Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. Tara Jane didn’t stand a chance at freedom if she wasn’t willing to testify. She needed to tell her story, to open up to the outside world. On top of that, the foster parents should be enforcing her prescriptions. What sort of people were they, anyway?
She got the urge to drive by the house at lunch, just to get a feel of where the girl had been living. She knew you couldn’t judge a person by the place where they lived, but for some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this little girl needed her help in some way.
She ripped a post-it note from a yellow stack near her desk calendar and copied the address from the open folder. Her stomach grumbled as she cleared her desk, neatly arranging the file before placing it in her top drawer. She tucked the Post-it note in her jacket pocket, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
She approached her car just like every other day, trying to decide where to eat. She didn’t notice the way the laundry pile in the back bulged as she slid into her seat. She didn’t notice the garments flying as a man sprang from underneath them. The cold steel of his gun pressed against her skull, catching her completely off guard. Then, close to her ear, an unfamiliar voice growled, “Hello, Casey. You and I need to talk.”
Chapter Four
Tara Jane’s shadow faded in and out as the sun flickered between clouds. Dark brown hair veiled her eyes, but she didn’t bother to tuck it behind her ears. Instead, she let it hang, blowing in the wind, granting her a small taste of privacy.
This was a luxury—one Tara Jane rather enjoyed. Loose hair was unacceptable among God’s chosen people. Every woman in Sweet Springs wore the same style, pulled tight at the back with one big wave in the front. Tara Jane didn’t miss the fuss.
She glanced over her shoulder. Despite the bright sun warming her skin, she’d been plagued with a case of the shivers.
She’d caught glimpses of eerie things over the past few days, but they always managed to dodge out of sight so fast, she might have missed them if she blinked.
She expected to see someone—any moment—creeping towards her, stalking her. She waited until she was certain—just certain—she’d catch the culprit in action. Then she spun around and—
Nothing. No one there.
Tara Jane’s fifteenth birthday was less than three months away, and she was no stranger to the weight of an uninvited stare. She’d caught the eye of many boys—and men—on her excursions into public. Her half-sister, Mary, had summed it up nicely, labeling her good looks “the curse of beauty.” They had both giggled nervously at the remark. There was a somber truth in it.
This was different. She felt as if she was under surveillance by a malevolent presence, intent on doing her harm. An icy lump of dread burned in her gut. She found herself wishing she’d taken the bus.
Tara Jane almost always walked home. The bus was overcrowded and loud. It made her nervous to be amid all that action. She hugged her books a little tighter.
The new bus isn’t so bad. If you were on it, you’d be safe. You wouldn’t be out here alone.
Except—she didn’t feel alone. Those invisible eyes kept watching her. Waiting.
They’re coming to take me back.
She wiped sweat from her forehead with the long sleeves of her shirt and fumbled awkwardly with her books as she rolled the sleeves up, trying to cool down. She’d traded in her high-collared, pastel prairie dresses for blue jeans and soft cotton tops, but she hadn’t traded her modesty.
A gust of wind swirled around her. She stopped walking, nostrils flared. She smelled something on the breeze—an unmistakable odor which was branded forever in her mind.
They found me.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes began to water. She sniffed again. The smell of burned flesh hung thick in the air.
Her spine went rigid. She quickened her steps. The stench grew stronger as another gust of wind ruffled her hair. She walked as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She tried to get a grip on her anxiety.
It’s not burned flesh you smell in the air. It’s something else and your memories are trying to haunt you.
She sighed with relief as her street came into view. Her foster home was just up ahead, beyond the gentle slope of a hill. There were only two, four, six, eight, ten houses to go and she would be safe. She hurried along, counting down like a rocket ready for flight.
Ten, nine, eight…
The smell grew stronger, and she covered her nose. She stopped in her tracks and looked around, scanning the quaint suburban homes for signs of fire—smoke, flames, screams of terror… anything. Her countdown continued.
Seven, six, five…
A dark figure peered around the hedges across the street. The face was small and burned, its blackened skin and smoldering eye sockets half-hidden by the leaves. It ducked behind the bushes.
Tara Jane felt gutted, bracing herself against a metal fence for support. Even from a distance and all burned up, the tiny face had looked like Isaiah, her half-brother. A few ringlets of ginger hair stuck out of his blistered scalp and his pug nose remained intact even though his lips had burned away, exposing most of his teeth.
But it couldn’t be Isaiah. She knew that. He had died with the rest of her family on that terrible night one year ago.
Then, beneath the willow tree four yards down, she caught a glimpse of three more figures. Their empty eye sockets watched her. Their rickety legs were visible through the burn holes in their skirts, which were little more than tattered pieces of singed fabric dancing in the breeze. They reached their crispy arms out for her, and she knew them instantly.
The sister wives.
The rest of them will come for you, too. All thirty-four of them. Coming back for you.
Heart pounding, Tara Jane turned and ran. She didn’t stop until she was safely inside. She slammed the door and locked it. She slid to the floor. Deep wails shook her body as she pulled her knees to her chest, unable to hold back the tears. She stayed like that, curled up on the floor, crying for what seemed like an eternity.
Her eyelids felt heavy, swollen. She closed them and focused on her breathing, trying to steady her heart and stop the involuntary sobs. She laid her head against the wall, reluctant to open her eyes.
A girl in a pale blue dress sat at a sewing table. Her knee bobbed up and down as she pumped the foot pedal of her sewing machine. The girl’s yellow hair was braided and pulled into a bun at the back of her head. A few strands had escaped the tightly woven bun, framing her rosy face.
She paused and looked at the two finished dresses that hung from a rack. She stretched her arms and savored the scent of baked goods in the air. It spurred her on, knowing a fresh slice of bread awaited her when she finished the third dress. She resumed her handiwork, pushing the fabric under the needles.
Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, Tara Jane recognized this girl as her mother. She hoped if she was dreaming, she could sleep forever.
The girl at the sewing table flashed a warm smile as she looked up and saw her father, one shoulder leaned against the doorjamb, watching her crank away at the noisy machine. His eyes were red. His lips were a thin slit, and a dozen lines creased his forehead. He held an envelope—and he nervously worked his thumbs over the surface. She stopped pedaling, and the room fell silent.
“Elizabeth, we need to talk,” he said.
“Father, what is it? Is something wrong?”
He entered the room and sat in the arm chair beside her. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven cheeks. “The prophet has announced a marriage.”
Elizabeth’s face crumbled as he handed her the envelope. The seal had already been broken, no doubt by her father. With shaky hands, she pulled the paper from inside it. Her eyes watered as she read it.
“This can’t be.” Her voice was choked, weaker than moments before. “Marriage? But I’m only sixteen. I’m not ready to leave you and mother. I haven’t graduated yet, and my brothers and sisters, they nee
d me, and I—”
“That’s enough,” he interrupted, stone-faced. “You must not question the prophet’s decision. Joseph Brewer will make a fine husband.”
Elizabeth was horrified by the idea of being married at the age of sixteen, ripped from childhood like a weed from a garden, replanted in another home with Joseph Brewer and his two wives. She would be the youngest of the sister wives, and, no doubt, the other wives would resent her for it.
Tara Jane opened her eyes. Smoke seeped in under the door, and she put a sleeve over her face, trying not to smell it. Hugging herself tightly, she glanced at the lock, then closed her eyes again. She tried to remember the song her mother used to play for her.
The other wives had gone to town with their children. The house was empty aside from Elizabeth and Tara Jane. Elizabeth loved spending time with her daughter. Tara Jane was her best friend, her only friend.
Unable to contain a smile, Elizabeth smoothed her dress and dropped to her knees. Down on all fours, she removed the box she kept under her bed, lifting the lid and digging past the scraps of fabric to find an old cassette player and Van Morrison tape. It was a thing of magic to press the “play” button and hear that beat, so energetic, and that faceless voice singing to them from decades in the past. With the volume down low, they danced and twirled in circles to “Brown Eyed Girl.”
“I used to dream of falling in love with a man who would write a song about my eyes,” Elizabeth said.
“You always have me,” said Tara Jane. “I can be your brown eyed girl.”
Elizabeth touched her daughter’s hand, fighting her bottom lip as it tried to quiver. This was her life now, and there was no use pining over songs she’d never hear.
Tara Jane stirred on the floor of the foyer, restless in her slumber, and in her dream, she felt her mother’s pain as a crushing weight around her, smothering every breath. She longed to be free of it.
Father called the family to the front room. They shuffled in one by one, taking note of who stood in the center of the room, trembling in her floral nightgown. Elizabeth wished she could shrink down and disappear into the baggy night dress, hide forever.
The little ones were groggy. The mothers wore their night clothes. Father had conducted evening prayer hours ago and bid everyone good night. To see them gathered here again was unsettling.
It had been Elizabeth’s night with Father, but he hadn’t tried anything intimate. He had been too angry for that. Tara Jane had been alone in her room when the meeting was called, and Elizabeth stood, half-hidden behind Father with her face tilted to the floor. She didn’t want Tara Jane to see her cry.
“Sin!” Father’s voice filled the room. “Who among us would like to keep the devil out of our house and sin away from our family?” No one spoke or raised their hands, but everyone nodded in agreement. Elizabeth huddled behind her husband. Tara Jane looked worried. She wanted to comfort her but didn’t dare.
“The prophet said we shall bear children to populate our kingdom in heaven.” Father looked around the room at the fruit of his loins and smiled, but a darkness returned to his features as he turned to Elizabeth. She almost couldn’t breathe as she was trapped in his malevolent gaze and wondered how she had laid beside him for so many years.
He pulled a circular plastic case from his pocket. Heat rushed to her face and ears, and she wished even more to disappear. The other mothers covered their mouths and gasped. Father muttered, “Birth control. A wicked medicine…”
Hurt gleamed in his eyes, and his brow creased with concern, but Elizabeth felt no remorse for hurting him. He would rather discuss this private matter as a group than together as man and wife, and she hated him for it. “You don’t want to bear my children?” He tucked the pill case back into his pocket and began to unfasten his belt. “Kneel!” he commanded Elizabeth.
She did as she was told, closing her eyes and bracing herself on all fours. The sound of the belt striking its target made Tara Jane turn away. Elizabeth clenched her fists and moaned. He struck again and again as the strap whipped her sides, striking between ribs. The belt buckle drew a squeal as it smacked against her spine. Father only groaned in response and lashed her a dozen more times before everyone began to shift uncomfortably where they stood. Sobs rattled her body before he was finished.
Tara Jane turned over but could not find the strength to rouse herself or sit up. She hadn’t slept in many hours, and at least in her dream world she didn’t feel alone. Here, she was with her mother.
Elizabeth had stopped taking the pills after that night. She had spent most of her time in the garden, away from the others, until eventually she died in childbirth with her third child, Susie. The sister-wives said she brought it down upon herself for being a disobedient wife.
Has she lost her place in heaven? Is she trapped in that sewing room, reliving her most painful memory? Mother, sweet mother, where are you?
Tara Jane’s mouth fell open, and her breathing became heavy. She had forgotten to open her eyes, forgotten she was on the floor. She heard the sewing machine and smelled the baking bread. She heard the snap of a belt and felt the painful sting. She heard the crackling of a fire and smelled the burning children. She heard herself sobbing and thought it was her mother.
Chapter Five
Randall Sykes balanced himself on the edge of the back seat with the gun pressed into Casey’s side. He leaned forward. With his free hand, he tucked the front of her sporty blonde hair behind her ear, keeping an eye on her face. Using the rear-view mirror for another angle, he was met with narrowed eyes—fierce, indignant. He chuckled softly, and his exhaled breath on her neck seemed to repulse her. She flinched away and flicked the blinker, waiting for an opening in traffic.
“How far are we going?” he asked.
“A couple of miles,” she answered, exiting the lot. Randall detected irritation in her voice, as if annoyance superseded any fear she might feel.
Bitch needs to learn how to respect a man the way he deserves. How to fear him. But then, at least she’s not putting up a fight.
He’d been worried she would go into hysterics, drawing attention and forcing him to drive while holding her at gunpoint. But Casey Wendell hadn’t lost her composure.
The car’s interior smelled like flowers and vanilla, and he took deep, steady breaths, savoring her scent. He wasn’t sure if the laundry he’d hidden beneath had been dirty or clean, but it had smelled good. Like a woman.
Sinner or not, I like the smell of her. Oh, dear God, is that wrong?
He bit his lip. Here he was abducting a person, and all he could think about was how good she smelled!
Focus, focus.
“You got a lot of neighbors?” he asked. She didn’t answer, so he slid the gun up the length of her neck into the base of her skull and felt a surge of power as sweat trickled down her temple.
“N-no. Not too many. We keep to ourselves.”
Randall clenched and unclenched his jaw, thinking, twisting the tip of his gun back and forth. “If you try anything funny—like if you try to get a neighbor’s attention, or scream or cause a scene—I’ll kill you and them both, and anyone else who gets in my way.” His nostrils flared wide as he caught eyes with her in the mirror, veins swollen in his ruddy face. “Do you understand?”
She sighed through her nose. She gripped the steering wheel tight. “Yes,” she said, as if there was any other option but to agree.
Randall fought a smile. He admired her spirit. She hadn’t cried yet. Her cobalt eyes were focused on the traffic as she drove flawlessly.
The muscles in her lean neck flexed as she checked the mirror before switching lanes. The nape of it curved seductively into her slender shoulders, skin smooth and lightly tanned.
Too bad. Too bad she’s beautiful and she hates you already. You’re no better than the gum on her shoe. Although she probably keeps her shoes too clean for even that.
“So where are we heading, a house or an apartment?”
She
didn’t answer.
He followed her gaze across the intersection and saw a police car approaching from the opposite direction. He shoved the gun into her side, dug it deep into her ribs. She yelped but did not scream.
“Don’t even think about it. Keep driving.”
She drove on, scowling, only stopping when they reached a red light.
“So?” he said.
“Apartment,” she responded, as if she’d been waiting all along for him to ask it again.
Casey turned on a small, two lane street.
Randall fought the unwelcome thoughts which surfaced in his brain against his will. He’d never been this close to a woman with such confidence. Shiny lipstick, traces of glitter on her neck, and that come hither smell.
Control your wandering thoughts, Randall. Do not follow this heathen down the path of sin.
He was thankful when she finally slowed the car and turned into a small apartment complex. He was eager to breathe the fresh air again, to get away from her sultry aroma. Her presence made him think sinful thoughts, so he pushed the gun’s muzzle even deeper into her side. She gave a high-pitched groan and looked at him, and for the first time he saw worry in her eyes.
He almost smiled. “Get out slowly. I’ll be right behind you. And remember… No funny business.”
Randall hopped over the console and followed as Casey exited the car. He panicked when he realized his gun was in plain sight and did the only thing he could think to do. He yanked Casey’s blouse from the waistline of her skirt and snaked his hand up the back of it.
Ashes of Another Life Page 3
