by H. D. Gordon
He stared at her for a moment longer, as if he were listening to her thoughts rather than her words—which, he claimed he could do, but only if he wanted, of course. Like most of the other stuff he spewed, Sharon had come to the conclusion over the past two decades that this claim was nothing more than bullshit.
After a moment, he scooted back his chair and patted his thigh, offering her a smile that was probably meant to soothe her, bright white teeth glaring out behind too dry lips. Every time she saw him lately she would wonder how in the world she had ever found him attractive. “Come here, my darling,” he said. “Come sit with me. Of course I want to go over the details. Sometimes I swear you know me better than I know myself.”
She moved to him instantly, settling on his lap and taking short breaths through her mouth. The bastard smelled like sweat and booze and sex. The upside to this was at least she wouldn’t have to touch him. Poor little Fae had already fulfilled that duty.
“No one knows more than you, daddy,” she said, answering on autopilot. It was sort of a wonder how she had gotten so good at masking her feelings, amazing what survival instinct could do.
His moist palm came up and rested on the back of her neck, his rough thumb rubbing circles there. Sharon had to clench her teeth to stop the shudder that ran through her. Just confirm the details, and then she could escape this forsaken room that he called an office.
“Mama Jackson is prepared for the healing,” she began, swallowing past the bad taste that had come to her mouth. “So when you call on her she’ll know exactly what to do. She’ll be in her wheelchair in the middle of the pews on the side of the church with the stained glass, as you requested. The fading light of sunset should cast a real pretty glow over there. Tamara is going to lead the choir, as usual, and Dorie will be on the stage with you the whole time, to make sure you have everything you need.”
He nodded, dry tongue coming out over his lips. His thumb kept rubbing those skin-crawling circles she unbelievably used to find enticing. “And what will you be doing, darling?” he asked.
“I’ll be in the crowd, searching out the new recruits, as I always do,” she answered. “I know what they all look like and their stories. What we know of their stories, anyway.”
His hand travelled down to her shoulder and began kneading there. “And Dorie has learned all of this as well?”
“Yes,” she said. “She’ll be there the whole time, and she knows everything I do.”
“How many do we have coming tonight?”
“We estimate anywhere from four-hundred to six hundred, counting those from the Ranch, of course. And there are six specific recruits I’ll be searching out. I’ll make sure they get in the line at the end so you can talk to them.”
There was knock at the door then, and he shooed her off his lap in a way that would have been offensive if she weren’t so damn happy not to be touching him anymore. He called for the caller to enter. “Just in time,” he said, as their two sons, Bobby and Ron Jr., entered.
Sharon smiled at them, her heart aching at their obvious enchantment with the monster that was their father. She blamed herself. She’d had her chance to get away, more than one, actually, back before the Temple became the machine it was now, and she hadn’t done it. She’d allowed herself to remain blind because the sight of what was really there was too much for her to handle. Now, she couldn’t take the boys away from him if she tried. They wouldn’t come. They were men now, and they were dangerously loyal to their father like everyone else in this fucked up Family seemed to be.
For the millionth time, she wondered just how it was that they had gotten here, to this point of no return. If she left, she was sure she’d never see Bobby nor Ronnie ever again. He would see to it. Not only that, but he would probably send someone after her, the way he did with other high tier turncoats. No, he would definitely send someone after her.
Sharon had to force these thoughts away. They were thoughts for later, when she was alone, away from prying eyes.
“My sons,” he said. “Did you get them?”
Bobby grinned and lifted his shirt, revealing the handle of a .45 tucked into his waistband. The look on his face right then was so much like his father’s Sharon had to let out a slow, shaky breath. Seeing her youngest son with the weapon made the hair on her arms rise. It felt as though a goose had just walked over her grave.
“Yup,” Bobby said. He slapped his brother on the belly, making Ron Jr. double over a little. “Ronnie over here has got his too. We are ready to go, dad. Nobody’s gonna fuck with us.”
At this, her husband laughed heartily, a high-pitched sound for such a large man, like the cackle of a hyena. Bobby and Ron Jr. joined in. Sharon followed suit. She’d learned well over the years.
“Excellent,” he said. “And you know how to use them? You’ve been to the range and practiced?”
This time, Ron Jr. answered. Though he was the older of the two, and her husband’s namesake, his personality was more like his mother’s. Sharon was glad for this. At least one of her children would have a chance if she ever managed to get them away from all this. If there even was such a place as away. She’d been with Ron Reynolds so long she wasn’t sure anymore.
“We know how to use them,” Ron Jr. said. “But do you really think we need them, dad? I mean, why would someone come in and try to hurt us? We’re just a church.”
Sharon’s stomach tightened. Her husband was in one of his fragile states—something that was becoming more and more frequent as of late. She could tell, which was why she had been treading so lightly. Any little thing was bound to set him off, and questioning his decisions was always a sure way to do it.
Ron Reynolds slammed his fist down on the top of his desk, revealing the blood that was still there from the girl he’d taken earlier. For a split second, Sharon contemplated grabbing the gun from Bobby’s waistband and blowing the bastard’s crazy head off.
“How should I know why those sick sickos do what they do?” he yelled at Ron Jr., who took two steps back from his father. “Because they’re a bunch of homos and sinners, I guess, and they can’t stand the heavenly life we’ve built here! You think I like having my sons carry around weapons?” A vein was pulsing in his forehead now. “You think I like having to pay to give our family everything it has, to bleed for us to live a free, godly life? Fuck no, I don’t! So if anyone does come in here and try to take what we’ve built, we’ll make them bleed instead, you got it? Or do I have to write that shit down for you?”
Ron Jr. was looking down now, his mouth shut tight. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, dad,” he said. “You’re right.”
Ron Reynolds sat back in his wing-backed leather chair. “Damn right, I’m right,” he said.
Sharon locked eyes for only the shortest of moments with Ron Jr., trying to convey her sympathy to her son, but of course, her husband noticed the tiny exchange. He flapped his hand at her. “Get on outta here now, would you, Sharon?” he said. “I know there’s probably more arrangements to be double-checked for tonight, and me and the boys got some stuff we have to discuss.”
Of course there were more things to be done. There was always something more to be done, by everyone. Sharon suspected this was because he liked to keep everyone tired, exhausted even, to prevent them from thinking straight. It was just one of the many tactics he used to control them. It was no wonder that the last two decades of her life had felt more like a century.
Sharon nodded and turned to go, keeping these thoughts, like most others, to herself. She wanted to reach out and pat her son’s shoulder, to offer him some sort of affection that would tell him without speaking the words that she was sorry, that she didn’t agree with his father. Instead, she tucked her head down and gritted her teeth. Ron Jr. didn’t need her sympathy. Her sympathy would get them both in trouble. Her husband was always careful to make sure their sons’ loyalty was to him first, and him only. He would not allow the bond her sympathy would build. She knew better.
&n
bsp; Right before she shut the door behind her, leaving her sons and her husband to “discuss” whatever secrets she wasn’t allowed to hear, he called out to her. His once-charming smile was back on his face, his dark eyes projecting their false love.
“Sharon, my darling?” he said. “You’ll remember to be on the lookout for anyone special at the service this evening, won’t you?”
She forced her lips to curve up, and nodded. “Of course, daddy,” she said. “Always on the lookout for the special ones.”
Chapter 11
Joe
“You’re special,” he said. “I mean, not short bus special, like special, special. You know, like, in a good way.” He paused and gave me a sheepish smile. “I always sound like a genius when I’m around you, don’t I?”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, even though none of what was happening was funny. I shrugged. “Y-you sound special,” I said.
Michael’s smile grew into a wide grin, which fell when his eyes lit up with a realization. “That’s how you knew about the shooter at UMMS. You knew the whole time.”
We were sitting on my couch in my small living room. Kyle had gone home about half an hour ago, after leaving me with a whole library of books he’d collected on cults. I had promised I’d study them like crazy. Mr. Landry had gone to bed, saying I could brief him in the morning. Now, it was just Michael and me, pouring over the cult books in my living room and discussing casually my darkest secret at almost two o’clock in the morning. To say the least, it had been one hell of a day.
I sat back on the couch and nodded in answer to Michael’s question, not wanting to think about the shooting at UMMS. He must have picked up on this. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m a little slow on the uptake tonight. It’s uh…a lot to absorb.”
“Duh-don’t I know it,” I said, stifling a yawn with my fist.
After much deliberation, we had decided that Michael, Mr. Landry and I would be the ones to attend the Heaven’s Temple service tomorrow. Kyle couldn’t go because they knew he was trying to get his sister out, and wouldn’t let him near Kayla. They would be on the lookout for him.
But they wouldn’t be on the lookout for Michael and me, and hopefully, it would look like we had come together because we’d seen the yellow flyers the Temple had spread around town—and not because we were trying to stop a mass death from happening. Mr. Landry would come in separately, wear a hat, and try to pick up whatever he could with his mind-reading capabilities, though he’d told us it wouldn’t be easy if it was a really large crowd. Kayla and Mr. Landry only knew each other in very limited passing. So at least he should have no trouble blending in to the crowd.
It wasn’t an amazing plan, but it was all we had at the moment, and though I hated the idea of Michael and Mr. Landry coming along, after what I’d already learned about the situation, I would be lying to say I wasn’t also a little comforted. The more I learned about these cults and their leaders, the more I feared the situation I was walking into.
Michael’s hand came up and tucked some of the hair that had fallen into my face behind my ear, his warm palm coming to rest on my cheek. “You’re tired,” he said. “I’ll go so you can rest.”
I didn’t say anything, just sat staring at him. He had a way of pulling me away from my terrible thoughts, and though I was pretty exhausted, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to leave yet. For once, I didn’t want to be alone with my worries. That realization seemed to smack me in the gut. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. I wanted…to be with him.
Something in my face must have said as much.
“Or,” Michael said, standing up and grabbing the fleece blanket that was folded on the armchair beside the couch, “I can keep reading for a while and you can get some shut eye.” He pulled me to him then, making my weary heart beat faster, and resting my head on his shoulder. He tucked the blanket under my chin. “Would you rather I stay?” he asked, his voice hardly a whisper.
I nodded, surprisingly comfortable with him so near. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath of his fresh scent, letting it fill my senses, letting his low voice drown out the roaring world. “Okay, my raven-haired girl,” he said. “You sleep, then. We’ll save the world tomorrow.”
“We?” I asked, the single word slipping easily from my lips of its own volition.
One side of his mouth pulled up. “We,” he agreed.
My eyelids were growing heavy, but I looked up at his handsome face beneath my lashes, feeling both enormously grateful and terribly guilty at the same time. Michael looked down at me with eyes like melted chocolate, and my hand seemed to reach up on its own, clearing his forehead of a lock of dark blond hair that had escaped its purposely messy style. In the silence that hung between us, I could have heard a heart break, or a soul shake.
Right before sleep swallowed me up, in the lowest of voices and his poetic manner, I heard him say, “Sometimes, you have to take the good with the bad…otherwise ours is a pitiable existence.” There was a flash of heat across my forehead as he placed his lips there. “And you’re anything but.”
Looking back, I think that was the moment I realized I was falling in love with him, and it scared me not because it felt like the floor was being ripped out from underneath me—I was used to that feeling—but because I knew he was now standing on that same floor with me, which put him at risk of falling as well.
And in my life, when the people around me fell, they didn’t always get back up.
Chapter 12
Joe
I was in my bed when I woke up on Sunday morning, so for a moment, while my consciousness was half-in and half-out, I sighed in relief, thinking the events of yesterday evening had been in my dreams. That notion was dismissed when my eyes peeked open and saw the single red rose laying atop my nightstand.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, picking up the rose and the letter that was tucked beneath it. My heart leapt in my chest and sunk at the same time. It was from Michael.
Forgive my departure. To stir you would’ve been a sin, so lovely you are when you sleep. I’ll return in the morning so we can go over the plan. ~M
I set the letter and rose back down on the nightstand and flopped back on my pillow, covering my eyes with my arm. I couldn’t help the grin that was pulling up my lips. He had a way with words, I had to give him that. The grin slipped away only moments later, as I realized I was stupid if I didn’t keep Michael, and selfish if I did. A double-edged sword, the story of my life.
I flipped off the covers, seeing that it was nearly eight-thirty, which was late for me, even on a Sunday. We had decided to meet over at Mr. Landry’s again at ten o’ clock to go over what we knew, and to hear more of what Kyle knew about cults, so that we could have as best an idea as possible concerning what we would be walking into tonight when we attended the service advertised on the yellow flyer.
I showered, dressed, and had a bowl of oatmeal and berries. I had just finished up when there came a knock at my door. I wasn’t surprised to see it was Michael. I was surprised by the multiple grocery bags he had in his hands.
He shrugged when I raised my eyebrows at his haul. “We gotta eat,” he said. “And I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long day.”
He ended up being right about that. We headed over to Mr. Landry’s apartment shortly after, and found both Kyle and the old man there, discussing the plan. For the better part of the day, we discussed the situation. What Kyle’s extensive research on cults boiled down to was this:
Cults are a religion or religious sect usually considered false or extremist in nature. Its followers often live in an unconventional manner. Their devotion to their authoritarian, extremely charismatic leader is so intense it can be dangerous.
These leaders, fundamentally different from the rest of humanity, do naturally what it takes top tier military officials years to master; brainwashing and mind control over others. They seem to have an undeniable draw to most people, letting off a glow like that of a bug zapper
, calling their blinded prey forward with empty promises and false assurances. They use things like sleep deprivation and public humiliation to keep followers in line. Followers are allowed little to no contact with people outside of the group, and group members are not allowed to form close bonds with anyone other than the leader, who often claims to be some sort of messiah. Followers are expected to give complete and utter devotion. Followers will willingly kill for their leaders, and even take their own lives in many circumstances, if so directed.
“I’m telling you,” Kyle said, as the time to get to the service was fast approaching. “I’m not sure there’s anything more disturbing than the shit that goes on with these cults. Somehow, these bastards get all these people to do terrible things. Children turn on parents, brothers on sisters, mothers on their babies. After all the things I’ve learned, I really think even being in the same room with one of these guys puts you in danger. They’re certifiable psychopaths.”
