The Devil's Country [Kindle in Motion]

by Harry Hunsicker

  “This is church business,” Ted said. “It doesn’t concern you.”

  The camera guy was still filming.

  Ted stood in front of his lens. “Turn that off.”

  Chester continued his speech. “Our people are hungry. Does the Apostle not hear our prayers?”

  A man in the middle of the audience stood. He pointed a finger at Chester and shouted, “Blasphemer! The Apostle hears all.”

  The two guards by the calf looked at Silas. He nodded once. The guy with the goatee pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket, held the mic to his mouth.

  Silas spoke to the crowd. “I exhort you, brethren. Please calm yourselves.”

  The brethren weren’t having any of that. It became obvious there were three groups—Chester and his New Mexico contingent, who wanted cash and food; the old man and his gang, who wanted the skinny on what had happened to their beloved Brother Felix; and everyone else, those loyal to Silas.

  More guards appeared from the section behind the platform.

  Chester was jabbing his finger at Silas, yelling about holy payments. The man from the middle of the crowd, face red with anger, fought his way toward the front, fists clenched. Even the women were shouting at one another.

  The sun was bright and hot, beating down on the mass of angry people, and you didn’t need to be a sociologist to see that a riot was about to break out.

  Ted pointed to the exit. “You must leave. All of you. Now.”

  Hannah grasped my arm. “Arlo, please. Let’s go.”

  The camera guy lowered his camera and turned to Ian for instruction. Ian nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face. He’d gotten killer footage. He and the camera guy began to back away.

  I spoke to Brother Ted. “Before we leave, I need to ask you something.”

  Ian stopped, motioned for the camera guy to start filming me.

  Ted looked at the camera and then at me.

  “A woman who lived here at the compound. Her name was Molly,” I said. “She had two children, Caleb and Mary.”

  A fight broke out near the platform. Men shouted. The calf bawled. Silas yelled for everyone to be calm.

  Ted’s eyes had grown wide and fearful. He ignored the degenerating situation and stared at me.

  “Tell me where Molly lived,” I said. “And then we’ll leave.”

  Ted never got the chance to speak. From the main entry, a mass of men in Stetsons appeared, streaming through the archway.

  Now I understood the significance of the trailers in a circle around the old prison. They served the function of a fence, filled with men loyal to Silas. The guards, the ones in the hats with the crowns low in the front.

  They swarmed around us, heading toward the altercation that was centered at the platform. Ted took a last look at me and then followed the guards, swept along by events out of his control.

  The four of us were alone.

  “Who’s Molly?” Ian asked.

  “A woman who wanted out,” I said.

  “You’re not really interested in joining the church, are you?” he asked.

  “We’re looking for Molly’s children,” Hannah said. “And my niece.”

  From the middle of the audience came the piercing shriek of a woman in pain. The general noise level grew louder.

  “We’ve pushed our luck enough,” Ian said. “We should leave now.”

  “Keep the camera rolling.” I headed toward the exit.

  Several guards stood at the mouth of the tunnel leading outside, including a hatless man with a bandage on his forehead and his index finger in a splint, the one I’d slammed against the wall of the bar two days ago.

  He glared at me and reached for a walkie-talkie.

  We’d have to pass him in order to get out, so I headed straight for him. The camera guy, Ian, and Hannah followed.

  He watched us get closer, the surly look on his face slowly being replaced by confusion. He lowered the walkie-talkie.

  I stopped in front of him, the camera guy by my side, still filming.

  “Where did Molly live?” I asked.

  He gulped, looked at Ian and then the lens of the camera, only a foot from his face.

  I grabbed the front of his shirt. “Where are her children?”

  He shook his head frantically, held up his hands. He didn’t appear very tough. He seemed scared and weak.

  I slapped him in the face.

  He yelped, held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Where are Molly’s children?” I reached under my shirt for the Glock.

  Hannah grabbed my arm. “Stop.”

  I looked around. Ian was staring at me, mouth agape. The camera guy was still filming.

  Ian said, “Do you always go around beating on people like that, mate?”

  I let go of the man with the bandaged head. He ran into the yard. The other guards who’d been with him were nowhere to be seen.

  The four of us were alone again. The fight in the yard had gotten bigger, louder.

  “She’ll explain.” I shoved Hannah toward the two Brits. “All of you need to leave now.”

  “What are you going to do?” Hannah asked.

  There was a metal door on one side of the tunnel that ran from the yard to the outside. It was ajar and appeared to lead to the interior of the building.

  “I came here to find out about Molly’s children,” I said. “I’m not leaving until I do.”

  She started to say something, but I opened the door and stepped inside the old prison.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The interior of the former penitentiary hadn’t been painted white. The walls were still gray, and the air smelled like damp cement and stale sweat.

  Immediately inside was a small, dimly lit room that had probably been a guard’s office. In the room was a desk. On the desk was a Stetson and a child’s doll.

  I tried on the hat. The fit was a little loose but not enough to worry about.

  From the office, I strode down a narrow corridor and entered what had once been a cellblock, two stories of eight-by-ten rooms facing onto a large, open area.

  The cell doors were all open. From somewhere not too far away came the sound of a baby crying.

  A woman in her forties sat at a wooden picnic table in the open area, braiding a girl’s hair. From high above, a shaft of light illuminated the woman and child. Shadows formed by the bars cut across their faces, dust motes dancing in the air above their heads.

  The girl was about eleven or twelve but wore enough makeup to be a televangelist’s wife. The woman looked like she hadn’t been near a tube of lipstick since high school. The juxtaposition was odd—an unadorned, plain-faced, middle-aged woman next to a prepubescent child painted up like a Vegas showgirl.

  They watched me as I approached, faces blank.

  “Hello.” I tried to look as nonthreatening as possible.

  Empty stares.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the woman.

  “Sister Rose,” she said.

  “My name is Brother Arlo.” I remembered the Honda in the parking lot. “I’m from the New Mexico synod.”

  She cocked her head like she was having trouble making sense of my presence. She wasn’t afraid, just unsure of how to react to me. After a moment, she resumed braiding the child’s hair.

  “You’re not supposed to be in the matrimonial chamber, Brother Arlo.”

  I looked around, trying not to react. This place was about as matrimonial as a Waffle House.

  “Your name,” Rose said. “I didn’t see it on the register for today, either.”

  The girl scratched at her hair. “That’s too tight.” />
  “Shh,” Rose said. “This is the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “I’m looking for a woman,” I said. “Her name is—”

  “Have you talked to the council?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “If you seek a conjugal,” Rose said, “you have to talk to the council.”

  “The council?”

  “Of course.” She frowned and looked up from her braiding. “How do they do it in New Mexico?”

  The girl rubbed her nose, smearing some lipstick in the process.

  “What is wrong with you, child?” Rose swatted the girl’s backside. “Making a mess of your face like that.”

  The girl didn’t react.

  I smiled at the youngster. “What’s your name, honey?”

  Rose stopped braiding. She stared at me, a look of astonishment on her face. The girl’s eyes grew wide.

  “How dare you!” Rose said.

  I didn’t reply, trying to figure out what breach of protocol I had inadvertently performed.

  “This girl is intended.” Rose grabbed the child’s arm. “She’s pledged for a conjugal.”

  From one of the open cells on the ground floor, another girl appeared. She was older than the one with the braids but not by much, maybe twelve or thirteen. She wore the same style clothes but no makeup. Instead, her face was pale, with dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes.

  She cradled an infant in her arms, a tiny bundle. The baby was maybe four or five months old and crying.

  “The pledge is to one from the council.” Rose shook her finger at me. “She can’t talk to a man like you, a man who’s not her intended.”

  The girl with the baby approached. “Sister Rose, he won’t stop crying.”

  “Go back to your room,” Rose said. “I’ll bring some formula in a while.”

  “I’m hungry, too.” The girl was whiny.

  “G’on, girl.” Rose slapped the tabletop. “I have business to attend to.”

  “Do you need food?” I asked. “I can get you some.”

  The girl with the baby stared at me. The infant let out a caterwaul, one skinny arm breaking free of the blankets.

  “We don’t need your help.” Rose stood up. “The Apostle provides for our needs.”

  “Has that baby ever been to a pediatrician?” I asked.

  “Who are you?” Rose said. Her tone was suspicious now, bordering on hostile.

  I became aware of the others, peering from the doorways of the cells. All of them girls, some old enough to vote, some in their grade-school years. Several held babies. Several others had toddlers standing behind their legs. More than a few were pregnant.

  They all looked pale and unhealthy.

  “What is this place?” I said.

  Rose crossed her arms. “You’re not a member of the church, are you?”

  I took off the Stetson, dropped it on the ground. “I’d tell you to call the guards, but they’re all busy right now.”

  Several of the girls had joined Rose at the picnic table. They all stared at me. One, a child about nine years old, was crying softly.

  “I’m not here to hurt anybody,” I said.

  “You are one of the unclean,” Rose hissed.

  “Filthy as a pig in mud. Except I don’t go around raping children.”

  “Foul words from a foul man.” She shook her head. “You have no concept of the Apostle’s glory. Of his power.”

  “Oh, I think I have an idea.”

  “Go to your rooms, girls.” Rose snapped her fingers.

  None of them moved. They all appeared transfixed by my presence.

  I knelt by the youngest, the one crying. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  The girl had thick blonde hair that needed brushing. Her dress was dirty, stained with something dark. She rubbed her nose. “I don’t want to be married anymore.”

  Sister Rose shook her head but didn’t say anything. Her face contorted with an emotion I couldn’t guess at. It wasn’t just anger or disgust, though. She looked to be in physical pain.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked.

  “They are apostates,” Rose said. “They’ve chosen an unclean path.”

  The crying girl looked at the older woman for a moment and then back at me. A second passed. She nodded. “Yes, Mommy and Daddy are apa—apostates.”

  I realized one of the stains on the child’s dress was blood and that it was at her crotch.

  “Do you want to see your parents?” I asked.

  The girl glanced at Sister Rose again. The woman wiped her eyes and looked away. The girl turned back to me and nodded.

  “I’ll take you to see them,” I said. “Pretty sure I know where they live.”

  A spark appeared in her eyes, a glimmer of something that had been missing up to that point. Hope.

  Rose motioned for me to follow her. We walked a few feet away, out of earshot if we talked quietly.

  She stood between the children and me. She whispered, “Please don’t take her.”

  I smiled, kept my voice low. “Go fuck yourself, Sister Rose.”

  She didn’t react to the words. Instead, she touched my arm and said, “If you leave with her, that will be the end of this.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for this to end.” I struggled to control my anger. “How could you let these children be abused?”

  “This is the Apostle’s will,” she said. “This is what God wants for us.”

  “You really believe that?”

  A moment passed.

  Rose said, “I have to.”

  I strode back to the table, took the girl’s hand in mine. “She’s going with me. I’ll be back for the rest of them later.”

  “Please. Don’t. I’m begging you.” Rose was crying now.

  I picked up the Stetson, put it on my head.

  “What will happen to me?” Rose asked. “Where will I go?”

  I looked around the old cellblock full of sexually abused children. She’d already been to a very bad place. I couldn’t imagine where she might end up that could be worse.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The nine-year-old girl with the bloody dress was named Anna.

  I scooped her up and fled the dank prison.

  Outside, in the corridor between the yard and the rest of the Sky of Zion property, the air felt fresh and clean.

  I glanced toward the yard.

  The platform was empty. Silas was gone.

  Several people were thrashing about on the ground, injured, moaning. Several more were still, not moving. A handful of people stood in clusters, surveying the aftermath of the violence. But most of the small crowd was nowhere to be seen.

  “W-what happened?” Anna asked.

  “Just a little disagreement,” I said. “Close your eyes and we’ll be out of here before you know it.”

  She buried her face against my shoulder, clinging to my neck with her little arms.

  I strode in the opposite direction, toward the front gate, maybe three hundred yards away. I could have gone back to the parking area, but that was away from the highway, and I was pretty sure that Hannah and the BBC guys had already left. The safest course of action was to get to the squad cars across from the entrance.

  The two squad cars were still in place, along with at least a half dozen others.

  In addition to the marked police vehicles, Aloysius Throckmorton’s Suburban was parked under the archway leading onto the compound.

  The Suburban couldn’t proceed onto the grounds because of the people blocking the way, the remnants of the crowd from the yard, plus a number of men in Ste
tsons like the one I wore.

  I jogged toward the exit, Anna bouncing on my hip. It had been a long time since I’d held a child. It felt good and sad at the same time.

  “You OK?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You scared?”

  No answer. Then: “A little.”

  “You don’t have to be,” I said. “We’ll find your parents before you know it.”

  “What if the Apostle finds us first?”

  I sped up. “That’s not going to happen.”

  Aloysius Throckmorton stood on the front bumper of his SUV.

  Silas McPherson was at the head of the group facing the Texas Ranger. Only a few feet separated the two men in the area underneath the arch, a no-man’s-land between the right of way for the highway and the start of the Sky of Zion compound.

  Several guards stood behind Silas.

  Instead of fighting my way through the people, I jogged around the flanks of the crowd, running along the inside perimeter of a barbed-wire fence that separated the highway from the church property.

  With the Stetson on, I wasn’t stopped until I got close to the archway.

  Then the guy with the goatee saw me.

  He touched Silas with one hand, alerting him, and drew a pistol from his waistband with the other.

  That was the wrong move to make with a Texas Ranger standing five feet away.

  Throckmorton pulled his Colt. “Drop your weapon, boy.”

  Behind him, several state troopers produced their pistols, too.

  Mr. Goatee didn’t comply. Instead he aimed at me, apparently not caring that I was holding a child.

  The crowd gasped and stepped back.

  I stopped and spoke in a loud, clear voice: “I am unarmed, and I am not making any threatening moves.”

  Silas came forward. “What do you call kidnapping one of my flock?”

  Throckmorton had his weapon aimed at Mr. Goatee. “Put the gun down now.”

  Goatee’s fingers grew white. He continued to aim at me.