Little One

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “No,” Esther said.

  Adam stood up to full height and tried to take her hand. She wrenched it away from him. “Come on, Esther. You can’t behave like this.”

  “I’m not going with you.” She took a step backwards.

  Father Adam let out a small, nervous laugh. “Why don’t you trust me, sweetie?”

  She wrapped her arms around her body. “Because I heard you in the woods with Mother. I heard you before I fell.”

  He barely reacted to that. He simply put his hands in his pockets and turned his head towards the fire. “Ah, I see.”

  Esther had an idea then. She pulled in a few steadying breaths and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Okay, I’ll go with you. I’ll go and sit with Mother.”

  “Very good,” Adam said, and they turned back towards the campfire.

  Chapter Eighty

  Fran had received a reply from Caleb the next day telling her all about an event that was occurring called The Observance. It was a celebration of summer according to Caleb and an opportunity to shed any enemies of inner wellness, like inner-demons or drains, as the year went on. The way he described it sounded like the Burning Man festival and the Wicker Man rolled into one. The thought of a fire in the Arizona heat sounded insane, but Caleb reassured her that they kept water hoses on hand if the fire grew out of control and nothing bad had ever happened in the years they’d been doing it. We wait until conditions are just right, he’d said in his email. When chances of a dust storm are low, and rain is forecast later in the week. We do it in the evenings when it’s cooler and make sure there isn’t too much wind to spread the embers.

  It was odd to her that Fran hadn’t heard Caleb talking about The Observance before. He only brought it up after she asked to see the ranch again. Part of her wondered whether this event was just for her. Was that crazy? Did it even matter? She agreed to go. Of course, she did. This was another chance for her to find Mary and Esther. Surely, at a community party like this one, both would be there. She did feel some guilt about her lie to Detective Woodson, and she recognised that she was most likely too deeply invested to see all the other possible choices before her, but she didn’t care. She wanted to go. This was an opportunity for two things: potentially finding Mary and the opportunity to witness a cult ritual. How many outsiders were afforded that kind of chance?

  She killed time in Tucson looking for souvenirs from gift shops. She bought Adrian a new apron with an outline of the Catalina mountains across the front. For her friend’s children she bought cactus plushies and some pecan treats in a colourful tin. She bought herself a slice of pecan pie and ate it later at the hotel right before she went to bed. The sugar made her dreams surreal. Father James was sitting behind his desk like he had been during their meeting. He removed his sunglasses just as he had the day she met him, but this time lasers shot from his irises, blindingly bright and red hot. Her hands shot up to protect her face, but the lasers tore through her flesh.

  She woke breathless and sweaty, with nerves tickling her stomach. It was the day of the Observance and she needed to pull herself together. She spent the morning writing in the hotel bar and ate a Cobb salad for lunch. Afterwards she went back up to her room to change. Her breath was unsteady as she pulled on a loose cotton dress and packed some fresh underwear and toothbrush into a bag. Caleb had told her she could stay the night in a guest room. She was about to spend a full night with a cult. She could hardly believe it.

  On the way out of the hotel, Adrian called. Fran held the phone in her hand for a long time, but in the end she didn’t answer.

  In the taxi, she chewed on her bottom lip. The tickle of nerves had transformed into sharp fingernails clawing at her insides. There was something telling her not to go. An instinct, maybe. Good old-fashioned women’s intuition. Adrian would roll his eyes at that. Part of her regretted not taking his call. What if something happened to her and she never got an opportunity to say goodbye? Fran stared down at her phone for a long minute, and then she unlocked the screen and went to her contacts page. She scrolled through and tapped the phone icon. Three rings purred in her ear before he answered.

  “Woodson.”

  “Detective,” she said.

  “Mrs Cole.” His voice sounded somewhat surprised, but mostly guarded. She could practically hear the thoughts turning in his mind. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m going there,” she said. “I know I said I wouldn’t, but I was invited to some sort of ritual.”

  He exhaled sharply through his nose.

  “It doesn’t feel right,” she continued. “Do you have your warrant yet.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Maybe you should come. Or maybe I could send you a text if things go badly.”

  “I’m going to have a team on stand-by. If I can. You can’t just raid a sprawling ranch without planning.” His voice was calm, but annoyed. “But send me that text message if you see children, drugs or weapons. And then get out. I’ll arrange the rest.”

  “I will, I promise,” she said.

  “Well, you’ve promised before, Mrs Cole. And look where that got us.”

  Her skin prickled from the scolding, but she deserved it, she knew she did.

  The taxi driver dropped her off at the bottom gate, but that was fine, because Caleb was already waiting for her.

  “That is a lovely dress, Francesca,” he said.

  She smoothed out her skirt with trembling fingers.

  He walked with her towards the apricot glow of the fire. The family were silhouettes bobbing, swaying and pirouetting around the flames like sprites dancing in a folk song. The sight seemed ancient to her. Primal. An old or new civilisation, it was impossible to tell. She wanted to get closer so that she could watch them, but before they were in sniffing distance of the crackling wood, Caleb stopped her.

  “In order for you to join in with us, I need to take your mobile phone.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well I don’t have one with me.”

  “Mind if I take a quick look in your bag?”

  Fran opened her bag and rummaged around inside, play acting someone coming across an object they’d forgotten was there. “You know, I did put my phone in my bag. So sorry. My memory is like a sieve these days. It’s the menopause.”

  She glanced away from him as she passed the phone over, not sure if he saw through the act or not. He’d have to be an idiot not to.

  Then they continued on towards the fire, where Fran finally got a closer look at the family worshipping through their Observance. They were dressed in their usual traditional clothing, albeit looser for the hot summer night. The young women wore their hair around their shoulders and the soft waves fluttered as they danced. Carefree and relaxed, they held hands and twirled each other around in circles, laughing and smiling up at the darkening sky. It was a beautiful, undeniably charming sight, but Fran still felt anxiety pressing down on her body. She forced herself to stand up straight. She didn’t want Caleb to see her fear.

  In the centre of it all, Father James commanded attention. She saw him swaying to the music, his hips moving with far too much fluidity for a man she considered repugnant. Despite the unfortunate hip motion, his feet were planted as though rooted to the earth. He kept his back straight with help from a cane. She noticed a waxiness to his skin that made her think of disease. She almost turned around and ran away, but instead she finally allowed her gaze to examine the faces of those around him. From the broad-chested bodyguards to the pretty young girls to the group of chatty middle-aged people sitting and bobbing their heads. But then she saw a painfully thin woman on a chair near the fire and the disgust came rushing back. This poor creature was dressed in a baggy skirt and tunic at least two sizes too big for her. Elbows poked out from the armrests as she leaned forward in her chair. Lank, lifeless hair fell over her face in fat greasy strings. This woman was either quite frail and aged, or she was ill. The dark hair indicated that she was ill, not aged.

  “Come,”
Caleb said, leading her around the crowd. “Father James will speak soon.”

  As they skirted the throng, Fran noticed the guns for the first time. Handguns worn in their holsters, slung on the hips of the tall henchmen standing close to their leader. She searched Caleb’s expression for any indication that something was amiss. He didn’t even give the men a second glance. And now she had no phone to text Detective Woodson. She let out a shaky breath. That bad feeling was going nowhere. Fran tried to tell herself that she was here as a journalist and a woman hoping to save her friend. Because of those reasons, she could be brave.

  Caleb led her to a wooden bench set out near to the fire. A few of the other members waved at her, friendly smiles on their faces. They took their seats in an orderly manner. The music stopped, and for the first time, Fran saw that Elijah had been the violinist. She dropped her gaze to the ground, hoping if she hung her head and leaned back that he wouldn’t notice her. When she next dared to look up, Elijah had melted into the crowd. She also saw Talisa from the course, dressed in cult attire, holding a baby who was about six months old. Talisa had been a plant, then. Fran had been suspicious, but the realisation still stung.

  As Father James began to speak, one of the bodyguards helped the frail woman from her seat and walked with her over to the benches. She lifted her head slightly and Fran saw the dilated pupils of a person on drugs. It was the second aspect of the Observance to frighten her. Not just guns but drugs, too. She glanced at her bag, longing for her phone.

  The frail woman settled onto the bench and turned in her direction. Their eyes met and the moment stretched. Then the woman’s eyebrows bunched, and she frowned. Fran gasped audibly, her hand flying to her face.

  “Are you all right?” Caleb whispered.

  Father James was beginning to speak which gave her an opportunity not to explain herself. She nodded. Caleb accepted it. He had no idea how hard her heart was hammering against her ribs. He didn’t see that she was holding back tears. Father James intoned some deep and meaningful sermon, but all she could do was think about the sweet, nervous young woman who had been reduced to a spaced-out skeleton. What had they done to her? The gorgeous dark hair that had made Fran so envious now hung in greasy, lacklustre tresses. She bit her lip to hold back the tears. Could she get Mary out of here tonight? Where was Esther? Her eyes trailed over to the bodyguards with unease. Behind Father James the bonfire seemed to expand and contract as though it was breathing.

  She couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. It was some sort of sermon about summer and about salvation. She vaguely heard him mention the word reckoning every now and then. Sweat bubbled across his forehead and rolled down his nose as embers crackled and flew into the sky. Fran rubbed her palms against her dress and dared another glance towards poor Mary. If she could get her away from the group, maybe they could walk to the road and flag down a car? Mary seemed so frail, like a broken bird. She pulled her eyes away from Mary and started searching the rest of the crowd for Esther. She almost gasped again when she saw a little girl on the front bench. But it wasn’t Esther. She had a much rounder face and olive skin. On either side of her were two boys, one of whom seemed familiar.

  Fran realised then, that the boy to the girl’s right was the missing child from the posters in Tucson. Her eyes flitted across to Father James. How could he be so careless? Did he think that the NDA she signed would protect him? She felt sickened by him as he waffled on and on about speaking the word of God. She was almost distracted enough not to keep looking for Esther. But not quite.

  A child and a man were approaching the group, walking from the direction of the farmhouse. The child had her hair pulled away from her face. She walked with her back straight and head held high. She was holding hands with a man. He was tall, grey-haired and in his fifties. He was dressed in the same traditional linens as the rest of the group. This time, she stopped breathing altogether. The man halted. The girl next to him took an additional step and then stood still. The child was staring right at her. The man was staring right at her, too. It was Esther, of course. She knew that precocious expression, the slight smugness, the self-possession, the straw-blonde hair. And next to her. Well, next to her, holding her hand like a guardian, was Adrian.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Fran flew to her feet. She clenched her hands into balls, body rigid, caught in a flight or fight response. She stared at her husband on the other side of the field, his boots dusty from the hard soil. Shirt sleeves rolled up like he blended in with them; a worn rocking chair in the corner. She wanted to speak, but her jaw felt wired shut. The fire crackled and hissed like the half-formed words lodged in her throat. Her eyes burned from its heat and yet she could not blink. Father James’s sermon paused mid-sentence and hushed whispers travelled around the group. Fran felt them staring at her.

  “Do you know Father Adam?” James asked. His voice, deep and clear above the crackle of the fire, sounded more amused than angry.

  She sensed movement to her right. A bodyguard, Isaiah she thought, took a few steps in her direction, hand hovering close to his holstered gun. The Father raised a hand and the man stopped in his tracks. With her body and mind in flux she didn’t even have time to react to the bodyguard’s advance.

  It was Adrian who approached in the end. Adrian, the man who had been sending her fake photographs of their patio, telling her all about the gossip in Leacroft like it was happening right now. And of course, she only now realised that he’d occasionally forgotten about the time difference, telling her he was going to the library when it was closed. She thought of the lies, the manipulation and bravado of them, and considered what she could throw at him. Father Adam. Her body trembled. Two fires boiled in that Arizona field.

  “Franny, I can explain,” he said, striding towards her.

  “Fran.” Mary tried to stand, but a tall man kept her pinned down.

  She took a step back, almost tripping over the bench behind her.

  “Francesca?” Caleb placed a hand out to steady her, but Fran tapped it away.

  She felt as though her mind had splintered. She regarded each of them in turn. Which issue should she address first? Mary and Esther, the girls she’d been searching for? The missing boy sitting in the group, dressed like a cult member, his parents grieving for him somewhere in Tucson? Or her husband, who years ago formed a cult, but never mentioned it in nearly ten years of marriage?

  Adrian lifted his hands. “Can we talk?”

  Fran had missed those hands. She’d longed for them at night when she was lonely. And now he held them up and she wanted to chop them off. Somehow, she squeezed her way through the benches and stumbled across the field on numb legs. Adrian tried to put a hand on her shoulder to lead her away, but she didn’t let him. First, she looked at Esther. The little girl lifted her face, as impassive as the first time they met.

  “Will you stay with your mother until I’ve spoken to Father Adam.” The name tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

  “Go to Mary and wait there,” Adrian said. Even the sound of his voice shocked her. He was in control. A leader. There was even a hint of an American accent to it, as though he’d acclimatised so well he’d started to talk like the people around him.

  Fran watched Esther do as she was told before she turned back to Adrian. She walked away from the fire with him for about three or four minutes, side by side as though they were strolling through Leacroft together. It was something she’d done hundreds of times, and yet it was more alien to her now than the cult’s strange traditions happening around her.

  He stopped first. He spoke first.

  “Fran, listen—” he started.

  But no, she wouldn’t have it. Not another lecture. Not this time. “You motherfucker,” she spat. “You weak, despicable man. You… you bastard. You started this cult, didn’t you? I knew you studied at Harvard, but you failed to mention then starting a cult with your friend! You even took a branch of it to Colorado. Didn’t you? This is all your doing. Th
ose brainwashed people are all here because of you. His fucking Rolexes and gold rings and the stupid sunglasses. All bought with the money they leech from vulnerable people. Did you do it too? Is that why you’re rich?” He remained silent. She shook her head. “What? Are you going to try and justify any of this? Are you going to tell me that you’ve changed? What the fuck are you going to say to me? There’s a kidnapped child out there! How many others, Adrian? How many? What does he do with them? Where does he hide them? Are you like him? Do you kidnap children, too? I can’t look at you, I can’t. You’re my husband and I can’t look at you!”

  He put his head in his hands and leaned his body against a fence post. She listened to him sob and splutter, ragged breaths juddering out of him like a broken engine. It was a sound she hadn’t heard since Chloe died. It tore at her. He was her husband and she had comforted him many times and now he sobbed and her first instinct was to soothe him. But no. He should feel pain. Like the pain his organisation had inflicted on all the people duped or snatched so that Father James could stay in gold rings.

  He wiped away the tears and straightened up. “You’re right. I can’t say anything because you’re right and there’s no excuse for what I’ve done.” She watched him squirm through his words. “We were young, Roger and I, and we fell into it. We spouted out some nonsense philosophy because we were arrogant assholes. Before we knew it, we’d built up a small group of followers hanging off our every word. From there it… spiralled. There was this rundown old cabin out towards the Colorado border. We’d dropped out of Harvard after the first year and were travelling around. We had nothing. No ambition, no desire to study. For some reason we stayed in Nebraska longer than anywhere and while we were there other wastrels and strays came to live with us. They gravitated towards us; I don’t know why. Slowly we turned that cabin into a small house. When they started giving us their wages, that was when things began to get serious. Things began to get… organised.”