The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  “My children have treated you with hospitality, I trust?” Father asked.

  “Everyone has been friendly,” Mallory said. “This is an amazing property.”

  “Thank you.” A smile touched Father’s lips. He gestured. “Please, sit.”

  Mallory, Ben, and Tabitha eased into the wingback chairs. Instead of rolling onto the raised platform, Father nudged aside one of the chairs and positioned himself directly across from Mallory.

  She could barely pull her gaze away from him. She had the sense that everything about him—the wheelchair, the black clothing, the beard, the wild Afro and tinted glasses, the formal manner of speaking—served as a prop in a calculated performance. This man was playing a role. It was only her intuition, but something about him didn’t add up.

  Or perhaps, because she had never in her life met anyone like him, living in a place like this, she didn’t want to accept that it was possible such an individual existed.

  She knotted her hands in her lap. Clammy sweat saturated her palms, and she rubbed her hands against her jeans.

  “My sister, Liz.” She paused, gathering her nerve. “May I see her, please?”

  Tabitha looked away, shielding her eyes with her hand. Father pursed his lips.

  “I apologize for what my daughter has told you,” Father said. “I never approve of lying. Please know that once I learned of her dishonesty, I insisted upon appropriate discipline.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Ben asked, but Mallory put her hand on Ben’s forearm, squeezed.

  “You deserve the truth,” Father said.

  “That’s all I want, the truth.” Her voice trembled. She felt hot tears hanging like curtains in her eyes. “Please. Tell me.”

  “Elizabeth departed this world for everlasting glory five years ago,” Father said. “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s . . . she’s dead?” Mallory’s heart stuttered.

  Tabitha hurried out of the room, a tortured sob escaping her. Lips pursed tightly, Father watched Tabitha leave, clenched his hands into fists.

  “Yes,” Father said. “She is gone.”

  “H-h-how?” Mallory asked. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Ben put his hand on her leg, rubbed. “How did she die?”

  “She was quite ill. We provided the best medical care available. It was not enough. I am sorry. It’s been a tremendous loss for the family. We miss her every day.”

  “What kind of sickness did she have?” Mallory asked.

  An emotion that looked like irritation registered on Father’s face, for only a beat, and then it flickered away.

  “Cancer was the diagnosis,” he said.

  “Cancer of what?” Mallory leaned forward in the chair. “It’s important for me to know these details, please.”

  “Mallory—” Ben started.

  Mallory shot him a warning look. Stay out of it. Ben clamped his mouth shut.

  “Brain cancer,” Father said. “She had a malignant tumor on her cerebellum, known in medical circles as a cerebellar astrocytoma. As I said, she received the best medical care available.”

  Mallory leaned back in the chair. She felt as if the oxygen had been vacuumed out of her lungs, leaving her as deflated as a punctured balloon.

  She’s dead.

  The cool parlor felt as chilly as an icebox, the marble floor like a sheet of Artic permafrost beneath her shoes.

  I finally discover where she lived, and she’s already dead.

  But she couldn’t accept this outcome; she would not. It felt wrong. It felt like a lie. She could not trust these people to tell her the truth about Liz. She had to keep digging. She had to keep pushing. To tell her Liz was dead was the easiest kind of fabrication, and while it might have thrown an ordinary person off the trail, Mallory wasn’t the one to give up so easily.

  Digging her fingers into the armrest cushions, she raised her chin. “What next, then?”

  As Father cleared his throat, Tabitha returned to the room. She blotted her tear-reddened eyes with a handkerchief, dropped back into her chair.

  “What next?” Father smiled. “You are welcome to stay with us here at Sanctuary, for a time. You are family, Sister Mallory. It would give me great comfort to have you here with us. Will you accept my invitation?”

  Mallory’s response was immediate: “Absolutely, I would love that, thank you.”

  And while I’m here, I’m going to find out the truth.

  17

  “But you cannot stay at Sanctuary, Mr. Whitfield.” Father turned to Ben. “You are not kin.”

  “Right.” Ben tossed an incredulous glance at Mallory. “Can we talk for a minute, babe? In private?”

  “Excuse us,” Mallory said.

  Mallory and Ben gathered in a small alcove off the main corridor, out of earshot from their hosts. Yet, another dazzling painting of Father dominated the adjoining wall, his watchful gaze focused on them. Father sees all.

  Ben leaned in close to her. Fire flared in his eyes, but he spoke in a whisper.

  “What’s going on here, Mal? You want to stay?”

  “He’s lying about Liz,” she whispered back.

  “Jesus Christ.” Ben dug his fingers into his scalp as if to tear out the meager amount of hair he still had left. “Mal, this is nuts. You’re obsessed. I’m sorry about your sister but you need to accept it. This is where the road ends. It’s over.”

  Mallory’s jaws clenched. She had to dial back the raw emotional response that made her want to smack him across the face. Why couldn’t he see what was so plainly obvious to her? Father was clearly lying. Liz was alive.

  But what if Ben’s right? What if I’m only blinded by hope and refusing to accept the truth?

  She couldn’t accept the idea. She wasn’t blinded; her vision was clear. Liz was alive. Liz was there at Sanctuary, somewhere. She could feel it in her bones as surely as she felt the floor beneath her shoes.

  “I hate to say it, but this has always been your issue,” Ben said. “You’re too stubborn, and sometimes it hurts you. I’m afraid it’s going to hurt you here, Mal.”

  “Have you been paying attention to these people?” she asked. “Do you really trust Father?”

  “I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.” A jittery laugh escaped Ben. “But I don’t like the idea of you being here on your own. Are they going to make you a Bride or something, huh? Slap a white costume on you, throw you outside in the heat of the day and order you to pull weeds till your fingers bleed?”

  Although he kept his voice to a whisper, she heard the quaver in his voice. He was more frightened for her than she was for herself, she realized; sometimes in her headlong rush to follow her intuition she tended to lose herself in the chase and failed to see the caution signs that were obvious to others. It was selfish of her to pursue this line further without taking his feelings into account.

  She pulled one of his hands into hers, held tight.

  “I’m going to be okay, promise,” she said. “I’ll stay only through the weekend, at the longest.”

  “Through the weekend?” He groaned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Why don’t you stay in town, close by? There’s a motel, remember? I know it’s not the Four Seasons, but you aren’t picky.”

  “I could talk to Cecil Roberts.” Ben massaged his gray-flecked goatee, his eyes glistening as the machinery in his brain cranked into gear. “That guy knows something. He was going to talk to us until Thelma May came in and busted it up.”

  “You work the angle outside in town, and I’ll work it in here on site,” she said. “We’ll tag team it, like the old days.”

  “Like the old days, huh?” He chuckled. “When I lugged around my camera and you ordered me around like a lackey?”

  “You loved it though, admit it. Your taste of the limelight. You got an award out of it.”

  “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.” Sighing, he rested his big hands on her shoulders. “Mal, you’ve gotta promise me, if th
ings go off the rails in here, you’ll contact me, and we’ll get you out of here. Deal?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Why did I know you would say that?” He leaned in, kissed her. “But please, be careful.”

  When they returned to the parlor, Father watched them expectantly, and Tabitha was standing, hands clasped behind her back. She gave them a cautious smile like a defendant awaiting a jury’s verdict.

  “Is it settled?” Tabitha asked. “You’ll stay?”

  “I’ll stay a day or two if you’ll have me,” Mallory said.

  “Excellent.” Father beamed. He clapped once, an explosive sound.

  “There is one small matter,” Tabitha said, doubt clouding her face again. “We’ll have to confiscate your electronic devices, Aunt Mallory.”

  “Excuse me?” Mallory asked.

  “Your phone, your computer, your tablet, and whatever other such items you may have brought here.” Tabitha lifted her chin proudly. “They are not allowed in Sanctuary.”

  Mallory turned to Ben. He shook his head, his I told you these people were nuts expression on his face.

  “If I refuse?” Mallory asked.

  “You may refuse if you wish.” Father shrugged his narrow shoulders. “These are non-negotiable terms for your visit.”

  “We saw a surveillance camera posted at the front gate,” Mallory said. “You contacted me via a genealogy web site, Tabitha—heck, you ditched me at lunch when you got a ride by a Lyft driver. How can you claim you guys are anti-technology?”

  “That is a fair argument, but there are those who would seek to discredit me, to smear the wonderful work we do at Sanctuary.” Father’s lips curled in a thin smile. “You are family, but you are also an investigative journalist of some renown.”

  “You don’t trust me,” Mallory said.

  Father answered with a tilt of his head and another humorless smile.

  Mallory unzipped her backpack. She hauled out her iPhone, her tablet, her laptop, stacking them on an empty chair.

  “I can take that stuff with me,” Ben said.

  “No, it’s fine.” Mallory looked at Tabitha. “As a show of good faith, I’ll hand them over to you as you asked.”

  “These items will be kept in our family’s storage safe,” Tabitha said. “You’ll get them back when you leave.”

  “If there’s an emergency,” Ben said. “How can I reach her? Does anyone here have a telephone? Is there a number I can call?”

  “Aunt Mallory will be here with her family,” Tabitha said. “You know how to locate us, Mr. Whitfield.”

  Ben muttered under his breath. Mallory accompanied him to the front door.

  “I’m already missing you,” he said.

  “You’re sweet.” She held him close, put her lips to his ear, and whispered: “Now let’s get to work, partner.”

  18

  Shortly after Ben departed, Tabitha pressed a button on a wall panel that looked like a doorbell. Within a minute, a young woman wearing the full white “Bride” outfit arrived in the main corridor, the hem of her garment whispering across the hardwood floor as she strode toward them.

  Mallory placed the girl’s age at perhaps twenty-one. She was petite and beautiful, with striking dark eyes and regal features. Hands clasped in front of her, she met Mallory’s curious gaze for a beat, then glanced away as if caught in a criminal act.

  “This is Rachel,” Tabitha said. “Rachel, take Aunt Mallory to the Cheshire guest suite and help her settle in. She’s family and will staying with us for a short time.”

  Ever so slightly, Rachel inclined her head toward Mallory.

  “Wait, can I speak to Father?” Mallory asked. “I have a lot of questions.”

  “Father will be available at dinner this evening,” Tabitha said. “He’s a busy man. Running Sanctuary demands his full attention.”

  “I’ve got questions for you, too,” Mallory said. “Why’d you lie to me about my sister? You told me she was alive.”

  “Her spirit lives on forever,” Tabitha said smoothly. “Now, Aunt Mallory, I’ve got work to attend to myself, but I will check on you soon. You’re in good hands with Rachel.”

  In a swirl of blue fabric, Tabitha hurried away down the corridor, disappeared in another room. Mallory stepped to the parlor entrance, but Father had already departed via another doorway at the far end of the chamber.

  Silent, Rachel waited for her to follow.

  “If we’re going to be hanging out, you need to speak to me,” Mallory said. “How long have you lived here at Sanctuary?”

  Rachel didn’t speak. But her tongue peeked from between her lips for a micro-second, and Mallory caught a glimpse of white teeth, as if she wanted to speak and struggled to suppress the natural inclination to do so.

  “Is it forbidden for you to talk?” Mallory asked.

  Lips buttoned, Rachel nodded.

  How does a girl her age wind up living somewhere like this? She should be in college, for God’s sake, out exploring the world and enjoying life. Where are her parents? Who brought her here?

  Father was the oldest person Mallory had seen thus far at Sanctuary, and he was barely older than she was; she doubted he was forty. It seemed improbable that he was literally Rachel’s biological father, too.

  If she insisted upon a tour of Sanctuary at some point, she would be certain to encounter more residents of this bizarre compound, and perhaps she could discover answers to her growing list of questions.

  “Well, take me to the guest room, please.” Mallory hiked her backpack over one shoulder.

  Something that looked like relief passed over the girl’s face. Putting those questions to the girl had stressed her, Mallory figured. She needed to be careful about what she said to these people. She didn’t want to get anyone in trouble or make their already unusual lives more difficult.

  Rachel spun around on her heel and walked down the corridor. Mallory followed a couple of paces behind.

  They passed several rooms. A large library, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with volumes. A dining hall dominated by a massive banquet table that could have seated twenty people. Another immense, high-ceilinged room with a fireplace, full of antique furniture and heavy curtains veiling the long windows.

  In two of the rooms they passed, Mallory spotted other Brides. They were working diligently: one of them dusted a marble mantle with a feathery duster; the other was on hands and knees, cleaning baseboards with a pad. Neither of them looked up when they passed.

  Rachel ascended the spiral staircase, glanced over her shoulder as if to confirm Mallory followed.

  “Everyone here works so hard,” Mallory said. “The women, that is, as usual. I wonder if they ever get a break.”

  Rachel didn’t answer, and Mallory didn’t expect a response, though she hoped for at least a murmur of agreement, perhaps a slight nod, something to confirm a silent rapport. But Rachel gave neither.

  At the top of the landing, Rachel swept forward to the right. They traveled along a dramatic open-air catwalk and reached an intersecting corridor. More rooms branched off the hallway, the doors shut.

  Rachel stopped at the third room and opened the door. She stood aside in the hallway, beckoned for Mallory to enter.

  It was a simple, well-furnished bedroom, fastidiously neat like every other corner of the mansion. Hardwood floor. A gold-trimmed ceiling fan festooned with ornate lights. A four poster, queen size bed, a dresser with an attached mirror, an upholstered chair, a writing desk flanked by a leather chair, a lined notepad and ink pen lying on the desk.

  A window outfitted with wooden plantation shutters overlooked the lush, dense woodlands encircling the property’s northern edge.

  “Looks like a suite at the Marriott.” Mallory placed her backpack beside the desk and unzipped a pocket. There was neither a telephone nor a digital clock in the room. A miniature grandfather clock stood at the corner of the de
sk, ticking away the minutes.

  Rachel paused on the room’s threshold, her face as placid as an ascetic’s.

  “Can you show me to a restroom, please?” Mallory removed a tampon pack from her bag.

  Rachel led her two doors down, to a basic restroom. It had a clawfoot porcelain tub, a wash basin with mirror, and toilet. The tile floor sparkled. The room smelled of freshly applied pine disinfectant.

  “Appreciate it,” Mallory said, but Rachel was already striding away.

  I’ve got to find a way to communicate with these girls, Mallory thought. What if they have information about Liz?

  Inside the bathroom, she closed the door, locked it. She checked to ensure that no surveillance cameras were posted in the room.

  Finally, she removed the black ink pen that had been clipped inside the back pocket of her jeans. The pen served as a writing instrument—and, a clandestine digital recorder.

  She was in violation of Sanctuary rules, but there would be no revelations without risk.

  19

  When Mallory returned to the guest room, Rachel was gone.

  Mallory wanted to shriek in frustration. She’d hoped to establish a line of communication with the girl, had calculated using the pen and paper on the writing desk could—

  She suddenly realized the items on the desk had been disturbed. Moving closer, she found the pen had been shifted to the edge of the desk, and a ragged half-page served as the top sheet of the notepad.

  A front pocket of her backpack had been unzipped, too.

  Mallory dug inside the open compartment and found the half sheet of paper that had been ripped from the notepad. Words had been scribbled on the page in black ink, in rushed handwriting.

  Get out! No sanctuary here. Father sees all.

  ***

  A chill dripped along the channel of her spine.

  Obviously, the girl had left this warning for her. Mallory’s need to talk to Rachel smoldered like heartburn in her chest. The girl might be her first true ally at Sanctuary, an insider willing to share the truth. One lesson she’d learned from her years of investigative journalism was that no contact was as valuable as a deeply embedded source willing to reveal all the dirt.