Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2)

by Melissa Brown

  “These things take time,” the Prophet answered, sounding as calm and collected as always. “Be patient.”

  The other man released a sardonic laugh. “And how do I know you’ll deliver? They paid you in full. Hell, so did I.”

  “And they will be satisfied, I assure you.” The Prophet stopped just in front of the closet. Fear swept from my forehead to my toes as I eased myself away from the door, still slightly ajar.

  Please don’t open the door. Please don’t open the door.

  The closet door slammed and I swallowed hard, tears of relief forming in my eyes, so grateful that he hadn’t discovered my hiding spot. Attempting to gain my composure, I listened as their conversation continued.

  “I’m not so sure I believe you, man. In fact, we may have to take our business elsewhere.”

  “That would be a fool’s decision.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because no one can deliver like I can, and you know it. Have I ever let you down before?” the Prophet asked.

  A long pause hung in the air, and my mind spun frantically as I attempted to understand their cryptic exchange.

  “No.”

  “Come, it’s on the third floor. I’ll show you and you can report back.” The Prophet clapped his hands. “You can assure them on my ability to deliver.”

  “Fine. But you better not be fucking around with me, goddamn it.”

  A harsh slam rattled the door. I could only assume the Prophet’s fist had made contact with the unfinished wood.

  “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain. Not in my temple, do you understand?”

  I could hear crackling on the other side of the door, and then the other man attempting to speak. His voice was different, as if something was cutting off his air supply. And then I understood.

  The Prophet hadn’t slammed his fist into the door; he’d slammed the man into the door. I imagined his hand wrapped around the other man’s neck as he forced him against the wood. But then I heard rustling and a click. The other man had a gun; I could feel it in my bones.

  “Put that away,” the Prophet said. He was trying to sound tough, but his voice cracked, betraying him.

  “I don’t believe in your god. So I can say whatever the fuck I want, wherever the fuck I want. Got me?”

  “And that’s why you’ll burn.” The Prophet’s words were matter-of-fact and came as no surprise. We all believed that Gentiles were going to hell. Only the chosen would join Heavenly Father.

  The other man chuckled. “Believe me, buddy, you’ll burn too.”

  His words sent a chill down my spine. The men stood in silence for a moment, apparently in a standoff.

  “Put it away and I’ll show you the upstairs.”

  “Fine.”

  Their footsteps grew distant as they vacated the second floor to climb to the third. I sank to my knees, my breathing ragged and my mind overwhelmed by dozens of unanswered questions. What was on the third floor? I wasn’t leaving until I found out.

  Detective Cooke seemed confident that the “product” the Prophet had spoken of previously was drugs, and more than ever, I thought he was correct. Everything he’d said to the other man tonight aligned with that theory. Perhaps he was using the third floor to store the illegal substances until he could deliver to the other man and his associates.

  But if Detective Cooke was going to do anything to prosecute the Prophet for illegal activity, I needed to supply him with proof. I could only hope and pray that the third floor would be my answer.

  The two men were upstairs for almost an hour, and my bladder gave a sharp twinge, warning me that I couldn’t stay in that closet for much longer.

  Mind over matter, Aspen.

  Their voices approached again as they passed through the second floor via the stairway. Their tones were more relaxed now, almost friendly. Obviously the Prophet had satisfied the other man’s concerns. They said their good-byes and the temple door closed once again.

  This was my moment.

  It’s now or never. Go to the third floor.

  With trembling hands, I switched on the flashlights and left the closet, casting the light toward the carpet so as not to shine unwanted light out the windows as I ran to the stairway. I climbed two steps at a time, eager to reach the top. When I did, I saw nothing but a long hallway, leading to a dozen different rooms. Unlike the doorways on the second floor, these had doors, and they were all closed. I imagined this was the floor that would be used for religious education.

  I tried the first door. And the next. And the next. But much to my utter dismay, every door was locked.

  Every last one.

  My heart sank as I tried each doorknob one last time. With no luck, I made my way to the stairway. When my foot made contact with something that crinkled, I shone my light down to the floor and retrieved the small square foil packet. It was dark blue in color, and the packaging was smooth, labeled Trojan latex condom.

  What on earth?

  I flipped the packet over and looked at the back of the packaging. I’d never seen anything like it. It was clear, and I could see a circular object flattened on the inside. I wondered if it was something that could be used for drug use.

  Quickly, I placed it in my knapsack, hoping that Detective Cooke would be able to help me understand what this thing was. I could use the Internet on my phone, but I tried to avoid the Internet as the results found online were often overwhelming.

  Instead, I chose to retrieve my phone and call Detective Cooke.

  As it rang, my mind whirled. Pick up. Please, pick up.

  The line connected and my stomach fluttered. But it was only his outgoing message.

  “Hello, this is Detective Jonathan Cooke with the Colorado City Police Department. If this is an emergency, dial 911. Otherwise, leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

  “Hello, um, I hope you remember me. This is Aspen Black. We met a few weeks ago about my daughter . . . and the Prophet. I have new information and need to see you as soon as possible. Tomorrow is Sunday, so I can’t go into town then, but I’ll be there Monday morning. If this isn’t possible, let me know. You now have my number.”

  Placing the phone back in my knapsack, I made my way downstairs and out into the cool night. My heart was pounding as I walked toward my house. When I saw him standing next to the gate, bile rose in my throat.

  “Hello, Aspen.”

  The Prophet.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come. My nerves were on fire, and I had no idea what to say.

  “Out for a walk so late at night?” He tilted his head to the side, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. “That seems out of character.”

  Quickly, I reached into my knapsack, retrieving my alibi. As weak as it was, it was all I had. “My son, Jeremiah, he dropped his hat near the temple.”

  “I see. And why didn’t you just wait until morning?”

  “I couldn’t fall asleep knowing it was out here. A mother’s curse, I guess. Besides, he’d be heartbroken if it was gone forever. He’s quite attached to it.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “And you knew just where to look?”

  “Yes, I guess I did.” I lifted the hat again with a shrug.

  The Prophet narrowed his eyes. “How fortunate.”

  “Yes.” I nodded, shivering. “It was.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you.” He turned to open the gate, gesturing for me to walk into my family’s yard. When I did, he closed the gate behind me. “Go inside . . . you’ll catch your death out here.”

  It was a figure of speech; I knew that. Everyone knew that. But in this case, I knew better. In the intensity of his gaze, in the choice of his words, I knew.

  It was a message, one I received loud and clear.

  The Prophet knew where I’d been and what I’d heard.

  He knew.

  Chapter 18

  “My words are the only words of the Lord.”

  —The Prophet,
Clarence Black

  Aspen

  The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to attend congregation the next morning. I hadn’t slept at all, pacing my room and checking on my children each hour. My poor Susan was awakened by my footsteps more than once, and begged to know what was the matter. I urged to her to go back to sleep each time while I paced their room and my own.

  Now it was Sunday morning, and for the first time in my life, I was dreading setting foot in our temple. To say that my faith was being questioned would be the largest understatement one could imagine. Since childhood, my views were shaped by the Prophet. I followed his word to a tee, admiring him and all that he’d done for our chosen people.

  But now that same man was unrecognizable, and the words of the man on the other side of the closet door echoed through my brain.

  “Believe me, buddy, you’ll burn too.”

  Whatever Clarence Black was selling to these men was clearly illegal in the eyes of the law and that of Heavenly Father. For a Gentile to assert that our Prophet would burn in Hell?

  A shiver ran down my spine when I contemplated what it could be, but I wasn’t stupid. I was fully aware that, although we were the chosen, we were terribly naive when it came to the ways of the outside world. Whatever the Prophet had involved himself in, it was clearly in the realm of the Gentiles. And deep within me, I knew it was something I couldn’t possibly predict.

  And that’s why I needed Detective Cooke.

  I was counting down the hours until I could sneak away to the police station. The detective was the only one who could help me piece these clues together. Perhaps he’d have the answer I so desperately needed.

  We arrived at the temple, taking our seats near the front of the church behind several rows of the Prophet’s wives and children. Settling in with Jeremiah in my lap, I mentally prepared for the Prophet’s sermon, hoping that if I sat low enough in my seat, we wouldn’t make eye contact.

  He emerged from his office, which was in the far corner of the temple, tucked behind the pulpit. After locking the door behind him, he walked to his lectern and turned on the microphone, urging everyone to take their seats.

  Why did you lock that door?

  For years, I’d watched the Prophet emerge from his office before delivering his sermon to the congregation, and never once did I recall him locking the door behind him. Was it possible that this was a new development? Of course. But it was also possible that I’d simply never noticed him doing it in the past because there was no reason for me to do so.

  My mind was reeling as Jeremiah tucked his forehead under my chin, wrapping his arms around my neck. I took a deep breath and rubbed his tiny back as the Prophet began his sermon.

  “Loyalty,” he said, scanning the crowd, and I swallowed hard at that word. “Loyalty is perhaps one of the most desired traits of any parishioner, is it not? As your Prophet, I depend on your loyalty as you depend on mine. It’s a symbiotic relationship that our Lord has created. Trust in me and I’ll trust in you. Defend me and I’ll defend you.”

  The room was silent.

  “But betray me . . . betray me and you betray Heavenly Father. Trust in Gentiles, and you are withdrawing your trust from me and from our Lord.”

  He removed the microphone from its base and walked from the lectern, pacing the carpeted podium. “There are Gentiles who believe I am nothing but a nuisance, and do you know why? Because I remind them that they are not the chosen. I remind them of their own pathetic existence without the blessings of Heavenly Father.”

  Funny, you were just doing business with a Gentile last night . . .

  A cough came from the front pew of the temple.

  I narrowed my eyes as I studied Holly Black, one of the Prophet’s many wives. She cleared her throat loudly over the Prophet’s words, and I watched her as she clutched her neck.

  The Prophet pursed his lips with annoyance and motioned for his first wife, Janine, to come to her sister wife’s aid. Janine hopped from her seat and ran from the temple. Another of his wives patted Holly’s back until Janine returned with a small cup of water. Holly sipped the water as she pressed her hand to her chest.

  “I’m so sorry,” Holly whispered, but her eyes didn’t match her words.

  It was an insincere apology; I felt it in my gut. And so my wheels began to spin. It was a distinct possibility that Holly knew the Prophet’s sermon was disingenuous. Perhaps she knew of his dealings with Gentiles.

  Interesting.

  The Prophet sighed, dismissing her with a wave before looking back into the sea of faces offering their undivided attention.

  “As I was saying, these Gentiles, they are the enemy. Do not allow them to seduce you with their music, their films, or their hedonistic way of life. Stay strong, my children. You will be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.”

  Another cough. Again, from Holly Black.

  The Prophet glared at her with bulging eyes, agitated by the outburst.

  Quickly, she spoke. “My deepest apologies. There’s a tickle in my throat, sir.”

  The Prophet sneered. “Then perhaps you should step outside and remove your outbursts. You are becoming quite the distraction.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I was fascinated. There was no doubt in my mind that there was more to Holly than I had originally thought. Was she disgruntled in her marriage to the Prophet? Did she know of his dealings with those in the outside world? I had no idea. But I knew right then that I had to find out.

  A few minutes after Holly had left the temple, I devised a plan. Leaning in closer to Jeremiah, I whispered, “What, darling boy?”

  “Huh?” he mumbled.

  “Oh, of course.” I turned to Ruthie. “Your brother has a tummy ache. I’m taking him to the bathroom.”

  My enthralled daughter was easy to fool as she was barely paying attention to anything other than her future husband. “Okay, Mama.”

  Carrying Jeremiah in my arms, I retreated from worship. I held my breath, waiting for the Prophet to call my name in front of the other parishioners. But he didn’t, thank goodness. When the chapel’s double doors closed behind us, I made a beeline for the nearest exit, searching the grounds for Holly. With a sigh, I spotted her sitting below a tree, pulling petals off of a flower.

  “Pardon me,” I said as I approached.

  Holly was petite with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Her skin was fair with delicate features. Approximately my age, she’d been married to the Prophet for several years. We’d never spoken, but I hoped she’d be willing to talk to me now.

  “Yes?” she asked, looking confused as she tossed the barren flower stem aside. “Aspen, right? You’re married to Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced at my boy and offered a polite smile. “He’s adorable. How old is he?”

  “Almost two and a half. He’s into everything, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where are your little ones?”

  “They’re inside with their other mothers, I suppose.” There was no mistaking the bite to her words. “I could only have two.”

  I grimaced. Two children were never deemed as enough in our community. When it came to offspring, the more the better, so her answer gave me some insight as to why Holly had such a curt disposition. I could only imagine that the Prophet wasn’t pleased with her inability to give him more than two children.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, her eyes glossy. “It’s the Lord’s plan for me, I guess.”

  “Yes, of course.” I nodded, trying so hard to read her, to know if it was safe to discuss delicate matters with someone I’d only just met.

  She looked around, noticing that we were the only parishioners who’d left the temple. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

  “Oh, um.” I quickly glanced left and right. “I was hoping to speak to you.”

  “About?” She raised both eyebrows.

  “My daughter.”

  “Oh
yes. Ruth, right?”

  “Ruthie.” I nodded. “The announcement was quite the surprise.”

  “I can only imagine. My own daughter is ten, so I understand. I married Clarence when I was fifteen and got pregnant right away.” She sighed. “It’s the way things are, unfortunately.”

  That unfortunately was all I needed. Holly opened the door, and I was more than ready to walk inside.

  “So, if it were your daughter, hypothetically speaking, of course—”

  “I’d be furious,” Holly said, her words matter-of-fact. “No question.”

  “I am.”

  “But your husband—does he feel the same?”

  I shook my head, ashamed of the lack of solidarity in my marriage. “I wish he did. I feel like it’s me against the world right now, and it’s overwhelming.”

  “I can only imagine.” Holly rose to her feet and lowered her voice. “Between you and me, if you can convince Clarence to change his mind, that’s what you should do . . . for the sake of your daughter.”

  “But he’s the Prophet. Can I even do that?”

  Jeremiah squirmed in my arms, and I rubbed his back, soothing him.

  She shrugged. “No, probably not. He obviously wants her for a reason.”

  He wants my baby? I feel sick.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, that was insensitive. Please forgive me, Aspen. Honestly, I’m not the person you should be talking to; I’m not exactly the model sister wife. Most of the other wives hate me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because . . .” She paused and shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “You don’t care much for him, do you?” I asked, knowing my time was running short. Soon the rest of the congregation would spill from the temple doors. I had to act quickly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but nodded her head, a single tear sliding from her eye.

  I took her hand in mine and tilted my head to the side. “I don’t know what I’m talking about either.”

  Holly looked behind me, clearing her throat. I turned to see Paul, and he didn’t appear pleased to see me there.

  “Will you excuse me?” I asked.