by Peter Darley
“My dad would go wild if he ever saw it,” Tyler said, awestruck. “I mean, he’d be like a little kid.”
Changing the tone of the conversation, Brandon said, “I don’t care what anyone says, we’re taking it with us tomorrow. It’s not up for debate.”
“Whatever you say,” Tyler said. “In that case, I’ll have to pick up a van first thing tomorrow.”
“Just make sure it’s a really big Sprinter. The ‘Swan may be small, but it’s still got to fit in the back.”
Tyler opened up his suitcase, took out a folder, and handed it to Brandon. “This is it, bro.”
“What?”
“Everything you ever wanted to know about . . . you.”
Brandon’s fingers trembling as he gripped the folder. “This is the file?”
“I wanted to give it to you after you got out of the slammer, but you weren’t very coherent. Then I had to get out of the country. It’s been in my room at the ranch all this time.”
Belinda noticed Brandon’s shaking hands. “Are you OK, sweetheart?”
“I’ll take you through it,” Tyler said.
They sat down on the leather couch, and Tyler took the file from Brandon. He fished out a photograph of an impoverished-looking couple in their twenties, who appeared to be standing outside a trailer. Wearing a cheap, pink and white dress, the woman appeared weathered beyond her years. Her dark-blonde hair hung limp and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month.
The man standing beside the woman looked hardened and unkempt. There was coldness and anger in his eyes. Savagery. He looked as though he would tear a man’s throat out simply for looking at him cross-eyed.
“That’s them, Brandon,” Tyler said. “That’s our parents. Chuck and Linda Drake. Keldian Trailer Park, Charlotte, North Carolina, twenty-eight years ago. Both were unemployed and on welfare. This is where we came from.” He took out a newspaper clipping and handed it to Brandon. It bore the same image and the story of how Chuck Drake, in a drunken rage, had stabbed his wife to death before hanging himself. “Your friend David told you the rest, right?”
“Yeah. On the day everything went to hell.”
“The day the FBI picked you up?”
Brandon nodded as he studied the image of his parents. Linda Drake was so very different from his memory of ‘Annabelle Drake’, the woman who’d been constructed in his mind as his illusionary mother.
The man, Chuck Drake, offered the very antithesis of how he recalled his imaginary father, ‘Major Howard Drake’—a polished, proud, and respectable-looking delusion.
Brandon couldn’t put it together in his mind. Having not been given the chance to process what had happened to him, it was so confusing. Soon after learning the truth about his past, he’d found himself adjusting to life at Leavenworth. Since before his escape, he’d lived with a sense that his very soul had been brutally torn from him.
“Maybe we could do this later,” Tyler said.
“No,” Brandon said, choked. “Keep it coming.”
Tyler tilted his head slightly, showing his reluctance. He handed Brandon a photograph of a child of preschool age. “This was you at four years old.”
Brandon gasped at his first view of himself from a time in his life of which he had no recollection. Belinda edged closer and placed a comforting arm around his shoulders.
Tyler handed him a photograph of another child. “This was me. Still think I was the better looking one,” he said with a chuckle, clearly attempting to lighten the mood. “Did I ever tell you I remember you?”
“You remember me?”
“Yep. Just vaguely. I remember the bigger boy called ‘Bannon.’”
Brandon placed his arm around his brother’s shoulder with tears rolling down his cheeks.
Tyler tapped his hand affectionately and continued. “It all makes sense, though. We were taken in by the authorities and placed in different orphanages. At that time, my dad was supplying a new helicopter engine to—guess where?”
“Where?”
“Fort Bragg.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. He adopted me and took me back to Dallas. You weren’t adopted. You wound up in foster care with these guys.” He handed Brandon a photograph of a middle-aged couple who looked to be slightly more affluent than the Drakes. “Joe and Gretchen Cassidy. Do you remember these people?”
Brandon studied the photograph but felt he was looking at total strangers. “No, nothing.”
“The last time you saw them was nine years ago. You’re sure nothing’s there?”
Brandon looked at the picture intently, almost trying to convince himself there was a glimmer of recognition, but he knew he was fooling himself. “Nothing. Are they still alive?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re gonna want to see them. This guy Cassidy was apparently abusive, according to your court transcripts. It’s believed he’s largely responsible for your violent temperament. It’s why you were given the army as an option after getting busted by the police so many times.”
Brandon put the photographs aside. “I . . . I have no memory of any of these things, Ty. Honestly. All I remember are people, incidents, and places that were never real. My true memories don’t begin until four years ago when I woke up in the hospital.”
“I understand, bro. I’m really am sorry.” Tyler took out another photograph. “Here’s the last one.”
Brandon looked at a photograph of a baby in a crib. “This is Emily?”
“That’s all we have of her. I have no idea what she looks like now. I guess we’ll find that out when we get to Nevada.”
Brandon stood, his gaze not moving from the picture in his hand. His feet automatically shuffled across to the liquor cabinet. Barely conscious of Tyler and Belinda watching, he unscrewed a bottle of vodka, put the rim to his mouth, and drank deeply.
Twelve
Sister
Sister Veronica walked apprehensively along the corridors of her convent. At twenty-four, she’d retained an almost child-like youth, an innocence that showed a profound distance from the world outside the Carmelite Sisters of Obedience.
Conflicting emotions, mostly negative, soared through her heart as she came closer to the answer she craved: hope, guilt, shame, desire, uncertainty, sadness, but above all—fear.
The convent was the only life she’d ever known. Her vocation had led her to some deeply rewarding experiences, working in Africa with her sisters, bringing water and food to those who starved. She’d received a commendation from her bishop for her aid in the Hurricane Sandy tragedy. Closer to home, she was still active with her church, assisting with the homeless and the elderly.
However, her highly-restricted view of the world had left her with just enough insight to conflict with her beliefs. Was it truly necessary for her to be a member of such an order to do good in the world? She’d questioned the validity of the doctrines of obedience, poverty, and chastity, and prayed for forgiveness for her questioning. She’d received no answers, other than the gnawing feeling that those questions were justified.
She’d been dissuaded from reading the Bible by the church’s hierarchy, with no explanation as to why. Regardless, she had, during moments of curiosity, studied its pages. Reading its tales of violence and war, she’d experienced a sense of horror rather than reassurance, and began to question the nature of that with which she was affiliated. But she dared not petition the abbess for clarification. Fear had become her overriding state of mind.
Her faith shaken, this was her day of reckoning.
The airless corridor seemed to stretch beyond its usual distance. The convent had retained its humble, archaic appearance since its foundation during the 1840s.
Her heart fluttered, and her palms grew damp as the door came into view. Gingerly, she came to it and knocked.
“Come in.”
Nervously, she stepped inside the windowless office. The crucifix on the wall, the rosary on the mantelpiece, and the statue of the Virgin Mary
taking center stage on the desk, seemed to be collaborating to instill her with gut-wrenching guilt.
Reverend Mother Bernadette, the abbess of the order, sat before her with cold, harsh eyes. Sister Veronica couldn’t detect a hint of sympathy as she looked at her. The debilitating feeling she’d felt all of her life struck her heart with terrifying resonance—the threat of feeling judged.
The reverend mother pushed a sheet of paper bearing the Papal seal toward her. “Your petition to be released from your vows has been denied.”
Sister Veronica’s lower lip quivered.
“It is considered your mind is not sound, and that you require more time to contemplate and pray in order that you might acquire greater clarity.”
Speechless, the pangs of conscience tore at her.
The abbess stood, her visage gradually assuming a hint of compassion. “Why do you feel the need to do this, my child? Life among the sisters is all you have ever known. Our order took you in, cared for you, nurtured and loved you since you were an infant. The Lord led us to you. We delivered you from a life of potential wickedness. The wickedness from whence you came.”
“I-I know, Abbess. And for that you have my eternal gratitude. But I truly believe my vows were made in error.”
“You were made aware of the seriousness of such a commitment. In your heart, you will always be a nun. Being released from your vows will never change that. There is no walking away. You are not prepared for life on the outside. It would be extremely hazardous for you.”
The abbess’ aggressive, dominant tone struck something in Sister Veronica. She had worked in the outside world. She’d met people who were happy and free—women who had husbands and children of their own. It made them no less than she was. They were kind and loving, charitable and compassionate. Why could she not have such freedom? What were the virtues of poverty, chastity, and obedience? How might her poverty help the poor? In what way did her chastity show love? What did it provide other than divisiveness? And what authority could the order demonstrate that demanded her obedience?
Such questions pounded inside her head repeatedly, cutting through her fear of the abbess. Anger began to replace it, drowning out the bane of trepidation, and it clearly showed in her eyes.
“Go to your cell this instant, Sister Veronica,” The abbess said sharply.
“That’s not my name!”
The lines on the abbess’ aged face deepened. Her cheeks flushed, creating a rare contrast to her usually-permanent, chalk-white complexion. “How dare you speak thus to me?”
Sister Veronica’s moment of rage passed in deference to the more familiar temperament of submission. “F-forgive me, Reverend Mother.”
“Go to your room and pray for forgiveness. You will not eat for twenty-four hours. Water will be sent to your room within the hour while we dine. Perhaps a penitent fast will help you toward clarity.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.” Sister Veronica turned and made her way out of the office.
The abbess sat down and listened as the sound of the young sister’s footsteps receded along the corridor.
She opened a drawer, took out a folded newspaper, and studied the story and photograph of the striking young man on the front page:
America Divided Following Remarkable
Prison Break of Sergeant Brandon Drake
She looked up at the office door, deeply saddened. “Why, Emily? Why now? If only you knew the terrible life we have spared you.”
***
Sister Veronica paced her basic cell situated on the upper floor, thirty feet above ground. It was one of only five in the convent that had a window. She gazed across a sprawling view of the Nevada desert. Even the word ‘cell’ conveyed a message she had come to abhor. She was a prisoner tormented by the sight of the free landscape.
She knew her sisters were dining in silence below her. She glanced at the jug of water on her bedside table, the only sustenance with which they had provided her. In her heart, she knew what had happened to her was unjust and wrong.
She thought of Father Henry, a wonderful, caring man with whom she’d worked, providing aid and comfort to the needy. Did she truly need to wear a habit to continue helping people? Would the church turn her help away simply for being a lay person? And if so, was it really an organization worthy of her affiliation? Why, oh, why didn’t I think of these things before I committed myself to my vows?
Finally certain of her convictions, she grasped her habit and removed it. Her flowing auburn hair fell onto her shoulders.
She walked across to her oak wardrobe, opened it up, and took out an unassuming white blouse and a pair of khaki trousers. She’d worn them last when she’d been working in New York and Wisconsin after the Hurricane Sandy disaster. They, along with a light denim jacket, were the only civilian clothes she owned.
Looking up at the crucifix on her wall, she lowered her head, the sting of guilt plaguing her, yet again.
Following a muttered prayer for forgiveness, she withdrew from her repentance. Her robes came away, and she re-attired herself in preparation for joining the human race.
Placing what few essential possessions she had into a small shoulder satchel, she was startled by the click of a key in the door lock. Her heart pounded as she hurried across to discover she was locked in. Horror, and an overpowering feeling of being entombed, gripped her. She knew that now, more than ever, she had to escape.
She took a key from her bedside drawer, opened up the window, and looked out over the ledge. Even in the dim light of the dusk, the ground seemed so far below her. A chill gripped her at the thought of the drop, knowing it was her only means of escape.
She tore every sheet away from her bed, emptied her linen drawers, and tightly bound one sheet to another. She then twisted them into a series of crude ropes, estimating each sheet measured approximately six feet in length.
Finally, she bound the seventh length of bedding. Never in her life had she felt such a sense of threat. But never before had she requested to leave.
The distance from the window to the door was perhaps seven feet. She wrapped the first sheet-rope around the doorknob and tied it as tightly as she could.
She took her satchel from the bed, looped it across her shoulder, and climbed up onto the window ledge.
Trembling with vertigo, she pulled the linen rope under her buttocks, and gripped the slack with her left hand.
As she eased her way out of the window she realized how unsteady she was.
With great care, she held the sheet and relaxed her left hand slightly, dropping down just a few inches. The jolt took her breath away, but she persisted, bracing her soft-soled shoes against the stone wall.
As she dropped another few inches, out of reach of the ledge, she became fearful of the sheet breaking away from the door handle. “Oh, my dear Lord, please help me.”
Steadily, she descended two feet, then four, then six.
Within three caution-ridden minutes, she was halfway down. Terror consumed her as she detected the tension in the sheets.
After two more minutes she chanced looking down. If she dropped her feet, she would be no more than three feet from the ground. That gave her the confidence to lower herself just a few more inches.
The sheet unraveled and broke away from the door. She fell the last two feet onto her back, the impact forcing the air out of her lungs. The sheets shot out through the open window to land on top of her.
Taking the time necessary to collect herself, she brushed the dirt off her clothes and muttered a prayer of thanks that she’d fallen from such a shallow height.
She looked out across a dust-laden road, barely distinguishable from the desert. Uncertainty gripped her. She had so few belongings and only thirty-three dollars to her name.
The nearest town was Woodville, four miles away—the place where the main diocese was located. Everybody in the town knew her. Maybe she would find someone who would be sympathetic to her plight.
In that moment, she knew
‘Sister Veronica’ was no longer, and Emily Drake had just been reborn.
Ridden with anxiety and a pounding heart, she began to walk. Her pace soon quickened, propelling her headlong into the desert night.
Thirteen
The Runaway
Father Henry Gerard opened the door to the vestry of St. Mark’s Diocese in Woodville, Nevada, at 6:00 a.m.
At thirty-two, he’d never married or known the touch of a woman, having accepted his calling to the priesthood at the age of sixteen. Father Henry, as opposed to Father Gerard, was the name he had affectionately adopted from the townsfolk.
He changed into his long black robe and white collar, constantly mindful of his need to prepare for Sunday’s sermon.
He made his way down into the cellar to check the mousetraps. The church’s long-standing problem of rodents eating into the wine racks, records, and storage boxes created his first daily task.
Entering the archaic, dank room, he switched on the light and approached the far corner to check the first of four traps.
As he knelt down, he instinctively knew he wasn’t alone. Slowly, he turned. There was nothing but terror in the eyes of the young woman huddled in the corner behind him. “Sister Veronica?”
“I’m so sorry, Father,” Emily said. “I became disoriented and fell asleep. Please, I beg you. Just let me be.” She stood and made a move to leave.
“But whatever is the matter, Sister.”
“I had nowhere else to go to. I will find somewhere, but I needed a safe place to sleep. Please, forgive me.”
“Forgive you?”
“Rome refused my petition to release me from my vows, but I cannot return to the convent.”
Smiling compassionately, he knew that what she needed more than anything was a friend. “You must be hungry. Would you care to join me for breakfast?”
Stopping in mid-stride, she nodded.