What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  Her sister gave the food an appalled look. “You can’t seriously be planning to eat that disgusting monstrosity. Think of your hips. You’re already way too—”

  “You don’t have to eat it.” My burger. Mine, mine, mine.

  “Come to my exercise class tonight. It’s weightlifting and aerobic dance. That’ll sweat the pounds away.” Birgit patted her concave stomach.

  Honestly, my family. All of them obsessed with schedules and nutrition and exercise.

  “I prefer my aikido classes, thanks.” Way back in grade school, she’d won a rare battle with Mama and was allowed to take aikido instead of following her oh-so-graceful older sisters into dance classes. “And I jog, too.”

  At Birgit’s skeptical expression, Frankie smirked. “Just yesterday, in fact.”

  A friend’s crazy kids loved to fly drones. Unfortunately, the so-called drone obstacle avoidance stuff didn’t always work, and there were plenty of drone-meets-light pole crashes. She’d gotten plenty of exercise while chasing after the silly machines.

  “Stunning bodies take dedication, Francesca,” Birgit said.

  Don’t roll your eyes; don’t roll your eyes. Both of Frankie’s siblings approached exercise like a nun would the rosary. Why couldn’t Mama have been a lawyer or doctor? Or a farmer. Farming would be cool.

  But nooo. Norwegian and gorgeous, Mama had been a top model, married her favorite fashion photographer, the Bocelli, and opened a modeling agency.

  Birgit and Anja resembled Mama and were models.

  Frankie, the baby of the family, got Papà’sItalian DNA. Brown eyes, brown hair, and big breasts. At least she’d managed to be five-six, or she would’ve felt like a Hobbit. Papà’s mama was only five-one.

  “Really,” her sister continued, “you need to get into HIIT and alternate that with Pilates and—”

  “Birgit.” Years of experience let Frankie interrupt the rant. “What was it you needed?”

  “Oh, darling.” Birgit sat up. “You have to help me. Tomorrow, I have a fitting for an exercise clothing shoot, but there’s an afternoon reception for that new Vogue photographer, and I want to go. Can’t you talk with the wardrobe stylist and get her to move the time? She’s a self-centered putz, but everybody listens to you.”

  Frankie smothered a sigh. Despite the fancy “human resources coordinator” title, her job was basically running around and making sure everything went smoothly, even though problems should really be handled by the models’ agents. Even worse, her siblings always came to her, rather than their handlers.

  “Let me give Alsace a call and see if we can slide the fitting forward an hour. I’ll arrange a driver, so you won’t have to wait for a taxi.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, sis.”

  “Sure.”

  Birgit sauntered out of the room, her predatory runway strut so much a part of her that she probably couldn’t walk normally at this point. The high heels on her feet brought her height to well over six feet.

  Just looking at those shoes hurt. Frankie wiggled her toes. No matter what Mama thought about dressing up and wearing makeup to enhance an image, Frankie stuck to professional, but comfortable. There was a benefit to being in administration rather than on the catwalk.

  Before she could start on her lunch, two more models stopped in for advice on dealing with an overly handsy agent.

  Then a male model got sent to her office to discuss his temper, which was causing problems with…oh, just about everyone. After a chat, she gave him a card for a therapist who understood the odd stresses of the modeling profession.

  He scowled. “This’ll ruin my rep.”

  “Hey, this is New York.” Frankie motioned to the skyscrapers outside the window—probably still a great sight to someone from Nebraska. “Everyone’s in therapy.”

  His lips curved, and he grinned reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Francesca.”

  “Sure.”

  Before she could snatch a bite, a new model stopped in, an eighteen-year-old who was having problems coping. So young.

  Frankie dealt out her usual advice—having friends elsewhere and cultivating hobbies. If a person’s only form of validation came from her career, then any upset in the job world could be devastating. Someone with a variety of interests could shrug off an ugly comment about her appearance by thinking, maybe I messed this up, but I’m a good cook and great with people and can beat anyone at Monopoly.

  Once the girl was settled and thinking more clearly, Frankie rearranged schedules and recruited an older model who agreed to serve as mentor.

  The office empty again, she glanced at her burger. Cold. Yuck.

  Oh, well. Ruined lunch or not, she did enjoy keeping people happy and making things run smoothly. This was what she was good at.

  What her family needed from her.

  “Baby, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve seen today.” The silky-smooth voice from down the hall was all too recognizable—as was the line. Her ex-husband was trying to con another woman in his quest to get to the top.

  Giggles, murmurs.

  Wanting to gag, she considered shutting her door. Trying to warn Jaxson’s newest target wouldn’t work—Frankie would simply be considered a vindictive ex. Then again, if he hadn’t had an ironclad contract with Bocelli’s, she really would have asked Mama to show him the door. So, yes, maybe she was a little bit vindictive.

  Stopping in the doorway, Jaxson gave her a patronizing smile. He knew he was drop-dead gorgeous and could have any woman in the world.

  Except her, at this point.

  These days, oh-so-perfect males froze her emotions like a midwinter blizzard.

  “Did you need something, Jaxson?”

  “Love, Francesca, I need love.” His voice was raised enough for his latest conquest to hear.

  She snorted. “I think you’re getting adoration mixed up with love. Buy a dictionary.”

  He scowled, then spotted her lunch. “Pitiful. You know, if you’d go on a diet, fix yourself up, you might get a little love—or even adoration. Try it some time.”

  “Really?” she cooed in a breathy voice. “You really think so?”

  Before he could respond, she gave him a thin smile and turned her attention to her in-basket. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  With a grumble that sounded insulting, he disappeared.

  She shook her head. Not your best moment, Frankie. She didn’t usually let his slurs or her family’s obsession with appearance make her feel like the ugly runt of the litter.

  No, she wasn’t up to model standards, but she didn’t want to be a model. I’m healthy, pretty, have a lovely, lush body, gorgeous hair and eyes, and even better, a marvelous personality.

  Exactly so. Now move on.

  Exasperated with herself, she tossed the cold burger and fries into the wastebasket and returned to perusing her mail.

  Announcements. Office supplies. Schedule changes. Usually applications and resumes went to Mama, but, currently, Frankie received the business-related ones. If she ever wanted a vacation, she would need an assistant who could take her place, not a shared admin. Right now, anytime she mentioned time off, everyone in her family insisted she couldn’t be spared. That she was needed there, making things work right and smoothing over the entitled-diva messes.

  Frowning, she picked up the last piece of mail. Addressed to Francesca Bocelli, care of The Bocelli Agency.

  Frankie,

  I need help so bad.

  I’m trapped. Obadiah joined a militia—the Patriot Zealots—and brought us into their compound. He won’t let me leave. In fact, we moved someplace even more isolated—Rescue, Alaska.

  You were right, Frankie; he was such a mistake. He’s getting meaner, and he lets the leaders—

  The rest of the sentence was blotted out.

  If I don’t make it out, can you try to get Aric away from them? Here are papers I managed to fix up in case you need them.

  I know you’ll want to call the police for me, but y
ou mustn’t. One of the Rescue police is a member of the Patriot Zealots. Don’t call the FBI or others. Just don’t.

  But…please, Frankie. Get Aric out.

  Kit

  * * *

  Frankie realized her palms were pressed together in front of her chest. As if prayer would fix this. Kit, what have you fallen into? She opened the other papers. There was a form, witnessed by a couple of people, giving guardianship of Aric, Frankie’s godson, to her.

  It made sense. Aric wasn’t Obadiah’s birth son; the boy was three when Kit fell prey to the creep.

  There was also a handwritten list of the reasons why Frankie had been nominated as guardian and why no one else, especially Obadiah, should get oversight of the child.

  Pictures of Kit and Aric were enclosed. Frankie picked one up.

  Blond, blue-eyed Aric resembled his birth father—a man who’d been in Kit’s life for less than a week. She’d never even learned his last name.

  Since the picture of Aric showed him as around two years old, Kit’s first husband had probably taken the photos. Even though Aric wasn’t his, he’d been good to the boy, even when addicted to narcotics. He’d died of an overdose before the marriage was a year old.

  Poor Kit had crummy luck with men. While she was still reeling from her husband’s death, Obadiah scooped her up and married her.

  Frankie riffled through the photos and found none from this year. The religious fanatic of a spouse probably didn’t believe in cameras.

  Aric would be turning four this summer. “Get Aric out.” The little boy was in danger.

  Oh, Kit.

  As the words on the papers blurred, Frankie realized her hands were trembling. Cazzo. Fuck! She didn’t know what to do—but she had to do something.

  Roommates for much of college and a couple of years afterward, she and Kit were sisters-by-choice.

  Frankie’d been Kit’s birthing partner and helped raise little Aric until Kit married the first time. When the newlyweds moved to Texas, Frankie had bawled her eyes out.

  Sure, she had lots of friends, but none like Kit. No matter how much time or distance—and Texas was certainly distant—they always picked up where they’d left off.

  “Amica mia, you should have come back to New York when your husband died.” Instead, Obadiah had deluded Kit until she’d disappeared into “the little woman”. The perfect wife.

  Frankie had met the bastardo only once for a few seconds at the wedding. The conservative crackpot had already decided she was a bad influence on Kit. He’d pressured Kit until she’d stopped calling, writing, or visiting.

  Unwilling to cause problems, Frankie had honored Kit’s withdrawal. Obviously, that had been a mistake.

  Before Obadiah, they’d always been there for each other. Through missed job opportunities and celebrations and relationship disasters. After Kit moved, they’d spent hours on the phone. When Kit’s husband died, Frankie had flown to Texas, cared for Aric, and kept things going while Kit mourned.

  When Frankie’s marriage fell apart, Kit had come to New York. After lots of handholding and enduring the wailing and weeping—because Frankie wasn’t a silent sufferer—Kit had pushed her out of the house and back into living.

  Although not back into dating. Kit had always been more of an optimist there, which seemed strange since she had lousy taste in men. The dominant guys she fell for inevitably turned out to be creepers or controlling or basic assholes. Kit’s miserable childhood had left a glitch in her nice-guy radar.

  But Obadiah? “You really picked a bad one, this time.”

  Frankie read over the letter again.

  Alaska—seriously?

  But there was no way she’d leave her bestie or her godson with some abusive asshole. With luck, all Kit needed was someone pulling strings to get her and Aric out.

  I’m good at making things happen.

  If Kit needed more than that, well… Frankie pressed her lips together, determination rising inside her. She’d do what she had to do.

  She punched the office intercom button and waited until the shared administrative assistant answered. “Hey, Nyla. How would you like to hold down the hot seat for a while?”

  Her family would just have to cope.

  Chapter Two

  By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. ~ Benjamin Franklin

  * * *

  No taxis, no skyscrapers, no people. And now that she was off the Sterling Highway, there weren’t even paved roads.

  Welcome to Rescue, Alaska, huh?

  Admittedly, the scenery on the drive from Anchorage had been spectacular with stark, snow-covered mountains and foothills, deep river valleys, and miles of lush forests. Every time the road curved, another view had taken her breath away.

  As Frankie turned off Dall Road and onto a muddy dirt road, branches from the dense forest on each side clawed at her rented sedan. She winced at the harsh scraping noises. Sorry, car.

  Was the Patriot Zealot property around here? The teenaged gas station attendant in Rescue had given her directions, but there were an awful lot of small roads that branched off of Dall.

  She drove around another corner, and there it was. The home of the Patriot Zealots.

  Six-foot fencing topped with razor wire—seriously? Talk about unfriendly. A gate barred the way, and inside the fence, a small shack stood next to the road. Somehow, she doubted it was a bus stop, more like a guard hut.

  Up the slope, the cleared forest still lay under snow. High tunnel greenhouses dotted the fields. Farther away, log houses mixed with prefabs in an unsightly mess. The buildings were too distant to see the people. Are you there, Kit? Is Aric?

  At the gate, Frankie turned off her car and stepped out, avoiding a patch of ice. Brrr. The cold, damp air smelled like evergreens and snow with a hint of wood smoke—and was so clean her city lungs might go into shock.

  As she approached the gate, she heard barking. Two dogs jumped out of the hut, followed by a man who held a rifle. Frankie knew Obadiah was a Christian fundamentalist fanatic, but this place felt like a third-world prison camp.

  Her plan to loudly demand to see Kit was a bust. The isolation here and the guard’s rifle wiped out that strategy. In fact, telling these people she knew Kit would be a mistake. She needed more information first.

  Wearing a black winter jacket, jeans, and black boots, the scruffy-bearded guard scowled at the big black dogs. “Shut up. Sit.” After the dogs obeyed, he turned his attention to Frankie in a long, leering study. When his gaze lingered on her mouth, she was glad her coat covered her curves.

  To her relief, he angled the rifle so it didn’t point directly at her. “Are you lost?”

  “I don’t think so.” Frankie gave him a wide smile—something she rarely had to force, but everything about this place was creepy. “Is this where the Patriot Zealots live?”

  His face went cold. “Yeah, who wants to know?”

  “Uh, I do.” Duh. Am I not standing right here in front of you? “I heard my aunt joined and was here, and I thought I’d pop in for a visit. She’s getting old and—”

  “No visitors allowed.” He moved the rifle to cover her again. Cavolo, that was a big gun. Didn’t they have any laws in this state?

  She widened her eyes, all girly shock. “No visitors? Like, at all? How am I going to say hi?”

  He shook his head. “If yer aunt wanted to be around the modern world, she’d be out there. She wants to be here with no contact with the outside. No contamination, just peace.”

  “Huh. But what if she gets sick? She’s not young anymore.”

  “We care for our own.”

  “Can I leave a messa—”

  “You can fuckin’ leave.” He gestured with the rifle—such an unsafe move.

  “Okay, right.” She huffed out a breath and lifted her lips into another brainless smile. “Sorry I bothered you. You have a good day.”

  Followed by the dogs, he swaggered back to the guard shack.

  Turning
the car, she drove back down the road, suppressing the urge to peel out and splatter mud and rocks over the hut and stupid guard.

  So much for her idea that she could just make noise and get Kit and Aric out.

  Once around the bend of the road and out of sight, she pounded her fist on the steering wheel hard enough to hurt her hand. “Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!”

  Her Italian grandmother would’ve had a fit at such swearing. Women didn’t use the f-word—no matter what language. Then again, there had been that summer when the nasty rooster spurred Nonna, and Frankie’d learned a whole bunch of new Italian swear words.

  The rooster had made an excellent escarole soup, and the experience taught Frankie a valuable lesson—a sweet personality could exist side-by-side with a steely core.

  With a grunt, Frankie sat back. The swearing might relieve stress but didn’t offer any solutions.

  She pulled out onto Dall Road and headed back to Rescue. Contacting Kit would be difficult with that no visitors rule and no way to get a message into the place. For all Frankie knew, Kit might not even be in that—that compound. The cult compound.

  However, those Zealot members must visit town, sooner or later. For groceries, mail, gas. Or…maybe to go to a bar?

  She tapped her fingers on the wheel. Being discreet would be essential while making inquiries about the cult.

  Obtaining information and coming up with a safer plan might take a while. So…how to keep from sticking out like a sore thumb in the tiny town? The gas station owner had said this was the dead month for tourism. Ski season was over, and the fishing was just starting to pick up.

  Not that I resemble a fisherman, anyway. Cooking fish? She was a pro. Catching? No. Absolutely not. Pretending to be a tourist would be her last resort.

  She might need to find a job to blend in. If the summer season was starting soon, they’d be hiring, right?

  Even weird cult types had to buy food. They’d talk to clerks and salespeople. Being all self-sufficient and stuff, they probably didn’t go to restaurants. Did religious conservative types go to bars? Kit had told her that Obadiah didn’t drink.