by Dan Waddell
He wondered how many residents of Liberty had sought a fleeting moment of escape in these cabins, far from the prying eyes of the town elders, before a shameful retreat to their city of virginal white.
The fact they appeared to be the only guests did nothing to assuage a feeling of creeping dread. Heather found the most inconspicuous corner of the lot and stuck the car there. She tried to grill the guy on reception about the TCF but conversation was not his forte; he said he knew nothing about them apart from the whole lot being fruitcakes.
There was nothing else for them to do but hole up and wait for further instructions. Heather's room, being slightly less soiled than his, became their base.
Heather had tried to call Foster, to report what they had discovered in Liberty, but his phone was ringing out.
Heather was becoming increasingly agitated, pacing back and forth across the room trying to come up with an idea of what to do next. Nigel shared her frustration, the feeling of being so close yet so far away. He got hold of a telephone directory from reception, suggesting they see who in Liberty had a phone and start cold-calling for information, but Heather dismissed it. Nigel passed the time by flicking the television on, and meandered through a mass of channels. Back home, the prospect of doing the same would appall him, but here in a different culture he found escape in local news and weather broadcasts, adverts for local businesses and a host of religious programming.
Heather reclined on her bed, one eye on the set, the other on her phone, which was charging on a simple wooden table in the corner. Nigel occasionally wandered out for a cigarette, watching the light fade away, listening for cars on the road, watching with some relief their tail lights fade to black as they passed by in either direction. The sky was cloudless; the moon had already punched a hole in the night and a few stars were visible before the sun had even set. It was going to be cold.
Heather went for a shower. He offered to leave, to give her privacy, but she told him not to be silly. When she finally emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, it was dark outside. She was wearing just a towel, wet hair falling on her shoulders. Nigel, lying on one of the twin beds, tried not to stare. She went over and sat at the table, fanned her face. Water's hot, at least,' she said. Nigel nodded, kept his eyes on the TV set, showing a basketball game. It promised to be a frustrating night in more ways than one.
She watched the basketball for a while, then moved for a better view on the end of the bed Nigel was lying on. The game was reaching the final few seconds and the scores were level. Her phone rang, and she grabbed it quickly. It was Donna Faugenot, asking how the trip had gone. Heather filled her in with the details and ended the call. 'Don't want to be rude,' she explained. 'But if a call comes in from England I don't want to miss it.'
She looked at Nigel.
He felt uneasy.
'Think Donna had the hots for you,' she said playfully.
You think so?' he said, trying to sound disinterested.
'I do. Heck of a woman, Donna.'
'She is, isn't she? Not your stereotypical Latter-day Saint.
You know she's divorced?'
'I know,' Heather said. Her playful smile turned into a grin. 'I heard your conversation in the car.'
Nigel felt his heart almost stop. You did?' A knot welded tight in his stomach.
She nodded. 'Uh huh.'
He sat up. 'All of it?'
'Most of it.'
'Oh.' He didn't know what to say.
She shuffled back on the bed. He could smell her shampoo, her newly wet hair. Her smile went. She looked at him earnestly, bright-green eyes ablaze. 'Donna's right,' she said, looking right at him. 'Sometimes you've got to hang in there.' She leaned closer to him. 'Honey.' She smiled once more.
Nigel leaned forward, head swimming. Everything else melted away. He'd had enough of hanging on in there. He reached for her, and pulled her towards him. Their lips met and he felt a jolt through his entire system. His hand found the back of her head and pulled their lips tighter together. Her hands were on his shirt buttons. He heard himself groan, months of pent-up passion let go, and almost burst out laughing. In her eyes he saw a brief flicker of amusement but they soon closed again. His hand reached for the knot fixing her towel to her side.
Heather's phone started to ring.
Her eyes flashed open. 'Are you kidding me?' she said.
She pulled away, ran her hand through her hair, bit her bottom lip. 'I better answer it,' she whispered.
Nigel stood up, wanting to ram his fist into the face of whoever it was on the other end of the phone. Probably the guy on reception. 'Hello, Grant,' he heard her say, a trace of irritation in her voice. Foster, he thought. That changed things. Still, the moment had gone. And it had promised to be a bloody good moment.
He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. When he came back, Heather was off the phone, wearing a deep frown of concern.
What's wrong?' he asked.
'Gary Stamey has gone missing,' she replied. 'He was in the safe house. The cops protecting him were killed.'
'Jesus,' Nigel murmured.
'They fell silent. Nigel didn't know what to say.
The mood was broken by a knock on the door. Nigel glanced at Heather. She nodded. He went over to the door. There was another knock, gentler this time.
'Check before opening,' he heard Heather whisper. He looked through the spyhole.
A girl. He didn't recognize her at first. Then he realized she was out of uniform. It was the shy waitress from the diner. He unchained the door and opened it.
'Hello,' he said.
She appeared terrified, barely looked up from the floor.
She didn't say a word. Heather was at his side. She glanced over the girl's shoulder at the deserted lot. 'Come in,' she said, ushering her in. 'Come on.'
The girl walked, shuffled, still looking at the floor. How had she got here? Nigel thought. There were no other cars in the lot. He didn't feel good about it but bowed to Heather's judgement. As soon as she was in the room, he closed the door, chained and bolted it.
She stood there, shivering.
'Let me get dressed,' Heather said, grabbing clothes and heading for the bathroom.
Nigel steered the girl to the chair at the table. She sat down. He stood there, uneasily, not certain what to do or say.
Heather came out, dressed, hair still wet. You work in the diner, yeah?' she said softly.
The girl nodded.
'How did you get here?'
Walked,' the girl murmured. The pronunciation strange yet familiar. Six miles walking. No wonder she shivered.
'Get her something to keep her warm,' Heather told him.
He grabbed towels and his own coat, wrapped them around her. He also handed her a bottle of water, from which she took a large swig.
'Thanks,' she muttered.
'No problem,' he said.
What's your name?' Heather asked.
The girl looked up for the first time, first at Heather, then at Nigel. 'Leonie,' she said. 'Leonie Stamey.'
Her accent was a hybrid of estuary Essex vowels and midwest intonation. Yet its odd cadences did not lessen the impact of her words, and her fear did not dilute the honesty of her answers. Heather sat opposite her on one of the beds, while Nigel stood resting against the wall.
'How did you know who we were?' Heather asked.
Leonie said nothing, just gazed at her hands. The face had seen too much sadness for someone so young.
'I seen cops all the time when my mum was alive. When I served you in the diner and then heard you was looking around the temple I knew you was looking for me.'
'So you came to find us?'
'I don't wanna cause my folks any trouble.'
Your folks?' 'My family. In Liberty'
Heather paused. 'I see. Who are your folks?'
She shook her head. 'Ain't gonna tell you that. I'll tell you what you want and then you go. I come out here so you wouldn't go sniffing around to
wn again. Just don't ask me about my people in Liberty'
'OK.'
There was a long silence.
'Can I ask you how you ended up in Liberty? What happened after you disappeared?'
'I didn't "disappear",' she said scornfully. 'I left because I chose to. My mum and the drugs and dying like that, I just wanted a fresh start. He helped me do that.'
'Who's he?'
'I ain't telling you his name.'
'OK.' Heather nodded. 'This is the man who came to your house, the man in the suit who spoke about God.'
Her brow furrowed. 'How do you know about that?'
'Gary told us.'
At the mention of his name her face froze. 'Is he all right?'
Heather paused once more. 'Leonie, you need to tell us everything, and I mean everything.'
'Have they hurt him? I said they wasn't to hurt him.'
Who are they?'
She fell silent.
'You have to tell me who this guy is, Leonie. Is he in Liberty?'
She shook her head. 'He's not never been, apart from the time he brought me. Then he left.'
'He's English?'
Yes. He's related to me. Not like a brother or anything.
Distant family. He was put up for adoption when he was a baby.'
Anthony Chapman, Nigel thought.
Leonie continued. 'He only found out about the family link and the sins of Sarah and Horton when he was a grown-up. He got in touch with the True Church of Freedom a few years back about coming and settling over here, and they said he could do some unfinished business for them. He started with me and he told me all about it, the Church and the family and what happened way back when. He converted me. It sounded better than the life I was living. When he said come with him, I jumped at it.'
You left of your own accord?'
'Uh huh. We spent a few weeks at his place. He treated me nice. He got me a false identity, a new passport and we came here. It was bloody strange at first but I sure got used to it. He left to do what he needed to do. I stayed. I married.'
'Married?'
'I was fourteen, which is when the Church decree you can marry. Which is why I was spared. To carry on the line.
The rest had to die. Apart from Gary'
Why not Gary?'
'Because I said so.'
Nigel could see Heather was shocked at what Leonie was telling her, at the teenager's quiescence. Here she was, half girl half woman, half Essex half American, speaking about leaving her life in England for a life in a cult where girls were forced to marry in their early teens, as if it was the one true path. He could also see Heather struggling about whether to tell the truth about Gary's disappearance.
'Another girl has gone missing. And the people you converted by proxy at yesterday's ceremony were murdered.'
'Oh, I know that,' she said. 'They had to die.'
What?'
Her eyes started to gleam, lit by fervency. 'Sarah and Horton Rowley sinned against this Church and its prophet.
They were responsible for breaking up the family and for the deaths of eighteen innocent souls. We all, me included, bear the stain of the sin and it must be atoned. The Church has sought and now achieved that atonement.'
'Leonie,' Heather said slowly. 'Gary is missing.'
Her face changed, the belief faded, merging into incredulity.
'I said he wasn't to be touched. That he would join us one day.' Now there was anger. She started to shake her head. 'You're lying. This is just a ploy to get me to go with you.' Her face contorted. 'You evil fucking bitch.'
The Essex girl had won out over the pious Utah child bride.
'Leonie,' Heather replied firmly. We didn't even come here to find you. We didn't know you were here.'
Anger gave way to bewilderment. Her eyes flicked between them. 'But why . . . ?'
'Because people are being murdered, and a fourteenyear-old girl is missing. And now, whether you want to believe it or not, your brother is missing. And you can believe any bullshit you want, Leonie, but tell me why he'd be spared when another boy about his age, your cousin, was shot like a dog and his body dragged into the garden along with your uncle. Do you honestly think they wouldn't kill Gary because "you said so"? That they would forego the chance to reunite the family in eternity and atone for 1890 on the whim of a teenage girl? You've been had, Leonie. Open your eyes.'
Her eyes filled with tears but Nigel could see Leonie remained defiant.
'No one else should die, Leonie. It has to stop and it has to stop here. You left Gary to fend for himself. Now's a chance to help us find him. What was the name of the man who helped bring you over here?'
She wept silently for a few seconds, then she sniffed.
'Dominic. I thought I was doing Gary a favour. He'd get a nice foster family. A mum and a dad who'd love him.
Maybe had some money. Give him a chance. I was going to go back for him one day. Honest.' She wiped her eyes.
Who's Dominic?' Heather asked again.
'I don't know. He was just Dominic'
You didn't know his surname?'
'He never told me.'
Heather asked for a description. Leonie gave it: early forties, dark-haired, handsome, posh voice, shy but persuasive, blue eyes. Nigel made a note of it all, pointless though it was without a surname.
Where did he live?'
'He had a flat in Plaistow but he said it was just temporary.
He didn't like it there. He said he was going to get a house in Bethnal Green one day. That was where the family was from, though he'd only lived there a bit. He told me he grew up out of town near Buckinghamshire.'
'In Buckinghamshire?' Heather corrected.
Yeah.' She gave the name of the road in Plaistow.
Heather asked if she knew anything personal about Dominic, other than his adoption. Did she know the name of the family who took him in?
She shook her head. 'He hated them, though he said the sister was all right. He did say they had money. The dad had a brewery or something like that. That's all he said.
Sorry' For a brief second it was all too clear that she was still only a seventeen-year-old girl.
Nigel made a note of all she said, doing a brief genealogical sketch of Dominic. Adopted by a wealthy East End brewer. Tracking him might be possible. Yet there was little he could do from the barren wilderness of Utah.
'Take me home,' Leonie said abruptly.
'England?' Heather asked.
'No. Back to Liberty. That's my home. You can drop me on the outskirts of town.'
'Don't you want to know what happens to Gary? Go back there and we won't be able to let you know any news.'
She shrugged. 'I will ask the Lord. He will let me know.
I must go back.'
Heather's look was one of disbelief. 'But why? Come home, Leonie. There is nothing for you in Liberty Those people sanction murder. Why stay with them?' '
'Because my son is back there and nothing could make me leave him.'
15
Foster made the connection before Heather called him.
As he drove to the places where he thought Gary might be, the words he'd read on the TCF website played and replayed in his mind:
Thou shalt seek and never cease to seek to avenge the blood of our Prophets on this nation, including the blood of my servant Orson P. Walker, and you will teach this to your children and your children's children unto the fourth generation.
The fourth generation. He went back in his mind over what he knew of Sarah and Horton Rowley's descendants. The guy who was missing - the kid who'd been adopted because his mother lived in fear of them coming to avenge their ancestors' sins -- wasn't he fourth generation? He dialled Heather and got her breathless voice.
She told him about Leonie.
'Have you got her?'
No, came the reply, and the reasons why. Foster punched the dashboard, not so much in anger -- he knew there was no lawful reason for them to keep her. It was frust
ration, lack of sleep. It was the dilemma over what he would tell Gary when the boy asked about his sister. If Gary was still alive.
Heather told Foster about Dominic, and Nigel's theory about him being Anthony Chapman. In turn, Foster mentioned the full text of the revelation on the Church's website.
What shall we do now?' she asked.
'Sit tight. Not sure there is much more you can do on your own. Let me speak to Harris. First of all, though, put me on to Nigel.'
She handed the phone to Barnes. The two men exchanged greetings.
'Listen, mate, there's not much you can do from there.
But I can be your researcher here. We need to track down this Dominic from what we know. You pull the levers, I'll be the puppet.'
Nigel paused. Well, we have half a name, no address, no occupation and the major building block we do have, his birth certificate, is irrelevant because he was adopted without a paper trail.'
Foster smiled for the first time in what seemed an age.
'And the good news?'
We know his adoptive father was a brewer. There won't have been many in that parish.'
'Certainly not in the past fifty years or so. Small, independent brewers have been decimated. I've had someone get hold of a list of the current congregation of St Matthew's from the present vicar -- some of them might have been involved for a long time and they'll be worth talking to. We know the adoptive parents were wealthy. Round here, they would have stuck out like a wine merchant in a working men's club. Even if they weren't regular churchgoers, people might of known of them. Where should I start the paper trail?'
'You sure you want to get lost in the world of genealogy?'
'I'm
up for it. I've had a good teacher.'
Foster's first stop was the London Metropolitan Archives where the parish registers for most of the London churches were held. On Nigel's advice, he went through every single marriage held at St Matthew's since the end of the Second World War -- nineteen years before the birth of Anthony Chapman. Two marriages struck him in particular. Henrietta Llewellyn Oakley and Kathryn Llewellyn Oakley were sisters who married three years apart, 1957 and 1960. Their father was Henry Oakley, the grooms were Samuel Heathcote Smythe and Edward St John Ashbourne.