by Jayne, Chris
Lori walked up to the desk, made the arrangements with a surly eighteen-year-old who only wanted to get back to his shooting game, and five dollars later, she had the use of a computer for twenty minutes. Sitting down in front of the screen, though, she ran into another barrier. There was no way she could risk logging into her primary mail account. Like her Facebook page, she had to assume anyone who was looking for her could somehow get access to that account: she used it for everything. After only a second, though she had a solution.
Lori had a second email account, an old AOL account, that she barely looked at anymore. She probably hadn’t logged in for at least six months, but she knew it was still open and active. She had opened that account years ago, before she married Jack, and unless someone had her computer, she did not see how anyone could find the account or link her to it. Best of all, Sylvia’s email address, which was just her first name and birth year, was easy to remember, so Lori would have no problem there.
In only a few seconds she logged in, winced at the number of unread junk messages, then froze. Now that she was in, she had no clue what to actually say to Sylvia. Best stay as close to the truth as possible, without saying so much that Sylvia would freak out and try to come back to the U.S.
Sylvia, she typed, I hope you are well and enjoying Italy. I don’t have a lot of time, but I need to tell you something. I have had some trouble in Miami. Lori paused, thinking that that was the understatement of the century. And have had to leave town for a few days. Everybody is fine, no one is hurt or injured, but my car is out of commission. I needed a car in a hurry, so I am using your Escalade. If your friend Nina was going to borrow it, I’m sorry, but I wanted to let you know so she doesn’t report it missing. Please don’t worry or try to come back to Miami, I am not there right now.
Lori paused again, wondering how much more to say. Once again, she considered it and, once again, she came to the same conclusion. There was simply no way that anyone could connect her to Sylvia. Unless someone could figure out that Jack’s grandmother had been a Hensen before she married Jack’s grandfather sixty years ago (and how plausible was that?) there was no way. And even then, Hensen was a common enough name. There had to be dozens of Hensens in Miami.
Still, should she tell Sylvia not to talk to anyone? That sort of warning would undoubtedly make her very suspicious, if not downright upset, and be a sure tip off that whatever happened to Lori, it was serious. Lori’s fingers were poised over the keyboard. Sylvia was old, but she was not stupid.
The door flew open behind her. “Mommy!” Grace cried. “What are you doing? Where are you? Why are you in here? Brandon bit me!”
Lori’s jaw dropped. She would kill all of them, including Simone. How had she let Grace leave? But even before Lori could finish the silent horrified question, Simone burst in behind Grace, dragging Brandon.
“I didn’t bite her hard,” Brandon insisted. “I only bit her once.”
Several callers turned in their booths, clearly peeved at the loud interruption, and the game-playing attendant shot to his feet, ready to act. Lori jumped up. “Out,” she ordered furiously, just barely keeping herself from screaming. “Out!” She pointed to the door. “Now.”
Simone grabbed Grace and dragged both children out of the shop, fussing at them in French, something she rarely did. Lori sat down again, closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. Opening her eyes, she had to finish the email. Best to tell Sylvia the truth about where she was going, Lori decided, eliminating any possibility that Sylvia would think she could help by coming back to Miami. Quickly she began typing again. I have decided to visit my sister in Montana and will call you when you we get there. If you want to use email to contact me, use this email account (AOL) not the Gmail account I usually use. Take care, and don’t worry. Love Lori.
Lori hit send, clicked “Logoff session and close all applications,” and stood, grabbing her purse. She marched determinedly to the door, asking herself why had she ever decided that spanking was a bad idea.
Chapter 18
Deacon
Tuesday
6:00 PM Mountain Time
Hobson, Montana
* * *
Deacon sipped a beer, leaning back in the rickety kitchen chair. Things were already looking better around here. There was a new toaster on the counter, a new single cup coffee maker on the sideboard, a fresh tablecloth on the table. From Roger’s reaction as he enjoyed a beer with dinner, this was the first one in a long time.
Without even discussing it with Roger, Deacon had announced to his sister-in-law that he was taking her shopping this morning, and they went to the local warehouse store. Two hours later, they emerged with fifty pounds of flour, fifty pounds of rice, bags of dried beans, boxes of pasta, several gallons of oil. He bought his sister-in-law yeast, sugar, spices, cans of tomatoes, canned soup, oatmeal, the family sized boxes of several kinds of breakfast cereal, canned tuna and chicken, and powdered milk. He bought laundry soap, dish soap, and food for the dog and cats. He even ignored her protestations that she already had a coffee maker in Bowenville, and got her a top of the line single cup maker, and dozens of the plastic cups that went along with the system. He also bought three full size cartons of newborn diapers, ignoring the tears on Louise’s face and her weak protest that she’d been planning on using cloth.
As another sign of how dire things were, Roger hadn’t even bothered to protest. After the last bag was carried into the house, down into the small basement, where they had set up some pantry shelves, Roger turned away with only a gruff, “Thanks.” Deacon knew Roger didn’t want his brother to see the glisten in his eyes, and he didn’t say a word.
As soon as Deacon arranged to buy a chest freezer, he intended to head back to the store and stock the freezer with hamburger, chicken, stew meat, bacon, and pork chops. When he left in two weeks, he’d leave his brother with enough food that, supplemented with some hunting and eggs from their chickens, a gallon or two of milk a week, and some fresh produce, and the family could make it through the winter without much trouble.
Roger walked into the kitchen and with no comment put two handguns on the table. “Your choice.”
Deacon went cold; all the relaxation he’d felt eating the good meal evaporated. His touch very gentle, he laid a big hand over one of the guns. “No, Rog. No. If you think there’s even a chance it might come to this, we need to just walk away. It’s furniture. The best way to win a fight is to not let it start.” Thinking about some of the things he’d seen, he paused. “Trust me on this.”
“It’s just a precaution. And I don’t want to walk away from all of our clothes, everything we worked hard for.”
“Exactly. Every thing,” Deacon said with emphasis. “Things. They’re just things. I don’t want to get in a firefight over a,” he shook his head in frustration, “freezer.”
Louise started to cry. “All my baby clothes are there. The kids’ toys. My mom’s dishes. You might not care about things, but I do. That stuff belongs to us, and I want it. He’s already taken so much from us.” She started to cry harder.
Exasperated, Deacon looked back and forth between his brother and his sister-in-law. He could argue with his brother, but his sister-in-law’s tears were formidable.
Roger jumped into the argument. “No one even knows we’re coming. It’s just a precaution,” he repeated.
“No one knows?” Deacon considered it. “Are there gates, or fences?”
“No, Deke, it’s a town, not a prison, there aren’t any gates. Over 3,000 people live there. We pick up the rental truck in the morning, go in around 9:00 when kids are going to school, people are going to work, deliveries are coming into the grocery store, and just go the house.”
“The way our house is situated on the property, it just happens that no other houses can see the back of ours,” Lou continued earnestly. “So, we pull up to the back door and load up.”
Deacon looked back and forth between his brother and sister-in-law. Roger’s
reassurances that they could simply go in and get their things were not very convincing, considering the fact that the couple had already discussed parking at the back door and trying to get in and out on the “down-low.” Deacon could see that they were worried and that, taken with the firearms, there was still something Roger wasn’t telling him. Deacon decided he’d press Roger about it when Lou wasn’t in on the conversation. Switching to a more neutral topic, he asked, “How long do you think it’s going to take? To pack and move everything that’s left?”
“I don’t know.” Roger looked at Lou and shrugged. “There’s the master bedroom set, the kids’ room, living room, kitchen table.”
Lou continued, ticking on her fingers. “Washer, drier, refrigerator, freezer. Sandy’s going to come over and help me pack the toys and clothes, the small stuff, but breaking the beds down and moving the furniture, that’s on you guys.” She looked back at her husband questioningly.
“I don’t know,” Roger repeated. “Two, maybe three hours. No more than that.”
Deacon interrupted. “I thought you said no one knows we’re coming.”
“We can trust Sandy not to say anything,” Louise asserted. “She wants to talk to us.”
“She’s the one whose husband was killed in Chicago,” added Roger. “She’s not going to say a word.”
“What about the kids?”
Louise quickly shook her head. “We’re leaving them here. Our neighbors, Karen and Jimmy Timmer, said they can stay up there for the day.”
Deacon tightened his mouth into a frustrated grimace. “I don’t like it, but okay.” He reached out and put his hand over the Sig Sauer and met this brother’s eyes. “I’ll take this one.”
Chapter 19
Deacon
Wednesday
10:30 AM Mountain Time
Bowenville, Montana
* * *
The rental truck lumbered awkwardly through the streets of Bowenville. For the thousandth time, Deacon shifted his big frame on the seat of the crappy truck. The shock absorbers in the cheap rental were definitely sub-par, and the bench seat, with pregnant Louise sandwiched between the two men, was not the most comfortable.
With Roger driving, Deacon had plenty of opportunity to look around, and in spite of wanting to hate the place, he could not help but be impressed. The neat streets, the town square complete with old-fashioned bandstand and a playground off the side, the wide sidewalks on Main Street, with planters every twenty feet, everything was perfect.
Deacon’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t just perfect, it was too perfect. A movie he’d seen many years ago, The Truman Show, had an interesting premise: a man’s life had been completely fake, a reality show, and this main street reminded him of that to a very uncomfortable level. Unfortunately, this was no reality show. This was real, and, if what Roger and Louise had told him was true, it was becoming dark and evil and dangerous.
Deacon’s concerns were confirmed by Roger’s next comment. “Look over there,” he said to Louise softly, indicating something on the driver’s side of the rental truck. Louise and Deacon followed Roger’s gaze. Two women walked along the sidewalk towards the pharmacy, one pushing a stroller. Both were dressed in dark dresses, almost to their ankles, dark jackets, and their heads were neatly covered with small black caps.
“My God,” Louise commented. “Those skirts are to the ground.”
They continued to watch as the truck trundled past the door of the pharmacy. Just then, one of the women turned to go through the swinging door, backside first, pulling the stroller. “Don’t look,” Roger snapped, and threw his hand up against the window, blocking his face. Louise and Deacon pinned their bodies back to the bench seat, hiding themselves behind Roger’s head. The truck slid past.
“Did she see us?” Louise asked.
“I don’t think so,” Roger replied. “Did you know them?”
“I didn’t get a good look at the first woman,” Louise answered. “but the woman with the stroller was Lovina Curry. I delivered the baby in the stroller last winter some time.” She answered the next question before her husband could ask. “She didn’t go to Willie’s church then.”
“And now she’s magically Amish,” Roger said grimly.
“The skirts have gotten even longer,” Louise’s voice was shrill with surprise. “What’s next? What do they call those things women wear in Afghanistan?”
“Burqas.” Deacon responded grimly. He never wanted to see one of them again.
Louise shook her head in disgust, and turned to Deacon to explain. “At first, when Willie started the church, just a few of the women started dressing different. Willie’s wife, and couple of the others, and it was just to church. Within a few months, they started wearing those little caps, but again just to church. And then, about a year ago, maybe even less, all of a sudden, a few women started wearing the clothes every day. I asked one of the other women at the kids’ school about it. I think it was right after Christmas, last year, I know it was cold. And she didn’t want to talk about it. Wouldn’t make eye contact and said we’d all be happier if everyone came to New Cornerstone.”
“What?” Deacon asked. “What’s that?”
“New Cornerstone. That’s the name of Willie’s church.”
Deacon’s earlier misgivings, that they should have let everything go and not come here at all, crashed back over him with force. No point in hiding his feelings. “Look, I’m not liking this. We’re here now, but let’s not dick around. I want to get in and out. From the time we walk through the door, let’s allow one hour.”
“I don’t think I can pack everything in that time,” Louise argued.
“No, he’s right,” Roger said softly. “I’m liking this less and less myself. Did you notice,” he said to his wife, “that Roshana’s Coffee was closed?”
“What?” Louise responded, her voice shrill with shock. “No.”
“I saw as we passed on Main Street.” Roger hesitated. “And it’s a nice day, but there wasn’t a single mom at the playground.”
“What the hell, Roger.” She turned to Deacon to explain. “In the mornings, a lot of the women with babies and toddlers would head to the playground in the town square after their older kids went to school. Have coffee, even lunch at Roshana’s. Doc and I used to joke that we didn’t need office hours - we could just show up at Roshana’s and do the prenatal and well-baby checks. Because everyone was there.”
“Roshana and her husband Jacob were conservative Jews,” Roger added, his voice flat.
“What do you think happened to them?” Louise asked quietly.
“I have no idea,” Roger responded quickly. “But six months ago, you could barely get in the door at eight in the morning, and now it’s closed.” The silence grew heavy in the truck. “Deacon’s right, Louise. One hour. He and I can get everything important loaded fast - the bedroom sets, the appliances. You pack what you can as fast as you can. Don’t worry about being neat or organized. Just throw things into boxes and tape them up. If we don’t get all the kids’ toys, they had too many anyway. Got it?”
Two minutes later, Roger piloted the truck down a cul-de-sac that contained no more than eight houses. Deacon saw no one.
Everything seemed to have been planned out meticulously. All the homes in Bowenville were log, looking as if they’d come from kits, but it was all top-shelf, every single one with wide porches and two car garages. The clean golden logs gleamed. All the homes had at least some landscaping, and late fall flowers, marigolds and chrysanthemums, were everywhere. Virtually every porch had at least one rocking chair, and most had porch swings. Even knowing what he knew now, that this was all a facade for something that was rapidly becoming ugly, it was hard not to be impressed. Still, the feeling that this was more movie set than real persisted.
The truck reached a home at the end of a cul-de-sac and Roger, never hesitating once, avoided the driveway and pulled onto the lawn, then around the side of the house to the back yard. Backing def
tly, he positioned the truck’s rear gate about five feet from the back deck.
Deacon saw that Roger’s statement had been spot-on. Due to the home’s location at the very end of the cul-de-sac, the back yard and back door were not visible from any other properties. Good, Deacon thought, that increased chances of success significantly. His brief optimism was replaced with wariness the moment he got out of the truck, however. To get to the back door, one had to cross the deck, and Deacon saw instantly that muddy footprints were plainly visible on the wide planks. Someone had used the back door to get into Roger and Louise’s house recently, definitely since the last time it rained.
“Hold on,” Deacon snapped, but it was too late. Louise had already thrown open the sliding door, which apparently had not even been locked, and walked inside. At speed, Deacon followed. “Hold on,” he repeated, more sharply. “Someone’s been here.” He walked through the kitchen, noticing peripherally that a black cap, just like the women they’d seen on the street had been wearing, sat on the kitchen table. Deacon stopped short in the door of the great room. Louise stood, her arms wrapped around another women, who was dressed in a long black skirt and light colored sweatshirt of some sort. Both women were crying.
Roger walked up behind Deacon, and took in the scene instantly. “Sandy, what’s wrong?” he asked as he hurried up to the two women. “Why are you dressed like that?”
Sobbing, Sandy pulled away from Louise and threw herself into Roger’s arms. Roger held her, looking over her head, first at his wife, then at his brother with a What the hell? expression.