by Will Hill
I flush with embarrassment. “Thank you, Father.”
“You’re a sharp girl,” he says. “Very sharp. What a shame The Lord does not Call females to serve as Centurions. I suspect our Family could do worse than having you looking out for them. A lot worse.”
I don’t say a word, because for me to even acknowledge the hypothetical idea of a female Centurion would be Heresy.
“You’re no Heretic, Moonbeam,” says Father John, as though he can read my mind. “Despite what some of our less kind Brothers and Sisters may think. You’re no Heretic, and neither am I. It is not for me to interpret The Lord’s wishes, or look for ways around His commands. I merely pass them on, perfect as they are, because The Lord does not make mistakes. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I understand, Father.”
“There will be a new Centurion though,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “That much has been made clear. The Lord will soon put an end to our Brother’s Earthly suffering and Call him to Ascend and, when it pleases Him to do so, He will tell me who should take his place. Who do you think The Lord will name?”
I shake my head. “I cannot speculate about such a thing, Father.”
The Prophet smiles again, but his eyes have narrowed and there is far less warmth in his expression than before. I feel my stomach tighten, and force myself not to look away.
“You can,” he says. “Because I am telling you to. This is not a quiz, Moonbeam, with right answers and wrong ones. I am asking you to make a guess, and what you say will not leave this room. So answer my question, and tell me who you think The Lord will choose as our new Centurion.”
I rack my brain, because there is always a right answer, even when someone tells you there isn’t. Especially when that’s what they tell you.
“Luke?” I suggest.
Father John nods. “Interesting,” he says. “Luke is a man of deep Faith, and his loyalty is beyond doubt. He lacks the wisdom that comes with experience, but he does possess a great deal of youthful vigour. If The Lord chose him, I would not be entirely surprised.”
I breathe a silent sigh of relief, and nod.
“What about Nate Childress?” he asks.
My stomach tightens another couple of notches. “What about him, Father?”
“Do you think he would make a good Centurion?”
I swallow hard. “I would not dare to presume—”
“You are a good girl, Moonbeam,” he interrupts, his tone suddenly sharp. “You have shown yourself this very day to be both kind and loyal. Please do not disappoint me now by forcing me to ask you the same question twice.”
Careful, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Be very careful now.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I say. “Forgive me.”
“Always,” he says. “Now please answer the question.”
“I think Nate would be good,” I say carefully. “My older Brothers and Sisters would know better than me, but I think he would be fair, and I am sure his Faith is True.”
Father John smiles. “You like him very much, don’t you?”
“He is my Brother,” I say. “I love him with all my heart.”
His smile twists into something I don’t think I like, something halfway between a grin and a grimace. “Of course you do,” he says. “Which is exactly as it should be. But do you not think The Lord might believe that Nate joined this Legion too recently to be trusted with such a responsibility?”
My stomach twists again. It feels like the floorboards beneath my feet have turned to quicksand.
“I cannot begin to imagine the mind of The Lord, Father,” I say. His forehead starts to furrow into a frown so I carry on quickly. “But you have always taught me that The Lord rewards those who are deserving, regardless of their circumstances. You have always taught me that He does not give anyone more than they can handle.”
The half-formed frown on Father John’s face shifts seamlessly into a broad grin full of pride. “How right you are,” he says. “How absolutely right you are.”
I lower my eyes to the floor and give what I hope looks like a nod of humble gratitude, because the only thing I want in the world is to be allowed to leave this room and go back outside and find a quiet place where it won’t feel like I’m constantly teetering above the jaws of a trap.
Father John places his hand on the UPS box I brought him. “Do you want to know what’s in here, Moonbeam?”
No. Yes.
“If you want to tell me, Father.”
His grin fades. “Perhaps not,” he says, after several long seconds. “It may be that you are not ready for this particular truth.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Father,” I say, because I’m not stupid enough to beg him to tell me something secret, something he can hold over me for as long as he sees fit.
Nowhere near stupid enough.
“Not ready,” he repeats, seemingly to himself. His eyes have glazed over, as though he’s looking at something in the far distance, something only he can see. Then they clear, and he gives me a small, tight smile. “Thank you for bringing the parcel, Moonbeam. It was kind of you, and I enjoyed our conversation. You can go now.”
I nod. “Thank you, Father.”
He waves a hand, then opens the Bible and begins to read. I wait for a second or two, just to make sure he doesn’t change his mind about dismissing me, but he doesn’t so much as glance up in my direction. It’s like I’m already gone, even though I’m still standing in front of him.
I take a deep breath and back slowly towards the door, relief creeping through me. I hold it in check as I make my way down the stairs and through the living room and out onto the porch but it breaks loose and spills through me in a roaring torrent as I step down onto the tarmac of the yard and run towards the small room I call home.
It’s all right, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Just breathe. You’re safe. Everything’s going to be all right.
Doctor Hernandez and Agent Carlyle are staring at me like I’m some kind of alien, but their expressions don’t really bother me any more; I’m used to them.
I started talking before they had even sat down, before Doctor Hernandez had even finished saying hello. I knew he would want to discuss yesterday’s session but I didn’t want to do that, because I slept like crap and woke up drenched with sweat and my head felt heavy with worry about everything and everyone.
Luke wasn’t at SSI yesterday afternoon. Honey and Lucy were clearly pleased, which is totally understandable, and I guess I can’t blame the others for not seeming to care very much about his absence. He’s not their responsibility – like the rest of them, he’s mine, because of what I did. As a result, I want – I need – to know what’s going on with him. Which meant I had to give them something.
Quid pro quo, whispered the voice in the back of my head, as Nurse Harrow escorted me along the corridor towards Interview Room 1.
Fair’s fair.
“Thank you for trusting us enough to talk about Father John,” says Doctor Hernandez. “I have no doubt it was hard for you.”
I shrug. It was, but there are other things that would be harder. Much harder. “It’s okay,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he says. “Anything you like.”
“How’s Luke doing?”
He nods. “We’re looking after him.”
I wait for him to say more, but after a second or two it becomes clear he isn’t going to. “Is that it?” I ask.
“That’s all I can tell you right now,” he says.
“He wasn’t at SSI yesterday.”
Doctor Hernandez nods again. “I know.”
“But he’s okay?” I ask. I can hear something close to desperation in my voice.
“We’re looking after him,” he repeats. “Do you mind if we go back to what you just told us?”
Why don’t you want to talk about Luke? What aren’t you telling me?
I don’t say anything.
&nbs
p; Doctor Hernandez sits forward. “Moonbeam? Are you happy to keep talking, or would you like to stop?”
Like it matters. If we stop now we’ll just be back here tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Until you’re done with me.
“I don’t care,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”
He gives me a long look, like he doesn’t know whether to believe me or not, then sits back in his chair and nods.
“All right then,” says Agent Carlyle. “If we’re continuing, let’s get on with it. You said Father John had six wives at that time?”
I nod.
“That didn’t seem strange to you?”
“Not really,” I say. “I know you’re going to tell me it is, because I get how this works now, but no. It seemed normal.”
“Did anyone else have more than one wife?” he asks. “Or more than one husband?”
“No.”
“Did Father Patrick have more than one wife?”
“Father Patrick wasn’t married,” I say.
“Was Father John? Before the purge, I mean?”
I shake my head.
“When did that change?”
I grimace at the memory. “I don’t want to talk about this any more.”
Agent Carlyle tilts his head slightly to one side. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t,” I say. “Do I need to have a reason for everything?”
“It would help me if you did.”
“Agent Carlyle,” says Doctor Hernandez. “You’re not interviewing a suspect. I’m going to ask you to moderate your tone.”
“I’m sure you are,” replies the FBI agent. “But I’m not talking to you right now. I’m talking to Moonbeam. And I’d like to know why she doesn’t want to talk about Father John’s wives.”
Don’t, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Don’t you—
“Why do you want to know so badly?” I ask, my voice suddenly hot with anger. “Are you jealous of him? Would you like six wives yourself?”
Agent Carlyle recoils, as if I reached over the desk and slapped him across the face. We stare at each other for a long moment; out of the corner of my eye I see Doctor Hernandez watching, his face pale.
The faintest flicker of a smile appears on Agent Carlyle’s face. “That’s a sharp tongue you’ve got there,” he says. “You want to be careful you don’t cut yourself.”
I feel the anger bubbling through me subside. “There’s no such thing as a sharp tongue,” I say. “Technically speaking, that is.”
His smile widens. “Technically speaking,” he says. “Got you.”
“Why was that funny?” I ask.
Doctor Hernandez frowns. “It wasn’t,” he says. “It was perfectly—”
“Most seventeen-year-olds don’t use phrases like ‘technically speaking’ to qualify the things they say,” says Agent Carlyle.
“Maybe the seventeen-year-olds you know aren’t very smart,” I say.
He snorts with laughter. “That might well be the case,” he says. “In fact, that’s a distinct possibility.”
Doctor Hernandez glances back and forth between me and Agent Carlyle, his frown deepening. “I think we should try to—”
A knock on the door interrupts him. The handle turns and a nurse I don’t recognize pokes her head into the room.
“I’m very sorry to interrupt,” she says. “Doctor Hernandez, there’s a phone call for you from Austin.”
“Take a message,” he says.
“I tried that already,” says the nurse. “Apparently it’s urgent.”
The psychiatrist rolls his eyes, and stands up. “Fine,” he says, then looks at me. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
“I thought I wouldn’t ever have to talk to anyone without you here to make sure I’m okay?” I say.
That’s mean, whispers the voice in the back of my head, but it sounds a lot like it’s laughing. That’s really mean.
Doctor Hernandez stops halfway to the door with a grimace on his face, frozen to the spot by his own promise.
“I’ll step out too,” says Agent Carlyle, and pushes his chair back from the desk.
“I was joking,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” asks Doctor Hernandez. “You’re absolutely right to object if you feel you need to.”
“It’s fine,” I repeat.
Agent Carlyle slides his chair back up to the desk, a half-smile on his face.
“Okay,” says Doctor Hernandez. “The two of you stay here. Agent Carlyle, I’d remind you that Moonbeam’s care is my responsibility, and ask that you not question her in my absence.”
“No questions,” says Agent Carlyle. “Got it.”
“Okay,” repeats Doctor Hernandez. It sounds a lot like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
He strides out of the room and the nurse pulls the door shut behind him. Agent Carlyle gives me a smile which I’m sure is meant to be reassuring but which comes off almost uneasy, like he’s nervous about being left alone with me.
“So I guess we sit in silence,” he says.
“Doctor Hernandez told you not to question me,” I say. “He didn’t say anything about the other way around.”
His eyes narrow, but his smile grows into something that seems a lot more genuine. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Am I going to prison?”
The smile disappears. “I already answered that.”
“You told me no,” I say.
He nods. “So why are you asking me again?”
“Because I don’t believe you.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then sits forward. “I’m going to say this as plainly as I dare,” he says. “I have to be very careful, because Doctor Hernandez is right about how important the work is that you and he are doing, and I don’t want to screw it up in any way. That said, there’s something I really think it’s time you understand. You are not a criminal, Moonbeam. You are the victim of a crime. Of hundreds of crimes. Is that clear?”
Yes.
I shake my head.
“Of course it isn’t,” he says, and lets out a deep sigh. “That’s the Goddamn worst thing about all of this. You don’t even know.”
I know so much more than you think.
“Know what?” I ask.
“It’s not for me to…I mean, I can’t…” He leans further forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “Look, you’re not going to prison, okay? You’re not going to prison because you haven’t done anything wrong, at least as far as I know. I know there are things you aren’t telling us, and that’s fine for right now. But even if you had committed crimes that I’m not aware of, a halfway competent public defender on their first day out of law school would make sure you never spent a single day in jail. Especially given that you’re a minor.”
“A minor?”
“A child.”
“I’m not a child.”
“You yourself?” he says. “As a person, with a brain and a heart? I couldn’t agree more. But legally? Yeah. You are. You are until you’re eighteen.”
“What happens then?” I ask. “Do I somehow turn into a different person than I was the day before, when I was still seventeen?”
Agent Carlyle frowns. “Of course not,” he says. “That’s just the age at which the law considers you to be an adult.”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit random?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I mean…yeah. I guess so. Maybe. But there has to be a line somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Because the law treats children and adults differently,” he says.
“So it’s a rule because there has to be a rule?”
“If you want to put it like that.”
“So it’s no different to Father John’s Proclamations then?”
He looks at me for a long moment, then sits back in his chair and smiles. “You’re too smart for me,” he says. “I feel like I need to lie in a dark ro
om for a while whenever we finish talking.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he says. “I’ve been with the FBI for eighteen years, Moonbeam. Did you know that?”
I did, because I heard him tell Doctor Hernandez when they thought the Interview Room 1 door was closed. But I don’t want him to know that.
“No,” I say.
“Eighteen years,” he repeats. “In that time I’ve sat in rooms with rapists and murderers and terrorists and God knows what else, men and women who knew they were facing the rest of their lives in jail at best, execution at worst. And do you know something?”
I shake my head.
“Every single one of them was easier to read than you,” he says, his smile returning. “I know that might not sound like much of a compliment, but it’s honestly meant as one.”
“Thanks,” I say, although he’s right – it didn’t sound anything like a compliment.
The door opens and Doctor Hernandez steps back into the room. He glances at Agent Carlyle then looks intently at me. “Everything okay in here?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
He narrows his eyes for the briefest of moments, then nods and sits down. “All right then,” he says. “Where were we?”
“Moonbeam was refusing to talk about Father John’s wives,” says Agent Carlyle, and tips me a wink. It’s barely more than a twitch of his left eyelid, but it’s there and I fight back a smile.
“Right,” says Doctor Hernandez. “That’s right. And that’s a completely valid choice, so let’s move on. I’d like to talk about how Father John exercised his authority over The Lord’s Legion. Is that okay with you, Moonbeam?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Thank you. So, Father John set all the rules that the members of The Lord’s Legion lived by?”
I shake my head. “Not all of them,” I say. “A lot of them were in place before The Purge.”
“Like what?” asks Doctor Hernandez.
“There was a set daily routine when Father Patrick was in charge,” I say. “Prayers before breakfast, then lessons until lunchtime, work and chores in the afternoon, then dinner and Bible study and lights-out at ten o’clock. Most of it didn’t change.”
