The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  No one was going to help her, and no one was going to stop her.

  She had only one destination in mind. She had tried to play this situation by the rules, but the reality was that these people, Father and his team, they set their own rules, and the only way for her to win was for her to flip the script on them.

  The forest thinned. She spotted a roadway ahead. As she neared, she checked the navigation on her phone.

  Traveling on foot, she could reach Sanctuary in twenty minutes.

  50

  Ben worried at first that Chief Norwood would transport him somewhere even more remote than where they were already, drive him perhaps to a cabin deep in the woods, order him to dig his own grave, and finish him off with a bullet in the back of his head. That was how it happened in the movies. But after the cop started driving, Ben realized they were headed back to town.

  Considering that Father had Ratliff’s leaders nestled in his pocket like a deck of cards, he didn’t think going into town was any better for him.

  As he drove, Norwood didn’t speak. Ben started talking, a bad habit of his when he was nervous, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Mallory’s got contacts at the FBI, the GBI,” Ben said. “With what we’ve learned, we’re gonna blow this scandal wide open.”

  Grunting, Chief Norwood glanced at Ben in the rearview mirror. “How’d your woman like the pictures?”

  “She didn’t fall for it.” Still, Ben’s cheeks burned at the thought of this man and his buddies meddling in his relationship with Mallory. “She knows I’d never cheat on her.”

  “That’s why she left you, huh?” Norwood’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Didn’t look back once, did she? She’s gone, my friend. Yep, gone baby, gone.”

  “Never.” Ben spat out blood. “How much is Father paying you to work as his private security man, chief? How many women has he leased to you?”

  “You ain’t got no idea.” Norwood snickered. “But you know, I happen to like your woman, friend. Thinking I’ll put in a special order for her once she’s ready, get me that custom model.”

  As the meaning of his words sank in, Ben felt as cold as if he were sitting inside a meat locker. They couldn’t do that to Mallory—could they? She wasn’t some runaway teenager with shattered self-esteem. She was a grown, independent minded woman. She was too strong for them to mold her like potter’s clay.

  Nevertheless, the possibility, no matter how implausible, sent a shiver through him.

  The chief cruised along Ratliff’s primary thoroughfare. The motel. The barbershop. The newspaper office. Was it only two days ago that they had arrived from Atlanta with their grandiose ambitions? It felt like a lifetime ago.

  “The brothers in this town, we stick together.” Norwood crossed his fingers so Ben could see. “We’re like this, friend. Tight. Family. You shoulda gone home when I told you. But like my mama used to say, a hard head makes a soft behind.”

  They neared the police station. Norwood pulled around to the brick building’s rear entrance.

  “Why are we here?” Ben asked.

  “I’m lockin’ you up.” Norwood parked.

  “On what charges? Come on, man. You haven’t Mirandized me.”

  Norwood switched off the car and shifted around in his seat. He held a laminated card. He read from it in a stilted tone, like a child reciting words on a blackboard.

  “Let’s see here . . . says, you have the right to remain silent,” Norwood said. “Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you durin’ questionin’. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questionin’ if you so desire. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answerin’ at any time.” Chief Norwood whistled. “Damn, that was a mouthful, wasn’t it? How’d I do?”

  “I want my lawyer,” Ben said. “Please.”

  “It’s Sunday.” Norwood winked. “I think the only lawyer in town we got who might talk to you is . . . well, Mr. Milton Grey. I believe you’ve met. Fine attorney, ain’t he?”

  Norwood hauled Ben out of the car, jabbing the Glock’s muzzle in Ben’s ribs like an icepick. He brought him inside the station, into a short, well-lit tile corridor. A holding cell lay on the left, the wall comprised entirely of metal bars. On the right, a doorway led to another area of the station.

  Ben gasped when Norwood brought him inside, and not because of the jail cell that he assumed was intended to be his next stop.

  Leah, the silent housekeeper, was mopping the floor. The mop stick slipped out of her fingers when she saw Ben, and she hurried to pick it up as if expecting a reprimand from the chief.

  “Thought you might want to see a friendly face,” Norwood said to Ben.

  “You son of a bitch,” Ben said.

  Norwood shoved Ben into the holding cell. Ben nearly lost his footing, nicked his head on the doorway, and felt dizzy all over again. Norwood grabbed Ben’s arm to steady him.

  The fist to the jaw came so fast Ben hadn’t realized it was on the way until he felt his legs folding underneath him like soggy bread. He dropped to the cold stone floor, his glasses clattering away.

  “Don’t call me out of my name, friend, you hear?” Towering above him, Norwood rubbed his gloved fist. “Don’t disrespect my mama, either.”

  Ben tried to get up. Norwood put his leather boot on Ben’s chest.

  “Turn over. I’ll take off the cuffs now.”

  Like a whipped dog, Ben obeyed. Norwood clicked off the handcuffs and pocketed them. Sitting up again, Ben massaged his aching wrists; the cuffs had bitten so deeply into his flesh that his skin was abraded.

  But it felt nothing like his jaw. His face was ablaze with throbbing pain, his mouth full of warm blood.

  Norwood slid the cell’s door shut, the clang of metal like a gunshot. Ben picked up his glasses off the floor, slipped them on.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Ben said, the words feeling like loose pebbles in his sore mouth. “This is false imprisonment. You still haven’t charged me with anything.”

  “I can hold you in here up to three days, friend,” Norwood said. “Don’t owe you a phone call or nothin’. Ain’t gotta charge you in the meantime, neither. You been watchin’ too much TV.”

  “You’re lying,” Ben said, but worried Norwood was telling the truth.

  Norwood had also confiscated his cell phone. He’d seen the cop slip it into the pocket of his rain slicker. He couldn’t verify anything Norwood was saying, and he couldn’t call anyone.

  “You know, friend, I can’t swallow why you didn’t avail yourself of the comfort this fine young lady offered you the other night.” Norwood motioned to Leah with a come-hither gesture, and she set aside the mop and stepped toward him. Norwood turned her around, lay his palm against her rear end and massaged in slow circles. Leah’s face was emotionless as the chief fondled her; he slid his hands upward to her breasts and squeezed. “This one here, shoot, she’s like a Thanksgivin’ dinner with all the trimmings. You think the family’s gonna let some outsider take away our good thing?”

  “Good thing, huh? Trading women between yourselves like baseball cards? You’re sick.”

  Norwood slapped Leah’s behind. She flinched, but otherwise betrayed no emotion. Norwood shoved her away, and she staggered for a beat, picked up the mop again.

  Ben clenched his hands into fists, wishing he could do something to help the girl, worried he had let his opportunity to end this nightmare slip away when he had allowed Norwood to arrest him.

  “Settle down and make yourself comfortable,” Norwood said. “The family’s gonna have to figure out what to do with you. Somethin’ fun. Gotta think on it for a while.”

  Chuckling to himself, Norwood strutted away.

  Ben got up and dropped onto the wooden bench that served as the only seat in the cell. Silent, Leah dipped th
e mophead in the pail.

  Ben waited until he was certain Norwood was gone, and then he leaned forward and whispered.

  “You can actually speak, Leah. Father didn’t really remove your larynx. It was a trick. Please, believe me.”

  Leah paused in her labors and stared at him, her large eyes like dark liquid. Wondering if he was being truthful? Hoping it was real? He couldn’t read her expression.

  With a soft cry of anguish, she hurled the mop at the bars of the cell and hurried away, leaving him alone and confused.

  51

  Soaking wet from the steady drizzle but so invigorated she barely felt the dampness in her clothes, Mallory reached Sanctuary.

  She didn’t approach the compound via the front gate. That would have been foolish, predictable. Instead, she made her approach at the secondary access road that she had verified on a map: the entrance that led to the stable.

  The entrance included a wrought-iron gate, but the gate hung open wide. Concerned about a security camera posted at the mouth of the drive, she kept off the asphalt path and climbed the fence, landed in the tall, dripping weeds.

  At the stable, she saw the white transport van and Dr. Faustin’s black Mercedes sedan.

  Rage flamed in her chest like heartburn, but she avoided the building. Liz wasn’t in there; Liz was in the house. The inner sanctum, in Father’s wing. Somehow, she needed to get in there without anyone seeing her.

  She kept to the edge of the series of paths that twisted through the property, arriving finally at the courtyard.

  She hadn’t seen anyone since she had infiltrated the compound. It was Sunday, so perhaps everyone was in the chapel, again.

  But the chapel building looked empty as she crept past.

  Curious but undaunted, she arrived at the mansion’s back door. The door lever opened to her touch.

  Inside now. The lights had been switched off, shadows draping the rooms. The silence was profound: the only sounds were the rain tapping on the roof and windows, her pounding heart, and the soft squeak of her shoes on the hardwood.

  She didn’t hear anyone, didn’t see anyone.

  She found an area carpet at the end of the main entry hall and used it to blot water off the soles of her sneakers. Quiet as a ninja, she hurried to the staircase.

  No one stopped her. Where were Tabitha? Nimrod? The ever-working Brides?

  A terrifying thought struck her: what if everyone had gone on the run? What if Father, fearing that she would bring in outside authorities, had rounded up everyone and transported them to a safe house, somewhere truly off the grid?

  The transport van had been parked at the stable, but they could have left via another vehicle.

  If it was true, she would never see Liz. The fragile connection she had forged would be broken forever.

  Infused with a fresh surge of anxiety, she dashed upstairs.

  The doors to Father’s wing yawned open, the corridor beyond dark as an underground tunnel. The candles were extinguished, the curtains drawn.

  She approached the door to the inner sanctum. Light glowed around the edges of the doorway; the only light she had seen thus far in the house. Someone was inside.

  Her mouth was dry as bone.

  Please, she thought. Be in here, sis.

  Mallory twisted the knob.

  The door opened.

  52

  Mallory hadn’t been sure what to expect when she finally entered Father’s private chambers, but the room that lay before her upended her preconceived ideas.

  It was a therapist’s office.

  She’d undergone therapy as a child, on the insistence of her adoptive parents, and the sessions had lasted well into her teenage years, until she’d gone away to college. Dr. Parker, a kindly, dulcet-toned woman with a grandmotherly air, had been like a lighthouse to Mallory during those tumultuous years. Mallory had fond memories of those deep, frequently soul-wrenching discussions, and had spent enough time on the therapist’s couch to immediately recognize a similar environment.

  The room was spacious, but cozy. Golden light streamed from about a half-dozen recessed lights. Decorative area rugs adorned the hardwood. It had warm, beige walls, and contemporary, upholstered furniture: a leather chaise, a sofa. A mahogany bookcase, the shelves filled with texts. A pair of wood tables that supported live gardenia plants.

  A door stood on the other side of the room, currently closed.

  The only indication that she had entered a chamber in Father’s wing was the framed artwork displayed on the wall. It was yet another hyper-realistic portrait of Father: a close-up of his face, his index finger angled in front of his closed lips in the gesture of silence. The painting hung across from the chaise.

  “Liz?” Mallory said, though she was the only person in the room. Her voice came out in a croak, and she cleared her throat and in a louder tone said, “Liz, are you here?”

  She didn’t expect a response, and she got none. But Liz had to be there, somewhere. Where did that other door lead?

  As she crossed the room, she noticed something that looked like a card lying on the table next to the chaise, near the potted gardenia. Mallory picked it up, turned it over.

  It was a reproduction of a family photo—the only picture Mallory remembered that featured all three of them.

  The three of them sat on a wooden bench at Callaway Gardens, Liz on her Mom’s left, Mallory on her mother’s right, the sisters’ hair done in fuzzy Afro puffs. Mom had her arms around them, her young, pretty girls. All of them grinned for the camera.

  As Mallory stared at the photo, her throat tightened as if a noose had been drawn around her neck.

  This has been set up for her.

  She had walked into a trap.

  She heard that familiar sound of a purring motor. Heart in her throat, she spun.

  Father rolled into the room through the inner sanctum doorway. Tabitha and Nimrod flanked him.

  Father wore black hospital scrubs, a surgical mask hanging on a cord at the base of his throat. His gloved hands rested on a leather case lying on his lap—a medical bag.

  “I exiled you from Sanctuary,” Father said, voice full of triumphant wisdom. “But I knew, Sister Mallory, that you couldn’t resist the pull of your one, true family.”

  “Where are you keeping my sister?” Mallory said. “Let her go, dammit!”

  Tabitha and Nimrod advanced on her.

  “Don’t fight it, Aunt Mallory,” Tabitha said. “This is what you need. We only want to give you peace.”

  “Stay away from me!” Mallory backpedaled. The back of her leg collided with the chaise, and she lost her balance.

  As she fell, Tabitha and Nimrod seized her arms. Mallory screamed and tried to squirm out of their grips, but their hands were like mechanical clamps. They dragged her upward and forced her down onto the reclining chair.

  “No!” Mallory shrieked. Tears blinded her as she struggled. “No, no, no!”

  “Yes,” Father said. “Yes, sister, it is your time.”

  The chaise had been customized with built-in steel restraints for wrists and ankles. Tabitha clapped a restraint on Mallory’s left hand; Nimrod secured her right. Mallory flailed her legs. They chained her feet, too.

  She tried to rock the chair, flip it over, but realized the chair legs were bolted to the floor. Wearing amused smiles, Tabitha and Nimrod withdrew as Father came closer.

  “You are living in the past.” Father picked up the photo from the table and studied it, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “We live in a system, Sister Mallory, a system you cannot fight. You need only to accept it and your new role within it.”

  “Go to hell!” Mallory screamed.

  Father opened the case lying on his lap. He removed a syringe.

  Tabitha grabbed Mallory’s shirt and ripped it open, exposing Mallory’s upper chest. She swabbed Mallory’s neck region with a cotton ball damp with a pungent-smelling, antiseptic solution.

  “Listen, hey, you don’t have to do thi
s,” Mallory said. “I’ll go away. Please, let me go!”

  “You told me you never quit.” Father smiled. “I happen to believe you.”

  “I take it back,” she said, but her words held no weight; she knew she was lying. She would keep fighting as long as she had breath in her lungs.

  Father flicked his finger against the tip of the needle.

  “I’m here to set you free,” he said.

  He plunged the needle into her neck.

  Mallory’s scream sputtered on her lips as darkness enveloped her.

  53

  Ben had a plan. But he couldn’t execute it on his own.

  He sat on the wooden bench in the holding cell, gazing at the stone floor as dull pain throbbed in his swollen jaw. Leah hadn’t returned since he had told her the truth and urged her to use her voice. He worried that he had frightened her away, that he would be stuck there alone with Norwood, and if that happened any chance of getting out of there and helping Mallory was only a pipe dream.

  Mallory could use his assistance—of that, he was certain. Driven as ever, she would have gone to Sanctuary and tried to rescue her sister all by herself. He regretted that he had let her down when it mattered the most. She was taking care of business and he was struggling to keep up.

  One more chance. That’s all I need.

  He heard light footsteps drawing near. He raised his head.

  Leah had come back. She had brought him something. He almost couldn’t believe it as she looked around, furtively, and slipped her hand between the bars and offered it to him.

  She was giving him back his phone—the very item he had been planning to get his hands on.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. He didn’t know exactly what it had required of her to lift it out of Norwood’s possession, but he noticed a couple undone buttons at the collar of her housekeeper’s uniform, and he could imagine the sacrifice she’d made to distract the cop. He owed her everything.

  “Both of us, we’re going to get out of here for good, okay?” he said. “Just hang with me, please.”