Sinless

by Sarah Tarkoff

  As I struggled against the chair, I heard a noise upstairs—voices. Clint, I assumed, and a woman . . . maybe his wife, Rowena? Getting louder, coming into earshot. The woman’s voice, panicked. “Just let her go, dump her on the side of the road somewhere.”

  “We can’t do that,” Clint said.

  “You don’t know she saw you. You knocked her out. Maybe she won’t remember.”

  “What if she does?”

  There was silence for a moment. Some murmuring. Finally, he said, “This is the only way. We’ll be careful.”

  “She’s dangerous. What if . . .”

  “I’ll handle this,” he assured her. I wondered why they could possibly think I was dangerous. Maybe for the same reasons Dawn had—my father’s connection to Prophet Joshua? But my gut said it was something else.

  “Let me talk to her first.” The door creaked open, and I saw female legs descending the stairs. Rowena came into view, lit only by the dim overhead lights. She shook with nerves, with anger. Staring into her face terrified me even more than staring down the prophet. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what could possibly calm her.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “Do you know who I am?”

  Was there any value in playing dumb? I guessed not. “You’re Ciaran’s mom, right?”

  “That’s right. Now the question is, who are you?” Her smile reminded me so much of Ciaran’s, but it was furious, unhinged.

  “I’m Grace. What’s going on?” I asked.

  “You know I thought it was strange. Teenage girl in a care center. Cozying up to my husband, asking questions. He said I was jealous, isn’t that funny? He was sure you were just who you said you were. That your innocent act was too over the top to be a fake. You showed him, huh?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m confused,” I said, trying to make sense of all of this.

  “I know who you really are, Grace,” she said. Fear shot through me—could she know about my connection to Dawn? Did she know I knew the truth? “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to know who you’re working for.”

  “I’m not working for anyone,” I said.

  “You’ve been following our son,” she said. “You and all the others. I want to know why.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You and your friend, the one who came by pretending to be a cop, asking lots of questions. Watching our house.”

  I racked my brain, trying to figure out who she was talking about. Dawn wouldn’t have posed as a cop. But Zack would have. Zack, and whoever he was working with. She must think I’m like them, I realized. If Zack’s whole organization was targeting Ciaran, Zack might not have been the first person to make an attempt on his life. For all I knew, the Ramseys had encountered dozens of people like Zack over the years . . . following Ciaran, until the day they finally decided to murder him. It wasn’t much of a leap for them to assume I was one of those agents, too. No wonder Ciaran had kept moving schools, that he’d been so evasive . . . he’d lived his life on the run.

  “I wasn’t following him. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she continued, hands shaking as she lit a cigarette—another black market purchase. “Just tell us who you’re working for, and why you’re here.”

  I realized she was afraid—if she thought I was like Zack, of course she would be. I tried to keep my voice light, nonthreatening. “I’m not working for anyone. I’m a high school senior.” I had no idea how to make her believe that.

  “Sure you are. How old are you really?” she asked, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Twenty-four? Twenty-five? That’d put you about with the others who’ve been spying on us.”

  “I’m seventeen,” I said. “I think you have me confused with—”

  “You’re Grace Luther. I’ve looked you up. Your online persona is perfect. Where is Ciaran?” she asked. I could hear the desperation now.

  “I don’t know,” I said, a little less convincing this time.

  She picked up on my hesitation. “You know something. Tell me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”

  I watched Rowena shake . . . and I felt a strange kind of sympathy. I imagined what she must be going through, missing her son. She didn’t know I wasn’t like Zack, she didn’t know I was one of the good guys. So I had to take a risk. I had to tell her the whole truth. Because she deserved it, and because it was my only way home. I had no idea what Zack might do if he learned I’d witnessed the murder in the woods, but I saw no other way out of this situation. I took a deep breath. “Ciaran is dead.” I tried to ignore the horror on her face as I continued, “A man came into the woods and killed him. And took him away. I don’t know why . . .”

  Her eyes flashed with rage. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth!” I insisted. For once it was. For once I wished I had more information rather than less, that I knew what Zack was a part of, that I could point her at his organization without getting myself into deeper trouble. “I’m so sorry,” I said, “I know this must be hard for you . . .”

  “My turn.” Clint had stepped into the room, bottle of liquor in hand. He took a sip from the bottle, and I watched as his face slowly changed, became more attractive. He smiled. “She’s a professional. She’s not scared of a few questions. Let’s see how she reacts under pressure.”

  Chapter 12

  I still wasn’t used to being afraid of people. As Clint and Rowena closed in on me, the voice in my head still insisted, They can’t hurt you. Great Spirit will Punish them. But I had to quiet that voice and remind myself . . . it wasn’t about Great Spirit, it was about guilt. If Clint felt that he was justified in his actions, that I was a member of some evil organization that had taken his child, who knew what he might be capable of doing. I also wondered about the effects of alcohol . . . did that change the intensity of guilt one felt—was that why Clint’s face changed? Until, like the pills, it wore off. Was that why it was Prohibited? Like Xanax, was it another way to change your brain chemistry, avoid Punishment? If Clint had been defending Ciaran his whole life, covering up his other near rapes, or worse . . . maybe drinking was the way he got through the morally questionable things he’d surely had to do?

  Of course, all this flashed through my head in an instant of sheer terror. “Please, I’ve told you everything I know,” I said.

  “So you say our son is dead,” Clint said, voice slurring a little as he took the pack of cigarettes from a wary Rowena.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “I did call the police,” I said. “They didn’t do anything.”

  “And you didn’t think to contact us. Let us know our child was dead.” Clint seemed genuinely upset about this point.

  “I’m sorry, I know I should have. I was afraid. I didn’t know what was happening. If the police didn’t believe me, why would you?”

  Clint flicked his lighter on and held a cigarette to the flame. He removed it very slowly, his eyes never straying from mine. “Tell us about this man. This murderer.”

  “He’s not dead. She’s lying,” Rowena cut in.

  “Let her tell us her story,” Clint said. “Now, Grace—where is Ciaran?”

  “He’s dead,” I said, my voice trembling with fear. “I’m so sorry, I should have told you . . .”

  He lowered the cigarette to the inner crook of my elbow. Paused. “Are you sure? Are you sure that’s what happened?”

  I stared at that smoking little weapon. Saw in Clint’s eyes that he meant to use it. I realized I’d made a strategic error—if they believed I was responsible for what had happened to Ciaran, and I convinced them he was dead, that made me his murderer, in their eyes. Even the most kindhearted parent would be brutal to their child’s murderer. Unless I backtracked and convinced them Ciaran wasn’t dead at all. I squeaked out, “I was
n’t that close. I didn’t see for sure. Maybe he’s still alive. He could still be alive.”

  I looked desperately at Rowena, who was staring at Clint, brimming with renewed hope. “See?”

  “He’s dead, he’s alive, you can’t make up your mind, can you?” But I could see the hope flitting through Clint’s eyes as well.

  “Where is he?” Rowena asked.

  “He’s with that man,” I said. “The one who shot at him. But I don’t know . . .” I was interrupted as Clint lowered the cigarette to my arm. At first the pain just confused me—in my sheltered seventeen years, I’d never experienced pain like this before. I screamed as I heard the skin sizzle. I thrashed away as best I could, but Clint held my arm in place. I cried, I wailed.

  “Shut her up,” Rowena said quietly.

  “No one will hear. It’s fine,” Clint said.

  Could he be covering? Could we be close enough to other people that I could call for help? “Help me!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  But no help arrived. Clint never lost his focus. “Now. Tell me what happened the night my son disappeared. The truth. What did you do to him?”

  I knew I only had one more chance. These people—no matter how hateful their actions—they just wanted their son back. And seeing how they’d responded to that little glimmer of hope I’d just given them, I knew I had only one option. I had to convince them I knew where Ciaran was. And I had to leverage that information. If I didn’t, if I just told them Zack’s address, they’d kill me for sure. I had to make them see me as valuable. “You’re right, I do know something. I know who has your son.”

  “Where is he?” Clint’s grip on my arm grew tighter.

  “We were on our date, and then this man came up. I guess he’d been following us. And that man took Ciaran with him. I was scared. I thought maybe that man would be coming after me. I didn’t know what was happening . . .”

  “Just tell us where Ciaran is, and we’ll let you go,” Clint said, calm.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Clint lowered the cigarette again. “If you can show us, you can tell us. Give us the address.”

  I began to lose hope. They’d never let me go. The only way they’d feel safe, after this, was by killing me. Torturing me for all I had, then killing me to cover their tracks. I saw Clint’s face changing, getting uglier with the guilt of what he was doing, what he knew he’d have to do.

  “It’s not as simple as an address. Let me go, and I’ll show you.” But I wasn’t convincing either of them. I was starting to panic.

  “Don’t you dare untie her,” Rowena snapped at Clint.

  He grabbed the cigarette from Rowena’s mouth and held it over my neck. “No, please,” I begged.

  “Where is Ciaran?”

  “I can take you there, I can take you to find him . . .” But Clint could tell I was bluffing now. “Please, please let me go . . .” As he lowered the cigarette again, I closed my eyes . . .

  And then I heard a smashing sound upstairs. Footsteps pounding on the ceiling above me. “Police!” Clint dropped the cigarette, and he and Rowena exchanged terrified looks. They didn’t know what was going on either.

  “Run,” Clint whispered, and he ran for the side door I had been contemplating as my escape, Rowena following closely behind him. As they threw it open, they found a police officer waiting on the other side. The same police force that had dismissed my earlier call was now coming to my rescue. My heart soared. Had Jude called them? I couldn’t think of anyone else who could have found me. Rowena and Clint turned and tried to flee in the opposite direction, but more officers had descended the stairs.

  “She’s the dangerous one!” Rowena was shouting as they handcuffed her. “Don’t untie her, she’ll turn on you!” But they did untie me, as Rowena flew into hysterics. “You’re all working together, aren’t you? It’s one big conspiracy, the police, everybody . . .” She struggled against the officers. It took several of them to subdue her.

  One of the officers put a blanket around me and led me outside to a waiting ambulance, where an EMT examined my burns. He said they didn’t look too bad, but I should go to the hospital just in case. “She’ll have to do that later,” a voice behind me said.

  I turned—it took me a moment to place the man who’d said those words. Bald, with ice-blue eyes—he was one of the guards at Walden Manor. What was he doing here? And then I realized Jude hadn’t come to my rescue—it was this stranger. But why? How had he known to find me here, unless . . . he’d been following me. The black car I’d seen on every corner—that hadn’t been Jude. It was someone sent by Guru Jenkins.

  The police captain came up to him, whispered a question in his ear. His response was gruff, authoritative. “Yes, yes, take them. I’ll wave you in.” The captain nodded in deference as the man turned to me. “Come with me, Grace.”

  I followed him into a black town car. Sat next to him in silence as we drove. He offered no condolences, asked no questions. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Samuel would like to speak with you again.”

  Chapter 13

  It all happened so fast. The police took us through the gates of Walden Manor, relishing this moment. None of them, I imagined, had ever been this close to the prophet. It was an amazing honor, a once-in-a-lifetime experience you’d tell your grandkids about. Lucky me, I’d been here twice in one day.

  I saw the Ramseys up ahead of me. Clint’s face was starting to return to its Punished state as the alcohol wore off. I saw the hate in his eyes.

  Once we entered Walden Manor, I made an excuse and slipped into the bathroom. No Jude. No Dawn. No one but me and my reflection. I had no pills on me—good because Samuel couldn’t find them, bad because I was afraid of what my face might show without them to control my appearance. I tried to calculate when I’d taken my last pill. Twelve hours, at least. Based on my week of experience with them, the effects of these pills didn’t last much longer than that.

  I walked through security, instinctively making a little silent prayer to Great Spirit. Though my faith had been shaken, my need for comfort remained. I just had to survive the next hour. I steadied myself. I could do this. I’d done it once before and survived. Survived but gotten myself followed. It was no accident that guard had found me, marshaled a whole SWAT team to rescue me. He’d been sent by Samuel to track me, I knew it. Which meant something I’d done had tipped Samuel off.

  This time there was no delay. We walked right past all the dying Outcasts and straight to the golden doors. There was no one waiting to take our shoes. The door opened, and we all entered.

  Samuel did not seem so welcoming this time. He carried the same air of importance, but with a harder edge. He smiled as I entered, but his focus was, mercifully, on the Ramseys, his eye acutely critical. The Ramseys themselves were humbled by his presence and immediately grew silent. For all their panic over a police conspiracy, they never imagined such evil could spread all the way to the prophet’s office.

  “Who are these people?” Samuel asked the guard who’d been following me.

  “The parents of the boy.”

  “We weren’t going to kill her,” Clint began.

  I couldn’t control myself. “He burned me with a cigarette!”

  Samuel raised his eyebrows. “I’d like to hear the whole story,” he said. “From the beginning.” His eyes bored into theirs, watched them squirm with a self-satisfied smile.

  So they began. They went back and forth talking about their son, who was blessed by Great Spirit, who could do no wrong, and all the things they’d had to do to protect him from being discovered by people who might misinterpret his behavior. “People would see him do something that seemed strange—they’d catch him in a lie, they’d see him hurt someone else, and we’d find ways to help him. Lying, maybe a bribe, never anything too bad,” Rowena insisted, and it took every fiber of my being not to scream out a correction. Given what I’d experienced of Ciaran, I imagined a dead girl or two might
be buried out in the woods somewhere with Mommy and Daddy’s help. But under Samuel’s watchful eye I held my tongue.

  “Did you ever confide any of this in a cleric?” Samuel asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “But we always got the same answers, that we were imagining things. That Great Spirit rewards good and Punishes evil. We wanted to protect our son. He’s special. What were we supposed to do?” In that moment, I felt a surprising pang of sympathy for Rowena Ramsey. She loved her child deeply, and the story she told, just trying to make sense of a world she didn’t understand . . . it sounded familiar. I thought of all the lies I’d told, the dangerous people I’d protected in order to save my own skin. There was nothing she’d done that I wouldn’t, if I were in her place.

  “Great Spirit’s given you quite a test, hasn’t he?” The voice wasn’t Samuel’s—it was deeper, and it boomed from the back of the room from a man who had entered, unnoticed, while I was engrossed in their story. As he stepped forward, I realized who he was. Prophet Joshua.

  Chapter 14

  Joshua was nothing like I expected him to be. On TV he was this charismatic, untouchably wise leader. But his expression in that room was relaxed, genuine, familiar. I immediately felt comfortable around him, when I didn’t stop to wonder what his part in this whole conspiracy might be. The only thing off-putting was his appearance—he was truly the most attractive, captivating person I’d seen in my life. The moment he walked in, the whole tenor of the room changed. We held our collective breath, and every eye was fixed on the prophet’s movements.

  Like a good host, Joshua poured Clint and Rowena cups of water, which they anxiously took. “Have a sip,” he said. I held my breath, expecting their faces to morph dramatically. That was, I’d assumed, why Jude had told me not to eat or drink anything. Anything could be laced with drugs that would enact—or repeal—a Punishment. But neither of the Ramseys changed. It seemed that clear liquid really was just water. “Thank you, Prophet,” Rowena said.