I nod. I do understand. “That's why you'll never administer my blood to your people. And you’ll keep a few dozen live samples of Dad’s virus for yourself hidden somewhere inaccessible. That way if anyone questions you or defies you in any way, God can take care of them?”
“That wit.” He shakes his head. “You're very bright, you know. You take one and one and put it together and come up with three. But how do I surgically remove the attitude, while leaving the wit intact?” Solomon lifts his gun and holds it to Wesley's head. “I think I've had an idea. This will be just the lesson for you, my smart but ignorant child. My witty and bright, but misguided and confused offspring.”
Solomon glances down at Wesley. His eyes stare straight ahead, but the muscles in his arms and legs strain.
Solomon sneers at me. “You've been behaving poorly, hurting your mother's feelings, and acting out. It doesn't seem to help when I beat you, but you're empathetic, that's clear. You care a great deal for a bunch of riff-raff you only just met who would burn you at the stake if it would take away their just afflictions.”
“They really don't care about you,” Josephine says. “Not like we do.”
“It's because we care about you that I was going to beat your boyfriends in your place,” Solomon says. “I felt it might hurt you more to watch them suffer than to be harmed yourself.”
I look at Sam's face, calm, clear, and unconcerned. Sam would gladly take a beating for me, I know it in my bones.
One glance at Wesley and I see the same look in his eyes. He'd rather take a beating than let me endure one, too.
Solomon’s right, though. It will hurt me more to watch them.
“Don't,” I say. “Beat me instead.”
Solomon smiles. “I thought you might say that, which means I chose well, but I've had a bit of additional clarification from God while we stand here. A beating isn't a strong enough punishment. It won't make the lasting impression you need. You deserve swift and just punishment for your insolence, and your disregard for my authority.”
He lifts the firearm and shifts it to his other hand. “Did you know I'm ambidextrous? It comes in handy sometimes, especially in cases such as this. It makes it easy for me to watch your face and inflict this punishment at the same time, without moving around and wasting time.” He presses the gun against Sam's temple. “One of your boyfriends will pay the price for your poor behavior, and because I'm a charitable man, I'll let you choose which one dies and which one lives.”
Wesley groans. “I've heard of shotgun weddings, but this is ridiculous. I'm not even her boyfriend, and you already shot that guy, like six times. Maybe we call it square.”
Solomon drops his hand and raises both eyebrows. “So which is it? The funny one? Or the one who already almost died for you?”
In a moment of clarity, Wesley's words come back to me. An abused woman only takes action when she fears for her own life, or that of her child. Solomon, in his dark and twisted way, actually seems fond of me. He's killing Sam or Wesley to teach me a lesson, and to prove the lengths to which he will go, I assume. Slaps and knees to the stomach notwithstanding, he hasn't threatened me with any lasting or permanent harm. There weren't sniper rifles pointed at my head, or at least not that I know of.
I lunge for his gun without warning, and snatch it from his hand. I think about shooting Solomon, but if my mother freaks out and tells everyone we murdered their king, we'll never make it out alive. No, I need to get her on my side, squarely and completely. I think I know how to do it.
I step back and aim the gun toward my own temple. “I choose option C. Myself.”
Solomon's lip curls up. “Go ahead. Your theatrics have gone too far. You value yourself far higher than I do.”
I smile at him. “I'm your only heir. Try again.”
He tilts his head and the corner of his mouth turns upward. “My only legitimate heir, yes. I have several other children, mostly younger to be sure, but also less recalcitrant. You're valuable as my legitimate heir, but ultimately like everyone else other than me, you’re disposable.”
Josephine gasps.
“Now that I'm cured, go ahead, Ruby. Save me the trouble of retraining you and shoot yourself. It will be a real tragedy, but I'll rally and move on. My people will be so proud that God is my strength.”
My hand drops to my side. “Those children are illegitimate.”
“Only while Josephine lives, which is what made you more convenient. I am quite fond of your mother, you know. She's so forgiving, so useful in many ways, and she’s maintained herself impressively. She strikes a lovely figure at public functions, and she keeps my life steady, comfortable, and consistent. But if you force my hand, I can go back to my former plan. Your mother's aged quite nicely, and marrying a younger woman is such an embarrassing cliché. I've always planned to dispose of her after she passes her expiration date, and marry one of the mothers of my other children. Then voilá. Ready made heir. An heir I’ve controlled from start to finish no less.”
“You're disgusting.”
He leans casually against the wall. “I know just what I'll tell my people. My daughter, exposed to Tercera and buoyed up by my prayers for so long, finally succumbed due to her own wicked, rebellious heart. After she contracted the illness, I was prepared to perform a ritual sacrifice and ask God for a cure, but the virus has mutated. It drove her quite mad.” He lifts one eyebrow. “Didn't you hear? It's got new neurological side effects in year one, now. People lose their minds and make rash decisions, including sometimes tragically taking their own lives.”
My suicide would expedite the Cleansing, not to mention eliminating the Marked kids' only real hope for a cure in one fell swoop. Solomon's like a slippery eel, shifting and twisting every which way, but always on top. Except Josephine, my poor, abused, kicked-puppy of a mother, has crept up next to me while we talk. To Solomon she's nothing more than a prop, window dressing in every conversation. She's not a threat and never could be, but he hasn't been watching her face like I have.
Solomon just hit the trifecta of reasons an abused woman might finally leave her abuser. Threat to her child, risk to her own life, and prolonged and extensive infidelity.
I lift the gun back to my temple, keeping one eye on Josephine the entire time. Wesley's smiling at me from the back wall, proud of what I've done.
Josephine's pale white hand snakes out and grabs the revolver out of my hand. She looks at it with a mixture of fear and disgust, as I imagine she views herself. Slowly, so slowly, she turns it toward Solomon, her hand shaking violently, her lips parted.
Solomon straightens up, suddenly sensing the danger. His people may be right outside the door, but they trust this woman implicitly. She's been Solomon’s unblinking left hand for more than seventeen years.
“Joey, what are you doing? Put the gun down, or hand it to me.”
She shakes her head. “Not this time, David. I don't believe this is her fault. Maybe none of it is, and you've gone too far this time. And how could you cheat on me? How? After all the times you questioned my fidelity.”
I only need her to hold Solomon still long enough that I can grab the keys from his belt and release Sam, who will eagerly finish off Solomon now that Josephine has shifted sides, but before I can creep toward him, it happens.
BANG.
Solomon reels back, the bullet hole in his chest leaking far less blood than I expect as he collapses to the ground. Time slows and it feels like I’m moving through water, the sounds distorted, the motions delayed.
I try to look away, but motion draws my eyes. Josephine walks toward David Solomon slowly, stands over him for a moment, staring at him blankly. The gun dangles from her fingers. I half expect him to reach out and grab her leg, taking the gun away. My heart races at the prospect, but I'm frozen in place. Unable to stop it, unable to react.
My mom’s stricken face paralyzes me. What if David takes the gun back? What if he stands up and shoots us all? Who would stop him, with Sam and
Wesley chained to the back wall?
I shake myself like a dog. Looking at my mom with a functioning brain again, I recognize the early signs of shock. Pale skin, rapid breathing, enlarged pupils.
The guards knock on the door, and Josephine doesn't respond.
“We're fine in here,” I say.
“Sire?” a guard with a deep voice asks. “Should we come inside? Did you fire the weapon? Are you alright?”
Solomon doesn’t answer, which gives me hope.
I sprint to the door and lock it from the inside, and then I scramble over to Solomon's body. I fumble with the keys on his belt as the banging on the locked door grows louder.
“Sire, why is the door locked?”
I reach down and press his chest, sticky with warm, wet blood. I recoil in disgust, but I need to check for a pulse. I force my shaking hand back, and feel around on his neck until I realize I can’t find it because Solomon's heart isn't beating. I pull the keys out, gently take the gun from Josephine's limp hands, and cross the room to where Sam’s being held.
“Sure,” Wesley says, “unlock him first. I guess I know who you'd have chosen if it came to it. Although, I feel like you should have chosen him to be shot. I mean, if anyone was going to survive the tender ministrations of your insane father, I think we know who it would have been, and it's not me. It takes me a week just to heal from a paper cut. I'm just saying.”
I unlock Sam while Wesley prattles on about how long it took him to heal from a broken finger. “I couldn’t even carry the firewood for two months,” he says.
“Shaddup, Wes.” I sound annoyed, but my lips curl into an involuntary smile. I’m so relieved I want to collapse on the floor and cry, but there isn’t time. Not yet anyway.
Sam takes the gun from my hand and crosses to the door. I unlock Wesley's hands and pass him the key to unlock his ankles. Josephine huddles near Solomon, tears streaming silently down her face. She holds his hand in hers, and rocks back and forth, murmuring something I can't make out.
Just as the banging and shoving on the door becomes so loud I expect the door to give way, Sam unlocks it. I watch as Sam blurs, using the gun's handle to knock the first guard's hands down. He kicks the gun toward me, and moves to the second guard. He disarms him too, fighting as quietly as he can, presumably to avoid drawing more attention. When I hear the boots of a third guard stomping down the hall, I'm sure Sam will need to fire a shot, and I resign myself to the entire militia coming down upon us.
I glance at Josephine to see whether she might be ready to make a statement, or calm them down. Sam's amazing, but no one person can take out an entire army.
Sam stands flush with the door, gun pointed just inside of the doorframe.
Solomon's voice shocks me. “Put your gun down before you enter, soldier.”
I spin around, confused and horrified. How could he have risen from the dead? He didn't have a pulse.
A grinning Wesley smirks. I recall with overwhelming relief how much time Wes spent working on impersonations at home. Why couldn't he have done that when the guards came to the door to begin with?
The guard enters the room, his gun down at his side, and Sam strikes his arm, forcing him to drop the weapon. Within moments, the three men are bound and gagged with strips Sam tears from Wesley's jacket.
“Sorry about your coat,” I say.
Wesley lifts the side of his jacket, surveying the damage. He'll need a new jacket for sure. “That's okay.” He shrugs and points at Sam. “I'm just proud as peaches this guy kept his shirt on. It’s already been a long day, what with being called the funny one, and a stick figure, and Ruby picking Sam to unlock first. I’m not sure I’d have made it through the self-esteem nose-dive that ensues when this one strips.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Let's go.”
Josephine still huddles over Solomon. I’m surprisingly peaceful about his death, relieved and giddy even. In spite of my feelings, my heart goes out to her. I touch her shoulder softly. “Mom, we need to get out of here.” When she doesn't acknowledge me, I repeat the words, louder.
When her face turns toward me, her eyes are glassy. “Ruby, darling, is that you?”
I swear. “Sam, can you carry her?”
“We might need his hands free,” Wesley says. “She can't weigh more than 100 pounds. I think I can manage.”
Sam lifts one eyebrow, but doesn't comment.
“I don’t even want to hear it,” Wesley says.
Sam shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”
Wesley scoops my mother into both arms, and lifts her. She moans in protest, extending one arm, but doesn't stop him. The boys walk to the door to leave, but I need to check one more time. I can't handle Solomon haunting my dreams for the next ten years. If he pulls a Lazarus, I'm gonna burn down every church I can find, I swear. I stoop over him and press my fingers to his throat. Still no pulse anywhere.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“We need a truck, or something,” Wesley says. “I can't carry her very far. And our last expedition on foot didn't end as well as we'd hoped.”
Sam grunts. “You're right about that.”
No trucks are parked helpfully in front of the prison, but I see one a few hundred feet down the road, just behind Solomon's big, white palace.
Sam sees it too, and sighs. “I'd rather circle wide around his home base, but that might be too far.”
I glance at Wesley, who's already perspiring. “What do you say?”
“Unless you wanna trade places and trust to my marksmanship skills, we need to find some wheels soon.”
Sam nods.
“Oh!” I grab Sam's arm. “We can't leave without my dad's journal.”
His eyes widen and he groans. “No, we can’t. That thing’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”
I start walking toward the large, non-palace.
“Where do you think it is, exactly?” Wesley asks.
I point at the back door. “It's gotta be in Solomon's office, right?”
Sam whistles. “How are you planning to get in?”
“I was sort of hoping one of you had an idea.”
Sam shakes his head.
“I’m the brains of this operation,” Wesley says, “so I understand your reasoning, but I've got nothing.”
“I guess we’ll have to wing it,” I say.
My mom shifts with a sigh, and Wesley’s shoulders slump. “I was worried you were going to say that.”
My mom's nearly catatonic form gives me an idea. “It's not much of a plan, but it’s better than just waltzing in the back door like we own the place and rummaging around. Sort of.”
17
I crouch in the winter skeleton of a butterfly bush at the base of the flowerbed next to the back door of my mom's house.
Wesley climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, shouting. “Help, help me! Quick, someone help!”
The back porch light was already on, but it takes less than ten seconds for someone to answer the door. I watch as Wesley’s rushed inside. I hear a voice I don't recognize yell. “Call for a doctor!” Someone else says, “The queen! She's ill.”
Sam walks through on the periphery of all the chaos. He glances down at me briefly before closing the door. He'll have left it unlocked for me. I tried to convince him to take my place, hiding and then sneaking in while everyone's distracted to grab the journal, but he felt he didn't have the best history with going back to retrieve the cursed thing. I can't fault him for that. Besides, I have the third most recognizable face on the island, so staying hidden as much as possible makes sense.
I count to one hundred, and then sneak up the stairs. I slide through the back door, and try to recall exactly where the office is in relation to the back door. I bumble into a library, full of rows and rows of leather books, and a music room with a grand piano, a cello, a violin, a harp, and an assortment of horns, but luckily no one's inside either room, thanks to the hubbub coming from the front of the house.
> Wesley's voice rings out clearly above the rest. “She's in shock. She needs something to drink, and a warm blanket.”
Sam's voice sounds more like a rumble than anything else, but I can make out a few of his words here and there, too. “Yes you, go get it!” and “Not in five minutes. Now.”
I silently express my gratitude to God, if he really exists, that Sam and Wesley seem to be keeping everyone busy.
Third time really is the charm for me tonight. I stand at the threshold of Solomon's office, remembering the first time I snooped in here, when I found his dart gun with Tercera and the accelerant. I cross to the dark, heavy wooden desk and pull out several drawers before I remember the locked one. That's probably where Solomon would keep something small and valuable like Dad's journal. I pull a paperclip out of the top drawer, and straighten it out. My brief stint in Defense finally pays off. I can't shoot a gun with any accuracy, and I couldn't take down a ten year old kid with my roundhouse kick, but I know how to pick a basic lock. It takes three tries, and I break two nails, but finally I hear the click and grinding, and the drawer slides open.
The paternity test Solomon told me he performed rests on top, declaring in bold print that I'm his daughter, just as he said. My fingers grip it tightly, and I want to shred it into bits, and deny it forever. Once he's gone and his body's buried or burned, no one could prove he's my father ever again. This one little action, and it would be like we aren’t related at all.
If the past has taught me anything, it's that lies rarely make things better.
Ostriches may stick their heads in the sand, but everyone laughs at their huge, feathered bodies just the same. I slide the paper into the top, skinny drawer of his desk. Beneath that paper are quite a few ledgers detailing wealth, favors, and debts owed to him from the leaders of the other WPN ports. Beneath that rests a dark, blood red book. I flip it open and discover lists and lists of secrets. Disgusting things, embarrassing things, criminal things. I shut the book and shove it to the bottom. Which is where I find a dark, hard bound, leather journal. I yank it out so fast that a stack of paper bound with twine flies out, too. The packet of papers slips to the glossy wooden floor with a plop.
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 45
