Hold Fast (7 page)

“I will. I want to get the truck packed up tonight, and I still need to get some stuff out of the toy box.”

The basement is a typical New England cellar. It stays cold year round, and it’s damp. Musty. When dad set up the gun safe here, he had to go to some extraordinary lengths for dehumidification to keep the guns from rusting. The key easily pops the lock open allowing me to turn the handle and retract the locking bolts, and the heavy door swings smoothly. Racks and racks of rifles and pistols lay within.

The pistol is an easy choice. My dad’s old Beretta 92FS lies on the top shelf of the safe, and I snatch it up along with three spare fifteen-round magazines and two boxes of 9 mm cartridges.

Rifle’s a tougher call. What am I going to take with me? I’m not expecting trouble, but it’s pretty standard practice around here to have a rifle under the back seat of a truck, or on a rack in the back window. My fingers linger over the cold blue steel of the old Winchester I used to take down my first deer when I was ten, but then I skip over it to the next option, an AR-15.

It looks a lot like the M4 I carried as a SEAL, but the Colt AR-15 is a civilian weapon, not a machine gun like its military cousin. It’s also a little longer to meet minimum-length laws. This should suit my needs perfectly – the M4 was my closest companion for six years as a Naval Special Warfare Operator, and the AR is close enough that I’ll be okay with it. Five magazines, thirty rounds each, go into the bag with my pistols mags, and a half-case of cartridges come along for the ride, too. Five hundred rounds should be enough to handle anything short of Canada invading. Might get some time for a little practice out in the wilderness, too.

Packing the truck is easy – my camping gear was all carefully stored before I left for the Navy, and the bags go in the back of the Blazer in a specific order I still know from long practice even after long years away. I’m as ready as I can possibly get.

Mom was right, though: it
is
getting late, and four in the morning
will
come far too early. I need to get some sleep. When I finally close my eyes, I know I’m heading straight back to that alley in Sadr City, again.

Maybe this time it’ll end differently?

* * *

“
C
ourtney
! Courtney, wake up!”

Startled out of my sleep, I jerk up and hit my head against the frame of the upper bunk.

Upper bunk? What upper bunk? I’m in the women’s dormitory. Why’m I not at home with Daniel? I rub my sore forehead and shift on the bed. As I sit on the edge, mindful of the metal frame above me, flashes of yesterday come back to me.

Kneeling next to me, little Jennifer covers her mouth with a chubby hand. She’s trying very hard to hide a giggle. You are too sweet, so innocent. Seeing you smile always fills me with joy.

“It’s okay, baby,” I tell her, grinning ruefully. “You can laugh. When I was little, I’d have laughed at a grownup who did that, too.” I look around, but no one else seems to have noticed my presence. The other girls are walking to or from the bathroom with their toothbrushes and towels. The teenagers are chatting away and the younger girls jumping around, oblivious to anything that could come and spoil this wonderful summer day.

“What are you doing here?” Jennifer asks. “You never stay here in the summer. You say it’s too hot in here at night!”

“You’re right! It is too warm,” I say, grabbing the little girl and tickling her. “There’s almost fifty little monsters like you in here and that’s just way too many people in this small space!”

“So why were you here last night?” She’s not one to be easily distracted, my little Jennie. She gets hold of a question, she’s not letting go.

It saddens me to realize that her inquisitive nature will be dangerous for her, growing up here. “Daniel couldn’t come home last night,” I tell her. “He was doing something important and had to stay out very late.” Is that the truth? I hope it’s the truth. I want it to be. Please, God, let it be the truth. Let him come back today, safe and sound. “I didn’t want to be alone so I figured I could spend the night here and count on you to give me my morning hug,” I finish, holding out my arms to her.

Jennifer’s smile grows as she jumps on my knees and we snuggle.

“I swear you must have been a cat in your last life!” I laugh, rubbing her back.

“Meow!”

Jennie’s parents are not bad people, they’re just… they’re
dedicated
. They believe, absolutely and utterly, in the divine inspiration of Father Emmanuel and his New Revelation. They throw themselves so fully into this life, into serving their prophet, that they barely even remember they have a child. Do they not see how much their daughter is starving for attention? How much potential she has? She’s so bright--this little girl could be
anything
when she grows up, if she’s only given the chance. Jennifer will probably be the only person I will truly miss when I finally am able to leave here.

“Sister Rebecca came up a little while ago looking for you,” Jennie says, pulling away from me, concentrating very hard to remember the words. “She asked me to say that she wanted to see you at the infirmary before you started your chores,” she recites in an adorable sing-song.

“Thank you, Jennie,” I tell her, planting a quick little peck on her cheek.

She giggles, refreshing as a spring shower, but the sound of her laughter stops suddenly when she frowns. “Is Brother Daniel coming back soon?” she whispers. Yeah, she
definitely
won’t let go of a question. “And is your mommy very sick?”

“I’m don’t know when he’s coming back, baby. And I’m not sure about my mom. Now hop down,” I say, patting her on the butt. “I guess I’ll find out about my mom when I see Sister Rebecca.”

Jennifer makes a face, looking around for nearby eyes and ears before putting her lips to my ears. “I don’t like Sister Rebecca!” she whispers.

None of the children like Sister Rebecca. She gives them shots, and the only kind of love she knows is
tough
love, given freely with the sharpest edge of her tongue. That makes her a most effective nurse: no one wants to spend time in her infirmary if there’s
any
way to avoid it.

Some of Jennifer’s little friends come and drag her away, chittering excitedly: rumor has it that if her crew of tiny hands finishes picking their quota of wild blueberries early enough, they will be allowed to spend the rest of the afternoon splashing around at the lake. That’s exciting news for the youngest children.

Left alone, I go through the morning motions. I splash lukewarm water on my face, but I don’t have my toothbrush. Even if I could find it in the wreckage of my sad little home, it would probably be beyond use now. I shrug, put some toothpaste on the corner of my washcloth and scrub my teeth as best I can. I still have a few moments before morning prayers and breakfast when I’m done. If I hurry, I can make it to the infirmary before joining the crowd for morning prayers and breakfast.

“Blessed morning, Sister Rebecca,” I say to Nathan’s mother as I enter her petty little kingdom of misery.

“Blessed morning, child,” she answers. Her usual condescension is somehow even more unbearable than usual.

“May I see my mother?” I ask, and her face changes. Rebecca’s usual look of smug superiority has vanished, replaced with… pity? Concern? She’s never acted the least bit concerned for anyone before. What’s wrong with my mother?

“Not right now,” she tells me, not unkindly. “Maybe tonight. She’s resting, now. I’ve given her something. To sleep.” Rebecca hesitates, as if debating how much to tell me, then looks away, frowning. “She’s had a very bad night and I think it’s best if she’s left alone for now.”

“Fine.” What else can I say? “So I’ll be on my way, then, and come back before dinner time? If that’s all right with you?”

Rebecca nods, and I’m halfway to the door before I stop and turn back to her.

“Sister Rebecca? What’s wrong with my mother?” I ask. “I know that she has the, the-- I guess, mood swings?”

Rebecca looks out the small, grimy window and frowns thoughtfully, pursing her lips. She spends such a long moment in thought that I’m not sure she’ll even answer my question.

“Your mother,” she finally answers, “hears the voice of The Lord perhaps a little more strongly than the rest of us. A little more clearly.”

“She’s always been like that, all my life,” I say. “But the changes, they’ve been worse, lately. More extreme.”

“Father Emmanuel was here earlier to check on her,” Sister Rebecca says, changing the subject. She turns away from the window, meeting my eyes. What’re you really trying to tell me, Sister? “He was…
displeased
with her behavior last night.” The nurse’s gaze remains steady on mine. “
Most
displeased.”

Is this why I can’t see my mother before tonight? Did he hit her again? Does he want her tucked away until the swelling subsides?

“And something else, as well. Father Emmanuel suggested that I should have a look at you as well. A
thorough
look,” she says, raising her eyebrows at me. “He mentioned that you were unwell yesterday morning. Is there something, perhaps, that needs to be checked out?”

“I- I sincerely hope so, Sister Rebecca,” I answer, dropping my eyes and blushing.

“Well, we’ll see, I suppose. Oh, I nearly forgot,” she says, and her nose is right back in the air, just as high as ever. “Father Emmanuel also said to tell you to go by his office this morning. Before you go out to pick berries.”

“Do you know what he wants?” I ask, suddenly nervous. If they think I’m pregnant, then that may give Daniel and me some breathing room. It won’t be much, though-- my mother keeps that damnable calendar! In just a few more days that breathing room vanishes and the chains will be heavier and tighter than ever.

“It’s not my place to question the anointed prophet of The Lord, Sister Courtney, and it is
most
certainly not
yours
.” And the moment is over: she’s back to normal.

After thanking Rebecca with nearly unbearable courtesy, I make my way to the refectory. I can’t imagine why Satan would want to see me this morning, unless it’s to follow up on some unfinished business from last night. What more could there possibly be? The only things they didn’t tear to shreds are my cheap canvas shoes. Has the disgusting false prophet guessed that I really
am
stealing money from him? That I really am working towards a third bid for freedom? Nathan
did
catch me stealing, but they weren’t able to prove it. I’m safe, I think… for now. And where is Daniel? What has Emmanuel done with him? Done
to
him?

Nerves and fear make every bite of breakfast pure torture. Fear for my poor sweet fake husband, fear for myself. The lumpy gray porridge doesn’t want to slide down, and swallowing the disgusting mush is even more difficult with the lump in my throat.

Jeremiah delivers the morning sermon while we eat. I try to listen to the message he preaches, hoping for some distraction from fear, but it doesn’t work. Why did I think it would? Is there anyone less likely to be a reassuring presence for me?

His sermon is mostly incoherent, just halting rambling, linking one scripture to another through some ridiculous leap of logic, and using it to draw some inane conclusion or other. I can’t even tell what his actual message is, but the adults gathered for their meal listen raptly, nodding as if he’s said something profound. Are you people all really this stupid? The emperor isn’t just naked, he’s also a complete idiot!

Being the center of attention like this makes the prophet’s eldest son glow with pride. There’s no doubt that he loves the spotlight. He’s the closest thing these poor folks will ever have to a rock star, and he’s eligible bachelor
numero uno
to the older teenage girls, who sigh and blush prettily every time his gaze passes over them just like he was one of the Jonas brothers or James Marsden at the Teen Choice Awards that year. That year. 2008. Is any of that even still relevant?

Jeremiah’s preaching may not have distracted me from my fear, but reminiscence does. I think back to the music I liked then, the poster of Justin Timberlake on my wall. I was already growing out of that at sixteen, already looking for the next big music phase. Something more grown-up. Something more like what Sean listened to. I smile at the memory of listening to his favorite radio station while writing him letters in my bedroom. I never really got a taste for the classic rock on WBLM, but it was a connection to him while I poured out my heart on paper to him, then added a drop of perfume and a kiss with pink lipstick.

Of course, I’d throw that letter away immediately, unsent, and then write something simple and sensible, and
that’s
what I’d send instead. Formal, boring, and safe. It’s a wonder he ever wrote me back.

I found a distraction from my fear, but it doesn’t last. Jeremiah’s eyes, roaming the room, make contact with each person in turn. Eventually, of course, it’s my turn, and the tiny smile he bestows on me chills me to the bone, setting my stomach churning around the leaden mass of porridge. I push away the bowl, closing my eyes, willing my insides to calm.

When I open them again, several of the other women are looking in my direction, talking quietly, their mouths shielded by their hands. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t need to. Word has spread, and everyone thinks they know some good news. This is terrible. When the truth comes out, it’s going to be worse on me – and on my poor Daniel – than if the rumor hadn’t ever spread! Why couldn’t I have held my stomach down yesterday?

After the final
amen,
I rush away from the long trestle table to my appointment with Father Emmanuel, knocking on the frame of the open door to his office.

Satan’s personal representative on Earth doesn’t look up right away, giving me a chance to study him when he’s not putting on a show. He frowns down at something on his desk as if he doesn’t understand what he’s reading. Uncertainty, confusion--those are expressions he would never allow in front of his flock. For us, his default expression is a mocking half-smile that says
I know everything, especially what you’re hiding.

Standing at the threshold of the room and watching him, I wonder for the gazillionth time what it is that my mother sees in him. Thinking back to what Sister Rebecca had said about my mother, I wonder if the answer could really be that simple. Did my mother simply hear the voice of God commanding her to be with Father Emmanuel? I don’t know what kind of God would want that, but it’s one I’d have no part of.

I knock again and he looks up. The puzzled look on his face intensifies before it clears when he remembers asking me to come.

“Blessed morning, my child,” he says.

“Blessed morning, Father Emmanuel,” I dutifully answer. “I was told you wanted to see me?”

“Oh yes, it’s about your hives,” he says pointing in the direction of the screen on his desk. “I want you to show me where they are,” he says, and my heart is in my throat. “You see, if you
are
in a…
delicate
state, it would simply not
do
to have you in a position of such danger. I couldn’t bear the thought of exposing my little nephew to such a hazard.”

“You seem very sure that I will have a boy,” I say. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing. I’ve got a weak hand, but it’s the one I’ve been dealt. “But what if I were to have a girl? Or what if I’m not pregnant at all?”

“I feel confident,” he says, smiling thinly, “that if you are to give my brother a child, it will
not
be a girl.” His eyes grow colder, and he continues with one final word: “
If
.”

“Yes, Father Emmanuel,” I say, bowing my head. “I hope to have received The Lord’s blessings, but it’s still early.”

“Early indeed. I hope, however, that you
have
.” He shifts his attention to the computer at his desk. “Now then. You will show me where your hives are located.”

Three steps and I’m by his desk. In the old days, I had a computer of my
own
on my
own
desk in my
own
room, so I’m familiar with Google Earth, and it takes me no time at all to locate each of my hives.

The grip of his hand on my shoulder tightens with every pin, and by the final one his hand is a talon, claws digging deeply into my flesh.