“No, he isn’t! My daddy—”
Grace opened her arms out wide as though breaking them up from a fist fight. “Stop it! Stop arguing. I hate hearing you two fight all the time.”
Esther folded her arms and scowled at her shoes. On the day of the Reckoning they would all see how wrong they are. She’d show them.
A few minutes later, the PA system went quiet, and Esther felt a loosening around her chest. She had told herself that she was concentrating on Father’s words, but now she knew they’d been tightening around her.
“He’s a bad man,” Stinky said. “Good fathers don’t hurt people. They don’t make them sleep in hot storm shelters with the spiders and lizards.”
Esther wanted to plug her ears with cotton wool, but she settled on placing her hands over them instead. Stinky tried to pry them away from her face.
“He’s bad,” Stinky said. “He’s going to hurt us.”
After a tussle, Esther stood up and walked away to a different part of the garden, as far away from the others as she could get. She’d expected Grace to come with her, but she didn’t, she stayed with the rest of the kids. Esther was alone. She traced the outline of a leaf with her pinkie. Out loud, but softly, she said: “There were two eggs. God told me what to do. Father is good. I have to do what Father told me to do. I have to.” She sat there for a long time, and she could hardly breath. For a while she closed her eyes and thought about the fire and the sparks and being reborn. She wondered if it would hurt. Fire sounded painful, but Father wouldn’t hurt them, would he?
Yes, she realised. He would hurt them, but it was fine, because that pain always led to something better. Like when Father thrashed Stinky because he kept trying to run away. Stinky stopped running away and things got better. Or the night on the mountains when she was cold and afraid of the coyotes. It taught her to be strong. It taught her to love and appreciate her brothers and sisters. And perhaps he did hurt Mary, but if Father hadn’t married her then Esther wouldn’t exist.
Esther heard footsteps crunching through the grass. She lifted her chin and saw Father Adam, the visitor, looking down at her.
“How are you today?” he asked. He bent slightly so that he didn’t tower above her. “Are you all right? You look upset.”
Esther brushed away her tears, embarrassed. “I’m fine.” She hastily added, “Father.”
He chuckled. “You don’t need to call me that.” He leant back on his heels and stared out at the rows of tomato plants. “I wish I wasn’t the Father of anything. I wish I hadn’t created this… this monstrosity.”
But she didn’t know what monstrosity meant, or why it would apply to a vegetable garden.
“I’m going to stop it though,” he said. “It all has to stop.”
Again, Esther didn’t understand why anyone would want to stop a vegetable garden. She didn’t like Father Adam. She got up and walked away.
Chapter Seventy-Three
When the truck drove straight up to the ranch house, Fran’s heart skipped a beat. What if the first person she saw was Elijah? When her mind went over worst-case scenarios, seeing Elijah always seemed to be top of the list, short of being murdered by the cult within the first hour. She did not trust Elijah and she still suspected he was a controlling piece of shit. Maybe he even forced Mary back to the cult, though she couldn’t jump to any assumptions.
They got out of the vehicle and walked past a group of four young cult members. They were pretty girls, about twenty years old, in long dresses, their hair piled on top of their heads, aprons over their clothes and their sleeves rolled up. They chatted and smiled and carried jugs of milk.
“We milk our goats here,” Caleb said, nodding in the direction of the girls. “That’s fresh milk. Delicious. Remind me to box up some cheese for you when you leave.”
Fran smiled and decided it best not to mention the fact that she lived in a hotel. She was relieved that he talked about her leaving, there’d been a part of her wondering if they would either talk her into staying, or force her to. But it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? To find Mary, to finish this quest she’d given herself. That was why she was here, right? As an outsider, a journalist, and… and what? A saviour?
She nodded a hello and goodbye to the young women and fleetingly considered the fact that these people were happy. She’d seen no unhappy people so far. Caleb preached about love and wellness. She’d experienced some of it for herself during her day module. Nothing had made her feel that way before, not in the five long years of grieving. Not therapy, not gardening, not running. It sent a shiver down her spine, teased her unsettled insides with nerves. What was she more afraid of? Meeting this charismatic cult leader? Or feeling herself drawn to this simple life?
Inside the farmhouse, Fran noticed an awful lot of wood. From the varnished pine staircase and floorboards, to the mahogany picture frames. Down a short hallway, the walls were covered in smiling pictures of men and women all in that same traditional dress. In the centre of each picture was an older man, almost always dressed in white, a pair of large, dark sunglasses on his face. In one picture he was gesturing as though in the middle of a sermon, in another he had his arms out wide as though waiting for an embrace. She stopped for a better look. So that was Father James: a man in a white suit and sunglasses. She recognised him as the man on the horse pictured in the information leaflet.
Caleb stopped outside a door and rapped on the wood. This wasn’t quite the impressive set up that Fran had imagined. She’d envisioned him in a large space, probably sitting in the middle of a floor filled with cushions, cliched psychedelic paintings along the walls. Perhaps some scantily dressed young women at his feet. The door opened sharply and a large, broad chested man about forty years old stepped outside.
“Hey Isaiah, how’s it going?” Caleb said.
“Good, Brother.”
“This is the new recruit for Father. He’s expecting us.”
“Sure,” Isaiah said. “I’ll be outside.” He glanced at his watch. “Father Adam should be coming in this afternoon as well, so don’t take too long.”
That name piqued Fran’s interest. Father Adam. Caleb hadn’t mentioned a second Father. The word seemed significant. In this cult, the “Father” held a position of power. Could Adam be the member who took a subset of the cult to Colorado? Perhaps she could try and talk to him too, for her article.
Isaiah left the office and Fran entered it. Father James was waiting behind a large, mahogany desk, the kind she would expect to see in an old-fashioned library. He was older than the photographs in the hall suggested, but perhaps he hadn’t aged well. His clothes hung from his frame indicating a recent weight loss, and she was almost certain he was wearing a wig. He sat leaning forward with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, sunglasses still on. It was certainly odd for him to be wearing them indoors, but perhaps he had some sort of eye condition.
Caleb explained who she was and why she was here, then he left her alone with James and his sunglasses, flashing her an encouraging smile as he exited. She chewed nervously on the inside of her cheek, now more aware of the office walls and the closed door.
“Francesca Stevens,” he said slowly. She had used her mother’s maiden name in case they ran a background check and noticed her previous career in journalism. “Take a seat, child.”
It felt strange to be called child, but she did as he asked.
“We get a lot of young blood around here,” he said. “Finally, a real woman.” He smiled and gestured to her like a grandfather to his grandchild. His voice was soft and smooth. Relaxing. She saw the gold rings on his fingers and the gold Rolex around his wrist. So much for giving up on consumerism,” she thought. “Tell me about yourself.”
Fran ran a tongue along her teeth before she spoke. She found herself staring at the desk and not at him. Perhaps the sunglasses were putting her off. “Well, I’m from England as you can probably tell. I’m married. My husband hasn’t moved to Arizona yet…” She faltered, tak
en by surprise by a welling of emotion. Her throat became raw, but she pushed on. “He’s a retired lecturer. I took early retirement, too. We live… I mean lived in a small village—”
“No,” he said. “Tell me about you. What are you afraid of?” He rested his hands together on the desk. The heavy watch clunked as it hit the wood.
“I don’t know what I’m afraid of.” Fran shuffled in her seat. It was unbearably hot in the small room. There was one small window to the right of James. It was closed. Her eyes roamed around as she struggled to think up an answer. She noticed his fountain pen resting on a notebook, a pile of documents next to it. Did cult leaders have an in-tray?
“Yes, you do.” He removed his sunglasses to reveal startling blue eyes. Pale cornflower irises ringed by deep cobalt. His pupils were tiny, like two pinpricks inside an expanse of ice.
Fran could not look at him. She stared at her hands. “I’m afraid of being unloved. I’ll never be a mother and I’ll never know the love of a child. My husband loves me, I know he does, but it isn’t the same.” She pursed her lips together, unwilling to say more, afraid that if she did, she would never stop talking, or that she would cry in front of this man.
The Father nodded his head thoughtfully. “If a family is what you need, you’re in the right place for that. We don’t believe in blood ties here; we believe that we all have the ability to choose our family. Do you believe the same thing?”
“I think it depends,” she said. “I know families who adopt their children and love them as fiercely as any parent would.” She paused and let out a long breath, considering her words carefully. “I never trusted my ability to do so. When my baby died, my world imploded. Anything other than a child made from me felt too much like replacing a Christmas present.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, surprised to find it wet. “But God had other ideas and took away my ability to have children.” She glanced at the wall above his head, still not able to look into his eyes. There were photographs of him with groups of people. Always smiling.
“You’re angry with God.”
“Of course I’m angry,” she snapped. “I kept believing, kept praying and He punished me.”
“Was it a punishment or was it a way of pushing you to where you needed to be?”
Fran let out a humourless laugh. “You mean here? That’s clever.” Now she found herself staring into his eyes. She saw no expression there, simply neutrality, as though he was reciting the phone book, not talking about faith.
“Why not here? Or the next place. Or the place after that. Only you will know.”
That made her relax a little. She’d found herself expecting a barrage of reasons why she should stay at the ranch.
“You don’t have children here,” Fran said. She gestured to the pictures on the wall. “I don’t see any photographs of them.”
Father James did not turn around to look at them himself, he continued to stare right at her. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m not sure I could live out the rest of my days without hearing the sound of children laughing or watching them play.”
“Is that the only thing holding you back from joining the family?”
Fran paused for what she hoped was a regular amount of time to mull over his words. “Yes, it would.”
Father James scratched the back of his hand and regarded her through squinted eyes. “Interesting.”
“Are you implying there are children here?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Perhaps it’s time for you to go.”
“Wait,” Fran said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” She tried smiling at him. She felt the corners of her mouth twitching with nerves. She had an opportunity here, but she was squandering it.
“There are couples who mate and receive gifts from God. We just don’t tend to take pictures of them,” he said.
Her jaw dropped. He was telling her. He was actually admitting it. She composed herself and continued with the meeting.
“Why is that?” Fran asked. “Do people interfere? Are you worried about the consequences?”
His eyes flashed with anger. “The authorities… the wonderful, world-renowned harbingers of all that is good—American police service—are not kind to us. They have no love for us. They rip the children from the arms of their mothers and take them away to foster families. Once trapped in those families the children feel no love, only hate and pain. I cannot, on my good conscience, allow that to keep happening. Therefore, as far as those God-fearing pillars of community are concerned, we do not have children on our ranch.”
Fran realised then that she’d pressed the right buttons. Father James was exactly the kind of narcissist who liked his opinions to be agreed with by an outsider. “It must be terrible receiving that kind of prejudice.”
“It is. But God is good, and we have him on our side.” He smiled widely, two rows of perfect teeth—almost certainly veneers—revealed themselves between his full lips. “I see a great ally in you, Francesca. I see someone ready to step into this family. But I have one last thing to ask of you. At least, Caleb will ask on your way out. Please do not share any part of this conversation outside this ranch. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Fran said.
“You’re a good woman. I like you a lot. I think you’ll fit in here just fine. Have you read the Book of James yet?”
Fran shook her head. “I have the eBook.”
The Father tutted. “That’s no good. You need a proper book. Here.” He opened a desk drawer and took a slim paperback from within. He slid it across the desk. “Go on then. Take it, child.”
Fran picked up the book and placed it on her knee.
“You go home, and you read that book, and then you come back.”
Fran sensed herself being dismissed. She stood, unsure whether to bow or walk backwards as though she was meeting royalty.
“Caleb will have something for you to sign on the way out,” he said. “You don’t even worry about it.” He waved a hand. “All it says is that our private conversation will remain private. Which is how all conversations should be, isn’t it?”
Fran smoothed the shiny book cover with her thumb as she made her way to the door. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. Then it won’t be a problem. I look forward to seeing you again, child. There’s a lot here for you. Keep your heart open.”
She left the room on shaking legs. The bodyguard, Isaiah, glanced at her with two disinterested eyeballs, but Caleb rushed over with a grin stretched across his face. He walked with her through the wood-filled hallway, to a lounge area, where he sat her down with a glass of water. Before she’d even taken a sip, he shoved an NDA under her nose.
“Father James explained, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said. She was sweating. She signed it with her fake name. Anything to get out of that place. Would it still be legally binding if she used her mother’s maiden name? Did a lawyer need to be present? Perhaps Caleb, as unlikely as it seemed, was a lawyer.
“How did it go?” he asked.
She tried her best to brighten her expression. “Good, I think. But I’d best get back.” She glanced at her watch as though she had somewhere else to be.
“Sure. I’ll give you a ride home.”
On the way out, her eyes searched the yard. She longed to see nervous Mary among the people milling around the place. Or solemn little Esther in her Mary-Jane shoes. Something to prove to her that she was doing the right thing.
“It’s hard to tell when you first meet Father.” Caleb unlocked the truck. “I felt the same way. Oh, he gave you a book. Great.”
Fran felt as though she was in a daze as she climbed into the truck cab. She idly flicked through the book. Her heart was still hammering away. The flip-flip-flip of the pages at least provided some sort of breeze. On the inner cover she noticed another name next to Father James. Father Adam. Perhaps she would get to meet him soon as well.
Caleb chatted in
cessantly on the way back to Tucson city centre, so Fran pretended she was reading the book.
“Wow, you’re keen,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
He dropped her off at the restaurant and gave her a hug. Fran cringed away, too sweaty for body contact. A moment later, Caleb was back in his truck driving away.
She stood there, breathing deeply. There was one part of the conversation that kept running through her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, along with those penetrating eyes. Yes, he had been charismatic, she’d expected that. And though he was obviously prone to rambling, he’d been interesting to talk to. But there was one part of the conversation that had chilled her to the bone.
She glanced across at the police station. And then she strode towards it.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Missy was dead. She was on her side in the chicken coop, eyes glazed over like clouded marbles. Esther crouched down and stared at the old hen. She had to shoo away clucky Miss Betsy trying to peck out Missy’s eyes.
What did it mean now? What did her sign mean? God had sent her that second egg, but now he’d killed Missy and she didn’t understand. Were the two related? She wanted to go and ask Father James, but that meant admitting how she’d doubted him. What if he was angry with her? He’d been very specific about not letting him down and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
Esther picked Missy up by the legs and carried her out of the coop. She didn’t want those other hens pecking at her. She chose a spot over in the orchard in the shade of a pecan tree, found a shovel small enough for her to carry and began digging a grave. The ground was firm, but not as hard as the baked soil out in the fields.
It took her a while. Every time she thought she’d dug enough, she realised she had to go deeper. Esther had seen Elijah burying a dead horse once, and he said that if you didn’t go down deep enough, a coyote would dig it up and eat it. Well, Esther didn’t want any coyotes eating Missy. She owed it to Missy to make sure that didn’t happen. After all, Missy had worked with God to deliver the sign, even if she wasn’t sure what it meant now.
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