In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  Nobody touched her for a minute. She’d just made it to all fours when Isaiah squatted beside her and spoke, voice inflexible and utterly deadly: “Where is Samuel, Abigail?”

  When she didn’t answer, he grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at him. “If he’s gone, we’ll get him back. You know that, right? Just like we caught you, Abigail.” To the group, he said, “Do whatever it takes to find Samuel and bring him home. Whatever transpires tonight is God’s will.” Leaning in, he put his lips to her ear, not quite touching, but close enough for his breath to send goose bumps crawling over her skin. “You had me fooled, all right, little Abigail Merkley. So good at playacting, aren’t you? Honored, you said. It has since been brought to my attention that you want to play God, with medicine and other evils.” He yanked her chin harder, brushing his lips against her as he spoke. “I suggest you make your peace with the Creator tonight, Mistress Merkley,” he whispered. “You’ll have your reckoning in the morning.”

  * * *

  After a long evening spent working on machinery, Luc would normally have dinner and a drink and go right to sleep. This evening was different, though. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to fix the goddamn tractor. He had every part he could want, had tried every single thing, and yet nothing seemed to work.

  At home, bone weary and exhausted, he couldn’t sleep.

  Because of Abby.

  He couldn’t lie down without thinking of her. And it made him crazy. He shouldn’t have done what he did with her today. Shouldn’t be thinking of her, much less touching her and…letting her experiment on him.

  Because that was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Testing out her newfound freedom on the first man she came across?

  Seated in the kitchen, he refocused on the chunk of wood in his hands. Thank God he’d found it. The first good piece since Grandpère had died. No, it was longer than that. The last time he’d carved anything had been before losing his finger. It was odd working with one less digit.

  It was a pointless exercise, carving wood. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing it.

  While he carved, his mind wandered—something he hadn’t welcomed much over the past few years, but tonight he’d spent a good chunk of time planning the new field before letting himself think of Abby.

  What was it about her that got to him? He didn’t get off on innocence or freshness or whatever it was. No, it wasn’t her innocence, but rather her thirst for experience that he liked. Her desire to obliterate that innocence.

  God, whatever it was, it was dangerous. And while he’d planned to give her more work, he knew that wasn’t a good idea. In fact, he should never have let her in at all.

  Too late for that, he thought, more agitated than before. He shifted back into his chair and let his hands continue their work. Wood chips fell from the tiny block, revealing—or rather releasing—the object inside. Whatever that would be. He worked quickly, shaving here and there, until he gouged too deeply and had to consciously slow down.

  His self-flagellation was halfhearted in comparison to the memory of today’s exchange. That alone had him hardening. He couldn’t stop thinking about her response to his words and the way she’d thrown herself at him, the way her nipples had pressed against the fabric of that damned dress, ten times more appealing than some lacy lingerie. Shave, turn, shave, turn. His hands continued, despite his mind stuttering to a halt on the thought of lingerie. What did her underwear look like under that thing? Did she even wear any?

  Stop it.

  Concentrating hard, he focused on the rough texture under his fingers, ignoring the sense memory of her skin beneath his, her mouth plush and hot and open and—

  Concentrate, you asshole.

  Funny how he’d found this piece of wood. Abby had just disappeared down the slope on her side of the fence when he’d spotted it, right beside his foot. More like stumbled on it. Long and oddly curved—and definitely not from his vines—the chunk appeared to have shown up out of nowhere. He’d ignored it initially, but something about it had called out to him, and he’d grudgingly gone back up the mountain to find it.

  What are you? He squinted, trying to figure out with his brain what his hands already knew. Long and twisted, like a woman’s—

  A thump behind him had Luc turning and rising from his seat in one tense motion. Le Dog growled by his side, and Luc’s hand was already tight around the dull carving knife. The piece of wood dropped to the floor with a thud. There, at his curtainless kitchen door, was a face, bright and demonic.

  Without hesitation, Luc yanked open the door and prepared to yell at the idiot who’d broken his peace.

  “Grape Man!” the kid said too loudly.

  Luc blinked.

  “I’m Sammy!” Not a kid. A man.

  “You’re Sammy?” A harsh sound escaped Luc’s throat, and he realized with a shock that he was laughing. Jesus. This wasn’t at all the person he’d pictured. Everything fell into place for Luc. Trisomie… What was that in English? Down syndrome. That was it. Abby hadn’t mentioned that, had she?

  During his moment of hesitation, Sammy enveloped Luc in an uncomfortably personal hug.

  Luc pushed away. Space, I need space. “What are y—”

  “It’s Abby. She said come here.” He was out of breath and hard to understand. “There’s a hole in the fence, and then I ran. It’s hide-and-seek, ’cept I fell on the hill, it’s so big. Got right back up and kept runnin’. It’s the biggest game. Bigger than the fence this time. I ran.”

  “Abby told you to come here?” The boy nodded. “Where is she?”

  “She’s comin’.” Sammy, who still stood in the wide-open door, turned to peer out into the night. Meanwhile, cold air poured inside.

  For a few long seconds, Luc stood there, stunned. “Where is she, Sammy?” He looked over Sammy’s shoulder, hoping that she would materialize and save him from this intrusion.

  “Might be a while. Dogs and flashlights comin’ over the hill and— Oh, hello, Rodeo!” Sammy walked farther into the kitchen and got onto his knees in front of Le Dog. “You’re here, too! We’re all here, in the same place!”

  “Except for Abby. You said she’s coming, but—”

  “Yessiree! She’ll be here. She’ll come.” Sammy bent and picked up the wood Luc had dropped. “It’s a hand!” Luc blinked again, surprised. Yes, that was a hand emerging, attached to what would be a fragile-looking wrist, twisting off to disappear right before the crook of an elbow, delicate but capable. Luc had barely carved at it, so how could the kid possibly see all of that? Or did it just mean that Luc was blind to what he created?

  Blind. That seemed about right. Like his hands could feel it before his brain knew what they were doing. Like Braille, he needed his body to interpret before his mind kicked in. Exactly like pruning vines. Thinking too hard destroyed the process.

  He blinked at the tight feeling in the front of his head.

  The man or kid or…Sammy had a way of moving into a space, sliding in so you barely noticed until suddenly you were in your living room and you’d never agreed to that at all. This was not all right. “She’ll be here soon.” Sammy looked around, eyes innocent in their curiosity. “Where’s all your stuff?”

  “Stuff?”

  “You know, like home stuff.”

  Taken aback, Luc squinted at the space with a fresh perspective. It was sparse, he supposed. But what did he need things for? They just got in the way.

  “Got nothing on the walls. No cushions or—oh, hey! You got electricity. In your house!”

  In my house. My house. He’s in my house. Overcome by panic, Luc tried to corral him. Maybe he could convince him to go back outside. On the porch, perhaps, where this boy’s presence wouldn’t feel so enormous.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” Luc asked helplessly.

  “Abby’ll tell us.”


  Wonderful. “But she isn’t here. You need to leave. Go back, please.”

  Sammy looked crestfallen. “But you’re my friend.”

  He ignored the weight those words placed on his shoulders and asked, “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Still a kid. But not quite.

  “I’m not… I can’t take care of you. You need to go. I’m not able to—”

  Someone knocked at the front door. He hadn’t heard a car pull up. Sure it was Abby, here to explain everything, Luc yanked open the door.

  Not Abby.

  Luc squinted into the dark, wishing he’d replaced the porch light bulb.

  His visitors were a group of heavily armed men. About five, he guessed, although there could have been more farther out.

  The hair on the back of his neck rose and the panic at Sammy’s intrusion was replaced by a new sort of adrenaline. “Can I help you?” he asked, standing taller.

  “Hello there, sir. Isaiah Bowden, from next door. Over yonder.” The man in front wasn’t the tallest or the most imposing, but he had the most presence. He was on the small side, especially compared to Luc, with orangish hair under a sturdy black hat. Beneath that, small, close-together eyes were shadowed in a pointy face. He was the only man not holding a gun, which, in a perverse sort of reversal of everything, made him more intimidating than the others.

  “I recognize you,” Luc said, forcing his jaw to loosen.

  Drawing closer, the man—Isaiah—put one hand out for Luc to shake.

  The second Luc’s hand touched the other man’s, something happened: the night darkened and clouds skittered across the sky, giving the moon her only appearance of the night. It wasn’t a comforting cameo, and Luc wanted to take it back—remove his hand, step back into his house, lock the door, and never open it again.

  After a half-dozen exaggerated pumps, Isaiah finally released his hand, and Luc fought the urge to wipe it on his jeans, scrub it with disinfectant.

  He needed them gone. Now.

  “That you, Samuel?” the man asked, yellow eyes lifting out of their shadows to focus over Luc’s shoulder. “What are you doing all the way over here?”

  Luc glanced back at Sammy, who didn’t respond. For the first time since he’d arrived, the kid looked closed up, uncommunicative. In that instant, Luc decided that Sammy wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Looks like you found our stray, Mr…”

  “Stanek,” Luc supplied. “Sammy tells me he needs—”

  “Oh, we’ll take care of Sammy’s needs. Won’t we, boy?” The smile on the man’s face didn’t reach his eyes. Luc was tempted to close the door and lock it, but they’d get through eventually. He glanced at their rifles, picturing the walls of his cabin riddled with bullets in some kind of Wild West standoff.

  “Poor Sammy simply doesn’t know what he’s about. We’ve always had a hard time with this one,” said Isaiah. At a slight dip of his head, two of the men came forward to flank their leader, their old-fashioned clothes reminding him of a movie he’d seen, full of black magic and witchcraft. Complacent judgment. Unkind ignorance.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “We’re just here to get our boy.”

  “I don’t think he wants to go with you.” Breathing hard at the wrongness of the situation, Luc turned back to look at Sammy and said, “Do you want to go with them?”

  “’Course I do,” Sammy said with a smile. Luc immediately regretted the question. The kid didn’t get it at all, did he?

  “Do they care for you, Sammy? Are you safe there?”

  The kid’s bright eyes skipped to Luc, and his face twisted up in surprise. “’Course they do. It’s my home.”

  “We take care of our own, Mr. Stanek,” said the ginger-haired messiah on his doorstep. “We protect them with our lives.” Luc narrowed his eyes at the man, pulse ratcheting up. Was that a threat? It sounded like a threat, especially with the way those men held their guns—stiff and at the ready. “We’re also very attentive to our closest neighbors. We’ve been here a long time, sir. Hamish Merkley, the founder of our Church—God rest his soul—bought this land more than forty years ago. You understand how important it is that we all get along. We wouldn’t want to get mixed up in your business, now, but we’ve always got an eye out, should you require attention from us.”

  The threat wasn’t even subtle, was it? If he didn’t do what they wanted, they’d get him.

  “What of Abby?” Luc asked before quickly correcting himself. “I mean, um, the person Sammy spoke to me of.”

  Isaiah blinked and paused, jaw set and eyes narrowed on Luc. “Don’t you worry about Mistress Merkley, sir.”

  Merkley. Was Abby related to the man who had started the cult? The one who’d bought the land they’d settled on?

  “Like I said, we take care of our own, and she is currently being taken care of. I’d hate for anything to happen to her. Wouldn’t you?” Something pounded hard behind Luc’s eyes as the man took a slow step into his space. “Anything you need, sir. You let us know.” Isaiah focused on Sammy, who lingered just beyond Luc. “Ready now, son?”

  No! Luc wanted to yell, to throw himself in front of the boy. He had the sense that if he didn’t stop them now, he’d never see Sammy again.

  He’d started to move when the boy said, “Sure.” He sounded perfectly happy as he slid by Luc’s tense body and headed outside. Why was he pleased? None of this made sense. “Night, Luc.”

  “Where are you taking him?”

  Isaiah wrapped an arm around Sammy’s neck in a gross parody of a hug—the threat so clearly implicit that Luc didn’t dare move. “Home, Mr. Stanek.”

  Luc’s eyes met and held the other man’s through three long breaths.

  He finally gave in. “Good night, Sammy.” His voice broke on the words.

  The boy was swallowed up by the group of somberly clad men before disappearing into the night. Luc took another breath full of courage and spoke, tilting his head at the departing group. “I understand he needs medical care.”

  “Oh, sure enough” came the easy answer, with a smile that didn’t look as carefree as it was probably intended. “Must have had a goodly amount of time to get acquainted if he told you all that. But like I said: we take care of our own. And I’d hate for anyone to get hurt.” He tilted his hat down at the brim and lost the smile entirely. “Thank you again, neighbor. And God bless.”

  What was the right answer to that? You, too? Luc opted for a quiet nod.

  Finally, the men disappeared down the drive with Sammy in their midst and Luc closed the door, heart beating fast. What just happened? And where the hell was Abby? Had they done something to her?

  Turning, it took a few moments for him to spot Le Dog crouched under the coffee table, hackles raised high and ears flattened. As he turned the lock—something he never did—Luc wished he could get rid of the feeling that he’d just handed the boy over to the devil.

  10

  Abby limped into the Main Chapel and nearly collapsed, her knees turned to jelly by the sight of all these people, waiting.

  For me. They’re waiting for me.

  The only thing that kept her standing was the knowledge that Sammy had made it out.

  Isaiah started off the day with “Morning has broken,” as if this were a regular service. As if she wasn’t sitting in the front row like a witch on trial.

  To add to the charade, she sang with everyone else, accompanied by the amplified strum of Isaiah’s guitar.

  When Hamish had been alive, they’d played together, Isaiah and him up there. They’d divided the sermon in half—Hamish’s older, doom-filled words the perfect contrast to Isaiah’s uplifting words of hope.

  By the time the song wrapped up and everyone sat down, Abby’s pounding heart had calmed. Maybe it was just a normal Sunday. Mayb
e she would be forgiven.

  Isaiah’s voice oozed through the speakers they’d spent hard-earned money to purchase a few years ago. Funny how Isaiah’s God was fine with this modern convenience but not the ones that saved lives. The sound came through strong and melodic, though a tiny bit of static came out with every brush of his beard.

  “There is an enemy on the mountain today. A serpent among us.” Isaiah’s gaze ranged across the gathered crowd before landing, firmly, on Abby. “And that enemy is doubt.” With a gentle smile, he paused before continuing. “Sliding into our hearts, it need take root in but one of our number. One.”

  She’d admired the sound of his voice, once upon a time. As a child, she’d looked forward to the sermons, their Sunday morning lessons, their daily Bible stories. Today, every syllable vibrated up her spine like the chords of a harp being tweaked. Exhausted, her mind wandered, taking in Isaiah’s words like a rhythm without meaning.

  She forced herself to focus back in.

  “‘For I am the Lord, who heals you.’” Isaiah stopped, eyes bright, breath puffing audibly against the mic. “‘I will take away sickness from among you,’ the Almighty did say. ‘Heal me, Lord, and I will be healed; save me, and I will be saved, for you are the one I praise.’”

  There was a long pause while the room sat quiet and the listeners rapt. With a startled jolt, Abby recognized what he was saying.

  “Some among us—and you know yourselves—have deigned to question our Savior’s capacity to heal. You have dared to doubt His very choices. And through that doubt, you show your lack of faith.” He raised his brows at the agitation running through the crowd. It wasn’t a sound, but a low rumble of excitement that showed he’d gotten through to them. They knew something was coming, just like the sheep at shearing time, although some of them still hadn’t figured out who would succumb. It was excitement, Abby recognized, at the prospect of someone’s condemnation.

  Someone’s punishment.

  When Isaiah focused again on her, the sheep knew, with absolute certainty, that she was the object of this lesson. Eyes turned to her, wide and hungry.