In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  “It is not our duty to question our Lord and Savior, nor His very word. It is our duty to obey.” After a pause, during which his long, pale fingers reached out to the congregation, Isaiah smiled. “Let us pray, my children. For the prophecy is nigh.”

  Head down beside her neighbor’s, Abby sat, heart pounding so loud and hard she was sure everyone else must have heard it. When she finally looked up, it was to meet Isaiah’s fox eyes.

  His inhalation rasped through the speakers. “Abigail Merkley, come forth.”

  Everything in her body tightened. Around her, the air crackled with expectation. Accusation burned. Oh, look at the glee on those faces!

  Pulling in a long, shaky breath, she stood, head bowed, and made her way to the front of the room, feet whispering on the carpet. Silently, she chanted, Sammy’s safe, Sammy’s safe.

  “Come here, child,” Isaiah said in that friendly voice.

  After only the slightest hesitation, she stepped onto the wooden platform before turning to face the audience. Her Church. Her peers. Her people.

  Only none of it felt like hers anymore. These people were strangers, with ideals and beliefs she could no longer understand.

  Except Mama. Mama would be on her side. She’d forgive Abby’s sins like last time. She searched the crowd frantically for that pale face and the love she knew she’d see there.

  Brigid sat, pious and prim, with Benji beside her. Abby’s ribs still ached with the echo of his zeal. Farther along sat the Cruddups and—

  There. Mama sat a couple rows back, eyes wide and watchful, glazed with a visible sheen of unshed tears. Abby tried to catch her eye but couldn’t.

  Please look at me, Mama, she begged. Please.

  Nothing. Not a moment of shared eye contact, not the tiniest acknowledgment.

  Chest tight and heart tripping fast, Abby fought the fear and the drowning sensation. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and awaited judgment, while her mother never once looked her way.

  The day wore on—a marathon celebration, punctuated by singing and the sound of children crying, quickly hushed. Throughout it all, Abby stood before her only family, accused of more than just the crime of questioning God. It turned out she was responsible for Sammy’s illness to begin with—along with afflictions endured by every Church member since the dawn of time.

  It must have been around lunch when Abby sagged halfway to the floor, eliciting jeers from the crowd. When Benji and Denny Cruddup were called forward to prop her up, Abby tried to catch their eyes. Nothing. I am forsaken. A sacrifice. To God, to the Church. To the mountain, maybe.

  Just before letting her go, Denny’s hand tightened briefly, and though she looked to him for confirmation that this was, indeed, a communication, there was nothing. She’d no doubt imagined it.

  By midafternoon, the Main Chapel windows were fogged over with the congregation’s collective breaths, the air ripe with body odor, the room rank with Abby’s shame and their blame. There was a ritual to confession at the Church of the Apocalyptic Faith. It was a balancing act, and from where she stood today, on the outside in a way she’d never been before, Abby could see it clear as day. Although she wouldn’t call it confession today. She’d call it indictment.

  In the Church, there was no right without a wrong, no wrong without a right to counter it. Punishment for Abby was someone else’s reward, and they mostly enjoyed it. Oh, she could see it on their faces—that gloating pride. Look how bad she is. The devil inside her.

  A cry rang out late in the day, interrupting the almost meaningless stream of preaching and startling the crowd. Isaiah, jolted from his tirade, turned to the sound, looking wrathful and out for blood.

  “Give me the child,” he said in that quiet voice Abby knew better than to trust.

  Nobody moved, though someone whimpered. Brigid, Abby thought. Had it been her baby?

  “Who was that? Bring it to me.” The words rang out sharp as thorns. Nobody moved, and Brigid’s face, always pale, was white as a sheet. Seconds ticked by as everyone waited with bated breath, the silence shocking after so much noise. And then it started up again—a snuffling, followed by the squall of an unhappy baby, kept too long inside. Brigid hushed her child, frantic now, only they all knew it was too late. God’s wrath cut deep when His words were interrupted.

  As Isaiah moved to step down from the altar, Abby opened her mouth to scream. She didn’t think it through, she just let out an explosive wail, dragging the attention back to her. A long, high shriek emerged, piercing and raw, and it stopped Isaiah in his tracks.

  Shaking, she went on screaming until she’d emptied herself of breath and inhaled in preparation for another. The next one was cut short by a slap from Isaiah, strong enough to knock her head to the side and rock her on her feet.

  A stunned silence hung over the room.

  “Get it out of here,” Isaiah spat, his smooth voice torn raw with anger. “Get them all out. The women and the children. Now!” He lifted those yellow eyes from Abby’s and directed them straight at Brigid, who wrapped her arms around Jeremiah and scuttled out fast.

  Isaiah shook himself visibly and straightened before heading to the door. “Take her to the Small Chapel, gentlemen. Mr. Kittredge, stoke the fire.”

  There’d be no pain worse than this. She couldn’t remember anything as bad as the branding of her arms: the hot press of metal to skin, the sizzle that took her out of her body and into the thin air, weightless and numb. There’d been a smell, at first, of her own flesh, but even that had disappeared after her mind had floated out of herself, up into the air.

  “Abigail Merkley.” The men muscled her down the hall, everything reminiscent of the last time, except for the place in her brain that used to believe. “This is your day of reckoning.”

  I can take it. Hands tightened into fists, she took in the men gathered there. Benji, Denny Cruddup, James Kittredge, and even his son, Carter. He was only fourteen and looked slightly green. A dozen more stood around them, all men she’d known most of her life. Men she’d trusted and cared about.

  “I don’t want this,” she pled, looking from one man to the next, the agitation making her desperate. “Denny. Denny, you used to hold me in your arms, remember? You taught me how to play with a yo-yo?” Before Hamish had taken it away. She’d been eight, maybe.

  And Benji, weak and repentant. Holier than thou. He grabbed her arm, avoided her gaze, and dragged her down the hall.

  Eyes glued to her feet, Abby went along. Because Sammy was safe. He had to be; otherwise, he’d have been here today.

  Isaiah was speaking, but she barely heard. The irons were in the fire. Three of them. The air stank of smoke and cinders, the ghost of burning skin. A sob tried to work its way up her throat, too big for the tight space. She forced it down.

  Isaiah’s words finally reached her. “Do you accept the teachings of Isaiah of the Mount? Are you a Disciple of the Apocalypse?”

  Her attention rolled around the room, her eyes hopping from one person to another to the beat of that same comforting litany: Sammy’s safe. Sammy’s safe.

  On the edge of hysteria, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No.”

  Utter stillness. No one, as far as she knew, had rejected the Mark before. Even she had agreed to it that first time, convinced of her own wrongdoings. She’d wanted it. Begged for it.

  “I need to hear your acceptance of the Lord, Abigail. Say it.”

  “No,” she whispered. Then stronger. “No, I do not accept your Lord unto my heart.”

  She opened her eyes and focused them hard on the first man she saw—how fitting that it should be Benji. “I took responsibility for the sins of others. Not today. I do not take responsibility for your sins,” she said, shocking them all. Except for Carter, who’d collapsed against the door, eyes wide.

  “How dare you—” Isaiah started.


  “I don’t!” she shouted as loud as she could, lungs full, chest tight as if she’d just run back from the fence. Hands restrained her, angry fingers digging into muscle and bone. The air was full of something new—a violence she hadn’t felt that last time. There was another element, too, as Isaiah drew close and the men held her for his perusal.

  “Let her go,” he said before drawing closer. “You think he got away safe, your little gimp?” he whispered in her ear. Abby stiffened and opened her mouth to protest. “Samuel is back. Did you know that? We found him, and he was so happy to come home, because this is where he wants to be. It’s where he belongs, Abigail. Who are you to take him away from God?”

  “No,” she whispered, louder, harder, harsher. Pained breaths escaped her throat as the scissors came out, tips pointy enough to gouge her eyes. Instead, they cut open her dress and bared her back to these men. Oh, how they stared, soaking it all in, starving for this: her shame, her near nudity, her pain. Daniel, who’d watched her with lust for years, finally feasted his eyes on her. Even Benji, as he watched, lost that tiny bit of guilt she’d seen on his face.

  Dry, racking sobs consumed her body as she tried to shake the men off.

  Tried and failed. Again and again.

  From somewhere by the door, someone retched. Carter, of course.

  “Best cut the rest along the seams,” came Isaiah’s voice, calm and instructional as he ambled over to check the irons in the fire.

  Waste not, want not. Always thinking of the good of the Church, isn’t he?

  Abby almost laughed.

  Until the brand hit her back. Then she screamed.

  11

  Just a few hours had passed since Luc let the kid take off with the neighbors. Less than a day since he and Abby had kissed in the barn.

  As the hours slid by, sleep eluded Luc, and his worry increased.

  He shouldn’t have let those men take Sammy back. He should have slammed the door, barricading the two of them inside, and called the authorities. He could just picture the standoff now. And where the hell was Abby? Were they holding her against her will? No. Of course not. He’d probably misunderstood the situation.

  Or had he?

  As morning dawned, he rolled out of bed, exhausted, and went right to work clearing the new field, halfway expecting her to appear over the crest of the mountain at any minute. By midmorning, it had started to snow, and he’d developed a crick in his neck from turning back to look at the fence line.

  Maybe he’d head over there. Although that sounded like the worst idea. He’d never watched much TV, even in France, but he’d heard enough about cults to know things couldn’t end well. Like that Waco place in Texas where everything had been blown sky-high, or the Solar Temple people in Switzerland, all dead in a fiery inferno.

  Jesus. What if she was already dead?

  He couldn’t take it.

  Back in the cabin, he picked up his phone and stared at it. Should he call 911? Was this an emergency? He put the phone down and rubbed a hand across his face. Shit. He had no idea. And would they even believe him if he called it in?

  A glance out the front window showed the snow falling thick and fast. With a sigh, he grabbed his coat and went back out. After a few tries, the truck started, and he set off for town, nerves humming like they did every time he left the safety of his mountain—only worse. He hated himself for getting involved. Hated himself even more for waiting this long and knowing that if he didn’t do it, the weather would make travel impossible.

  He should have looked up the sheriff’s number, he supposed, but he needed something to do. With his body, his hands.

  The Blackwood sheriff’s department appeared deserted when Luc pushed through its double doors, a blast of wind and snow sneaking in behind him.

  “Help you?” asked a voice from somewhere in the back of the small reception area. Moments later, a man stepped into the room—not at all what Luc had pictured when he’d thought of an American police officer. He’d imagined someone gray and mustachioed, tall and wiry and weathered, with a paunch and a permanent scowl. A cowboy.

  This man was dark and scarred. More hoodlum than lawman. As Luc took him in, he could feel the man doing the same, eyes narrowed, giving nothing away as far as conclusions went.

  “I would like to…” He hesitated, at a loss for words. “A woman who worked for me is missing.”

  “She got a name?”

  “Abby Merkley. Abigail Merkley.”

  “She have any family?”

  “She… I’m not sure.”

  “How do you know she’s missing?”

  “She’s…she’s part of the cult on the mountain. The Church of the…something Apocalypse.” Luc shook his head. How could he not even remember that about her? In some ways, he knew her so well. He knew all about that bright dash of humor, that thirst for life. He knew exactly how she tasted after sampling his wines. For over a week, he’d plied her with foods, taken pleasure in watching her taste them, savor them, but never once had he delved too insistently into her life. Because he hadn’t wanted to know.

  He should have asked. Should have found out if she was safe where she lived. Should have held on to Sammy last night with as much care as he’d kept the dog who awaited him in his truck, despite the threat.

  “Come on back into my office,” the man said before turning and leading Luc into a room, where he invited him to sit in front of his desk. “I’m Sheriff Clay Navarro. Your name, sir?”

  “Luc Stanek. I have a vineyard up on the mountain.”

  The man didn’t react, which was a surprise. Basically everyone he’d met since moving to Blackwood had something to say about the vineyard, its previous owners, or its nearest neighbors.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “She was working for me. For more than a week. I—” He stopped himself from saying more about her. Like, that he liked her, or that they’d… “She hasn’t come back.”

  “You’ve only known her for a week or so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any chance she just got sick of the job?”

  Frustrated, Luc shook his head. “She had to cut through the fence to get to me.” The sheriff straightened up, his brows lifting. “I looked today, and they’ve patched it back up.”

  “Is she being held prisoner? Did she tell you that?”

  “She said they…they don’t practice medicine. I know she was unhappy with that.”

  “Did you see signs that she’d been hurt?”

  After a brief hesitation, Luc shook his head. “No. She’s too skinny, but that… No.”

  The other man sighed, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. There was ink on his knuckles—faded-looking tattoos at odds with his neat, black uniform and close-cropped hair.

  “Could you just go there?” Luc pressed. “Ask about her?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve had dealings with those Apocalyptic Faith folks before. They’re extremely averse to any outside presence, particularly law enforcement, and I’m concerned about stirring things up on that mountain. You know this storm’s gonna be a big one, right, Mr. Stanek? I’m in no position to start something I can’t finish. I’m ex-ATF.” Luc must have looked as clueless as he felt about that, because the sheriff expanded. “Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—an agency linked to the Department of Justice. I wasn’t around for Waco—a cult situation in Texas—but I know how easily something like this can go wrong. If you can give me some evidence of wrongdoing…something to substantiate what you’re saying—”

  “There’s a boy. He might need medical care.”

  The man’s brows lifted expectantly. “A child?”

  “No. He’s older. Nineteen, I think. But disabled.”

  “I understand there were complaints at one point. I know CPS got involved. Maybe a decade ago?” The s
heriff squinted hard at Luc. “How long you been up there?”

  “A little over two years.”

  “Hm. Not you. Didn’t realize anyone else lived on that mountain.”

  “There isn’t. It might have been the previous owners. I believe they left in a hurry.”

  “If I head up there right now, by myself…” The man shook his head. “I could try to get some folks from CPS to head up there, maybe go with them.” At Luc’s questioning expression, the sheriff explained. “Child Protective Services. They won’t like it, but we could couch it as a routine thing, since they’re not sending any of those kids to school, far as I know. I understand you don’t want to rock the boat if your girl’s in trouble, but this storm is gonna shake things up around here, and I got two guys out with the flu. This isn’t gonna happen today. And it’s gonna be a few days before the weather clears.”

  Your girl. Luc itched at that.

  “But you’ll do something?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stanek. I’ll look into it.” After a pause, he went on. “You’re not thinking of going there on your own, are you? Because I can’t do a thing to help you if you head up there right now, understood?” Luc nodded, pressing back the desire to ignore this man’s advice and bust through their fence. “You got a phone number you can leave with me?”

  On his way back out to the car, Luc glanced up and almost stopped walking. The stillness was unsettling. No cars driving by, not a sound besides the brittle crunch of his soles over asphalt.

  It was bright, the night sky swollen pink, broken only by the dots of falling snow and the jagged line of the looming mountains. His mountain, whose sharp, eroded angles had drawn him to this place; the property he’d bought for a song: vines, broken machinery, and messed-up neighbors included.

  He started up the truck and stared at that peak. He’d never seen it look so ominous or unwelcoming. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure an image of Abby there, living her life with those people. What was she doing right now? Was it business as usual, or was she in trouble?