlight.
A padlock.
Three of the four doors had been sealed tight. Nothing I could do without the key or bolt cutters. I wasn’t desperate enough to fire a bullet at the lock, not yet, not until I knew if anyone else was down here.
But the gun rested heavy in my hand.
I had no idea what I walked into. An ambush. A rape. Hell, the wedding reception might have served poisoned Kool-Aid, and behind the locked doors were the corpses of all the women and children on the compound.
I couldn’t think like that. The Goodmans hadn’t showed any aggression towards their families before…
Or maybe I hadn’t found the right demons.
One room was unlocked. The door slowly opened, and I peered inside.
Empty, as far as I could tell. A light switch was installed outside the room. I slapped my hand against the fixture.
With an electric hum, the white lights flickered on. Florescent and obscene. I stepped inside, turning just in time to catch the door before it slammed shut.
It had no handle on the inside. Whoever they kept in the room was meant to stay here.
And any child would be desperate to escape this place.
No blankets. No bathrooms. No kitchen. An undressed mattress was cast haphazardly in the corner. Stained, but with what I was afraid to guess. Let forensics have their own nightmares. I was still managing my own.
Cast around the mattress were photographs, taped to the floor. Fortunately, the young girls in the pictures were clothed. Unfortunately…
Every one of them was pregnant.
A blonde girl. Two brunettes. A redhead. Some I recognized from the farm. Others looked as if they were printed and downloaded from the internet. Girls in skirts and dresses, their hair done in braids, their tummies swollen and stretching their clothing.
The girls were all smiling. Bright and chipper and beautiful. They touched their bellies and showed off the bump for the camera. Each one prouder than the last.
Were these the last images the captive saw before sleeping at night? Excited, lovely pregnant girls no older then themselves?
Or did they fall asleep staring at the horror above?
Some sadistic artist had painted religious imagery over the room. Vivid and frightening images of hell and punishments haunted the walls and ceiling over the mattress. Flayings, beatings, demons. Fire. Every night, the poor soul strapped to the mattress via its restraints would be forced to look up and bear witness to a terrible vision of torment.
But…on the other side of the…
A bright, beautiful painting of gardens and peace, light and safety. The section of the room was small, the only object in that corner a wooden chair. Resting on the seat was a bible—apparently one of the child’s only means of entertainment.
The other?
An educational plastic doll, pregnant and smiling. Part of the Goodman’s brainwashing tactic. Normalizing the condition for the little girl.
This prison had no escape, and the leather riding crop resting on the high mantel over the door was not an object for the prisoner to wield. It wielded a position of power in the room.
This wasn’t Repentance.
This was torture.
I flinched as a sharp clang reverberated in the hall. I twisted, aiming my gun, but a second passed, and I relaxed. Even beneath the ground, the ringing of the chapel’s bells sang loud and ominous. The call to prayer was probably the only sound the girls ever heard beyond the preaching of the men torturing them.
The bells didn’t stop, bursting over the farm in joyless melody.
Of course they’d be in the chapel!
The Goodmans were having their services, marrying the child off!
I burst out of the bunker, tearing through the barn and leaping the steps back to their little compound. The bells continued to chime, louder and darker now that I faced them in the light.
Maybe the ceremony had just finished.
Maybe they hadn’t left the church.
Maybe Mariam hadn’t lost her innocence…
I swung the chapel doors open, but this wasn’t a wedding.
“Detective, no!” Anna’s terrified cry filled the sanctuary. “Don’t!”
The women huddled in the far corner, sobbing as they clutched their children. Anna sat in front of them all, her arms outstretched as if to protect them.
She pleaded with me, her voice rasping in fear.
And I wouldn’t.
My left foot came down hard. I heard the click. As obvious as any of the bells or screams. A rug had covered it, but I felt the catch, knew what it meant.
Anna stared at me, her face stained with tears.
“Please…” She held her hands out as if to stabilize me. “Please, don’t move. It’s a pressure plate. If you move…”
The floor wobbled, uneven beneath my feet. “What did they do?”
“If you move, that device will explode.” Anna’s words struck me, shrill as shrapnel. “If you move…we’ll all die.”
23
Scream.
-Him
My life had once flashed before my eyes…but never under my feet.
My weight rested on one foot. The other paused, barely touching the ground. I wavered, but I caught my balance before my thudding heart knocked me on my ass and blew us all to the Goodmans’ Kingdom come.
“Are you all okay?” I searched the faces of the terrified women. The children cried. The babies wailed. But no one appeared to be hurt. Just scared. “Everyone in one piece?”
“For now…” Anna breathed as lightly as me. “Please, be careful.”
“I’m not moving.”
The women cowered in their Sunday best. No…their most formal wear. Little girls in pink skirts. The boys in proper jackets. Women covering their hair with lace shawls.
And three perfect angels.
Mariam and two others. All so young. All wide-eyed.
Three innocent girls in white dresses.
The gowns were silky and ruffled, laced with fancy trim and covered with a thin chiffon. They wove purple flowers into their hair and donned ivory buckled shoes.
The girls didn’t fill out the dresses. Hell, they weren’t even old enough to be Christened.
Not one, but three brides, all waiting for their husbands.
Mariam huddled in the middle of them, staring at me with pouting lips and a furrowed forehead.
She began to cry. “You ruined my wedding day!”
“Hush now.” Anna touched her cheek. “Nothing is ruined. Everyone stay quiet and still.”
“Where’s Jacob?” I demanded.
The women didn’t answer. They hyperventilated in their clustered mass, crying for their husbands.