Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

  I look back and forth between them, not sure what the heck they’re getting at.

  “We know Rachel drove you to it,” continues Mrs. Nelson. “She has some hold over you. She wants you to say terrible things about my boy.”

  I get mad. “Rachel can be real mean,” I say, “but she takes care of us. Never saw you do that, Mrs. Nelson. You’re always doing people down. Blake always felt he was never good enough for you.”

  She stiffens in her chair. Two pink spots appear in the middle of her cheeks.

  “That isn’t true,” she says, holding my gaze determinedly now. “I was very proud of Blake. I never told him enough. I wish I’d had the chance to tell him…” Her voice breaks, and she starts shaking her head raggedly side to side. Her big hair doesn’t move an inch. She swallows. “We can help with a lawyer if that’s what you want. Get you the best outcome.”

  “I only want one outcome, Mrs. Nelson,” I say. “I want to atone for my sins.”

  Adelaide looks at Mr. Nelson with this agonized expression.

  “I would have thought you’d have more dignity. It’s bad enough…” Her voice chokes up. “It’s bad enough he’s gone.”

  I’d been feeling sorry for Mrs. Nelson until now, but that feeling vanishes away.

  “Your son broke my heart,” I say in a formal kind of voice. “He never told me the truth about the life I would have. I spent the last four years bathing with a cup and a faucet. And you know what else, Mrs. Nelson? I think you were downright cruel to him when he was growing up.”

  I have an image of my momma, locking me in my bedroom until my father came home. All those stories she told me about princesses.

  “I think you should have let him be who he wanted,” I tell her. “’Stead of forcing him to be something you wanted. He would have been a lot happier, and you would have saved us all this big mess.”

  Mr. Nelson stands. His hands are shaking.

  “Make your choice,” he says. “We won’t be extending this offer a second time.”

  I look back and forth between them. Mrs. Nelson has a hopeful look on her face, but Mr. Nelson looks plain mad.

  “No thank you,” I say. “I don’t need your help.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  Vegas early morning is a funny kind of place. Like a zombie town. Plenty of people walkin’ about, but not altogether there, if you catch my drift. The bright lights are still on, but they got a bargain-basement look to ’em, like they’re not quite the real deal.

  Rachel has got this dazed expression seein’ Vegas for the first time. I think she couldn’t quite get it in her head that women could dress that way and go outside. I got a little concerned she might bail on the whole idea of finding Dakota. Particularly since even at 7:00 a.m., she looked so out of place in her plain old jeans and shirt. It was one of the reasons I sent her off alone with the credit card to get some regular clothes, since the stores here don’t sleep but the real estate business does. I also had an ulterior motive.

  I wanted to load the rifle in the car with the bullets from my purse.

  Now Rachel’s been gone a lot longer than I expected, and here I am in Vegas with the old temptations on all sides.

  Be honest, a snarky voice says. That’s why you wanted to come here so bad in the first place.

  It’s hot for the morning too. Especially for fall. I’d forgotten that about Vegas. In these parts, the weather kinda lazes around, doin’ its own thing. Little hotter, little cooler, changin’ its mind once in a while, no big deal.

  In Utah, the seasons arrive right on the clock. Blazing sun, pouring rain, freezing snow. On time, as ordered.

  I notice an unfamiliar blond lady on the edge of the parking lot. She’s acting a little suspicious, like she’s worried she’s being followed. I watch her snake around the cars.

  Last time I was here was with Blake, right before we were married. I convinced him we should have a bachelor party, the two of us. For all he seemed real serious with his other wives, Blake was more fun than he let on. So for one night only, he let me tour him ’round Sin City, shootin’ tequila and seein’ shows with more on display than feathers, if you know what I mean.

  ’Course Blake didn’t get drunk or anything like that. But he did choke down a single tequila. I remember staring into his eyes, sayin’ I was waitin’ for him to take off like a rocket. He only laughed and said that was how he felt all the time when he was with me.

  He told me some other stuff too. About his mission in Mexico. I remember feeling so bad for him. I’ve been incarcerated, waiting for sentencing, and honestly, what he went through sounded worse. Dawn to dusk thinkin’ only of God. Least in jail, you’re allowed freedom in your own mind. You’re not set on this impossible task and told you’re not godly if it doesn’t get done. That was what broke him, Blake said. He’d started getting stomach ulcers and skin rashes but soldiered on, desperate to get at least one conversion to the faith. Then his group got told of a boy in Washington who’d gotten four baptisms in a week. Blake fell apart.

  I remember telling him he was a good man. God hadn’t forsaken him.

  All that feels like it happened to somebody else now. Like I can’t even get myself to feel how I felt. But you know what I can remember? The drugs. That mad, desperate life where nothing mattered. You may think this is crazy. But I just can’t do normal. It freaks me out worse than anything. The thing with growing up, with half an eye on danger the whole time, is when the danger goes away, you’re kinda left with nothing. It makes you twitchy.

  That’s why the drugs and the hustles, I guess. Just got so sick of thinkin’ all the time. About what to look out for, who was gonna come through the freakin’ door. I thought I was so smart pulling these three-dime scams and hustlin’ out-a’-towners for lines of coke, and then before I knew it, I was sucked in. Turns out there are other ways to lose at casinos than gambling.

  The blond lady seems to be walking my way. I’m not really paying attention. Another memory has come back from the early days. Our wedding night. Blake had wanted me to do him a striptease in some cheap bra set he’d bought. I’d tried not to mind he was treating me like a whore.

  I flip the car key in my hand, check the time on the big clock above the mall. Rachel has been gone over two and a half hours now. How long does it take to buy clothes? I flip possibilities in my head.

  Fuck it. I’m goin’ downtown.

  Then I realize the blond lady on the other side of the parking lot is Rachel.

  Wow. I can’t believe it. Rachel has cut her hair. It’s shoulder-length, sparkling with professional highlights, with a cute wave.

  “Sorry I was so long,” she says. “I had a moment of madness. Saw a twenty-four-hour hair salon, and I just thought why not?”

  “Hey. You look great.” I close in. “Lemme see. Uh-huh, you let them redo your highlights?”

  “I more or less let them do what they wanted,” she admits. “I put it on the credit card, like you said. Something about this town,” she admits. “I feel kinda reckless.”

  “Okay, well, congratulations. You look normal. Let’s go.”

  “We have an appointment?”

  “I got a plan.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  Both of us are nervous as we approach the skyscraper building where Vegas Real Estate keep their offices. A shiny silver list fixed to the exterior places them on the third floor, below and above a whole bunch of other official-sounding firms with very nondescript names.

  We pass through big doors into a slick lobby full of modern art. A big glass wall looks out onto the palm-lined sidewalk and a giant billboard advertising a local injury lawyer.

  A model-gorgeous receptionist sits behind a slab of polished concrete acting as a desk.

  “Excuse me,” I say as we walk in, “ma
’am?”

  She looks up, her blond chignon not moving a millimeter.

  “We’re here to see someone at Busby Allsop,” I explain, calling to mind one of the firms on the list outside.

  Rachel’s eyes widen. Probably I shoulda explained my plan to her. I guess she’s wonderin’ why the hell I’m askin’ for a different firm than Dakota’s.

  “Okay.” She lifts the phone. “You have an appointment?”

  “No, but we’re looking for representation for a legal case. Perhaps you might pass on that message?”

  She nods, presses a button, and speaks into the receiver.

  “Uh-huh, yes.” She looks up at us. “Go right up. Fourth floor.”

  She buzzes us through.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” says Rachel. “Heaven bless ya’.”

  “You can’t keep blessing people,” I hiss. “In Nevada, they’ll think you’re a crazy.”

  “Why did you get us in to some law firm?” whispers Rachel. “How is that gonna help us?”

  “Relax, I used to do this all the time. We’re through security, right? We get out on the fourth floor and take the stairs to level three where Dakota works. No appointment necessary.”

  Rachel says nothing as we get into the polished elevator but sorta jumps every time the car stops.

  Everything goes smoothly, and we exit the doors into Las Vegas Real Estate.

  Rachel whistles. “Sure is a lot of money ’round here,” she says, taking in the slick photography of huge buildings and mansions. She nudges me.

  “Look.” Rachel points. There’s a half-open door with a bronze plaque. It reads:

  Dakota Jessop.

  I take her hand and pull her through.

  Inside is the office of a man who sells smart condos but not penthouses. A wide mahogany desk and big leather chair, both three shades too bright to be real. There’s the kind of computer you can tell is slow just by looking at it, and a keyboard where the return symbol is worn away to a shiny grease-edged thumbprint. A tub of Screenies sits ready for action, with a fresh wipe sticking up for duty.

  A man stands at a bookshelf on the far side. He turns as we enter.

  He gives no indication he finds our sudden entry anything less than delightful.

  “Can I help you ladies?” He smiles, politely taking in both our faces.

  “Yep,” I say, “we’re looking for Dakota Jessop.”

  His pleasant expression deepens fractionally.

  “Well, you found him,” he says, straightening his suit jacket. “I’m Dakota Jessop.” He looks us up and down. “How can I be of service?”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Rachel, First Wife

  Dakota’s office couldn’t be more family man if he tried.

  There’s a picture of three neatly dressed children on his desk, along with a blond smiling wife. The boys wear suit jackets, and their hair is neatly center-parted with gel. The little girl is dressed like she’s going to church or a wedding.

  His certificates of real estate qualifications fill the wall. There’s a photograph of him, too, I guess on his mission. He stands smiling with two other boys, arms on one another’s shoulders, in the regulation neat black suits and white shirts. They look so young to be dressed as men that my heart suddenly aches for Blake.

  “You sure you’re in the right place?” says Dakota, frowning in concern. Tina’s face is creased in perplexity.

  “I’m sorry,” says Tina. “I just… I was expecting a girl is all.”

  Dakota’s warm smile doesn’t falter for a moment.

  “You’ll have to take that up with my mom,” he says. “I guess she never counted on Dakota Fanning getting so famous.”

  “We’d like to know what business you had with our husband,” says Tina, sitting up straight.

  She seems caught halfway between accusing and backtracking.

  “Well, ma’am,” says Dakota with a polite smile. “You’ll have to tell me who your husband is.”

  “Blake,” she says. “Blake Nelson.”

  Dakota frowns in recognition. I’m suddenly panic-stricken he knows about Blake’s murder. It was all over the local news. Could it have traveled as far as Vegas?

  “Red hair,” I supply. “Kind of cute looking. He would have been here the week after Labor Day.”

  “Oh yes. Well, I couldn’t tell you fer cute, of course. He was here about the land purchase, wasn’t he? Would that be right? I did wonder…” His eyes rove back and forth between the two of us. “Now I understand, I think.” He scratches his head, looking back and forth between us again, then seems to come to a decision.

  “Do you ladies have any ID?” he asks. “Anything to prove you are who you say you are.”

  Relief rushes through me. I scrabble in my purse and produce my driver’s license. Tina does the same, but I get the sense she’s more guarded about the idea, and she snatches her ID back the moment Dakota has scanned it.

  “Well, I’ll help you best I can,” says Dakota, having assured himself of our identities. “You ladies are in a plural marriage, is that right?”

  The old fear seizes me. Tina nods.

  Dakota glances at the picture on his desk. “Blake Nelson said he wanted somewhere his family could feel safe,” he explains. “Not have to live in hiding.”

  I’m looking at Tina, confused.

  “The laws in Vegas are different than in Utah,” says Dakota. “Polygamy isn’t illegal here. Your husband was hoping to find you a place where your family wouldn’t be outside the law.”

  He ducks behind his desk and gestures at two guest chairs. “Please have a seat.”

  I sit heavily. The thought of Blake looking for somewhere for us to live happily together has hit me hard. I wipe away a few tears.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “It’s just… Blake died. Very suddenly. We’re here to manage whatever he left behind.”

  Dakota’s smile drops away.

  “I’m so very, very sorry to hear that.” He opens a drawer and removes a box of Kleenex. “Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, you know, he loved all three of you,” says Dakota. “This whole business was for you. To keep you safe and happy.”

  “Thing is,” says Tina. “We don’t know what business that was. We were kinda hoping you could tell us.”

  “Well,” says Dakota. “There was talk of a mutually beneficial arrangement between ourselves and your husband.”

  “In English.”

  “A deal,” says Dakota. “For the Homestead land. Our organization is…extremely eager to purchase it. We’re not the only ones, of course.”

  “I don’t get it. Who would want a scrub patch of land in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Well.” Dakota straightens his glasses. “For starters, it isn’t a bare patch of desert land. That plot has hundreds of thousands of dollars of amenities. Roads, gas pipes, supplies of that nature.”

  Tina is looking at the real estate photographs. “You build casinos, right?”

  “That constitutes a large part of our portfolio.” Dakota adjusts his glasses.

  “But gambling is illegal in Utah,” I say.

  “That’s correct,” says Dakota. “But not in Nevada.”

  To make his point, he stands and moves to a map on the wall. “The Homestead land is right about here.” He lets his finger trail the great long section of Utah that borders Nevada.

  I stare at the map. Almost half the Homestead land is in Nevada. I never knew that.

  “Border-town casinos make a lotta money,” Tina tells me. “I mean, it’s small fry to Vegas. But gaming and slots always make good money. You get a lotta Mormons come to gamble, right?” She shoots Dakota a glance to confirm. He nods. It strikes me that Tina is very well informed on the subject.

  “West
Wendover has the nearest legal casino to Salt Lake City,” says Dakota. “It makes $63 million per annum. Ninety percent of its visitors make the hour-and-a-half drive from Salt Lake City, and most of those are Mormon.”

  I clear my throat. “Your company wants to buy this land? Put a casino there?”

  “I’m not at liberty to share that with you, I’m afraid.” He looks genuinely distressed.

  “So you’re sayin’ this plot is worth money?” Tina confirms. “Like what? Thousands? Millions?”

  “That would all depend on what someone was prepared to pay,” he says.

  Tina fixes him with a look. Dakota unfolds his hands. “The property is a thorn in the Utah state government’s side. They employ a sheriff to guard it, and the local town is taxed on the land. We would expect to broker a good price. But it’s all theoretical. We can’t buy it.”

  He adjusts his glasses.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Well, because of the secret cemetery,” says Dakota.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  “The Homestead land can’t be bought,” explains Dakota. “You can’t sell a plot with dead bodies on it, see? Not without gettin’ ’em exhumed. Law won’t allow it. And no one could find that cemetery.”

  “Why not?” I glance at Rachel, but she isn’t looking at me.

  Dakota clears his throat. “Only the Prophet and his closest followers knew about it.” He’s looking at Rachel now. “Those people are either dead or vanished or, in the Prophet’s case, they’re not talking.” Dakota’s eyes switch back to me. “Best guess is some sort of cover-up.”

  “But they already got busted, right?”

  “Right,” says Dakota. “Multiple counts of child rape, kidnapping, extortion of money from members, aggravated sexual assault. With a rap sheet like that, you kinda have to wonder what’s left to hide.”

  We’re all quiet.

  “If they can’t find it,” I say eventually, “how can they be so sure it’s even there?”