“What’s that?” Grace asked.
Stinky slapped Paul’s hand away from the box, knocking the key out of the lock in the process. “Whatever’s in there, it isn’t good.”
Paul shoved the boy back and felt around for the key. It’d tumbled away underneath one of the mattresses somewhere. He held out his palm to Esther. “Pass me your key please.”
“What’s going on?” Grace insisted.
“Father James gave me a job,” Esther said, ignoring Paul. “He said I have to open this box and make a special drink for us all.”
Grace nodded, having heard this already. “And then we go to sleep and wake up in God’s garden.”
Stinky grabbed the box and held it tight. “Don’t you know what ‘go to sleep’ means? It means die.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Paul said. “It means being reborn.”
“Does it matter if we die?” Delilah asked. “We get to go to God. Our souls will be saved.”
Esther regarded all the children in turn, her thoughts all jumbled up. There was one memory, her earliest one in fact, where she was standing on the stage in the sermon hall. Mary and Father James were next to her and the family were cheering. Father had his arms stretched out in the air. He was talking about God, and Esther didn’t know who God was, but she knew from the tone of his voice that God was powerful. She’d considered her Father to be God. He could watch her through the stars. To be powerful and true and always right because what he said was right. What he said was true.
But then her eyes fell to the metal box Stinky was clutching tightly to his chest. She was scared, not just for herself, but for them, too. She felt sick at the thought of opening that box and taking out the special drink. Her cramping, terrible stomach ache was back. She doubled over from the pain.
Everything Father James asked her to do made her feel poorly. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? When she was little, he’d told her she couldn’t sleep in the adult quarters with Mary anymore. Esther had been so sad for the first week that she’d cried every night. He punished her by making her sleep in the horse barn. The next day she’d suffered with diarrhoea and sickness.
When he asked her to make sure all the children drank his medicine, she’d suffered from a stomach ache almost every night. She’d pressed her thumbs into her legs to try and stop the bad thoughts in her head. She’d bruised herself. Since coming back to Arizona she’d felt ill every single say. She’d even fainted.
“No,” Esther said. She took a step closer to Stinky and blocked Paul’s path to the box. “Stink—John’s right. It does mean dying. I don’t think we should die.”
“But Father said—” Grace started.
“He’s wrong,” she said. “We should put the box down and then… and then we need to get out because of the fires. We need to run away as fast as we can.”
“You’re ruining it!” Paul shouted. “Father asked me to do this and you’re ruining it!”
She saw it through her child’s eyes. She saw the devotion and obsession for what it was. She saw through Father James’s manipulations and realised he’d tricked them all. Every answer she’d sought she found written on Paul’s face. The way his teeth were gritted together, his eyes bulging, the tension in his jaw and redness in his cheeks. He was obsessed with keeping Father happy, they all were, and it wasn’t because Father loved them, it was because they were afraid of him.
“Esther’s right,” John said. She felt ashamed to have called him Stinky, then. “We need to run away. Now.” He gestured to the smoke seeping in through the cracks around the shelter door.
Grace let out a gasp.
“What should we do? Open it or leave it closed?” Esther said. She wanted an adult now. She didn’t know what to do next.
“We take the drink, we go to sleep,” Paul said.
Some of the others started to cry. Esther scratched her arms anxiously, turning from the metal box to the door and back again.
“I think we should open the door and get out,” Esther said. “We should just run away from the ranch. As fast as we can.”
“Into the mountains?” John said. “No. We go to the police once they stop shooting.”
“No,” Grace said. “Police are pigs.”
“They might shoot us too,” Esther said, thinking of Zachary. “We could run down to the road and wait for a car.”
David began to cough, and Esther decided there wasn’t enough time to sit around discussing what to do next. She set off towards the bunker door. Halfway up the steps she heard a scream. She hurried back down and saw John lying back on his mattress, a trickle of blood dribbling from his nose. Paul’s shaking hands were already unlocking the box.
“If we don’t take the medicine, we won’t reach salvation,” he said. “It’s our ultimate external goal. We have to take the medicine.”
The box opened.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Fran tore away part of Mary’s linen dress and wrapped the fabric around the woman’s face. She did the same for herself. Ash rained down from the sky, the particles snow white against the pink-tinged clouds of smoke around them. In the distance she heard the wail of an emergency services vehicle and prayed that the fire service had arrived. Mary clung to her, sweaty palms around her waist. She wanted to say something comforting, but she didn’t know what. A moment later, Mary pulled down her makeshift scarf and stared deeply into Fran’s eyes.
“Esther is mine,” she said. “I gave birth to her when I was thirteen. She’s mine. Elijah isn’t her father, it was… It was James.” She gestured towards the fire and beyond, where the police presumably still were. “Whatever happens, help me make them see. I don’t want her taken away from me.”
Gently, Fran placed the scarf back over Mary’s face and nodded. “I will, hon.”
Mary took Fran’s hands in hers and held them tight. Fran knew then that she would do everything in her power to help Mary and Esther stay together. If they survived.
Adrian—wheezing and doubled over—staggered through the smoke, clutching a bucket in either hand. He tossed the water onto the flames, dousing the fire but not extinguishing it. An orange glow smouldered through the undergrowth. In horror, Fran realised that this was now a wildfire. The dry vegetation had lit up, and two buckets of water were not going to stop the spread.
Fran tore another strip from Mary’s dress before telling her to stay where she was. Then she hurried over to her coughing husband. She took his chin and raised it, wrapped the fabric around his face.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ll go in together.”
This time he didn’t stop her. He passed her the bucket and they hurried back towards the now empty outbuilding; the spreading flames slowly consuming the structure from the outside in. They licked up the beams, glowed bright apricot beneath the charred remains of the haystack, and slapped Fran with a level of heat she’d never experienced before in her life. But once they were inside, her attention honed onto the water trough.
“There’s another bucket over there,” Adrian said. He hurried, walking bow-legged over the hot floor, grasped the bucket and cried out, shaking his burnt hand.
Fran dipped her bucket into the water, sprinted over to Adrian and threw a little of it on the handle and Adrian’s hand. Then they both rushed back to the trough, taking as much as they could carry. She condensed their mission down to smaller tasks in her mind. It was all she could do to stop herself panicking. Walk to the tough. Fill the bucket. Douse the flames. Save the children.
Head lowered, they half-walked half-ran out of the barn. Fran’s lungs burned; her skin prickled with heat. She kept her head down, eyes squinting against the flying embers. Once they were close to the fire, Mary bolted over and grabbed the bucket from Fran’s hand. She bent over trying to catch her breath as Mary tossed the water over the flames. Along with Adrian’s effort, it helped to clear a narrow path leading towards the bushes, but they had to act fast. The fire could close back in at any moment.
Fr
an’s body ached and her lungs were heavy, but she managed to catch up with Mary who dashed bravely through the gap. The grass that had partially buried the door had been burned back, and Mary reached out for the handle. But Fran grasped hold of her wrist, knowing the metal could be boiling hot by now. She took the cloth from over her mouth and wrapped it around her hand. She felt her hair singe as hot drops of ash settled like snowflakes on her head and body. Fran twisted the metal handle and wrenched the door open. Before Fran could advise caution, Mary dived straight in. Fran followed, panic seizing her chest in the smoke-filled corridor.
She struggled to keep up with Mary as they descended into a silence more ominous than the roar of the fire outside. When Mary called out Esther’s name, Fran tried not to ask herself why the children weren’t hurrying up to them. Why weren’t the children calling out?
They’ve gone to the house, Fran thought. That had to be the reason. They followed Father James to the farmhouse, and they were safe inside. No, not safe. Nowhere was safe. Mary was the first to round the corner into the bunker. When Fran heard her gasp, she forced herself to follow, the instinct to run in the opposite direction almost overwhelmingly strong.
There were mattresses tossed around the room, covering almost every square inch of the concrete floor. Those mattresses were covered by tangled bedsheets and sleeping bags. Many of the bedsheets were wet, and there were empty cups all over the floor. A boy stood in the centre of the mess; his hands balled into fists. His chest was heaving up and down as though he was in extreme stress. Fran recognised him as the missing boy from the posters. Jayden.
Mary lurched forward and clutched hold of a girl with dirt on her hands, face and straw-coloured hair. She had scratch marks on her cheeks. She’d been standing next to the boy. Esther. Thank God, it was Esther. That was one small mercy, because the rest of the children were lying still. Some on their side as though they were sleeping, others on their stomach, legs and arms poking out at all angles. When Fran saw white foam collected in the corner of a little boy’s mouth, she turned her head sharply away. There were footsteps behind her. Adrian’s voice, raw and burned, called her name. Without thinking, she reached for him as he stumbled into the room, and she pressed her face into his chest to stifle her tears. Then she wrenched herself away just as fast, remembering it all.
Esther unfolded herself from Mary’s arms, the tracks of tears visible among the smudged dirt and ashes on her cheeks. “We tried to stop them. Paul hit John and pushed me down. Will they wake up in God’s garden? Will they?”
It was Adrian who answered. In a sombre voice, he simply said, “Yes.”
Fran took Jayden’s hand. Mary directed Esther by the shoulders. They began a slow, silent ascent to the burning world above.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Adrian opened the shelter door and waited for them to leave fist. Fran emerged from the shelter on shaking legs. She felt numb all over. She was expecting the harsh, rawness of the roaring fire, but what she found was damp, blackened undergrowth. Through the thick smoke, a man in a fire protective suit jogged over and helped them away from the smouldering bushes towards a patch of compacted dirt that had not yet yielded to the wildfire. She yelled through her scarf about the children on their mattresses, and he set off with a group of colleagues towards the underground bunker. With Mary, Esther, Jayden and Adrian, she staggered on, exhausted, hot, sick from the smoke, passing one of Father James’s henchmen lying dead in a pool of blood.
A uniformed officer, his face obscured by the smoke, helped them away from the burning ranch. Fran’s chest felt clogged and sore as they made their way through the fields to the police cars. With every step, she held Jayden close, making sure she didn’t lose him in the rush to get away from the fire. He kept up with her pace. And then, finally, away from the source of the fire she was able to breath in fresh air. She pulled down her scarf sucked in big, greedy gulps of it. She felt sick to her stomach for enjoying it as much as she did. But the moment was blissful, despite everything going on around them.
Detective Woodson approached; his mouth set into a grim line. His expression told her everything she needed to know about her presence at the ranch. His attention was quickly redirected to the little boy holding her hand. He crouched down on his haunches. “We’ve been looking for you, Jayden.”
“You have?” he said.
“That’s right. Your Mommy and Daddy have missed you.” Woodson smiled at the boy and patted his shoulder before standing upright.
“There’s a baby,” Fran blurted out. “I’m worried about the baby, and the children in the storm shelter. The baby is in the farmhouse. Send someone, please. Before it’s too late.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know about the baby, one of my officers saw the mother going into the house. We’re doing everything we can, Mrs Cole.” He glanced over at Mary and Esther. “You found them.”
“I did.” She bit back her tears, of relief, sadness, grief for those children.
Then his eyes moved towards Adrian. “Who’s this?”
Fran saw her husband’s pitiful expression. He wanted her help, she could see that, but she chose to ignore it. “This is Father Adam. He set up the cult many years ago with Roger Devon. Father Adam is also my lying husband who not once in ten years mentioned any cult to me. His name is Adrian Cole.”
Woodson raised an eyebrow as he removed the cuffs from his waistband and unclipped them. He turned Adrian around to read him his rights before fixing the cuffs onto his wrists. The sight of her husband’s arrest almost took what breath was left in her lungs, but she tried not to pity him. He didn’t deserve it.
And she didn’t have long to process it. A group of paramedics rushed over to lead them all—including Adrian, now accompanied by an officer—to a line of ambulances parked about a hundred feet away. Jayden stayed near her while Mary and Esther were taken to a different ambulance. She wanted to protest, to have the girls brought back to her, but shock settled into Fran’s body. They received oxygen and sipped cool water but cold sweats broke out over her chest and back. Her pulse raced and the world blurred at the edges. What happened next seemed to exist outside her body, as though it was happening to a different person. From the kind paramedic helping her breathe, to the ambulance doors closing, and the journey to the hospital. She leaned back onto a stretcher, and she went to sleep.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
The first thing Fran noticed when she woke, was no Esther. Mary, sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed, was alone. Fran thought then that she’d failed the one promise she’d made—to ensure Esther stayed with Mary. She tried to sit up but her weak muscles protested, and Mary placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her moving.
“The doctor said you needed rest. Would you like a drink?” Mary held up a jug of water.
Fran nodded. Her throat was too raw to speak. When Mary passed her a plastic cup she leaned forward and took a few small sips before nestling back into the pillows.
“Where’s Esther?” she asked. The effort made her cough.
“Don’t worry, she’s in a bay down the corridor. She’s sleeping.”
When she thought of Esther tucked up in bed, the haunting sight of the storm shelter entered her mind. She couldn’t stop herself picturing those tiny, lifeless bodies spread among dirty mattresses, or the stench of acrid smoke choking the air. “The children? The baby?”
Mary’s mouth tightened. “The children from the shelter are here. They’re all still alive and they’ve been given activated charcoal to bind with the poison. We won’t know for a while.” Her hands trembled in her lap. Fran heard the heaviness of her voice, knew it didn’t sound good. “I don’t know how many adults lived in the community and we let this happen. Two dozen maybe. We failed those children. I failed them.”
Fran reached out and took her hand. “You were a child there once, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I grew up there and I slept in that bunker until Father James,” s
he swallowed, “made me his wife. I saw your husband back then. He wasn’t living with the family anymore, I don’t think, but he did stop by a lot. Father James was like a real father to me even though I knew we weren’t related. When we were married it was… traumatic.”
Fran held back her tears, wanting to piece together Mary’s story. “Did you have any parents on the ranch.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I had a mother. But once children reach about four years old, they’re taken out of the adult area and put into the storm shelter out of the way. My mother and I were never close.”
She fell silent. Fran knew the rest. Mary had given birth to Esther when she was just thirteen. Mary was now twenty years old, young enough to be Fran’s daughter.
“What happened to James and…” Fran hesitated. “The other members.” She was thinking about the baby. She was afraid and sickened and exhausted, but she needed to know.
Mary took a deep breath, the air whooshing through her thin lips. Instinctively, Fran took her hand, hoping to give them both the strength to go on, to face whatever Mary was about to say. “While you were sleeping, the firemen managed to beat back the flames on the ranch and let the paramedics into the farmhouse. But it was too late.” Her top lip trembled. Fran squeezed her hand. “They were all dead. All of them. Some had been shot. Some may have died from smoke inhalation. I guess most took the poison because there were cups of it all around. The baby…”
Fran closed her eyes and the blood drained from her face. She remembered Talisa’s hand on her shoulder in the meadow as she’d released her grief. She thought of Talisa holding the baby in her arms by the fire, the smile on her face, the smile on the baby’s face. She thought of Chloe’s blue skin in the crib and those toes peeking out from the blanket. It was almost too much to bear. Too tragic, too unfair, too evil. Fran’s breath rattled through her sore chest as Mary suddenly threw herself onto the bed. The two women remained there locked in an embrace, each processing the pointless loss of life
Little One Page 27
