The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  “That was a snippet of ‘Der Hölle Rache’ from Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte,” Martha said. “Do you know it?”

  “I think I’ve heard it before, yes.” Mallory lowered herself back onto the couch. “I’m impressed—we both are.” She nodded at Ben, and he bobbed his head so hard it seemed it would bounce off his neck like a loose marble.

  “How did you come to live at Sanctuary?” Ben asked.

  “Yucky, you want to further discuss those horrid days?” Martha’s lips puckered.

  “We’re only trying to grasp the full picture,” Mallory said. “I know it’s painful, but it would help us understand the scope of what we’re dealing with, ma’am.”

  Martha shrugged. “I was living in a group home for girls, in Valdosta. I never knew my real father as but a vague memory, my mom skipped town to chase her dream to be a movie star in Hollywood, and I was stuck with my grandmother. Granny was a sweetheart but in poor health. She died when I was thirteen and social workers sent me to live in the Greenwood Home, a home for orphaned girls. Father found me there while making his rounds and later adopted me.”

  Mallory nodded, convinced that Liz’s path to Sanctuary’s door had followed a similar trajectory.

  “When you say making his rounds,” Mallory asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Father was a therapist—a doctor, hah!—and worked for the state’s child services agency, counseling the children who would up as wards of our wonderful state.”

  “He was using it as a hunting ground,” Ben said. “Prospecting.”

  “I thought I had gone to heaven when he brought me to his mansion,” Martha said. “He’d inherited a good deal of money, you see—he descended from two generations of physicians. Old, Black doctor money. He was a confirmed bachelor and lived alone with his mother, the woman they call ‘Nana.’” She glanced at Mallory. “Is Nana still alive?”

  “Alive but unwell,” Mallory said. “She suffers from dementia, apparently.”

  “Good. Serves the old biddy right. She was a terror.” With a smile of satisfaction, Martha drank more tea. “Father took me in as his first project—he had delusions of grandeur by then, you see. He nurtured these outlandish notions about his so-called Brides, and silence, and obedience to his will. Personally, I think he has severe mommy issues and simply wanted the old hag to shut her trap.

  “I was privileged to witness the evolution of his philosophy, to hear him tell it. And boy, did he evolve.”

  “How so?” Ben asked.

  “He shipped me out!” Martha sipped tea. “Father decided when I turned thirty that he’d get more value out of me if he offered me to the town mayor. Sherman was already in his late fifties by then: to have a beautiful, silent young woman gifted to him was the most wonderful offering imaginable in his feeble, manly mind. I was ordered to serve my new master in every capacity a woman could serve a man.”

  “Why not run away?” Ben asked.

  “Run to where?” Martha fired back, her tone icy. “I had lived in Sanctuary since I was fourteen. I was a castoff with no family and no money, and I was mute. Where was I to go?”

  Rebuked, Ben swallowed, lowered his head.

  “Father gave you to the mayor but there were strings attached, I would assume?” Mallory asked.

  “All the men of power in Ratliff are members of his inner circle,” Martha said. “They are his watch dogs, his little gentleman’s club. In return, Father supplies young, subservient women who believe they cannot speak.”

  “What’s the purpose of the stable?” Mallory asked.

  Martha blinked. “Pardon? The stable?”

  “It’s a warehouse on another section of the property,” Mallory said. “I think he’s keeping women there, too. You’ve never heard of it?”

  “Obviously, his methods have continued to evolve since my departure,” Martha said.

  “He has a cosmetic surgeon on his payroll, too, we think,” Mallory said. “Dr. Daniel Faustin, from Miami. He’s banned from practicing medicine, but we think he’s working for Father, doing breast enlargements and the like so he can sell these girls for higher prices.”

  “That’s bloody brilliant,” Martha said. “He’s always been a canny one with a nose for opportunity.”

  “We think his network covers more than only Ratliff,” Ben said.

  “Well, duh?” Martha frowned at the remark. “When has there not been a global market for female slaves? Even before he sent me away, Father had begun to dabble in exporting women across the country to other men of wealth and influence.”

  “Why’d he move into that?” Ben asked. “He had a good little thing going in Ratliff. Why become a trafficker on a larger scale?”

  “The usual reasons, I suppose.” Martha shrugged. “Money. Respect. Keep in mind that the Brides he exported were unique—they were mute! Father owned a unique niche in that unseemly market, and I suspect he was quite proud of his accomplishments. Why do you think I visited that yellow-bellied joke of a newspaperman?”

  “You told your story to Cecil,” Mallory said. “What did he say?”

  “He believed me, but got cold feet, worried about repercussions in town.” Martha’s lips curled in disdain. “I decided to write a book of my own. An exposé. I intend to publish it myself once I complete it.”

  “Why not talk to another journalist?” Ben stared at Mallory as he aired the question. “I’m willing to bet another reporter, someone with courage, would blow this story wide open.”

  “Please, tell me more about my sister,” Mallory said before Martha could respond to Ben’s remark. “I know she had two of Father’s children, Tabitha and Nimrod.”

  “Ah, Swan was an angel,” Martha said. “But it was Father’s rule: he never touched the girls himself. Ever. He never violated me in a sexual manner. Tabitha and Nimrod, bless their hearts, have another father, biologically speaking.”

  “Who?” Mallory asked.

  “Father had employed outside help for a time, to assist with duties on Sanctuary grounds. Primarily for security purposes. Always men sworn to secrecy. What happens when young men are surrounded by young, evidently available women who have been trained to serve?”

  Mallory felt ill. How much misery had been heaped upon her sister while she was still a child? A lifetime’s worth—while she, Mallory, had been living a pampered life in Atlanta. The unfairness of it enraged and sickened her.

  “Was she raped?” Ben asked.

  “To his credit, Father punished that young man severely,” Martha said. “The rumor was that Father had him castrated. We never saw him again.”

  “Tabitha and Nimrod,” Mallory said. “Do they know?”

  “I was sent away to Sherman shortly after those children were born,” Martha said. “But I would imagine they believe Father is everything, the Alpha and the Omega. It’s what he teaches.”

  “Father told me that my sister is dead,” Mallory said. “That she died five years ago from natural causes. I think he’s lying—I think she’s working in Father’s wing, in his inner office.”

  “Yes!” She snapped her fingers. “He had moved her there near the end of my time with the family. He’ll never relinquish his Swan. She is special to him.”

  “But Father, he’s a young man,” Ben said.

  “I was going to dig into that, too,” Mallory said. “The Father we saw, he’s no older than forty. He’s not the same individual that adopted you.”

  Martha cackled—high-pitched, full-throated laughter that verged on a shriek. Mallory and Ben looked at each other, Mallory worried this woman was about to experience a psychotic break.

  “He’s fooled you, too!” Martha said, clapping and tapping her feet on the floor, overtaken with giddiness. “Have you not been listening to me? Pure theater, my lovelies. He adores giving a performance and deceiving his audience—he’s a closet thespian. He wants the family to believe he is immortal.”

  “He’s wearing make-up, then,” Mallory said, but Ben looked doubtfu
l. “Full make up, maybe a wig, a fake beard, anything that makes him look younger, to fit the part.”

  “But he must be, what?” Ben asked. “Eighty years old, at least? If you’re in your early fifties, ma’am—”

  “Fifty-one, my lovely,” Martha said, and dramatically flung a strand of braids over her shoulder.

  “And Father was already a licensed medical practitioner when he found you,” Ben said. “Even if he were a prodigy like Doogie Howser, he’s still got to be in his seventies.”

  “It’s a stretch, I admit,” Mallory said. “But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter to me if he’s forty or ninety-four. I need to get my sister the hell out of there.”

  “Can you help us?” Ben asked, turning to Martha.

  “I’ll supply an anonymous witness statement on any legal matter related to Father and Sanctuary,” Martha said. “That, I’m afraid, must be the limit of my involvement.”

  “But you’re writing a book,” Ben said. “I see the pile of pages on your desk over there.”

  “Yes, a book which I intend to publish under a pseudonym, silly.” Martha rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I cannot jeopardize my position.”

  “You want to avoid an investigation into Sherman’s death,” Mallory said.

  “Do I?” Martha smiled at her. In a voice dripping with irony, she said, “But it was an accident, my lovely. Honest, it was.”

  47

  They left Martha’s home and hurried back to Ben’s SUV, rain pelting their umbrella. Passing the ramshackle house, Mallory thought again about Martha’s giggle as she discussed the man who had ownership of her.

  … had a nasty fall down the staircase and knocked his itty-bitty head . . .

  Despite it all, Martha remained in town, tethered by a steady stream of dividend checks and mostly, Mallory suspected, severe psychological damage, the fallout from years of abuse. It made her fearful for Liz if they ever sprang her out of Sanctuary. What kind of life would her sister enjoy? Would she even want to leave this horrid place?

  “We can bust this thing wide open, Mal,” Ben said as he and Mallory climbed into the truck. His eyes sparkled. “Martha’s a goldmine for us.”

  “This isn’t about a news story,” Mallory said. “I’m not writing anything, remember?”

  “But with our media connections, this would be huge!” He started the engine. “I agree, let’s get your sister out of there safely, let’s get the Brides out of there, too, but once all of that is done? This could be the biggest story of your career.”

  “I actually haven’t thought about that at all,” she said. “Been a little preoccupied, you know?”

  “Of course, but I noticed you recorded our sit-down with her.” Ben drove away from the gate. “Anyway, where to next, babe?”

  As she contemplated her response, her phone buzzed. Another text message had arrived, from the same unknown number she had failed to trace earlier.

  The message had several pics attached.

  We warned you

  Father sees all

  Fingers shaking, Mallory scrolled through the photographs. Her heart felt as it would detonate in her chest like a hand grenade.

  Ben, in a room with a young, scantily clad woman, gawking at her as she sashayed toward him while he sat on a bed.

  That’s the same woman I saw at the police station, sweeping the floor . . . and he looked nervous to see her there . . .

  Ben squeezing the woman close as she slipped her arms around his waist.

  He didn’t look nervous, did he? No, he looked guilty as hell . . .

  “What do you have there?” Ben asked, glancing away from the road.

  Mallory held up the phone. “Have fun last night with your new friend?”

  “What?” Ben’s face felt apart. “Hey . . . that . . . nothing happened! I swear! She came to me . . . it was a setup! I didn’t touch her!”

  “All the crap we’re dealing with right now.” Mallory shook her head and let the phone drop into her lap. “You still found time to get some side action?”

  “Listen, no!” Ben pulled onto the shoulder of the road and slammed the brakes. He turned in his seat, sweat glistening on his forehead. “I swear to you, Mal. They must’ve had cameras in the room. She came on to me and I kicked her out. I would never cheat on you, come on, you know me better than that.”

  “This gorgeous, nearly naked young woman throws herself at you when you’re all alone in a motel room, and you didn’t do anything?” Mallory asked.

  “Absolutely not.” He wiped perspiration from his brow, but his gaze was steady. “They’re trying to tear us apart, Mal. That’s all this is about, a setup to ruin us. Father and his town cronies.”

  The bleat of a police siren pierced the day. Mallory went rigid. Chief Norwood’s Lincoln Aviator swerved through the intersection ahead and bore down on them, light bar spinning.

  “Oh, no.” Ben covered his face with his hands.

  Mallory didn’t hesitate, didn’t think.

  She forced open her door and took off running.

  48

  As Chief Norwood thundered toward them in his Lincoln, Mallory ran.

  But Ben froze.

  He couldn’t believe she had jumped out and run off, not slowing to close the door behind her. Running from a police officer, whether the cop was corrupt or not, was suicidal. Didn’t she realize that?

  “Mal, no!” he shouted through the open passenger door. “Come back!”

  Mallory didn’t look back. Fleeing like a gazelle, she vanished in the thick forest that bordered the road.

  Briefly, Ben thought about running, too. But he couldn’t make his hands open the door, couldn’t lift his lead-weighted feet.

  He wasn’t the kind of guy who fled from a cop, no matter how dirty the officer happened to be. Sometimes, you were boxed in by your own self-imposed limitations.

  Run, babe, he thought. Run like hell and don’t let them catch you.

  He could only pray that she made it out of town, that she got help from outside authorities. But he worried she would do something reckless—like go back to Sanctuary and try to save her sister on her own.

  Tires spinning, Norwood blocked the road with his vehicle. He switched off the siren, though the light bar continued to swirl, slashing Ben’s face with jagged blades of blue.

  How had Norwood tracked them down? Had Cecil given them up? Or had they been distracted, and someone had spotted them and called it in to Norwood? Did they have surveillance cameras posted around town?

  Norwood climbed out of the SUV. He wore his wide brim hat and a flowing black rain slicker that gave him the appearance of a wraith in a nightmare.

  He had drawn his handgun.

  “Step outta the vehicle now!” Norwood shouted. “Hands in the air!”

  Ben shook so badly that moving an inch required a major effort of willpower. He had been stopped by police in the past, one or twice, for speeding, had received either a ticket or a warning. But he’d never been ordered out of his car at gunpoint.

  Move slowly, man. Don’t reach for anything. Don’t give him a reason to pull that trigger.

  The windshield wipers thumped to a monotonous rhythm, like a funeral march. Ben opened the door. Rain tagged his face.

  He ordered his feet to move.

  “Slow!” Norwood barked. “Step away from the vehicle. Keep those hands where I can see ‘em!”

  There were no innocent bystanders in the vicinity, no one capturing the moment with a smartphone ready to broadcast to social media. It was only him and the chief, alone on a rural road in the rain. Norwood could gun him down—he doubted the guy wore a body cam—and fabricate any story he wanted to support his homicidal actions.

  With those facts uppermost in his thoughts, Ben explicitly obeyed everything Norwood commanded him to do.

  Norwood advanced. He didn’t lower the gun.

  “I warned y’all to stay out of my town.” Norwood grinned savagely. “Turn around to face the
vehicle, goddammit.”

  As Ben turned, Norwood shoved him forward against the rain-slick hood of the truck. He cuffed Ben’s wrists behind his back, the restraints so tight that Ben winced.

  “I want to talk to a lawyer,” Ben said. “I have rights.”

  “You ain’t got no rights in my town.” Norwood grabbed the back of Ben’s neck and slammed his head against the truck’s hood. Pain exploded in his skull, his glasses went askew on his face, and he tasted fresh blood. Woozy, he staggered, but didn’t dare fall; he had a warning vision of Norwood kicking him to death in the road.

  “Get in the car.” Keeping the Glock levered against Ben’s ribcage, Norwood forced Ben to walk to the Lincoln. He opened the door and shoved Ben in the backseat. Ben banged his head against the edge of the roof, saw stars, and Norwood laughed and slammed the door.

  Dripping wet, glasses misaligned, his head throbbing with agony and blood trickling from his lips, Ben slumped in the backseat. Although a luxury SUV, the Lincoln had been modified for police use. Steel bars divided the front seats from the rear passenger section, and the rear doors bore no handles to open them.

  Ben realized with a sour laugh that the chief hadn’t given him his Miranda rights.

  Squinting, he watched Norwood through the windshield. The chief returned to Ben’s truck and searched it, shut the doors. Then the man lingered on the shoulder of the road, gazing into the forest where Mallory had fled. Ben saw him talking on a cell phone as he stared into the woods.

  Get out of this town, Mal, please. They’re coming for you, babe.

  49

  Her backpack swinging from her shoulders, Mallory raced through the rain-swept forest. The tears on her cheeks mingled with the drizzle pouring from the gunmetal sky, but she pressed on, alone.

  Alone . . .

  When life got tough, she always found herself alone. She couldn’t trust anyone else to be there for her when she truly needed them. Maybe Ben was telling the truth—she desperately wanted to believe his claim of fidelity—but when the walls had come crashing down a few minutes ago, she had fled, while he sat there in his truck paralyzed by fear.