The business owners had started their spring spruce-up. The two-story hardware store was now forest green. Obviously inspired, the sporting goods owner used the same color to paint the trim on his white building. The art gallery was pale yellow, the coffee shop green and white. Brightly colored, boxy clapboard buildings mingled with reproduction Victorian architecture creating a picturesque downtown, especially against the backdrop of snow-topped peaks to the south.
It’d taken a year of hard work, but the town was more tourist-friendly, as well. The sidewalks and streetlights had been repaired. Gabe had talked the town council into hiring the local handymen, Chevy and Knox, to build wooden benches.
Bull had purchased a batch of whiskey barrels, cut them in half, and handed them over to Mayor Lillian for the town’s gardeners to use as planters along Main Street. Now, they were filled with soon-to-bloom snapdragons.
With the snow beginning to melt, the locals who’d holed up for the winter were emerging to mingle with early fishermen and a spattering of tourists. The summer season would soon be in full swing.
It was good the roadhouse was hiring new waitstaff.
And one server, in particular, was fucking intriguing.
Bull had checked out Frankie’s paperwork before sending it off to his administrative assistant in Anchorage. Ms. Bocelli was a born-and-bred New Yorker. After high school, she’d worked in a restaurant, then in an office at a modeling agency. Gabe, being a paranoid cop, had run a background check, and Frankie had no record.
Bull nodded at a man coming out of the post office and held up an acknowledging hand to the postmistress’s hail. He should visit Irene; she knew almost as much gossip as Lillian.
Business by business, he made his way down Main Street, asking about sales, vandalism, shoplifting, and any other problems. He noted down suggestions and complaints.
Since he needed supplies, he visited Dante’s Grocery. In Anchorage, he bought in bulk for his three restaurants, but shopped locally for his own stuff. No one in Rescue wanted Dante’s to close.
“Sorry, Gryff.” Bull tied the dog’s leash to a street pole. “You have to wait out here. Food and fur make a bad combination.”
Gryff gave an anxious whine. It was the first time Bull’d left him when in town.
Bull went down on his haunches to talk on the dog’s level. “Listen, buddy. You’re on our team now, and we never leave anyone behind. I’ll grab the groceries and be back out. There’s a dog biscuit in your future if you’re patient, yeah?”
He got a long lick on his hand and chuckled. “Good enough.”
Entering the store, he did a quick survey. Thanks to Mako’s training and years in special ops, he doubted he’d ever lose the edgy awareness of his surroundings.
Behind the counter, Gabe’s woman, Audrey, was ringing up groceries for Lillian. Audrey stopped by the grocery each day to give Dante a break. She was a sweetheart—as all of Rescue had come to realize.
Down one aisle, a couple of Patriot Zealot men were shopping. Mirrors showed their women in another aisle.
Bull strolled over to the counter. “Audrey. Lillian.”
“Hi, Bull.” Petite and curvy, Audrey wore a gray T-shirt that matched her smoke-gray eyes. The writing on it made him grin—“I see you research without the librarian’s help. I, too, like to live dangerously.”
“Good morning, my boy.” Lillian tilted her head to accept a kiss on the cheek. Her smile faded to a small frown. “Your skin is brown enough that dark circles under your eyes aren’t as obvious as mine”—she patted her cream-white skin—“but I can see you haven’t gotten enough sleep.”
She was an observant woman. His dreams had been plagued with explosions from IEDs, rattled with gunfire, and streaked with blood. He’d woken, covered in sweat, and still feeling the grit of sand in his clothing and between his teeth. The nightmares had been his fault this time. He hadn’t banked the fire in the woodstove before going to bed, and the house had been too warm. Heat brought back…everything.
“Although I am a god among men”—he stroked his goatee—“even I occasionally have trouble sleeping at night.”
“What?” Audrey shook her head. “Uh-uh. I hate to tell you this, but Gabe is our local god.”
“No way.” He gave her an outraged stare. “To think you used to be my favorite.”
Her snicker stopped abruptly. “Just a minute…does losing favorite status mean you won’t make me smoked salmon chowder anymore?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited.
She huffed. “Fine, fine, you’re a god among men. Even Gabe would agree—as long as he gets that chowder.”
“Well played, my boy.” Chortling, Lillian patted his arm. “I’ll see you at poker night. Get some sleep before that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grabbing a basket, Bull headed for the produce aisle. The greenhouse at the Hermitage provided most salad makings, but he craved fresh fruit—even if it cost an arm and leg.
Near the potatoes were three Patriot Zealot women, two older and one in her twenties, all three in typical drab PZ attire.
He’d always wondered why the long hair when it was always in a bun. And the ankle-length skirts were so impractical, probably mandated simply to handicap their women.
The roadhouse’s new employee, Frankie, was chatting with the women.
Now what could a New Yorker and members of a religious militia have in common? Interested, he started picking through the apples, pretending not to listen.
“I love your clothes.” Frankie gestured to their long-sleeved blouses and skirts. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m…oh, flaunting myself…in what I wear. Do you feel safer when you wear more coverage?”
Bull blinked. Last night, she’d seemed completely comfortable in her skin. More than most women. Then again, he was male. What did he know?
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She had a fantastic body, all lush curves, and compelling brown eyes framed with long dark eyelashes.
She was so very female, yet not at all delicate or frail. Watching her work, he’d gotten the impression of resilience. Sturdiness, even. She wasn’t someone who’d fold under pressure. That was a character trait the Navy SEALs valued.
But…she did appear tired, and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. The thought was worrisome.
“The Prophet has told us what a good woman should wear, and our safety comes from following his guidance in all things,” the woman with gray streaks in her hair told Frankie.
While the younger PZ woman remained silent, the other two spoke in low voices of their contentment that God, the Prophet, and their husbands would handle everything. Their joy was in obedience.
Bull didn’t react. To each his or her own, and they sounded content. He and his brothers—especially Gabe—worried about the women behind the high PZ fences, but this group didn’t act as if they were imprisoned or unhappy.
“Your lives sound just wonderful.” Frankie beamed at them. “Do you suppose I could visit sometime? Maybe even talk to some people about…I don’t know…joining or something?” Her voice sounded higher than normal, her face guileless, and she came off as years younger. More innocent.
She wanted to visit the fanatics? For fuck’s sake. Still stalling, Bull dropped some oranges into his basket. The New Yorker hadn’t seemed like someone susceptible to a fucking cult. His muscles twitched with his urge to yank her away from the PZs.
She might not take that well.
Yet the staff in the restaurants was his responsibility, almost like an extended family. Damned if he wanted to think Frankie would imprison herself inside high fences where some asshole would dictate all her choices, from clothing to what to think. What would drive her to even consider that shit?
Well, he’d keep an eye on her. However, since she didn’t like him, maybe he could get Felix to talk with her.
Whatever was wrong, Bull would help if he could.
* * *
Kit. The shock of seei
ng her best friend still reverberated through Frankie. She’d walked into the grocery, and there was Kit. Unfortunately, her friend was accompanied by not only the women, but male PZs.
Emotions pelted Frankie like a hailstorm. The same height as Frankie, Kit had always been more slender. Now she was emaciated, with hollowed cheeks. Her fair skin was sallow, her gold-brown hair yanked back tightly in a bun. She wore an ankle-length, heavy, black skirt and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Her amber eyes were haunted and exhausted. A yellowing bruise covered her left jaw, and she moved…carefully. Like she hurt.
Cazzo, Kit.
Frankie kept smiling and talking, trying to appear as if she was eating up what the middle-aged Patriot Zealot women said. Kit had yet to speak. Maybe the younger PZs weren’t allowed to talk when out in public? Or the older women wouldn’t let her.
Frankie’s palm tingled because… No, you mustn’t slap anyone. Concentrate.
She nodded at appropriate moments. “That makes sense.” No, no, it didn’t. How could anyone take orders from some male nutcase on how to dress and who she could talk to? Count me out.
When one of the women stiffened, Frankie followed her gaze. The giant bartender moved away and turned the corner to a different aisle. How long had he been in the produce section? Had he heard their conversation? What must he think of her?
Then again, why should she care?
She turned her attention back to the women. To Kit. They needed to talk.
But how? Obviously, nothing would be said in front of Kit’s babysitters. Okay, then. How inventive could Kit be?
“Oh, oh, shoot.” Frankie interrupted one of the older women. “I might have left my car unlocked.” The near falsehood bothered her, but it wasn’t…exactly…a lie. She hadn’t left the car unlocked, but she might have. “There are a lot of tourists in town.”
“City people are all thieves,” one woman said. “You’d best go check.”
A thief, am I? Frankie smiled. “Nice to meet you all.”
At the front, she walked past the bartender who was talking with Audrey. “Audrey, I need to check something in my car. I’ll be back for my groceries.” She set her basket down near the counter and headed out.
She could feel Bull’s gaze on her back.
Outside and away from a big brown dog that was tied to a streetlight, she stood by the wall. Would Kit be able to come up with an excuse and lose her watchers so they could talk?
Her breathing sped up at the thought of Kit trapped in that place. Being hurt. Unable to call for help.
The door opened, and Kit stepped out and looked around. In the grocery, someone called, “Stay right outside, woman.”
Staying out of sight of anyone inside, Frankie called softly, “Here.”
“Frankie, Oh, sweet Jesus, Frankie!” Kit started to rush over, then halted when Frankie held up her hand. Stop.
“Lean against the building by the door, so your asshole PZs can see your back but not your face.” Frankie remained close to the wall. The minute someone came out, she’d walk away and not appear as if she’d been talking to Kit.
As Kit turned and stood in sight of the window, Frankie frowned at the bruise. “Did Obadiah hit you?”
Kit nodded, her shoulders rounding as if the facial damage was the least of what she’d suffered.
“Amica mia, you mustn’t go back there. Come with me now, and I’ll have you in—”
“They have Aric. I can’t leave without him.” Kit’s voice, normally bright and clear, was a pain-filled, hoarse whisper. “They only let me out today because they want my advice about buying berry bushes from Soldotna.”
All plants grew better with Kit’s help. Under her hands, even the worst soil grew wonders.
“Then we should go to the police to get Aric out.” Frankie held up a hand. “Right, I remember. Someone in the police is a PZ, so we’ll call the FBI or—”
Kit shook her head frantically. “The guards would kill Aric before the cops could get through the gate. Eventually, maybe, someone would find his body in the forest, and they’d say he ran away and got killed by a bear or something.”
Gut-wrenching horror propelled Frankie forward. Her godson wasn’t even five years old yet. “No one would do that.”
“They would.” Kit swallowed. “They have. At least twice in the Texas compound before I joined them.”
How long could someone live in such fear? “Just take Aric and run.”
“It’s…impossible. First, all the young ones stay in the children’s barracks, day and night, with a matron. The women sleep in a building next door unless a husband wants…” Kit wrapped her arms around herself.
Unless a husband wanted his conjugal rights? A flare of anger shot through Frankie. No, concentrate. “So, you don’t get to see him?”
“Well…” Kit hesitated. “Aric sneaks away to be with me. A lot.”
“But you can’t just…escape?” Frankie frowned. “I saw the fence and gate in front. How far does it—”
“All the way around the compound. With guards and watchtowers and guns.” Kit shook her head, shoulders sagging. “Maybe we could hide from the guards…at night…but I sure couldn’t climb that fence, especially with Aric.”
All that razor wire on top. No one could. Frankie scowled. “Why don’t the other women do anything? If all of you revolted…”
“Some women would leave if they could get their children. But some are there because they want to be. Like them.” Kit motioned toward the grocery store. “They believe with all their heart in the Prophet, Reverend Parrish. They tell Captain Nabera if anyone talks about leaving or criticizes anything.”
Before Frankie could ask, Kit added, “Nabera likes hurting people—especially women.”
Madonna, how was she going to get Kit and Aric out? “I’ll tell the FBI, and they’ll surround the place so no one—”
“No. It’d end up being another Waco or Ruby Ridge shootout where kids got killed along with the adults. No.”
“Then”—Frankie’s hands fisted—“how can I help?”
Kit’s gaze was despairing. “You can’t. I’m so sorry; I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
I won’t accept that answer. “What if I cut a hole in the fence? At night?”
Kit blinked. “A hole. To let us out through the fence. Maybe…maybe. Our two buildings are next to the fence. If we could crawl out through the fence behind the buildings, we’d only have to dodge one patrolling sentry.”
“Okay, then. One hole coming up. When?” Frankie hesitated. “I need time to figure out how to get to the right place.” Her courage vacillated. That area was all forest.
“Frankie, this isn’t safe for you. You could—”
“When, Kit?”
“Ahhh, it needs to be a Saturday—that’s when Obadiah drives the captain and other lieutenants into town for drinks. There’ll be fewer guards, and with the Captain gone, they get lax on their rounds. Today’s Thursday. So not this Saturday.”
“Okay.”
Kit’s wry expression held some of her old spirit. “I’m afraid the forest doesn’t have street signs. You’ll need to figure out how to get to the compound…at night. Maybe a week from this Saturday? As soon as it’s full dark?”
“Yes.” Frankie whipped out her phone. “Saturday, May eleventh. Full dark.” Full dark didn’t occur until late at night. She’d have to take that into her calculations. “If something happens, either on my part or yours, is there a way to make contact?”
“No. Only the Prophet and Nabera have phones.”
“Stronzi,” Frankie hissed. “Fine, if something happens, we’ll rain check until the next Saturday…until the time it all comes together.”
Relief filled Kit’s face even as her brows drew together. “It’s not safe for you. Frankie, I don’t even know how long I’ll be here. Obadiah plans to take us back to Texas sometime this summer.”
Just then the grocery door opened.
Even as Kit
turned, Frankie shot her a look—We have a plan—then strolled away down the street as if that’s what she’d been doing all along. All she wanted was to confront those PZs. Hit them and show them what it felt like to be beaten-up.
Swearing under her breath, she circled the block and returned to Dante’s Grocery.
The PZs were gone.
Still tied up, the pretty brown dog stood and wagged its tail.
“Aren’t you a sweetie.” Frankie held her hand out. She’d never had a pet, but quite a few of her friends had pets—usually apartment-sized ones. “I’m Frankie, and I’m friendly, too.”
After a good sniff, the dog thrust its head under her hand.
She laughed. “All right then.”
Seeing a few healing gashes on his ears, paws, and muzzle, she stroked him carefully, avoiding anything that might be sore. “Whatever you’ve been doing, you need to be more careful, okay? Now, I need to get my groceries before everything melts. It was nice to meet you.”
She got a dog-smile in return.
Inside the grocery store, the bartender—no, she needed to stop thinking of him like that. He was Bull. She was so slow-witted, it’d taken her a whole day to put Bull the bartender together with Bull’s Moose Roadhouse and ask Felix if Bull, the bartender, owned the place.
The man was her employer, and everybody liked him, except her. Then again, people showed a different side of themselves to work associates. She’d just been lucky—unlucky—enough to see him with his lover.
After all, everybody at the modeling agency liked Jaxson—except for the women he’d screwed over who thought he was the biggest wart on the face of the planet.
“Was your car all right?” Audrey asked, turning toward Frankie.
What exactly had she told Audrey and Bull about her car? That seemed ages ago. “Um, fine. All fine.”
After a searching stare, Bull picked up her basket of groceries and set it on the counter for her. “So, how are you settling in?”
Oh, no, not conversation. It was the last thing she wanted right now when all her thoughts were focused on Kit.
Get it together. You’re a tourist who took a job for fun. Focus, Frankie.
What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 6