Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

  I feel like that now. He’s sitting across the plastic police table from me, scowling from under his big eyebrows. We’re in a back room with a smell of grease and a balled-up Crown Burgers wrapper smeared with fry sauce in the trash. My chair has a crack right in the middle that pinches my leg if I sit wrong, so I’m leaning on one side, trying to look like I’m listening.

  Bishop Young is lecturing me on blood atonement. How it might not work. Least I think that’s what he’s saying.

  “Then why have it as an option?” I point out. “Why let people request a rifle range?”

  “It’s not an ‘option,’” says Bishop Young, sounding cross. “This isn’t a cafeteria where you pick and choose your manner of death. This is serious. You have a duty to defend yourself in court and honor the life God gave you. Suicide is a sin.”

  He leans over the table. “Emily, I never think you really understand the LDS faith. There are two kinds of heaven, not just one. You can’t get into celestial heaven through blood atonement.”

  I am actually insulted.

  “I do too understand,” I say, listing on my fingers. “Three heavens. There’s the telestial heaven for people who are nice enough people but not godly.” I always pictured this as a homey kind of place with a lot of television sets. “Terrestrial is for Mormons like you, who go to church but only have one wife. Then there’s the best sort, for plural-marrieds who have at least three wives.”

  “You haven’t understood it at all,” says Bishop Young angrily. “The Church hasn’t held that policy for many years. Celestial heaven is for those who have lived a righteous life and accepted the teachings of Jesus Christ.” I’m guessing by his smug expression he considers himself a shoo-in. “Polygamy doesn’t come into it,” he goes on.

  I’m getting bored now. That’s when Brewer comes into the room holding a pamphlet. I recognize it. The front reads The Christian Domestic Discipline Marriage. There’s a smudgy black and white Xerox of two conjoined wedding rings.

  Bishop Young looks nervous.

  “I thought it might be beneficial to have your bishop present,” says Brewer, sliding into a chair. “Clear a few things up.” She taps the pamphlet. “I’ll get right down to it. Did your husband believe in physically disciplining his wives, Emily?”

  I look across at Bishop Young.

  He clears his throat.

  “We talked about an understanding between Christians,” he explains to Brewer, “that the Bible gives a man permission to discipline his wife.”

  Brewer looks at me. “Did Blake hit you?” she asks quietly.

  “Um. Yes.” I swallow, eyes switching back and forth between the people in the room.

  “And where would he hit you?”

  “In the bedroom.” My voice is all scratchy, like a whisper. I can see Bishop Young’s face growing darker and darker.

  Brewer looks very sad.

  “I meant, on what part of your body did he hit you?” she says quietly, her mouth turned down at the corners.

  “On my butt.” I’m looking down at the table. I kinda wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

  “With his hand?” confirms Brewer. “Or something else?”

  “His hand.” I nod, still not looking up. “Sometimes a belt if I’d been real bad.”

  “His own belt?” I guess she’s thinking of how he was found. I nod.

  I have this real icky image. Like I would walk around the house afterward feeling as though everyone must know. As if they could see inside me. Blake, making a show for Tina like he always did after.

  “Some couples find this dynamic works in their relationship,” interjects Bishop Young. “Blake and Emily wanted to explore it as an option.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brewer arches an eyebrow. “Like a Fifty Shades of Grey kinda thing?”

  “Christian discipline has nothing to do with…with…bondage or unnatural sexual acts!” explodes Bishop Young.

  “Right,” says Brewer, raising her voice. “Forgive me, how perverted. It’s only about abusing women, right?” She shakes her head in disgust and looks at me. “To be very clear,” she says, “it is against the law to physically abuse your wife with your hand or foot or any other part of you, no matter what the Bible has to say on things.” She turns to Bishop Young, eyes fiery. “In breaking news, stoning is now outlawed,” she tells him.

  “Young lady…” says the bishop, drawing himself up so rigid that his chins wobble and addressing Officer Brewer.

  “You call me ‘young lady’ again,” says Brewer, “and I’ll have you in handcuffs so fast your head will spin. What I’m interested in getting to the bottom of is whether Emily could be charged with culpable homicide as opposed to murder, which may be possible if we can establish that she was a long-standing victim of physical abuse.”

  Bishop Young shakes his head in disgust. “It is the fashion now to blame men for situations that women create. I can see how tempting it might be to play the victim, take no responsibility for your own actions. Marriage is a two-way street, and in successful marriages, wives welcome their husbands with an open heart.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting,” says Brewer, “that…”

  I get mad then. It’s exactly like it was back at the ranch with everyone fighting, like I’m not even in the room. I put my fingers in my ears and scream.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  A waitress arrives with our food. A Cobb salad for me. A club sandwich for Rachel.

  “I just think it’s a bad plan,” says Rachel as our server walks away. “In fact, it’s no kind of plan at all. What, you just…drive five hours to Las Vegas, and what? Knock on the door of some mobster real estate firm?”

  I twirl hair around my finger. To my mind, Rachel is a little too invested in stoppin’ me findin’ Dakota.

  “It’s no bad thing to keep busy in times like these,” she tells me. “Clean the house and whatnot. I get that. But this whole idea seems silly. Not to mention a little dangerous. I mean, isn’t Vegas like a trigger for you? You know. For drug use?”

  “Are you frightened I might find something out about Blake you don’t want to know?” I suggest, because I don’t want to admit she’s right.

  She sorta deflates, knitting her hands around her Mountain Dew.

  “Maybe,” she says. Rachel eyes my salad.

  “You remember that welcome dinner,” says Rachel. “Where Blake introduced us?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “How could I forget? I shoulda known then.” I spear a forkful of bacon. “He was such a tightwad. Kirker’s Diner for a romantic night out.”

  “Cash only,” says Rachel with a slight smile. “He liked cash only. Less risk of computers tracking your whereabouts.”

  “Oh.” Makes me feel a little funny that she knows that and I don’t. Rachel picks up her sandwich with both hands but doesn’t take a bite.

  “I thought you were being all superior at that dinner,” she admits, kinda hiding behind her food, “ordering salad when we all had, like, cheese steaks and the chicken fry.”

  I pause with a fork halfway to my lips. “You serious?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I always thought you saw me as this low-down junkie scum, not fit to enter your house,” I reply.

  “Maybe I let you think that. Maybe I was a little jealous. Blake was always goin’ on about how sophisticated you were.”

  I chew my salad, swallow. The crispy bacon has been deep-fried and doused with enough vinegary dressing to make my cheeks sweat.

  “He did that, didn’t he?” I say. “Blake never stopped tellin’ me what a great mom you’d make. He knew how to hit ya where it hurt, right?”

  Rachel nods and bites into her club sandwich.

  “I still don’t think a road trip is a good idea,” she says between chew
s. “For one thing, you’re not allowed out of the state. That’s a condition of our bail.”

  “You know the state that doesn’t keep close tabs on criminals? That would be Nevada. Vegas is, like, the crime capital of America.”

  “What would you do for money?”

  “I got a credit card. I’ll use it until it runs out.”

  You can tell by Rachel’s expression she doesn’t like the sound of that at all.

  “It wouldn’t be safe,” she says. “Out all alone on the road.”

  “I used to drive it all the time. Besides, there’s a rifle under the seat, right?”

  Rachel does a funny sorta double take. “Blake kept one,” she says, “to protect us. It’s not loaded though. I made him take the bullets out after that news story about a gun misfiring and killing the driver.” She looks at me just a little too long, like she’s wonderin’ if I’ve been wonderin’ ’bout that gun.

  Rachel regroups first. “I don’t think going to Vegas is a good idea. We should leave it to the police.”

  I shake my head at her naivete. “Yeah, right. The cops called the number and got no reply, same as I did. Maybe they even left a message. An’ good luck with that, ’cause last time I checked, mobsters don’t return calls. They ain’t goin’ in person, take my word for it.”

  “Why not?”

  “The offices are over state lines,” I explain. “In Vegas. Five hours drive. An’ it’s out of their jurisdiction, so they gotta liaise with Nevada state, yada, yada, yada.” I wave my hands. “Chances are, by the time they get it together to find Dakota, if they even decide that’s worth doin’, she could be long gone.”

  I rake a hand through my hair.

  “Not to mention it’s a mob firm,” I conclude. “Everyone in Vegas knows ’em. Those Realtors are the ones who own casinos. They got more power than the cops if they wanna cover somethin’ over.”

  Rachel is silent for a moment.

  “It’s all about the Homestead land, isn’t it?” she says eventually.

  “Maybe. Maybe Blake got mixed up in somethin’ dangerous. Whatever’s goin’ on, this Dakota person likely knows something, right?”

  “You sure you don’t want to drive to Vegas so you can inject marijuana?”

  “Inject marijuana? Jeez Louise, Rachel.”

  “Are you really so certain Emily didn’t murder Blake?” she asks quietly.

  I close my eyes. Fatigue is setting in now. The kind of fat exhaustion I used to feel if I left it go too long without drugs.

  “Would you blame her?” I ask Rachel. “If she had?”

  There’s something real funny in Rachel’s expression. Like she’s looking for something she’s lost.

  “Come on, Rachel.” I sigh. “You know what Blake was really like, don’t you?”

  A feeling of despair settles over me. I need to get up, take action.

  I pull out my pocketbook. Throw down bills.

  “I’ll drop you back at the safe house,” I tell her. “I won’t be gone more than a day.” It unnerves me how easily I’ve slid back into my former self. Making promises I know I’ll never keep.

  “Hey, wait.” Rachel grabs my arm, a desperate look on her face. “Wouldn’t it be best if I went to Vegas?”

  “You want to go? Alone?”

  “Um. Sure.” Rachel’s fake-casual tone is terrible.

  “You never even made that trip before, Rachel,” I say. “Even if you left right now, you’d arrive in the early hours of the morning.”

  “So would you.”

  I shrug. “I’ll catch a few hours’ sleep on the roadside. Arrive at dawn. I used to drive Vegas to Utah regular. Did it all the time.”

  “Well, then I guess you’re tired of it by now.”

  Neither of us are gonna come right out and say it. That we think the other one could have some dark motive for looking through whatever Blake might have gotten involved in, without the other one present.

  “We’ll toss a coin,” says Rachel. This is typical of her. So goddamn righteous she thinks Jesus will turn her quarter the right way up.

  “No,” I say. “There’s only one fair way to resolve this.”

  “Which is?” Her blond eyebrows rise in challenge.

  “We both go.”

  “Okay.” She locks eyes with me.

  “On one condition,” I add, playing my advantage. “Excuse me, miss?” I wave at the waitress. “Can I get two coffees to go?”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” says Rachel.

  “Rachel,” I say. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’?”

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “Like God doesn’t see what’s goin’ on in Vegas? What are you saying?”

  “I’m sayin’,” I tell her slowly, “I’m gettin’ you a double espresso. You’re gonna drink it. That’s the only way I’m goin’ to Vegas with you.” I flash her a grin. “Five hours might be enough to get you talkin’.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  When I’m done screaming, I take my fingers out of my ears and open my eyes. Brewer and Bishop Young are both staring at me. Bishop Young looks a little frightened. Brewer looks like she hasn’t made up her mind if I’m crazy or something else.

  “Blake wasn’t a bad man like you’re making him out to be,” I say, feeling mad. “He wasn’t like that. He was trying his best.”

  I eyeball them both. Brewer’s mouth twists.

  “I mean to say”—I spread my hands—“Blake didn’t always know what to do. It’s not like you see how to be a husband to three wives on TV or anything. People don’t write books for people like us. We can’t live out in the open like regular married people.”

  They’re both sitting with stunned looks on their faces. Since there’s a space to speak, I decide to keep talking.

  “Blake tried taking me to the clinic,” I explain. “He tried praying. Bishop Young told him about the discipline thing. So he tried that too. But he didn’t like doing it. It made things even more awkward as a matter of fact. I don’t think Blake wanted to do it at all. He just, you know, felt he should.”

  Brewer purses her lips, like she doesn’t believe me.

  I face her. “So quit making out like Blake was some monster.”

  Brewer has a pleading expression.

  “Emily,” she says. “You may not have thought you were in an abusive relationship, but I worked in domestic-abuse crime for a long time. If I had a dollar for every beat-up woman who told me her husband wasn’t a bad man, I sure as hell wouldn’t be drivin’ to work in a rusty Ford with wind-up windows.”

  “Blake asked me if I consented to be disciplined, and I said yes.” I fold my arms in front of me.

  “Did he always ask your permission? Every time?” Brewer says it like she knows the answer.

  “That isn’t the principle of Christian discipline,” interrupts Bishop Young. “It is the responsibility of the man to decide when punishment is appropriate.”

  “In other words, he took you off for a spanking when he thought you were out of line?” asks Brewer, not bothering to look at Bishop Young.

  I chew my finger.

  “Were there times when you asked him not to hit you, and he did anyway?”

  “Yes,” I say, eyes glued to the desk. I’ve got a bit of skin in my teeth now, and I work at it. “Mostly ’cause I was talking too much. Blake was under a lot of stress. Money troubles. And”—I glare at Bishop Young—“he was threatening to excommunicate our husband,” I explain.

  Brewer looks back and forth between me and Bishop Young.

  “That true?” asks Brewer. “You were going to kick Mr. Nelson out of the Church?”

  “The Nelson family have been part of the Tucknott church a long time,” replies Bishop Young. “Whil
e Blake kept his plural marriage discreet, I was willing to turn a blind eye. But buying up a big plot for the purpose of taking more wives was a step too far.”

  “So to clarify,” says Brewer slowly. “You were planning to excommunicate Blake Nelson if he bought that land.” She leans her chin on her fist like she’s real interested.

  “I hoped it would never come to it. But yes. Adultery is a sin. I have a congregation to protect.”

  “Emily,” says Brewer. “How about you just…talk to us about what you went through. There’s a growing precedent for domestic violence to be taken into consideration in murder cases. Not in Utah just yet, but it’s worth a shot, right?”

  “Blake Nelson was a good man,” interrupts Bishop Young. “Would you really want to put his family through all that, Emily? Sully his memory?”

  I look into Bishop Young’s fat face, thinking how he only ever got me into a whole heap of trouble. Since the first evening I met him as a matter-of-fact, right before I married Blake, when Bishop Young gave me my official recommend card. He explained it was like a security pass into the big, white temple church that lasted for life. Bishop Young took so long explaining what an honor it was, I got home late, and Momma went crazy. She hadn’t seen the dress mashed in my closet, so she got it all wrong. Started screaming that no man would marry me if I wasn’t a virgin, and she always knew I’d give in and whore myself before even going on one real date.

  I got real mad then and told her that the boy from the drugstore was a real date, and he’d bought me a snow cone and a full-size Coke, and she just said, “What kind of date is it where a boy makes you walk four blocks to his house?”

  I had been planning to surprise Momma in the morning, dressed in my wedding gown. Telling her my husband-to-be had had an honest-to-God revelation about me. Instead, I went to my room and balled up the dress right in its plastic wrapper and ran out of the house with it under my arm. I think Momma saw it, but maybe she wasn’t sure what it was, because she didn’t try and stop me leaving. I spent the night in Our Lady of Lourdes Church, hunched in a corner with my dress for a pillow, with all the hobos snoring on the floor around.