Assassin's Promise, The Red Team Series, Book 5 (17 page)

“We don’t have
Rumspringa
as you mention. There’ve been cases in our history where some of our citizens have left our community, but not very often. We’ve been growing, in fact. This year alone, we’ve built ten additional cabins for young couples.”

“It was twelve, Mrs. Dunbar.”

“Indeed. So it was.” She looked at Remi. “There were many years, many in a row sometimes, where new families occupied cabins already emptied by citizens who had passed.”

“To what do you attribute the recent growth?” Remi asked.

Both women kept their eyes on their work. “I would assume it’s because our citizens feel invigorated by the nature of our community.”

“And if someone wanted to go, could they?”

“Goodness, Dr. Chase,” Mrs. Haskel said with genuine humor in her eyes. “Our community’s not surrounded by armed guards. Any of us can leave at any time.”

“And if they go, can they come back?”

“If they come back to stay, yes.” Mrs. Dunbar paused and looked over at her, her palms resting on the soft dough. “Our community has a mission, Dr. Chase, one that is the center of our ethos. Everyone here knows it. Everyone who leaves, leaves because of it. It’s what we’re made of. If a citizen decides that what we’re about is not a fit for him, there would be no reason for him to return for visits, would there?”

“I never heard it put that way,” Remi said. “What is your community’s mission?”

“We strive to live authentic lives focused on what matters. Family, community, peace.”

“That’s lovely.” Remi jotted that down. “Do your citizens tithe?” If she hadn’t been looking at the women, she wouldn’t have caught the flash of tension that crossed their features.

“Of course we tithe. All Christians tithe.”

“And how do your tithes work?”

“Same as anyone’s,” Mrs. Dunbar said, keeping her focus on her work. “We give back to the community. Because ours isn’t a currency-based community, tithing is about service, not charity. Young people especially do some service for the community.”

“What kind of service?” Remi asked.

“It varies. My husband, as the mayor, assigns them their task. It is a solemn event. The tasks are kept secret, out of humility. They are never discussed. But they are often challenging. And once they’re completed, the young person takes his or her place in the community as an adult.”

“Interesting. Are there any recent tithers I could speak to?”

“The Smiths’ and Bennetts’ kids just recently completed their tithes, as did the Johnsons’,” Mrs. Haskel said, looking at Mrs. Dunbar, who gave her a stern look.

“They did—however, they’re a bit under the weather.”

“Yes, of course. And, truly, the tithes our youths do are sacred, doctor,” Mrs. Haskel said in a soft voice, almost as if she was afraid they would get caught. “They aren’t ever bandied about casually. It would be most impolite to ask anyone about their tithe.”

“And beyond the youth tithes,” Mrs. Dunbar continued, “we all tithe food or labor, as needed by anyone in the community. We take care of our own.”

“That’s admirable. Do you have any problems with the White Kingdom Brotherhood? I understand they have a large property that borders yours.”

The two women exchanged charged looks. “I hate them,” Mrs. Haskel hissed.

“We have as little to do with them as possible. They don’t represent our community’s values in any way.” Mrs. Dunbar looked at Remi. “However, as you point out, they are our neighbors, and we do, sometimes, have interactions with them.”

* * *

Greer carried an armload of crates to the central storehouse where the community’s shared goods were kept. The herd of kids brought the rest. While they began carefully unpacking the things Remi had brought for the community, Mr. Haskel clapped a hand on Greer’s back and drew him outside. “I suppose you might like a tour of the town.”

Greer looked over in the direction Remi had gone with the women.
 

“Oh, never mind about them. They’re making bread today. They’ll be hours yet. C’mon. We’ll saddle some horses and go for a tour.”

“Sounds good. I’d like to see what you’re doing here.”

They went down to a community stable. Mr. Haskel saddled a couple of horses. “You ever ride before?”

“Yeah. Summer camp years ago.”

“Well, it ain’t changed much since,” Mr. Haskel said with a chuckle.
 

Greer mounted his horse and rode next to him down the dirt road that led through the village. Talk about a time warp. It felt like moving through a reenactment village.
 

The town had a population of three hundred adults and two hundred children, a number that jibed with the census Remi took and wasn’t far off the last U.S. census. The community was extraordinary, and Greer enjoyed learning about its complexities.
 

Most of the unwed adult women lived with their parents. There was a long bunkhouse where unwed bachelors lived. Children were schooled from six to thirteen. When a kid showed a special interest in a topic, a resident who was a specialist in that topic furthered his education in the hopes of finding interns to help in his work.
 

There was a row of shops maintained by a barter system. Furniture for a side of beef. Candles for eggs. Veggies for candles. Ironwork for a horse. Horses for construction assistance. There were pottery shops, a seamstress, and an herbalist.
 

The community cut ice in the winter and stored it in great ice warehouses for use through the summer. Most cabins had old-time wooden iceboxes. There was a communal greenhouse. Everyone who wasn’t a specialist found work in the fields, raising corn, wheat, and other crops for the community. Others were employed by taking care of the community’s elders.
 

No one was idle. No one was superfluous. Even with the community growing, it grew in a balanced way. Greer learned there was no gender-based division of labor. If a woman wanted to be a smithy, she could be. If a man wanted to make candles, he could. Town government permitted either gender in its leadership positions.

Mr. Haskel felt their community had survived because, unlike most other utopian societies that originated as theirs did in the nineteenth century, they allowed for variances of individual aptitude and interest. The community had a church and a minister, but was, by mission, a secular institution.

They visited the grain mill, with its storage silo, and the lumber mill, both powered by the river as they had been for close to two centuries. They visited the smithy, the icehouse, and shops for the butcher, cheesemaker, weaver, and apothecary.

Greer learned there was also an infirmary, just over the hill, set a little ways off from the main community. Their long-time doctor had recently passed and now the community was being served by his young intern, who was doing more than a passable job.
 

Greer asked if the new doctor, or even the former one, had a modern medical degree. Mr. Haskel frowned and said the community was extremely healthy. Most of their elders lived well into their eighties and nineties without medications and with their faculties intact. A community in balance, he reiterated, was naturally healthy.

They paused by the large schoolhouse. The population had grown so much in the last decade that a second one was being built.
 

“Do most of your children stay here in the community when they’re adults?”

“Most do.”

“What happens when they turn thirteen and their schooling ends?”

“By then, if the children have shown an interest in a specialty, their education is handed over to the experts in their interest area. Those who don’t have a particular leaning toward one thing or another are shown how to work a farm or are brought into one of our other labor trades.”

“Your community is efficient. Do you worry about your success outgrowing your resources?”

“We have five thousand acres up here. There are more we can buy. I think we are well situated now and for the immediate future.”

“I understand from Remi that your youths perform tithes. Could you tell me more about that?” Greer asked.

Mr. Haskel’s gaze flashed his way, his eyes widening briefly. “It is just another of our customs. When a young person decides he or she’s ready to be an adult in our community—with the privileges and responsibilities that brings—he or she is tested with an act of service. If it’s successfully completed, then the young person is regarded as an adult. Tithes come earlier for some and later for others.”

“Are these tithes or services ever rendered outside your community?”

“Tithes are intensely personal, Mr. Dawson. We never speak about the service we were asked to render.”

“Would, say, committing murder be considered a tithe?”

The affability left Mr. Haskel’s face. “I would expect such a question from an outsider. We have a very small population here, sir. Each of us has a specialty. There is little overlap. If someone were to commit murder, his actions would make life much more difficult for all of us.”

“But not if the murder was committed in the outside world.”

“What are you implying?”

“There was a girl from your community who tried to kill my friend.”

“Impossible.”

“I took her to the hospital, where they had to flush the drugs from her system. I met her parents. I saw the buggy they drove when they retrieved her. I saw the bench they left as payment. The closest other communities similar to yours are in Montana and Colorado, nowhere near here. Her name was Sally.”

“Such an act defies everything we stand for. Everything. Describe her to me. I will question her myself.”

“She’s young. Sixteen or seventeen. Tallish. Long blond hair. Blue eyes.”

He made a face, his lips tucked up on one side. “You’ve just described half of all our young girls. None of them are named Sally. When you dine with us for supper tonight, tell me if you see her.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Was your friend injured by this girl?”

“No. She was under the influence of some drug. I don’t believe she was acting under her own will.”

“I’m very sorry to hear this. Very sorry. It’s shocking. I think you have my community confused with another, but you can help me investigate it during your stay.” He leveled a look at Greer. “I would just ask that you keep your questions for the mayor and our council members. I don’t want to alarm the greater community.”

“I understand. Thank you.” Greer couldn’t tell if he was being played, but at least he hadn’t gotten them run out of the community. The longer they were able to stay, the farther he might get in his discovery.

Looking around them, he realized they’d come to a stop at a long hall built from timber and mud. The sign over the front door read “Infirmary.” A young man stood at the door, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Greer wondered how much of their conversation he’d heard. The man was in his mid-twenties. He was of medium height, with dark hair, and blue eyes. His complexion was a little gray. Greer wondered if he wasn’t feeling well or if he was perhaps exhausted.

“Dr. Robinson, this is Mr. Dawson,” Mr. Haskel said. “He’s visiting with his wife, Dr. Chase, the sociologist from Laramie.”

Greer nodded at the doc, who nodded in return.
 

“How is Mrs. Bennett today?” Mr. Haskel asked.

“She’s stable, though still feverish. I would invite you in”—he gestured toward the open door behind him—“but I fear she may still be contagious,” he said.

“We understand. She’s in good hands. My wife will be sending over some soup and bread for you and the patients.”

The young doctor looked relieved. “Thank you. We appreciate that.”

Mr. Haskel faced forward and lifted his reins, but Dr. Robinson stopped him with a question.

“Have we opened our boundaries to any new resident, Mr. Haskel?” He sent a meaningful glance toward Greer.

“Nothing has changed, doctor. If a prospective citizen wishes to eschew modern civilization for the remainder of his natural life, and if such a person wishes to contribute in a beneficial way to our community, the council will review their application.”

“No exceptions?”

“No.”

“Good day, sirs.” Dr. Robinson’s wave was dismissive.
 

Greer looked at his companion as they continued on their way. “What was that about?”

“Mrs. Bennett has had a persistent fever. I doubt the doctor’s had much sleep lately.”

“I thought you said your community was extraordinarily healthy.”

“We are. But we are only human, Mr. Dawson. Sometimes we catch a bug that has a nasty way of running through the whole community. It’s why we have an infirmary.” He looked over at Greer. “I’m sure that happens in your community, too.”

“Oh, it does. Probably far more often than here.”

Here. In this strange Shangri-la that was almost too perfect to be real. No wonder they didn’t want anyone visiting or observing or changing what they had going on.

Greer resisted looking back toward the infirmary. He definitely needed to have more words with the doctor.

Chapter Sixteen

Owen looked up from his tablet as Casey came into the living room. Supper was still an hour away. No one else had come down for happy hour. He nodded at her and returned his attention to the article he was reading as she folded herself into the armchair next to him, her knees by her chin, her head propped on her fist as she faced him.

He continued to ignore for another few sentences. She didn’t move. He looked at her again. “Something I can do for you, Casey?”

She frowned. “Do you like my dad?”

“I’m his boss.”

She waved that away. “Yeah, but do you like him?”

“I do.”

“Do you understand him?”

Owen studied Kit’s daughter, wondering where she was headed with this. He looked out to the hallway, hoping for someone, anyone, to come into the room and spare him from this conversation. He glanced at her. “Maybe. In some things. Why?”

“Why is he so mean to Lion?”

“I think this is something you should ask him.”

“I will. I’m just trying to understand him first, Uncle Owen. I can’t ask Mom because her eyes get all big and soft anytime he’s around.”