Desert Redemption

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Desert Redemption Page 26

by Betty Webb


  “We are not crazy here at Kanati, Christina. We are Elevated beings.”

  I looked at the red plastic bucket in the corner. “So you’re going to Elevate me how? By waterboarding?”

  A gentle smile. “There is no suffering unless you choose to interpret your vision quest in that way. We are not savages. You will be provided with enough water to ward off dehydration, and your sanitation needs will be cared for in a most civilized manner.”

  He pointed to the bucket. On the opposite side of the room I spotted a gallon jug of water sitting on the floor; next to it was a Styrofoam cup.

  Abraham growled at his son. “Stop wasting your time on the bitch. Just roll me over there and let me at her. I still have enough strength in my arms to finish her off.”

  Pointedly ignoring him, Adam continued, “Furthermore, Christina, your condition will be checked on every six hours, so never fear abandonment. Your continued safety during this trial is most precious to me.”

  I refused to let him see my fear. “How long is this endurance contest supposed to last?”

  “Until you are Elevated beyond all physical desires, as I have been. When you are purged, you will enter into Gaivladitsosv, the Cherokee word for Heaven.”

  “Sane people call it death.” Staring at the unconscious women, I said, “Surely these women are Elevated enough already. They’re nothing but bones.”

  His eerie smile never wavered. “To educate you is a privilege, Christina. As you pass through the many stages of your trial, you will learn that only I—a man who regularly endures them all yet still remains on this Earth to fulfill my most holy mission—only I can judge when a person has been completely cleansed, thus redeemed. Sisters Vera and Zoe are almost, but not quite, ready. Sister Monica…” Here he gestured toward the blonde slumped against the wall, “She will be ready in another week, perhaps. She can still speak.”

  A dreamy look entered those curiously flat blue eyes. “Christina, did you know there is a man in India who for years has not eaten so much as one grain of rice? His soul is so pure that he takes all his nourishment from the air! That is the level of purity we at Kanati strive for.” The madman’s eyes focused on me again. “Remember, the thing you call ‘death’ means nothing. It is merely a portal to the Dwelling Place of the White Buffalo. With initiates such as these faithful wives,” he waved a bony hand at them, “entering into that exalted place is a voluntary act, something they choose to do.”

  “I’m not volunteering.”

  “As your husband, I…”

  “Stop calling yourself that! You’re no more my husband than that…that thing over there.” I jerked my head toward Abraham.

  “Insult me though you will, you and your sister wives will be honored at the Welcoming Rite, where after Elevation, you will all be awarded the final jewel in your crown.”

  I remembered Gabrielle’s explanation as to why her headband only held nine beads, not ten: that she was too cowardly. “Gabrielle couldn’t tough it out, could she?”

  His smile flickered. “Total Elevation is not for everyone. Gabrielle came close, but failed. Yet I did not let her die, did I? I made her useful. But your courage is indisputable, as I hope will be the courage of your friend Chelsea, who will be joining you soon.”

  “You leave Chelsea alone!” As foolish as the woman was, I didn’t want to see her harmed.

  “And throw away her one and only chance for redemption? Oh, I think not.” His voice sank to a near whisper. “I wish for you all to stay with me on this Earthly plain, and help me share the Kanati gospel with the entire world. Then there will truly be peace on Earth.”

  “You know what, Adam? You’re every bit as crazy as your father.”

  The gentle smile finally disappeared. “My father is the sanest of us all.”

  As soon as the cell door closed behind Adam and his cohorts, I got busy.

  To enable my access to the red bucket, one of Adam’s guards had untied my feet while his buddy threatened me with another shot from the Taser, so although my hands remained bound behind me, I was able to move around more or less freely. I wriggled my way over to blond Monica, who during Adam Arneault’s sermon, had lost consciousness. After I knelt down and butted my head against her bony thigh, her eyes fluttered open. “Is…is this the Dwelling Place of the Whi…White Buffalo?” she whispered.

  “Not yet. Help me get out of here.” I flipped over so she could see my bound hands. “You need medical attention.”

  Unwilling or unable to help, she closed her eyes again.

  Had Reservation Woman died like this, still believing? Or had she, with her final breath, seen the lie?

  “You must have suffered so much,” I whispered to her across the miles.

  But pity wasn’t useful. Only action was. Recognizing that Monica was a lost cause for now, I moved over to the other two women and did more head-butting. “Vera! Zoe! Wake up!”

  Nothing but raspy breaths. Both appeared comatose.

  All three of these deluded women would surely die unless I could figure out a way to alert the authorities. Desperate, I wriggled around the tiny cell, looking for something I could use as a weapon. Three men, one of them carrying a three-shot Taser X2, against one unarmed woman were lousy odds.

  But I found nothing I could use in the scrupulously clean room.

  Even the sewage bucket was empty, more proof the three women sharing the cell with me were shutting down physically. However, while I was looking at the bucket, I got an idea. First, though, I would need to free my hands.

  The softness against my wrists assured me my bindings weren’t zip-ties but some sort of rope. An exercise rope from Kanati’s gym, perhaps? I tugged at it for a while, which made my damaged left arm start bleeding again, but whichever of Adam’s guards had tied me up had done a good job. Plan A having proved impossible, I started on Plan B.

  No skilled carpenter had designed this room, just a do-it-yourselfer in a hurry. The cinder block walls and concrete floor were useless, as was the unvarnished wooden door, which appeared a mere afterthought. The similarly unpainted doorjamb was bolted into the wall, leaving an ugly surround of rough cinderblocks. A nasty piece of work, but as I studied it, the sloppy workmanship began to look beautiful.

  I backed up against the roughest corner and slid down, keeping my hands pressed against the cinder blocks. As soon as I was on the floor, I felt around for a useable edge. When I found one, I started scraping my bound wrists up and down, back and forth, sometimes grating skin against cinder block instead of rope. Every now and then, to take my mind away from the pain burning through my left arm, I talked to the other women.

  “Still hanging in there?” Scrape, scrape.

  No answer, not that I’d expected any.

  “So how’d you hear about Kanati?” Scrape, scrape.

  No answer.

  “But you’ve got to give Kanati points for its cuisine, don’t you? The Chicken Basquaise is superb.” Scrape, scrape.

  No answer, but at least they were still breathing.

  Conversing with people who don’t converse back grows tiresome, and my meager collection of small talk soon ran out. To keep my mind off the pain in my wrists—the fierce grating had shredded the skin on both—I remembered Jimmy’s strong but gentle hands, his everlasting patience. I remembered him building our lovely little house to create a safe place for us in a dangerous world. I remembered the note I’d written, telling him how much I loved him, how much I wanted his…

  But thinking about Jimmy made me choke up, so I turned my mind to Ali and Kyle, who were somewhere out there in the Arizona wilderness, holding fast to their love for each other. I even managed to think about Chelsea without anger, because Chelsea was Chelsea, and couldn’t help being what she was. As the pain in my wrists increased, I thought about Reservation Woman, real name Alene Chambers Laumenthal. This made me think
about her unpleasant husband Ford, who had dragged her from commune to commune until he found the place that would kill them both. As my anger rose again, I shifted my thoughts to Megan Unruh and her brokenhearted paintings of body parts. But I found I couldn’t think about her without thinking about her mother, a woman whose aloof manner concealed a great emptiness. Then, most distressing of all, I thought about my mother’s screams as I fell out of the bus and onto the Phoenix street, where...

  The rope fell away from my hands.

  I was free.

  After standing up—I was shaky and both my wrists were bleeding badly—I ripped at the hem of my white robe, and halted the blood flow with makeshift bandages. While doing that, I discovered the cause of the pain in my ring finger. A wedding band, probably put on there by damned, delusional Adam while I was unconscious. I tugged the nasty thing off and threw it in the corner.

  Time to help the other women.

  Ignoring my own thirst, I filled the Styrofoam cup with water and went from woman to woman, lifting up their heads, wetting their lips, their tongues, their gums. Since they were unconscious, I was careful not to let any water trickle down their tracheas. No point in trying to rescue them if they drowned during the attempt.

  “Stay with me,” I murmured. “Just stay with me.”

  Vera, at least I think it was the twin named Vera, moaned.

  “Do you know where you are? What’s happening?”

  She fell silent.

  Determined not to let sadness overwhelm me, I patted more water onto her lips. “We’re getting there, Vera, but in the meantime, don’t enter any tunnels, and for God’s sake, stay away from any white light you happen to see.”

  After doing the best I could for the three of them, I drank the rest of the water in the cup. Filled it again. Drank that. Repeated the process, drinking and drinking until I sloshed. Within minutes Mother Nature came calling. I relieved myself in the bucket, then drank more water. Every six hours, Adam had said. When they’d undressed me, they left me my Timex, and it showed I’d been in this cell for almost three hours. Three more to go. It took mere minutes to take the wire handle off the bucket. I bent the ends together, creating a narrow loop at the top, then with the help of the rough cinder block walls, honed the loop into an approximation of a point. Not the best prison shiv ever made, but it would serve my purpose. Satisfied, I drank more water.

  Peed again.

  Who should I use the shiv on first? Maurice Abraham Arneault, who had killed children in the name of God? Or his son Adam, who had continued his father’s murderous work, albeit in a less bloody manner?

  Whoever I ran into first, I decided.

  I drank more water.

  Peed again.

  I kept repeating the process until I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Then, ignoring the pain in my wrists, I picked up the bucket, which was now half-full of urine, and stood to the side of the door.

  “You gals wish me luck,” I whispered to my unconscious roommates.

  When the door opened, I hurled the bucket of urine into the two guard’s faces. Their reaction was exactly what I’d hoped for. Both men instinctively raised their hands to rub their burning eyes.

  This gave me time to deliver a bloody karate chop to the wrist of the guard carrying the big Taser, followed by a knee to the groin.

  He dropped the Taser.

  I snatched up the Taser and did unto them what they’d done unto me. Since they were both drenched in urine, it worked especially well. But I didn’t take time to admire my handiwork. While the men were still unconscious—or dead, maybe?—I relieved them of their two-way radios, cell phones, and keys, then grabbed my handmade shiv and left the cell. Once outside, I locked the bastards in with the women they had helped starve.

  I found myself in a short hallway that ended in two choices: a staircase to my left, a wheelchair-friendly ramp—guess who for—to my right. My blood-spattered white robe had no pockets in which to tuck anything, so I dumped most of my trophies onto the ground. Entangling my homemade shiv in my long hair, I hurriedly hit 9-1-1 on one of the guards’ phone. From the tone in the dispatcher’s voice, I wasn’t certain she believed me, so as soon as I finished with her, I called Detective Sylvie Perrins.

  “Do what you have to do, but make sure they send out several ambulances,” I finished, after telling her everything I’d told the 9-1-1 dispatcher. “The women are in the lodge’s basement, which is accessible through a fake bookcase. And, uh, Sylvie?” I looked down the hallway. Saw what I hadn’t wanted to see. “There’s a second cell down here. And I hear moaning coming from it.”

  Sylvie had no trouble believing me, but being a cop, she bowed to the snail-slow workings of the law. “For shit’s sake, Lena, don’t do anything you’ll regret. You need to…”

  “Bye.”

  Armed with my homemade shiv and the Taser X2—it had one cartridge left—I climbed the staircase on my left, praying it would lead me to Adam’s office, where I hoped I’d find him.

  I had one last job to do.

  The staircase ended inside a cabinet in Adam’s bathroom, which meant that the paranoid monster had built two escape routes. The good thing about this was that it enabled me to creep out of the bathroom without making a sound. Before he realized what was happening, I was an arm’s-length away from my one-time “husband.”

  “Surprise!”

  He looked up in shock. “Christina, I…”

  With great satisfaction I delivered the X2’s final shot.

  When he stopped writhing, I knelt on his chest and held the shiv to his throat, pressing just hard enough for a thin line of blood to trickle onto the carpet.

  “Like how this feels?” I asked.

  “Don’t! You…”

  “Did you ever wonder how your older brother felt when your father carved out his heart?”

  “But I didn’t…” His entire body shook.

  He was almost ready. I pressed the shiv in further so that the run of blood thickened.

  My voice trembling from a bottomless well of grief, I whispered…

  “Where is my mother?”

  This time he talked.

  And a fat lot of good it did me.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Jimmy, standing next to my hospital bed, looked like twenty miles of bad road himself. But he had given into my pleas and, despite doctor’s orders, had brought the morning newspaper. There was so much red on the Montezuma County Gazette’s front page, the newspaper looked like it was bleeding.

  STARVATION CULT LINKED TO 4 DEATHS!

  If the headline had been any bigger, it wouldn’t have had room for the photograph of Adam Arneault and his henchmen being led, handcuffed, into the Montezuma County Jail, with Maurice Abraham Arneault following close behind in his wheelchair. And it wouldn’t have been able to show the photographs, taken in happier times, of Megan Unruh, Doreen and Ford Laumenthal, and Vera Worthington.

  Vera, one of my cellmates, died of a coronary on the way to the hospital, but Sylvie had slipped me the information that Zoe, Vera’s twin sister, might make it. Same with Monica. In fact, Monica lay in the room next to mine at the Montezuma County Hospital. When she regained consciousness, would she be glad to be alive, or bereft that her attempt at Elevation had been halted?

  As for me, I wasn’t happy about being here, but the stitches in my left arm had been torn apart during my escape and needed re-suturing, and while freeing my hands, I’d somehow managed to grind several pieces of cement deep into my wrists. The wounds were infected.

  “Have another drink of water,” Jimmy said, noting the perspiration on my face.

  “I’ve had all the water I can stand, thank you very much, but I’d love a Tab. Or a Coke. Diet Coke. Coke Zero. Whatever it’s called these days.”

  “But water is…”

  “Do I need to rem
ind you how I got out of that cell?”

  He sighed. “There’s a soda machine in the cafeteria. Be right back.”

  Moments after he left, Sylvie sidled in with a smirk. “Don’t you look lovely today!”

  “Up yours.”

  “I see your sweet personality’s returned, too. And to add more sweetness to Ms. Sweet, I’ve brought you a gift.”

  “Something other than water, I hope.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.” Snickering, she took a copy of the morning’s Arizona Republic out of her briefcase. “For your literary edification.”

  The Montezuma County Gazette may have devoted one and a half pages to the raid on Kanati, but the Republic, as befitting any Pulitzer-winning newspaper, had given it six. They had even traced Kanati’s origins back to Europe’s Divine Temple of the Holy Cross and the mass murders in Quaydon, France.

  I read so fast the words blurred together.

  “…after Maurice Abraham Arneault was severely wounded, the group known as The Children of Abraham fell apart, with many of its former members returning to France, Switzerland, Canada and other countries of origin. Several years later, Arneault’s son Adam emerged as the organization’s new leader. Due to his personal magnetism, the younger Arneault was able to reorganize the group, giving it a new mission. Adam Arneault called his new group ‘Kanati,’ a Cherokee word for God. He combined his father’s teachings with a hodgepodge of various Native American traditions, cobbling together a belief system which at first glance appeared to stress physical, mental and spiritual health.

  A closer look, however, revealed that the basic tenet of The Divine Temple of the Holy Cross remained in place—salvation through sacrifice. In Kanati, this led to the starvation deaths of at least four of its members.

  There have also been rumors, as yet unsubstantiated, of a mass grave in northern Arizona, where members of Abraham’s original group are buried.”

  So now I knew. For whatever reason, my mother and father had joined the American branch of the deadly Divine Temple of the Holy Cross. Their mistake resulted in the murders of my father and baby brother. Sick at heart, I asked Sylvie the question that had been gnawing at me for two days. “Did Adam say anything else about my mother? Did Abraham?”

 

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