Mallory felt sick, but powerless to do anything.
“This is the fun part.” Tabitha giggled like a child about to play a game and brushed past Mallory. “Come on, Aunt Mallory. Join in!”
Mallory shook her head, and Tabitha shrugged and filed down the staircase with the others. One by one, the members approached Rachel. Some of the Brides spat on her. A couple of them slapped her across the face. Cackling, Nana raised her cane and drove the end of it into Rachel’s stomach, Rachel buckling over with a gasp. Nimrod hauled her upright again. Snarling, Tabitha backhanded the young woman across the face so savagely that blood spooled out of her mouth and her knees sagged.
Squirming, sobbing, Rachel suffered the beating in wordless silence, mewling like a wounded animal.
“Stop it!” Mallory screamed. Tears misted her eyes. “What’s the matter with you people? Let her go, dammit!”
“The punishment is just, Sister Mallory,” Father said. “The price of disobedience must be paid in full.”
“But Rachel didn’t do anything wrong. Nimrod assaulted her!”
“I don’t know anyone named Rachel,” Father said, though the bawling girl lay only a few feet away from him, nearly collapsed at Nimrod’s feet. Father surveyed the group. “Family, do we know anyone named Rachel?”
The Brides shook their heads, almost as one. Nana laughed maniacally, swinging her cane and shaking her head. Tabitha clapped and shouted, “Nope! There’s no Rachel here!”
“Take this stranger away from us, children.” Father beckoned toward Nimrod and Tabitha. “The rest of you, resume your assigned duties. We will gather for our regularly scheduled Saturday service at the chapel in one hour.”
The Brides filed inside the house. The women’s faces were zombielike as they threaded past Mallory. Nana shuffled past with her attending Bride hooked to her arm. The old woman squeezed Mallory’s bicep and flashed a wolfish grin.
“Watch yourself now, sister,” Nana said in a hot whisper. “Don’t test Father.”
Mallory shrugged off the woman’s grip. In the yard, Tabitha and Nimrod dragged Rachel, her head hanging low, to the transport van and loaded her inside through a sliding panel door. Father pivoted in his chair and traveled up the ramp toward the house.
Mallory moved in front of him. “Where are they taking Rachel?”
“I do not know anyone named Rachel,” he said.
She ground her teeth. “Where are they taking the girl?”
“The young woman will be dropped off a local bus station with sufficient funds for a ticket to Atlanta and a day’s worth of meals. She can go wherever she wants, but she can’t return to Sanctuary ever again.”
“Maybe that’s what best for her.”
“Is that so? Before she came to Sanctuary, that nameless woman was living on the filthy streets of Atlanta, doing drugs and performing unmentionable sex acts for money. We provided her with discipline, shelter, love, and purpose.” He clucked his tongue. “What happened to her was your fault, Sister Mallory, as you, and you alone, placed her on the path of temptation last night. I suspect you realize that unfortunate truth and it unsettles you. Doubtless, it explains your ill-advised outburst.”
Mallory didn’t know what to say. Father touched her hand, briefly, not without tenderness.
“I hope you’ll join us in the chapel for service,” he said, and left her standing there on the veranda.
34
With Tabitha away, and Father in transit to his chapel, Mallory rushed through the house, Father’s remarks circling like vultures in her mind.
What happened to her was your fault . . . you, and you alone, placed her on the path of temptation . . .
Tragically, she had fulfilled her promise to Rachel to get her out of Sanctuary. The saying was sometimes true: the road to hell was paved with good intentions.
She wished she had some means to get in touch with Rachel. But the frantic onslaught of events had caught her off guard. She could have given Rachel her phone number, her address, money to tide her over for a few days. Abandoned, damaged psychologically, emotionally, and physically from her time spent at Sanctuary, Rachel would be attractive prey for the predators that cruised the city streets, and Mallory had no way whatsoever to help her.
For all she knew, Rachel probably wasn’t the girl’s given name, either. They hadn’t referred to her sister as Liz; they had called her “Swan,” renaming her as a mechanism to control her identity, a classic cult conditioning tactic. Stripped of her identity, Rachel would be utterly lost.
Good work, Mal. What’re you going to do for an encore?
She would never forgive herself for letting this happen. She had to think before she acted, couldn’t let anyone suffer as collateral damage in her ambition to locate her sister. If she gained one soul but lost others along the way, how would she ever sleep well at night?
Once she reached the second-floor catwalk, she confirmed the doors to Father’s wing, thankfully, still hung open. She hurried across the threshold.
Shadows dwelled in the long corridor. She didn’t see any Brides working in the vicinity, and the hallway was quiet. The private wing seemed to exist in a realm of its own apart from the rest of the estate.
The inner sanctum’s doors were closed, and as usual, probably locked. She searched the nearby table for her digital recorder.
It was gone.
She could have screamed. How could she have been so stupid as to leave it there? She hadn’t been thinking clearly last night, her mind worn down by the day’s events, her judgement clouded by desperation. Father might have taken the device; a Bride might have pocketed it. She didn’t put it past Tabitha, either, who seemed to always be one step ahead of her.
She noticed the table’s top drawer was ajar an inch or so. Earlier, when she had pulled it open, she had found it empty, but she was certain she had closed it. Had someone dropped the pen into the drawer?
She slid it open, the wood whispering on lubricated ball bearings.
Her pen lay inside. A folded piece of white paper had been attached to the pen’s clip, too.
Mallory looked over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching her. Then, she slid out the note and unfolded it.
“Oh . . .” The word came from her lips in a breathless hush as her lungs felt on the verge of collapsing like punctured sacs. “Oh . . . my . . . God . . .”
A single image had been drawn on the paper in black ink, rendered with the exquisite skill belonging only to a talented artist.
A butterfly.
35
Clutching the drawing in her fist, Mallory hammered the inner sanctum doors.
She trembled, face damp with sweat. The sketch was proof beyond all doubt that Liz was alive and living there in Sanctuary. It proved that Liz wanted Mallory to know she was there, too. It was a plea for help and an assurance from Liz that Mallory wasn’t crazy, despite everyone else gaslighting her.
“Liz, please!” Mallory shouted. Her throat felt raw. “If you’re in there, say something! I’ll get help!”
But no one came to the door. Mallory dropped to her knees and peered in the quarter-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. She saw only a wedge of formless shadow.
She cursed, banged her fist against the hardwood planks, and pushed to her feet.
The chapel was located a few hundred yards away from the main residence, in a small, A-frame building constructed of wood. Painted eggshell white with black trim, the chapel stood within a shady niche of sugar maples and white elms, its spire roof puncturing the treetops.
Mallory found Father inside. At the front of the chapel, he sat in his wheelchair behind a mahogany lectern customized to the height of his chair. He paged through loose sheets of paper, his lips pursed in concentration.
Several Brides had already arrived for the service. They sat on hard wooden benches, their white-capped heads bowed.
Mallory marched down the center aisle, arms swinging.
“You’ve be
en lying to me about my sister.” She raised the drawing in her hand like a flag. “Now I’ve got proof.”
A couple of the Brides turned in their seats, curious.
“Of course.” Father sighed like a long-suffering parent and looked up from his notes. “What is it now, Sister Mallory?”
Mallory slapped the drawing onto the lectern. Father flinched.
“You’ve been keeping my sister from me. I want to see her. Now.”
Father picked up the slip of paper. She wished she could have knocked those tinted glasses off his face, because she would have loved to see his eyes at that moment, when his charade finally fell apart.
“This means nothing,” he said, but his voice was brittle, as if he’d been slugged in the stomach.
“It means everything. Either you take me to Liz, or I’m contacting the police. She’s being held here against her will and both of us know it.”
Father raised the paper in his gloved hands. He tore it down the middle.
“No!” Mallory shouted. “Goddamn you!”
Grinning like a schoolyard bully, Father shredded the drawing into quarters. He tossed the scraps at Mallory.
“You’re finished here, Sister Mallory,” he said, teeth bared. “Collect your belongings and leave my property immediately, or I’ll have you jailed for trespassing.”
“I’m not going anywhere without my sister,” Mallory said.
“Is that so?” Father motioned to someone behind her.
Mallory swung around. Tabitha and Nimrod had returned from their errand. They stalked down the aisle. Tabitha lifted the hem of her shirt and touched the stun baton holstered on her hip. The mute, empty-eyed Nimrod rubbed his big hands together.
“What’s the matter with the both of you?” Mallory shook. “Your mother is alive. Don’t you care at all?”
“Come along quietly, please.” Tabitha tapped the baton. “I’d hate to use this on you, Aunt Mallory.”
“I’ll leave on my own, thank you.” Mallory glowered at Father. “But this isn’t over. I don’t quit. Ever.”
Father made a flicking gesture as if shooing away an annoying house fly, and returned his attention to his notes. Mallory swept her gaze around the chapel. The gathered Brides studiously ignored her, but Nana, perched like a bird in a pew near the edge of the aisle, smirked at Mallory.
“I saw Swan this morning, too, sister.” Nana chuckled. “You keep on believin’, you hear?”
Tabitha rolled her eyes at the elderly woman and offered her hand to Mallory. Mallory came forward, but she spurned her niece’s outstretched hand.
Her time on the short leash was over.
36
The sight of Mallory waiting outside Sanctuary’s main gate nearly brought tears of relief to Ben’s eyes.
He almost hadn’t believed it when the incoming call tagged with her photo had appeared on his phone that morning. She hadn’t given him much information when she called; she’d said only that she was waiting at the front gate and could he please pick her up right away?
Countless questions whirled through Ben’s mind as he broke several local traffic laws in his haste to reach her. When he saw her ahead, he braked in the middle of the road and started to get out, but Mallory hurried to the passenger’s side door and climbed in. She tossed her backpack on the floor, leaned across the seat, and hugged him so hard he gasped.
She smelled of a different fragrance, he noted; a warm, woody scent that reminded him of sandalwood oil. Although it was a pleasant odor, he was so glad to see her he didn’t care what she smelled like.
“I missed you.” She finally loosened her grip on him. “Lord, you have no idea.”
“I’m glad to see you, too, babe.” Ben touched her cheek. “Since you’re wearing your regular clothes and talking like a normal person, it looks like they didn’t convert you.”
“Not for lack of trying.” A storm cloud passed across her face. “Please, get us the hell out of here.”
Ben executed a U-turn and drove away from the gate. The dashboard clock read a quarter past eleven, and he had already cranked up the Ford’s air conditioner. The weather forecast called for another sweltering August day with temperatures peaking in the high nineties.
“I honestly didn’t expect to see you again this soon,” he said.
“That makes two of us. Father kicked me out.”
“Did he do that on Thelma May’s advice?” He chuckled at his joke.
Mallory neither laughed nor smiled. “Liz is there, Ben. Alive. We need to go to the police.”
“Hold on. What?”
“You’ve got to trust me on this.” The steel in her gaze dared her to challenge him.
“I trust you just fine,” he said. “But going to the police is going to be a lot more complicated than it sounds. This town isn’t exactly Mayberry and Chief Norwood sure isn’t Andy Griffith.”
“Wonderful.” She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead. “Listen, I’m famished. I’ve got to eat something before I can think clearly.”
“There’s a Waffle House not far. It’s off I-75, outside the town limits. I think we’d be safer talking about these topics there. Neutral territory.”
“Oh?” She gave him a questioning look, but didn’t ask what he meant. “So, let’s go. I don’t even care if it’s Waffle House again.”
At the restaurant, they found a booth in the corner of the dining room, away from other patrons. Ben ordered his usual hearty meal. Mallory gave up her typical preference for low-carb food and went all in with a waffle, bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns.
As they started eating, Mallory asked Ben to fill her in first on what he’d been doing, so he explained what he’d learned since they had been separated. He told her about encountering the young women who didn’t speak. About his meeting with Cecil at The Big House, which Chief Norwood had broken up with a thinly veiled warning. And the lead Cecil had given him, which he had been in the process of following up on when Mallory had called him that morning.
He shared details on everything, except last night’s bizarre seduction attempt by the motel housekeeper, Leah. He wanted to forget that had ever happened, file it away in a back closet of his mind that he’d never reopen again.
Because you were attracted to her, admit it, and you’re afraid Mallory would see that in your eyes . . .
Ben cleared his throat and asked the server to refill his coffee.
“You’ve been busy, good.” Mallory worked through her eggs. “I knew I could count on you to move things forward.”
“I was happy you subbed me in, coach.” He paused. “Why do you think your sister is alive?”
She explained what she had seen, heard, and found. Despite his initial doubts, he had to admit that the evidence was compelling—especially her discovery of the symbolic drawing that had clearly unsettled Father. Either Father and his family were keeping her sister under lock and key in Sanctuary for some unknowable reason, or they were running a major gaslighting operation on Mallory with the sole intent to drive her nuts.
She expressed concern about the young woman she’d met, too, Rachel. Her theory of a human trafficking enterprise dovetailed with Ben’s own suspicions about the mute, docile women he’d encountered.
“With what we’ve learned, we’ve got some insight into this muting stuff, for lack of a better word,” Ben said. “Remember, I found out Father is actually a medical doctor—Dr. Nathaniel Higgins.”
“A psychiatrist,” Mallory said. “He has a medical degree but that doesn’t qualify him to perform a laryngectomy, for God’s sake.”
“He seems to think he can do whatever he wants. I’m trying to figure out how he’s gotten his hands on the women who don’t live in Sanctuary, like the girl at the barber shop and the housekeeper.”
“Maybe they lived in Sanctuary at one point,” she said.
“Possibly.” He grimaced at his plate, though his food tasted fine. “What kind of sick bastard does that to someone
?”
“He’s a piece of work,” Mallory said. “A megalomaniac, a psychopath. Based on what you’ve said, sounds like some of the men in the town are playing on Team Father, too.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. They’ve got these girls under their total control.”
“Slaves,” Mallory said. “And you know, what? I think they’re using their so-called stable to house these women. Chicken coop, my ass. It’s got to be some sort of processing facility.”
“Right.” Ben nodded. “I saw the warehouse on satellite imagery. There’s a separate access road leading to it.”
“Clearly, Father’s operation reaches far beyond Ratliff. The mansion is jaw-dropping, like you’ve seen, and the warehouse is huge. He’s making serious coin in this business of his.”
Ben was quiet for a beat, stirring his coffee. “You think they’re keeping Liz in the stable?”
“Not totally sure, but I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “I swear, I saw her shadow in the mansion last night. At a window upstairs.” She shrugged. “I didn’t see the person’s face, but I knew it was her.”
“You found the drawing she left for you in Father’s wing, too,” he said.
“My little recorder was on for the rest of the night, hidden on a table right outside Father’s door.” She showed Ben the digital recorder that served double duty as an ink pen. “It didn’t record anything revealing. No voices at all, just doors opening and closing, footsteps. But when I go to collect it, I find Liz’s drawing.”
“She’s staying inside the house, then,” Ben said.
“But this stable is important.” Mallory sipped coffee and tapped her note pad. “I copied down the tag numbers of the Benz and the transport van parked at the warehouse. You remember Nick Sullivan, the private investigator? He owes me a favor.”
“I remember him, the guy from Boston.” Ben munched on a slice of toast. “Gonna get him to run the plates?”
“I’ll text him as soon as we’re done eating. While he runs the plates, we can go see Chief Norwood.”
The Quiet Ones Page 14
