by Leanna Ellis
She was an optimist. Samuel seemed to have lost that trait, if he’d ever had it. He nodded, keeping his elbows braced on the edge of the table.
“After Levi is mended, will you be staying on, do you think?” Her gaze skittered away from Samuel’s.
A warning bell clanged in his head. What was she wanting? Maybe nothing. And yet, he’d learned enough about women through Andi to know that every question, gesture, smile had purpose. Didn’t it?
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” he hedged.
“The Lord will show you in His own good time, ja?”
Her words jabbed at him. He hadn’t prayed lately…at all, not since he’d shot his brother. How could he? How could he ask God for forgiveness? He felt like Cain. Was there now a mark upon him? Was his punishment eventual separation from those he cared about, his home, even his faith? Or only eternal?
“Samuel?” Naomi spoke softly. “Are you all right?”
“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “I just wish I knew all the answers.”
“Father says, ‘If we know all the answers then we haven’t asked all the questions.’”
That tugged a smile from him. “Wish I didn’t have so many questions.”
***
Late that afternoon, Samuel rode his motorcycle into Roc’s compound. The sun’s rays slanted down through tree limbs and budding leaves, speckling the ground with shadowy spots. On the pebbled driveway, a blue Jeep Cherokee jerked to a stop, backed up a few feet, and again wrenched to a stop. Eyeing the car warily, Samuel set the brake on his motorcycle and disengaged.
The passenger door of the Jeep opened first and Roc climbed out. He rubbed a hand over his face then waved at Samuel.
“Everything okay?” Samuel asked as Roc approached.
“Sure. Or it will be once my stomach catches up.”
Behind Roc, the driver’s door opened and Rachel emerged. She sent a smile and wave toward them but walked back toward the house.
“Teaching Rachel to drive, are you?”
“Yeah, she…uh…yeah.” Roc cocked his head sideways and popped his neck. “Good to see you, Samuel. How’s Levi?”
“Good.”
“But you didn’t come here because of Levi, did you?”
Samuel jammed his hands in his back pockets but looked straight at Roc. “I want to know more. Not just a tour. I need to know…to do—” His voice cracked on the hard emotions.
“Of course. Come on.” He clapped Samuel on the back. “We’ll get you started.”
Roc led Samuel into the barn structure. The men he’d seen earlier in the week worked at different stations. One lifted weights, another climbed one of the many ropes leading up to the ceiling where a bank of swivel pulleys waited, while another threw knives at a board, the point stabbing with precision into the black outline of a man.
“Joe?” Roc waved over one of the men. The man’s muscles bulged out from beneath a black T-shirt. “Get Samuel started, all right?”
“Sure thing.” Joe had a few inches and more than a few pounds on Samuel. His head was shaved, and the intensity in his gaze was unsettling. “Let’s go, kid.”
Samuel’s gaze dragged behind, lingering on Roc, who took off in the opposite direction. With no other recourse, Samuel followed Joe toward the ropes. “You, uh, been here long?”
Joe grabbed one rope by a knot and swung it toward Samuel. “Start climbing.”
Samuel caught the rope. “Why?”
Joe’s deep-set eyes, the color of whiskey, carried potency. “No questions.”
“Why not? What’s the point then?”
Joe took two steps toward Samuel and through tight lips said, “The point is you do what I tell you. Got it?”
Samuel shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the floor. Grasping the rope with both hands, he gave a sharp tug to make sure it was securely fastened to the pulleys above, then heaved himself upward. His muscles strained, his shoulders knotted, and his feet dangled above the ground, kicking and struggling as knees and ankles trapped the rope. Samuel released a breath, drew another, then released it before he lurched upward. No problem. He’d show these guys he could match them in strength.
“Who’s the kid?” someone from below asked.
A crowd of shaved heads and black T-shirts formed, but Samuel kept his eye on the prize at the top.
“Samuel,” Joe answered, his thick voice rough and deep. “Roc put me in charge of him.”
“Poor kid.” A deep laugh offered no sympathy.
“How long you think it’ll take him to quit?” came another voice.
“What time is it now?” Joe asked.
“Ah, give him some credit…and maybe ten minutes. Tops.”
The rope burned and chafed Samuel’s palms. He blocked out the voices and focused on inching upward, but his progress slowed as his muscles felt a deep burn. He was twenty feet above the floor. His arms were trembling, his knees and hands raw. Ten more feet. He could make it. Right hand. Left. Yank upward. Then right again.
“Pete,” Joe bellowed, “whenever you’re ready.”
“Geronimo!” The yell came from Samuel’s left. A growing blur raced toward him. He had no time to do anything but blink and hang on tight as a pair of boots slammed into his gut.
Air whooshed out of Samuel. One hand lost its grasp on the rope. He dangled for a moment, the faces below blurring as he twirled and swayed. Pete swung past Samuel again and hollered a victory whoop, which was applauded by the others. Samuel’s hand slipped, and he slid a couple of feet down the rope, his legs flailing.
“Better make that two minutes.” Someone laughed.
“Or less.”
From behind, a full body blow smashed into Samuel. This time, Pete successfully dislodged Samuel completely. He fell backward but made a grab for the rope. He caught it with first one hand, then embraced it with his limbs, scraping and burning every piece of flesh the rope touched.
All the while, Pete hollered and yelled, twirling and swinging past like he belonged in a circus.
Wincing at the pain searing his raw flesh and straining muscles, Samuel shifted upward, trying to hang on to the rope. He wasn’t going down. No way. He clung to the rope as if it was the only thing keeping him out of the jaws of hell.
The rope shook and trembled. Someone below had grabbed it and was shaking it…and Samuel. The vibrations rocked him to the core. Still he held on. He would not let go. Would not. He gritted his teeth, breathing hard.
One look down was all it took. The faces below made it clear falling was not a recommended option.
“Get to the top, Samuel,” Joe yelled. “Go on now. Chris! Dwight! Harry, you too. Show this rookie the ropes.” He laughed, the sound sharp and biting. “Come on now. Move! All of you!” He clapped his hands in quick succession.
Praying like he hadn’t prayed in a long time, Samuel strained to look up at the pulley as if it were heaven itself. He’d lost five feet at least. How would he ever make it?
“Randy,” Joe ordered, “stay here in case he falls. Show him what it means to fail. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir!” the black man responded without hesitation. And even from this distance, he looked as if he could do some serious damage.
Then Joe grabbed his own rope and started to climb.
The muscles in Samuel’s arms quaked with fatigue. His hands were raw, his fingers numb. With each yank upward, he grunted, forcing himself to climb, no longer to prove himself—this felt more like self-preservation. If he didn’t make it to the top, then he wasn’t sure what would happen. But these men did not pamper weaklings.
Pete swung past again, too high now to give another body blow or kick, but as he passed Samuel’s rope, he gave it a shove, and Samuel’s world spun. Dizzy, he felt his stomach clench. He sensed more than saw others climbing fast around him.
“Only ten?”
“Doesn’t look like it’s gonna be that hard,” Joe replied.
Another yell made Samuel glance left…right…no, behind, and Samuel yanked himself higher to avoid being knocked loose. A blurry shadow swung past and Samuel felt the kick in his back thigh. He clenched his knees around the rope, jerked upward again. Keep climbing, he coached himself.
“He’s mine, boys!” Joe hollered, he’d reached some sort of platform and leaped off it, holding his rope, and flew right toward Samuel.
Not this time. Samuel twisted, swiveling his rope, and faced Joe’s oncoming assault. The leader aimed his boots right at Samuel, but Samuel was ready. Clinging to the rope with one hand and arm, he snagged the other man’s calf and twisted hard. With a sharp cry, Joe flipped upside down and barely hung on to his rope.
Samuel didn’t look back to see if Joe fell or recovered. He yanked his body upward again…and again…and again even as his muscles screamed. Finally, he touched the padded planks at the top. He hooked an arm over it and sucked in the warm air, breathing heavily, his body coated in sweat.
“Well, lookie there,” Joe laughed, “the farm boy might be tougher than he looks.”
The black-shirted men all swung down to the floor without acknowledging Samuel’s small victory, which seemed to shrink by the minute. Blistered and stripped palms were his reward.
“When you’re ready,” Joe hollered up at him, “come on down and you can take a shower. We won’t push you too hard today.” Then Joe, followed by the others, left the building, turning out the lights as they went.
Samuel was left alone. In the dark. The only sound his ragged breathing. It took a long while before he stripped his shirt off, wrapped it around his bloody palms, and fisted the rope again. He hissed and slid his way back to the blessed floor. His legs wobbled and buckled beneath him, and he collapsed in a heap.
“Not bad for your first day,” a voice came out of the shadows.
Samuel scrambled to a sitting position. “Who’s there?”
A light in the dorm room came on and illuminated the ropes and mats. Footsteps came toward him, and Samuel recognized Roberto. “They don’t mean any harm. It’s just their way.”
Samuel had no response. He felt depleted, like a summer corn stalk relieved of its last husk and bending to the pressures of winter’s approach. His eyes burned. What was he doing here? He wanted answers, not this.
“These men,” Roberto said, “aren’t playing a game, Samuel. They’re not checking things out. They’re in this. All or nothing. This is life or death to them. They have to know whether or not they can trust you. They would rather you quit now. For if you continue, you will surely face death, and they have to know you will keep your wits and watch their backs.”
“I’m not a quitter.”
“I didn’t think so.” Roberto pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to Samuel.
He caught it, wincing at the pain, bumbling. His fingers stiff, he examined the plastic rectangular object. A cell phone. “What’s this for?”
“To keep you safe.” Roberto crouched down, arm propped on a knee. “It’s preprogrammed with all our numbers. You get in trouble; you realize you’re being followed; you see, hear, sense something out of the ordinary, you call one of the numbers on that phone. And we’ll come, like the cavalry.”
Samuel frowned. “But why would anyone be after me?”
“I’m not saying anyone is. But if someone is watching us, if they see you coming and going, then you could be an easy target.” Roberto tilted his head sideways. “Not easy per se. But easier. Isolated.”
Samuel nodded gravely. It explained why Levi had a cell phone. So now he was in. In some secret society. Committed. Whether he liked the idea or not. Whether he wanted to be or not. Did he really have a choice?
“But it works two ways,” Roberto said, his voice weighty. “You get a text or a voice message, then you have five minutes to respond. Five minutes. Which means, you keep this phone with you day and night. You understand?”
“I just want…” His voice trailed off. Too exhausted, he simply shook his head.
“What do you want, Samuel?”
He flopped back onto the ground, his arms and legs splayed outward. “To understand all of this.”
“You understand plenty.” Roberto’s tone turned hard. “You’ve been denying what happened, haven’t you? Well, now it’s time you gave it a hard look. Your brother died. Yes. But you didn’t kill him. He died a long time before that. He gave what was left of his life to save Rachel. A most noble act for a vampire.”
“See!” Anger shot through Samuel. “I don’t understand—”
Roberto leaned down, his hand pressing hard on Samuel’s chest. “You understand what you choose to understand. Open your eyes. Look around you, Samuel. This world is full of mysteries and darkness. You’ve lived a simple life, plain, and yet that’s what it all comes down to—the difference between black and white, good and evil. Pretty simple, don’t you think?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nothing seemed simple at all. Samuel felt beaten, defeated, broken.
All the way back to Levi’s, his motorcycle wobbled beneath him as he could barely clutch the handlebars, which caused excruciating pain in his hands. He arrived long after dark, way past Levi and Hannah’s bedtime, and he sat outside while he gathered the energy to head inside.
With the tips of his fingers, he turned the knob and entered the house. A single lamp remained on, surprising him. Naomi, head bowed over an open Bible on her lap, sat in a chair. Everyone at the farm, including the horses and chickens, were tucked in for the night. And she should have already returned to her folks’. She looked up as the door swung open, and a smile spread easily across her features.
“What are you still doing here?” he asked, not moving forward.
She closed the Bible and stood, straightening her apron. “Gabriel was fussy, so I told Hannah I’d sit up with him for a while. I just got him down a few minutes ago.” Her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?” She stepped toward him. “What happened to you…your face…hands?”
“Nothing. I…uh—” How could he explain tonight? He touched his cheekbone with the back of his hand. The rope had scraped a raw patch. His shirt was wrinkled and bloody with only a couple of the buttons fastened, as that was the best he could manage. He’d forgotten his coat.
Reaching toward him, she cupped one of his hands, then the other, drawing it toward the light, and studied his bloody, raw palms. “Sit down. Here.”
Before he could protest, she tugged him over to the kitchen table. She hurried to the sink and pulled several rags from the cabinet, dampened them, and returned to him. She knelt and dabbed at his wounds with the clean cloth. Her silence made Samuel feel as if he should explain. But how?
“It’s nothing really.” When she pressed the cloth to the bloody blisters, he hissed out a breath. “And not what you think.”
“And how would you know what I’m thinking, Samuel Fisher?” Her face was calm but her words stung.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Was it that motorcycle you ride?”
“My—? No.”
She watched his face, concern in her eyes. “Were you in a fight?”
“No.” But he read the doubt in her troubled eyes. “My knuckles would be raw if I’d been in a fight. Not my palms.”
She drew her lower lip between her teeth as she contemplated his injuries. “Are you in much pain?”
“I’ll be fine.”
She finished cleaning his hands, applied ointment, and wrapped them in clean bandages she found in the pantry. Finally, she sat back and surveyed her handiwork. “I’ll check them in the morning. The aloe vera should help.”
He had to admit his pa
lms no longer stung and throbbed. She surveyed his cheek and neck, then cleaned those wounds and dabbed on more of the green goop, but as her finger slid just inside his collar, she stopped, her face just inches from his, her breath warm on his skin. Her gaze darted toward him, then she backed away. She stuck out the aloe vera leaf and said, “Here. In case you need any more.”
He cupped it between his wrists and plopped it on the table. “Thanks.”
“I should be getting home. It’s late.”
“I’ll walk you.” He stood, but it took more effort than he anticipated, and he grunted.
“I know the way.” She readjusted her apron and seemed out of sorts and restless, her hands fidgeting.
“You shouldn’t walk alone at night. It isn’t safe.”
“Hannah made me promise to ask you to see me home but”—she touched her kapp—“really I’ll be fine. You’re injured, and I’m not worried. The good Lord will protect me.” The speed of her words revealed her sudden nervousness.
Was she nervous to be alone with him? He couldn’t imagine that. He was as harmless as a ladybug with his hands wrapped, his arms and shoulders stiff and sore, and his body aching.
“Hannah’s right. It isn’t safe. I’ll take you home.” Samuel hobbled toward the door, feeling every joint, every muscle protest. “I don’t mind.”
“Really, Samuel, it’s all right. This is silly. What ever happens in Promise?”
Apparently, plenty happened here. Even though he didn’t feel capable of protecting a fly, he wasn’t about to send Naomi out into the dark alone.
“What happened to you tonight?” she asked, her voice barely audible, her gaze scanning his slightly bent posture.
He couldn’t straighten his arms fully. With his hands cupped and wrapped, his shirt wrinkled and bloody, he must look a sight. “I was”—his mind whirled for an answer—“helping a friend.”
Her silence revealed her doubts, but she kept them to herself.
“Come on.” He reached for the door but hesitated before placing his hand on the doorknob.