by Cate Quinn
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Rachel, First Wife
Praise the Lord, the police have been kind to my storehouse. I close my eyes in relief. This place sort of grounds me. All the food, neatly packaged. I like to run the older supplies through our pantry inside. But out here is enough for three straight years, give or take.
I got sacks of grain and corn, flour, rice, pasta. Gallon jars of meats and pickles. A few of Blake’s Survive Well products also, since they’ve started their own line of survival foods.
I take a breath, trying to slot what I remember into everything that happened.
The shoebox. My box. In the basement.
Whatever pain relief Aunt Meg gave me is making me see shapes and patterns that aren’t there. Don’t seem to help much with the cramps either. I have one hand pushed on my pelvis to keep from exploding with it. The morgue feels unnaturally cold, and the sharp smell of bleach is strong enough to make me dizzy. I don’t quite understand what I’m seeing. I’d expected to find a secret way out down here; instead, there are lots of tiny boxes.
I breathe out and walk one step at a time until I’m standing over it. The blue shoebox. It has my name scrawled on the side in jerky, ill-formed writing.
I hesitate. Lift the lid.
My eyes fill with tears.
There is the most perfect little creature inside. She isn’t what you’d call a baby. She doesn’t have all her parts. She is curled over, her black eyes shining in the light. Her body is tufted with downy hair. I smile at her. Put out a hand to touch her.
“It doesn’t matter you’re cold,” I whisper. “I’m too hot. We balance each other out.”
That’s when I make the connection. Melissa told me about the red graveyard, in the scrub land where the dirt is blood-copper-colored. The secret place where they bury babies that come too early or aren’t born right because they don’t want outsiders knowing how often that happens here. If I leave her here, that would be her fate. Buried in the graveyard no one is allowed to visit. Unmarked, unloved. A lump rises in my throat. I lift the box.
A light flickers on upstairs in the clinic.
I panic. Then I see another exit at the back, just like Melissa said there would be. I make for it, box tight under my arm. All I can think is I need to hide her. Bury her somewhere only I know about. Or she’ll be lost in the secret graveyard. I’ll never find her again.
I limp along a series of tunnels, holding the box tight. It’s hard to walk, and I’m dizzy enough to stagger. The pain is so bad I have to stop a couple of times, leaning against a wall, vomit rising.
I emerge in a white bedroom and am halfway toward the door—almost safe—when the Prophet and his wives come in.
I hide, terrified, behind a curtain, praying no one will see me. I have to protect my box.
I’m sweating with fever. It makes it hard to think straight. The pain is indescribable now, a pulsing, sickening thing with a life of its own.
I watch the Prophet come in. How his wives line up and take their clothes off. It all seems to go on forever, the moans, the writhing limbs. Girl after girl. It’s all so awful I can hardly stand it. Aunt Meg is there, too, which seems especially indecent, since a few of the girls are young enough to be her daughters. Her low breasts and mottled skin, the wide spreading patch of wiry pubic hair. It all seems more horrible in contrast.
Then Aunt Meg sees me. I hear her whisper to the Prophet that I shouldn’t be there.
He turns, perplexed, only half understanding.
“Don’t be long,” he tells her, letting her up and beckoning another girl. His eyes linger on the box in my hand for a moment. Then he goes right back to the next wife in line.
Aunt Meg throws on her dress and leads me, grim-faced, back down the secret passage. Back to the clinic.
“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Rayne?” she asks. “I can’t help you if you do.”
I just stare at her, the fever making everything seem unreal. I’m holding the box tight.
She looks at it for a long moment, then at me.
“There’s a shovel out back,” whispers Aunt Meg, leaning close. “I won’t follow you. Do what you need to do and come right back here. I won’t tell him. It’ll be our secret.”
I nod, barely able to believe it, then stagger to my feet and somehow make it outside. I find a place by a tree and dig a hole.
That’s when I hear a noise. Footsteps approaching the clinic. A man’s voice. The Prophet. He’s looking for it, I’m certain. Looking for me and my box.
I clasp my hands together, pray the hardest I’ve ever prayed in my life.
“By the power of Jesus Christ,” I whisper, “by the power of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave me alone.”
I wait, burning up, shovel in hand.
After a moment, I hear footsteps headed away. I let out a breath. God heard my prayer. Flushed with fever and sick with pain, I slam the shovel down, dig out a scoop of amber soil. I don’t remember digging the rest. Maybe Aunt Meg even helped me. All I know is at one point, the grave got deep enough for me to lay my little box in the ground. I say a prayer, looking over my shoulder, before tossing dirt quickly back onto the blue lid.
I take a shuddery breath, lift a sack of peas that’s been replaced on the wrong shelf. I’d committed a crime, no two ways about it. I mean to say you can’t just bury human remains. If anyone finds out, they’ll move her, or worse. Dig her up and cut her into pieces, trying to figure out what went on out at the Homestead. What led to that graveyard.
I push the pea sack back into its rightful place. I just want to leave her there. Under that tree. Sleeping. Why can’t they let me do that? Gentiles don’t always understand.
I hear footsteps outside the storehouse and turn around. A shadow in the desert. My heart beats a little faster. Tina? Why would she creep around out there?
That’s when I see a light. One of our kerosene lamps. It bobs outside, then sails toward me like someone’s tossed it through the open door. I start back in panic. The lamp smashes against a sack of flour, throwing up a splash of kerosene and fire with it. With a crackle and pop, the burlap sack catches alight.
With my eyes glued to the flame, I hear but don’t see the big barn doors shut. The click of a padlock in place. It takes a full few moments for the fear to set in.
Tina has locked me in here.
The grain sacks are ablaze now, smoke pouring up.
I’m trapped in here. She’s burning me alive.
Chapter One Hundred
Tina, Sister-Wife
Someone is firing a gun outside the ranch. Quickly and quietly as I can, I move upstairs. There’s nothing much up here but our three beds, roughly partitioned.
From here, there’s a little window, looking out onto the wide desert. I risk a glance. That’s when I hear a whoompfh! Flame shooting upward.
My only thought is Rachel. She’s cutting off any means of escape.
The two cars are on fire. I guess she musta shot out the gas tank and lit the gas.
I flatten myself back against the wall. Then I drop to the floor and slide under the largest of the three beds. The bed Blake and I shared when we stayed here.
Almost as soon as I’m out of sight, I hear more noises from outside. Smashing, fire crackling.
I’m weighing my chances of somehow getting out and past her when I hear the door slam open. I lie, not daring to breathe, listening to feet stalk around the tiny downstairs.
There are more breaking noises. Rachel must be in the pantry below me. I hear cannery jars crashing to the floor. The sound of violent destruction. I turn my head slightly. There are cracks in the single floorboard construction of the loft.
I can see utter devastation. Lids and broken glass and pickles and vegetables and briny water, spread all over. A rifle butt swings, taking out another shelf.
Then the breaking stops. The gun barrel dips out of sight. Footsteps begin padding across the house. There’s a click of cartridges being loaded.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I never believed more fully in God than I do at this point. I have never sent a more fervent prayer than at this moment.
There’s a creak on the stairs. The banister taking weight. She’s ascending.
I can hear little explosions outside, smashing glass, like the storehouse is on fire. I picture jars of pickles boiling up, popping their lids.
What does it mean, what does it mean?
Rachel’s storehouse is sacred to her. Guess she’s completely lost it.
I’m about ready to come out and put up some kind of a fight when I see two heavy boots draw in line with my face.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” It’s a woman’s voice, speaking in a singsong whisper. “I know you’re here. I saw the car.”
It isn’t Rachel’s voice.
I know the voice. I know it. Though I can’t place it.
Suddenly, a crazed face is hanging level with mine. The bloodshot eyes are wide, manic, a bristle of hair on the chin catching the light. Her skin, at this upside-down angle, hangs ghoulishly slack, like a sagging mask. A gun is aimed square at my head.
I’m not looking into the barrel though. I’m looking at the face I recognize.
It’s Blake’s mother.
Adelaide Nelson.
Chapter One Hundred One
Emily, Sister-Wife
The river has a current, and I’m being swept downstream. I never did learn to swim. It feels like the cold water and realization are hitting me so hard I can’t tell the difference.
Right before I went into the water, I kinda had a holy sign. Like God was telling me something about mothers. That was when I realized. I’d never told Mrs. Nelson the way back to the ranch. She knew it already. Like she’d been out here before. Guess she must have the land-purchase documents since she and Mr. Nelson were Blake’s guarantors. Easy enough to pull the location coordinates.
I remembered something else, from the security footage of Blake and Adelaide Nelson at Kirker’s Diner. I swear it came to me in a shining golden light, like direct from God.
There were papers on the table. Looked official, like maybe land papers. I’ll bet Blake told his mom he planned to buy that Homestead property at the lunch. Even though Bishop Young had threatened Blake with excommunication if he bought it. I tried to imagine how that would feel. What if you’d given up your whole life to get to heaven, obeyed your husband in everything, and made darn sure your children would be at your side… Then your favorite oldest son just throws it all away. Makes some bonehead plan to get kicked right out of the Church. Isn’t that something you’d kill to protect? I mean, we’re talking about all eternity.
There was a Bible on the table at Kirker’s Diner too. Maybe Adelaide had brought it along to try to talk Blake out of his decision with scripture. Easy enough for Blake to pick it up by mistake, take it back to the ranch, and forget about it. Which would explain why police found a Book of Mormon at the ranch, with the passages underlined about javelins and adulterers and whatnot. Blood atonement. Adelaide likely had it on her mind for a while.
If Blake died with his blood spilled on the ground, he’d be saved excommunication and forgiven for any sin. Even an unforgivable one like adultery. Blood atonement absolves everything. It’s like a golden ticket straight to heaven.
That’s maybe why Mrs. Nelson pushed me into the water. No blood.
My head goes under, and I choke. I’m flailing about, but the water is too deep, and I’m getting tired. The water is sweeping me away. I stretch out my arms like Saint John of Nepomuk, the drowned saint. Figure I might as well go peaceably. It’s hard to keep my face serene though. Water keeps splashing in my eyes.
That’s when I feel my arm tug, like it’s being pulled out of its socket. The gardening ax. I was holding it when I went into the water. Must have kept a tight grip without realizing. Only now it’s lodged itself in the riverbank.
Grabbing it with both hands, I manage to pull myself to the side and catch hold of a desert scrub. Luckily, it’s rooted deep enough so I can pull myself right back onto the red earth.
I lie there for a minute, breathing hard, laughing. Then reality sets in. I get to my feet, deciding my best option.
I look out onto the desert, shielding my eyes from the sun. I can make out the ranch, with the old lifeguard tower and outbuildings. Guess I didn’t get swept too far.
But I don’t know if Adelaide doubled back or drove straight home. Better not take the risk.
Rachel will be in custody by now. Tina is likely in some drug den downtown.
I breathe out. It’s a long walk to civilization. Might take me a day or so, keeping out of sight of the highway. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch a ride on the outskirts of Salt Lake City.
Better get away from the river, I decide, in case Adelaide comes looking. Shivering with cold, I start walking.
Chapter One Hundred Two
Tina, Sister-Wife
“There you are,” says Adelaide with a lipsticked smile. “Come out. No need to hide under there.”
She drops the gun level with my face.
“Now,” she says.
I edge out, the rifle inches from my eyes.
Oh God. Blake’s death has sent poor Mrs. Nelson plumb crazy.
“Mrs. Nelson,” I say carefully, “there’s no need for the gun.”
She looks at it. Then raises the muzzle.
I put my hands up.
“I saw what you did to my son,” she says. “You think a mother doesn’t keep tabs? Check her son’s email? Watch his nasty video uploads?”
For a moment, I’m completely taken aback.
“You think I killed Blake?”
“I saw what you did to him. I saw those dirty things. I saw everything.”
Oh shit. My first thought is, the state she’s in, she could go right ahead and pull that trigger.
“Mrs. Nelson. What you saw… That wasn’t real, okay? It was…like play-pretend.”
“You are disgusting.” Her whole face compacts. “There aren’t even words for women like you. You take our men…our good men…” She’s kinda heavy breathing. The gun trembles in her hands. For a moment, I think she’s gonna lose it and blow me away, but she collects herself.
“I raised him,” she hisses. “To be mine. I spent my whole life suffering, enduring. And you think you can come along and take him away?”
I shake my head. Nothing else to do really, with a gun in your face.
She glares at me.
“You think I didn’t want wives to help me? Take off the load?” she demands. “I gave up that life, because I knew it was right. I did what my husband and the Church told me.”
She’s twisting the wedding ring on her finger. The gun is pointed away from me at an angle. This would be the time to make a grab for it. I decide to take one more chance to reason with her.
“I didn’t kill your son, Mrs. Nelson,” I say. “I loved him.”
She blinks real fast, and then a crazed look emerges.
“Of course you didn’t love him,” she says. “Not like I did. Not enough to help him. Not enough to…do what I had to do.”
A suspicion is opening up in my head. Something I never thought of before.
“You know,” she says in a conspirator’s voice, “I used to say those things to him. That he was bad. A sinner. Those things he did with you were a cry for help. Blake needed me to punish him for his bad ways. To set him back on the path of righteousness.”
I swallow hard. My eyes are on the gun, but they are filled with tears.
A mother will do anything for her son.
Blood on the ground. Blood atonement. The only way fo
r an unforgivable sinner to get to the celestial heaven.
“It was you,” I whisper. “You murdered Blake.”
Chapter One Hundred Three
Rachel, First Wife
The smoke makes it hard to breathe. I look around for water, and my eyes land on my carefully packed preserves. Shaking my head, I unscrew a jar of pickles and soak my sleeve in the brine. Holding it over my mouth makes it a little easier to think. Tina’s betrayal is the most paralyzing thing of all. The realization is debilitating enough that, just for a moment, I consider walking straight into the flames.
You can never trust anyone, Rayne.
The heat is enough to make me change my mind. I try to think practically. The door is thick, padlocked on the outside. Walls are solid wood. Water. There’s no water source out here.
My eyes land on the Survive Well 5000. The big, old canning system is half my height and holds ten gallons of water. I start unscrewing the various heavy pressure fixings. About a third of the way through, a better idea occurs to me.
Blake’s half-baked fix of the faulty circuitry. “You always make sure to let the pressure out of that canner, Rachel. Get the settings wrong, and it will explode like a bomb.”
Maybe a bomb is exactly what I need. I stretch my arms out wide, enfolding the stainless-steel body in an ungainly embrace. Then I drag it, gritting my teeth with effort, to sit against the nearest wall. The distance is less than a foot, but the machine is so heavy I’m out of breath and sore by the time it’s in place, and there are two deep grooves in the wooden floor where the base has cut tracks. I flick on the canner. Almost immediately, the water inside begins to gurgle.
Quickly, I start turning down the fastenings, much too tight.
The fire is all up one side of the barn when I finish, but the canner is already making an unholy racket, shaking and rattling fit to burst, with angry jets of steam shooting from the rim.
The pressure-gauge needle is trembling, well past the safety range Blake told me to keep it within. Any escaping steam means I’m losing valuable pressure, so I try tightening the screws even harder, burning my hand in the process and yelping in pain.