The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  But where is she now?

  Must speak to someone willing to give me truthful answers. Rachel is only lead so far. Need to get private time with her.

  She tapped her pen against her bottom lip. She hoped Ben was having better luck snooping around in town. Sanctuary was full of secrets, she was convinced, but she had been unable to dig up any of them.

  At six o’clock sharp, according to the miniature grandfather clock on the desk, Tabitha returned to take her downstairs.

  Dinner was held in the mansion’s dining hall, at the gigantic mahogany banquet table that dominated the center of the chamber. A huge crystal chandelier hung above the room, showering the area in golden light.

  Tabitha ushered Mallory to a high-backed seat at one end of the table. At the opposite end, a chair that looked like a throne stood. Presumably, it belonged to Father.

  The table had been set for dinner: pristine white tablecloth, cloth napkins, crystal stemware, and fine bone china place settings had been arranged. There were settings prepared for three diners, including Mallory.

  Tabitha took the chair to Mallory’s left. Only one spot away. Still keeping a tight leash. Mallory noticed a small silver bell next to Tabitha’s space, like something one would use to summon a servant.

  Once Tabitha was seated, she tinkled the bell. In less than a minute, a Bride that Mallory recognized as Rachel bustled through a pair of French doors on the left side of the room. She carried a silver water pitcher brimming with iced water.

  Mallory’s heart rate picked up. She tried to conceal her excitement at seeing the young woman again. All she needed was some time alone with Rachel, an opportunity to open the lines of communication, cut through the Sanctuary dogma and get some direct answers.

  If Rachel was pleased to see her, too, she didn’t let it show. Her face bore the same expression Mallory had noticed on all the Brides: bland indifference. Arriving at the table, she deftly filled their water glasses. She floated like a ghost to the other end of the table and filled the glass at Father’s seat, too.

  “Will Father be joining us soon?” Mallory asked.

  “If his spirit moves him.” Tabitha’s lips parted in an enigmatic smile. “But yes, I’d expect he will arrive shortly. He wouldn’t want to disappoint our honored guest.”

  Rachel disappeared through the French doors. Mallory detected the delicious aromas of something baking drifting from the doorway: it smelled like sweet potato pie.

  “What’s on the menu?” Mallory asked.

  “Whatever meal Father has decreed necessary for our sustenance,” Tabitha said.

  “Of course. He knows what we need.” Mallory didn’t try to mask her sarcasm.

  Suddenly, Tabitha rose from her chair, and impatiently indicated Mallory should do the same. Mallory stood, looked over her shoulder.

  Father entered the room. He was alone. He had changed into a three-piece black suit, a red rose pinned to his lapel. He reminded Mallory of a funeral director.

  “Good evening, family.” Father inclined his bushy head toward Mallory. Mallory only stared at him, his prior rudeness fresh in her mind.

  Tabitha hurried to the other end of the table. When Father reached her, she helped him out of the wheelchair and into the thronelike seat. Keeping his gaze on Mallory, Father snapped out the cloth napkin with a pop and covered his lap.

  “You may be seated,” Father said.

  Biting her tongue against a sarcastic remark, Mallory sat. Tabitha returned to her seat.

  “Have you enjoyed your stay thus far, Sister Mallory?” Father asked. He swirled the ice cubes in his water glass. “I trust we have been gracious hosts?”

  Except when you slammed the door in my face? Sure.

  “Everyone has been friendly,” Mallory said. “Where is Nana? Will she dine with us?”

  “Nana takes her meals in her chamber,” Father said.

  “Nimrod?” Mallory asked.

  “My brother enjoys the company of his dogs,” Tabitha said. She giggled. “He isn’t one for dinner chatter with guests.”

  Sounds like one big happy family, Mallory said.

  “Would my sister dine with the family?” Mallory asked. “Swan, as you called her?”

  Father had been raising the water glass to take a sip, but at her words, his lips puckered as if he’d bitten into an especially tart lemon.

  “It is painful for me to dwell on such memories,” Father said. “Bittersweet. Daughter, bread, please.”

  Tabitha rang the bell, a single chime. Rachel returned bearing a large basket heaped with golden rolls of bread and a plate of butter. Using tongs, she deposited a single roll on Father’s bread plate; she stood by while Father meticulously slathered butter over the bread. Then Rachel came to Mallory to serve her.

  “I can do it myself,” Mallory said, reaching for the tongs.

  “It is a pleasure for these young women to serve,” Father said. “Do not deny them this simple joy.”

  “How do you know it’s a pleasure for them?” Mallory asked. “I haven’t heard a single one of the so-called Brides speak, even when I’ve asked them a direct question.”

  Was that a glimmer of amusement she caught in Rachel’s eyes as the girl put a roll on her plate?

  “The Brides have nothing to say,” Father said. Behind the tinted lenses of the glasses, his eyes were beads of black ink. “They have pledged to serve in silence. They honor their vows. Please respect their commitment.”

  Mallory dabbed butter on the roll and took a small bite. The warm bread was fresh from the oven, and delicious.

  Rachel served Tabitha and returned to the kitchen.

  “I don’t understand any of this business with the Brides,” Mallory said. “But I want to know more about my sister’s life here. Who is the father of her children?” Mallory cut a glance at Tabitha, shifted her gaze back to Father. “Is it you? Biologically speaking, I mean.”

  “I am their father in every way that a man can be a father.” Father cut a small piece of the roll. He ate daintily, with small cuts and tiny bites, like a child. “Daughter, please commence our evening’s entertainment.”

  Tabitha rang the bell three times. Two Brides that Mallory had earlier seen cleaning the house entered the dining room. One of them, the smaller young woman, sat on a stool next to a large item covered with a velvet cloth. She slid away the cloth, revealing a pedal harp fashioned from wood, the strings glimmering in the light.

  The other Bride waited nearby. She spread her legs and raised her arms like a dancer preparing to perform. She wore white ballerina flats.

  You’ve gotta be kidding me, Mallory thought.

  The Bride-harpist began to strum a classic composition that Mallory recognized as “Swan Lake” by Tchaikovsky. The Bride-dancer launched into a routine that emphasized the song’s dramatic turns. She pirouetted, leaped, and pranced about the room. Clearly, the young ladies had received arts training at some point in their lives. It perplexed and frustrated Mallory. How had these women wound up there?

  Father watched the performance, nibbling on tiny pieces of bread like a rodent munching on an acorn. He’d claimed he was Tabitha and Nimrod’s biological father, and Mallory could see the family resemblance. What she was no closer to understanding was how Liz had wound up there at Sanctuary in the first place. And where was she now?

  When the performance concluded, Father and Tabitha applauded heartily, and Mallory gave a few small claps. She felt terrible for these girls and didn’t want to participate in this absurd spectacle.

  The Brides filed out of the room. Mallory nudged aside her plate and turned her attention on Father.

  “How did my sister come to live here?” Mallory asked. “I really need to understand.”

  “Her heart led her to Sanctuary,” Father said. It was a smooth, practiced response that he probably had repeated a hundred times. “Our doors are always open for young, needful souls.”

  “When our mother was killed, we were declared wards of th
e state—orphans,” Mallory said. “A family in Atlanta adopted me, a wonderful couple. Someone adopted Liz, too. Who?”

  “You are a prize-winning investigative journalist,” Father said. “I would expect you would have discovered those details on your own.”

  “Those adoption records are sealed by the state court of Georgia,” Mallory said. “But you must know: how did she get here?”

  “Her heart—” he started.

  “—led her here, right,” Mallory finished. “This is a long way from Atlanta, in the middle of nowhere. Liz showed up at the gates one day and asked to live here?”

  “Have you ever allowed your heart to guide you, Sister Mallory?” Father asked. He sipped water, nibbled on bread. “You should. You might be astonished where it would lead you. I would submit, in fact, that following your heart has led you here to Sanctuary.”

  “It’s a blessing to have you here, Aunt Mallory.” Tabitha covered Mallory’s hand with hers and grinned. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

  “You are family, Sister Mallory,” Father said.

  Mallory gave them a bland smile. Did they think she was an idiot? She could see through this game of theirs. Deflect whenever she asked a direct question about Liz, mumble some platitudes about the wonders of Sanctuary, fawn over how pleased they were that she had come. But she had learned little to nothing about her sister, and it was obvious: Father wasn’t going to share a word that could incriminate him.

  Tabitha tinkled the bell, once. Rachel returned bearing a large salad bowl and silver tongs. She distributed a small serving of the leafy greens on each of their plates.

  Mallory devoured the food. She wanted to hate it, but everything was freshly prepared and tasty, and she was ravenous. Salad was followed by a hot, savory broth chock-full of vegetables. After the soup, the main course was served: braised eggplant spiced with herbs sitting atop a fragrant bed of wild rice and mushrooms. For dessert, there was warm sweet potato pie served a la mode with homemade vanilla ice cream.

  Mallory focused on her food and gave up the line of questioning about Liz. Tabitha and Father chatted endlessly about how great it was to live at Sanctuary but were vague on the specifics of why life there was so grand, and Mallory didn’t bother to ask. She felt as if they were recruiting her, as pointless as it was, and she let them drone on because she was beginning to believe they had nothing else they were willing to discuss with her.

  When Mallory asked how they managed the expense of maintaining such a large property, Tabitha said, “Father provides.”

  When she asked how long the family had lived in Sanctuary, Father said, “We will dwell in this house until the end of days,” completely ignoring her question.

  When she asked, “Does anyone ever leave Sanctuary?” Father responded, “Why would anyone depart Eden?”

  It was maddening, and utter crap. Mallory’s bullshit detector was off the charts.

  “Well, everything has been delicious,” Mallory said after pie had been served and she’d eaten a few bites despite herself. She made a show of rubbing her stomach. “Can I slip into the kitchen for a minute and compliment the cooks on a job well done?”

  “The Brides have nothing to say,” Tabitha reminded her. Father merely shrugged and waved her on.

  At last, Mallory thought, pushing up from her chair. She pushed through the swinging doors and entered the kitchen.

  28

  The kitchen was enormous, brightly lit, and spotless as the rest of the house. It was like walking into a food prep area at a restaurant, except the Sanctuary kitchen lacked high-tech appliances. The tile floor gleamed. She saw wall ovens, gas ranges crowded with pots, stone countertops with chopping boards and kitchen utensils.

  Three Brides—still dressed in those absurd white costumes—labored in the fragrant steam. They were in clean-up mode, hauling dishes and tools to a big sink full of soapy water. Rachel was not among them.

  Dammit, where is she?

  The women paused in their labors and gawked at Mallory as if she had wandered backstage at a concert. None of them spoke. By then, she didn’t expect them to speak, either.

  “Dinner was fantastic, thank you, ladies,” Mallory said. “Where is Rachel? I’d like to express my gratitude for her hard work this evening.”

  One of the Brides pointed toward a door at the rear of the kitchen. Mallory thanked her and hurried forward. If she were away from the dinner table too long, her “handler,” Tabitha, would no doubt come looking for her.

  The door opened into a large walk-in pantry, lit with a fluorescent light fixture. A narrow aisle ran the length of the room; tall shelves towered on both sides, teeming with dozens of items: bags of flour and sugar, boxes of pasta, canned goods, mason jars stuffed with ingredients. Mallory found Rachel in the far-right corner, balanced on a step ladder as she reached for something on the shelf.

  “Rachel,” Mallory said in a near whisper.

  The girl turned, her eyes widening.

  Mallory closed the door behind her.

  “Listen, I know you left the note warning me about this place,” Mallory said. “We need to talk in private. I’ve got a lot of questions and you’re the only one I can trust to be honest with me.”

  Rachel shook her head, pointed at the floor, shook her head again.

  She means not here, Mallory thought. I’m with you, girlfriend.

  “Meet me at midnight, tonight,” Mallory said. “Outside at the gazebo. Can you meet me there?”

  An emotion that Mallory interpreted as anxiety twisted Rachel’s features. Mallory could imagine the girl was thinking: why should I help you?

  Mallory sucked in a breath, stepped forward.

  “I promise, if you help me,” Mallory said, and even as she spoke the words, she wasn’t sure she could deliver on them. “I promise, I’ll help you get out of here. Deal?”

  Rachel clasped her hands together as if praying. A tear tracked down her cheek.

  But she nodded. Yes.

  29

  As Ben left The Big House later that evening, climbing into his truck on legs that felt like waterlogged stilts, Cecil Roberts sent him a text message.

  6315 Shady Oaks Road. Talk to Martha. That’s all I can do for you, young buck.

  Thank you, Ben typed in response. His fingers struggled to hit the correct keys, as if they were manipulated by unseen strings. It took five frustrating attempts to send the response without typos.

  Cradling the phone against his chest, Ben leaned back in the seat and lay his head against the headrest. He was on the brink of seeing double. He wasn’t a lightweight when it came to drinking, but mixing moonshine and beer might have been the worst idea he’d had in ages.

  Music throbbed from The Big House, the parking lot crowded with vehicles. The Friday night party was in full swing. The bluesy beat felt as if it were inside his skull, a funky little drummer sitting on the surface of his brain and pounding drumsticks against his cranium walls.

  Groaning, he switched on the engine.

  He entered the address Cecil had given him into the Google Maps app on his iPhone. The destination was eleven minutes away, four and a half miles. In his woozy condition, he didn’t think driving there at night was a wise idea, and showing up at a stranger’s house after sundown was likely to earn him a lethal dose of buckshot. He needed to get to the motel, toss back a few ibuprofen and a couple glasses of water, and sack out. In the morning, he could investigate Cecil’s lead.

  As carefully as a student taking a driver’s test, he traveled back to the motel. Night in Ratliff was like night in most country towns—pitch dark. Streetlamps were sparse, long stretches of road twisting through sheer blackness. Worried about striking a deer or running off the road, he kept his headlamps on the high beam setting.

  He reached the motel without incident. His vehicle, and the BMW X5 that he believed belonged to the owner, Earl, were the only cars in the sad parking lot.

  He shuffled inside his room, swallowed three
ibuprofen and downed three glasses of cold water for good measure. Without bothering to undress or flip off the lights, he flung his glasses onto the nightstand and collapsed on the bed.

  Later, he swam awake to the sound of someone knocking on the door.

  His mouth dry, Ben blinked at the clock on the nightstand, squinting to read the digits in the dimly lit room: 11:13 pm. He’d been asleep less than two hours.

  He wondered if he’d only dreamed about the door knocking, when the rapping came again, three quick pounds.

  Mallory, he thought, and panic leaped like a bird in his chest. He fumbled on his glasses, struggled out of the bed and staggered to the door, opening it without bothering to use the peephole.

  It was only the motel housekeeper, Leah. Although she still wore her work uniform, she had applied red lipstick and eyeliner, as if she were preparing for a night out after completing one final task: she had a stack of white towels in her arms.

  Her eyes were dark as black tea. She met his gaze directly, almost challengingly, yet did not speak.

  “Oh, hey,” Ben said. His throat was so dry it felt abraded. “Thank you, but I don’t need any towels. I’m all set with towels, linens, whatever.”

  She edged forward anyway. He moved aside, and she brushed past him as she entered the room. She wore a sweet perfume that left an alluring scent trail in her wake.

  Maybe she’s heading to The Big House after she gets off work, he thought, and the idea made him chuckle despite his half-hungover state. He didn’t think he’d seen anyone in the joint under the age of forty. This girl was in her early twenties. What did younger folk in Ratliff do for fun on a Friday night, anyway?

  Leah disappeared in the bathroom with the towels. Ben sat on the edge of the bed, bowed his head, and yawned.

  “It’s really late and I’m wiped,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about me. Whatever you’re doing, you can do some other time. I’m not going to complain to your boss.”

  He heard her emerge from the bathroom. He looked up.