Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) (15 page)

Holly

Holly Black despised her husband. Despised him.

She knew it went against everything she’d been taught since she was two years old, but that didn’t matter. When she was honest with herself, she knew her true feelings, but she also knew there was nothing she could do about it. She was stuck, trapped. Her entire life had been planned for her before the age of fifteen, when the Prophet revealed they were to marry, and she’d resented him ever since.

In the home of her husband and Prophet, she was known as the bad seed of the family. Years ago, the other wives—especially Clarence’s first wife, Janine—had made an attempt at hiding this popular opinion, but not anymore. Now, they didn’t even bother.

She’d never quite fit in with the pack mentality of the Prophet’s wives. She didn’t think they were special for being married to him, nor did she think they were reserved a special place in the celestial kingdom. She was cynical like that, and they hated that about her.

Clarence was another story. When they first married, he’d seemed kind enough. Her parents insisted that she not allow her questioning side to be seen by her husband, so when she was with him, she was the perfectly devoted teenage wife. He was never loving with her, but she was satisfied with his kindness.

However, that kindness was withdrawn just a couple of years into their marriage. He no longer came to her at night, which was a relief, of course, but a mark of shame with the wives who already disliked her for not blindly following their beliefs on their superiority. She realized rather quickly that if she wanted to fit in with them, she would have to follow her parents’ advice at all times, not just when she was with Clarence.

Unfortunately, there was no going back.

Her two children were all she had. Her son, Silas, was twelve years old, and a devoted and loving son. Despite the boy’s attempts to impress his father by being a model citizen of the community and family, Clarence ignored him.

But then again, Clarence ignored so many of his sons. His loyalty was to his priesthood, to the older men in the community who desired more wives.

Occasionally he would offer a compliment to Silas for his efforts, and Holly would watch in silence as Silas beamed. It broke her heart in two. Unlike Silas, her ten-year-old daughter, Charlotte, was a lot like herself—quiet, cynical, and full of questions. As expected, Clarence had no use for her as she clearly reminded him of Holly.

After complications during her second pregnancy, Holly found herself infertile and devastated. For months, Clarence would come to her at night, and she’d attempt to make another child. But month after month, her efforts came to nothing. It was no use. When she visited a midwife in the community, her suspicions were confirmed. She could no longer have children.

Her conversation with her husband to reveal that fact would forever be cemented in her memory.

“Are you sure this is true?”

His voice had been cold and unaffected as Holly did her best to control her sobs. They’d sat together in her bedroom, he in his armchair and she at his feet.

“Yes, the midwife confirmed it this morning. I’m so very sorry, Clarence. I wanted to give you a dozen babies, I did.” She’ placed her hands on his knees, but he pushed them away.

“Obviously not.”

“W-what?” she’d asked in disbelief.

He had interlocked his hands and placed them on his lap, staring down at her as if she were an unruly pet.

“If you truly wanted to produce children for your Prophet, then you would. You’ve obviously willed your body to do this, to be barren as a way to distance yourself from me and from this family.”

“How can you say that?” she’d blurted, horrified by his reaction.

She would never want this. Who could ever want this shame, this curse upon her body? Her job was to produce children, to raise them in the path of righteousness paved for her by her own mother. For him to doubt her was beyond her comprehension.

Clarence had leaned forward and slapped her face before rising to his feet. Shocked, Holly had pressed a hand to her enflamed cheek. The sting of his blow lingered on her skin as fresh tears trailed down her cheeks.

“Don’t you dare question me!” he’d shouted at her, and Holly had squeezed her eyes shut. “You are here to serve me, not to question me!”

“Yes, sir,” she’d croaked.

“You’re a shameful woman. Heavenly Father is forcing me to endure you, but I no longer have to bed you. From now on, you’ll sleep alone with your humiliation.”

Without another word, he’d left her sobbing on her bedroom floor.

For months, she had waited to be reassigned or cast out of the community completely, but it never happened. And being the cynical, questioning woman that she was, she examined her situation over and over again in her mind.

She studied her husband and his other wives, observing his frustration whenever his household did not run exactly as expected. When wives were sick with the flu or dared to argue with him over what was best for the children, they were punished, yes, beaten occasionally, but no one, not one of his wives was ever removed from the family.

And Holly thought she knew why. As it was with most things, it was a matter of pride for Clarence. After all, he was the self-proclaimed mouthpiece of God, and if he was truly marrying the women that God had given to him, then there would be no need to remove any of them. In other words, to save face in front of his community, Clarence would endure all of his wives to the death. No exceptions.

While she studied him, Holly realized how disenchanted she had become with the Prophet and with their faith altogether. For her, it was impossible to separate the man from the religion. As time passed, disenchantment had turned to anger and resentment.

Holly knew that Clarence was wrong about her. She wanted more children desperately. Most wives desired a large number of children, of course; that was normal. But her reasons were different from her sister wives. They wore their womb as a badge of honor, patting themselves on the back for giving birth six, seven, eight times or more.

But that wasn’t why Holly was devastated when she learned she’d only have two. She was heartbroken because her children were the only source of joy in her life, and she clung to the happiness they brought her during those early infant years—their coos and gummy grins, the way the top of their precious heads smelled like baby powder. Like the most powerful of drugs, Holly wanted to have as many children as she could to experience that contentment. But that wasn’t to be.

Of course there were plenty of babies in the household at all times, but her lowered status within the home kept her from being utilized as a caregiver for the infants or toddlers. Instead, the Prophet gave her the responsibility for the laundry of all of his family.

With dozens of wives and even more children, Holly found herself within the confines of the laundry room of their massive home. Yes, she had the best washers and dryers money could buy, but that didn’t change the fact that, in her eyes, she was nothing but a servant in the house of the Prophet. There had to be a better life. A life in which she was loved, cared for, respected. At this point, she’d be satisfied with having a friend. Just one friend.

When Paul’s wife Aspen had approached her outside the temple, Holly experienced a glimmer of hope that she might have found that friend she desperately craved. Not only that, but Aspen had her own reasons for not trusting the Prophet. Clarence wanted to marry her daughter, Ruthie, a sweet eleven-year-old girl who had no business becoming someone’s wife.

At first, when Aspen began their conversation, Holly was skeptical. Her first inclination was that Aspen was sent to test her, as many of her sister wives had done in the past. Clarence would send them to spy on her or to engage in conversation with her, only to trick her into sharing her true feelings on the Prophet, then report back to him. It was a sick, twisted game that left her isolated and paranoid. She wondered why this woman who’d never given her a second glance was now leaving the temple to speak to her during Clarence’s sermon. It had to be a trap.

But after just a few minutes, Holly could read the anguish and worry on Aspen’s face, and knew her intentions were genuine. Not only that, Holly was filled with the desire to help Aspen, even though she had no idea how to aid her in keeping Ruthie away from Clarence.

Perhaps they could run away.

Of course, it was something she’d contemplated dozens of times. People left the compound all the time—men and boys were kicked out by the Prophet for trivial reasons. But a woman and her two children leaving the Prophet for life in the evil outside world? The thought was frightening.

Since she’d essentially been a prisoner in Clarence’s home for the last thirteen years, she didn’t have two pennies to rub together. How on earth would she make it? How would she feed her children? And could she even convince them to leave? Charlotte could be swayed, but not Silas.

Silas had plans—big plans for his future as a man living the principle of plural marriage despite his father’s detachment. The odds were against her if she attempted to pry him from the clutches of their faith. He was too entrenched; he’d never go. And she didn’t think she could live her life without both of her children under her roof.

No, running away wasn’t an option; at least, not yet. But she had to do something to help Aspen, even if it was just to offer her support and camaraderie. Her friendship.

She could only hope that Aspen would accept her, since no one else had in thirteen very long years as the twenty-second wife of the Prophet.

“Gentiles are a product of the devil. There are no exceptions.”

—The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

“Hello, Aspen, this is Detective Cooke. And, yeah, of course I remember you. It’s Sunday morning, around 10 a.m., and I just realized you’re probably in church. Hell, you’re probably in church all day, aren’t you? Anyway, I’ll be here all day tomorrow. You don’t need an appointment; just come by when you can. I’m eager to hear what information you were able to get.”

Just listening to the voice-mail message calmed my nerves. Despite everything I’d been taught about Gentiles, there was something about the detective that made me feel safe, protected. It was silly, naive and misguided, but I didn’t care. He was my only hope, and I intended to embrace whatever assistance he could offer me and my children.

Normally when leaving our home, I would have shared my destination with Pennie, but I knew that would be a foolish choice. I could no longer trust Pennie or her intentions. Instead, I approached the one sister wife I knew I could manipulate. JoAnna.

JoAnna was, for lack of a better word, ditzy. As much as I hated to say that word because it’s considered spiteful and rude, it was the only way to properly describe my youngest sister wife. She was gullible and didn’t question much about our life, our home, or the faith in which we were raised. She had just one child, a boy named Ronan who was the same age as Jeremiah. In fact, aside from Scout, Ronan was Jeremiah’s best friend. I knew that if I was to go to town, my girls would be busy at religious education class the entire morning, so my only concern was my little boy. That’s where JoAnna came in.

I found her in the kitchen, sitting on the floor stacking building blocks with Ronan. I placed Jeremiah next to his brother and ran my hand across JoAnna’s shoulder.

“My menstrual cramps are really painful this month, and one of the other wives suggested I purchase a heating pad. Can you watch him while I’m gone?”

“Of course,” she said, smoothing down Jeremiah’s unruly hair. “I’ll take them to the park.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.” Giving my boy a soft kiss on his forehead, I left him with JoAnna and was on my way.

• • •

Thirty minutes later, after purchasing an unnecessary heating pad at the pharmacy, I was face-to-face with the detective. He was behind his desk again with glasses on the bridge of his nose, staring at his computer screen. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Little House,” he said when we made eye contact. “Close the door behind you.”

I was hesitant to be behind closed doors with a male Gentile. Surely my husband would disapprove of any meetings I took with the detective, let alone any that took place behind closed doors. But I followed his direction.

“Take a seat.”

“I got into the temple.” The words flew out of my mouth as I crossed the room and sat in the clunky wooden chair facing his desk.

“Good, good.” He nodded, removed his glasses, and tossed them lightly onto his desk. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he walked around the desk and perched himself on the corner. “What’d you find? Anything?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “This.”

I reached inside my bag and retrieved the foil package, handing it to him with the hope that he’d have answers for me.

Please don’t laugh at me; please don’t laugh at me.

His chuckling began the second that small square was resting in his open palm. “Seriously? You brought me a jimmy hat?”

“A what?” I shifted in my seat, feeling my cheeks burn. Not only was I embarrassed, but he’d managed to confuse me again with his slang.

“A condom,” he said in disbelief. “You brought me a condom.”

“What is it?”

He studied me, crossing his arms as he tilted his head to the side. “Are you . . . you’re not messing with me?”

I shook my head.

“You really don’t know what this is for?”

“No, Detective, I don’t know. Please stop embarrassing me.”

He put his hands up in surrender, still laughing. “Sorry, I swear I’m not. Just surprised.”

“So? What do you do with it? Is it used for drugs?”

“Not exactly.” He shook his head, peering down at the foil packet in his hand. “It’s a prophylactic.”

I shook my head.

“Protection. A man puts it on his . . . you know. To prevent pregnancy.”

I was befuddled. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

“
Millions
of us want to do that.”

“But the purpose of sexual intercourse, the purpose of laying with another, is to make children, Detective. That’s the whole reason for the act.” Agitated, I swallowed hard at the lump that was forming at the back of my throat.

The detective simply shrugged. “Not for everyone.”

The fire on my cheeks spread as I realized what he was talking about, but I had no intention of discussing orgasms with a man who wasn’t my husband. That would be beyond improper.

“Well.” I paused and cleared my throat, gesturing toward the condom. “We don’t use them.”

“But you found it in the temple?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He scratched his chin, nodding. “What else?”

“I heard the Prophet arguing with a man, and the man specifically said he didn’t believe in our god.”

“How did you hear them?”

“I was hiding in a closet.”

Detective Cooke looked impressed, tilting his head forward and raising one eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Nicely done.” He smiled. “Okay, so we know the big guy is messing with apostates.”

I raised both eyebrows. “You know what an apostate is?”

This time it was the detective’s turn to blush. His pale cheeks turned a deep shade of rose and he shrugged. “I googled some stuff after you left. I admit, I still don’t know much, but I’m learning.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head. “If I’m gonna help you, I need to know how, right?”

“Right.”

“What else?”

“They went up to the third floor; that’s where I found the condom. There were over a dozen doors, but they were all locked. I couldn’t get in. And then the Prophet confronted me outside my house. He knew where I was.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Not exactly, just more questions. Every time I see him, he’s questioning me. He knows I’m up to no good.”

“He’s the one who’s up to no good; you’re just trying to save your kid. Was there anything else?”

I searched my brain and remembered one last detail. “I saw him lock his office door, the one at the current temple. I know that must not sound like much, but he never used to do that. So, you know, it gave me pause.”

My voice trailed off and I stared at my feet. We sat in silence for an excruciating moment. In the pit of my stomach, I knew I hadn’t brought him enough information. I had barely scratched the surface.

“It’s not enough, is it?” I asked. “I have to get in those rooms.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“But I can’t. They’re locked.”

He sighed, looking up at the closed door of his office. “I might be able to help with that.”

“With locks? How?”

“I can pick a lock with the best of ’em. But I can’t go there without a warrant.”

“Can we get one?”

The detective’s face fell, and I knew the answer before he opened his mouth.

“No. There just isn’t enough evidence. I mean, this,” he lifted the condom, “could’ve fallen out of the other guy’s pocket. There’s no way to know if it has anything to do with the Prophet.”

My stomach tied itself in knots. “I see.”

“I can teach you, though, to pick a lock. I can show you, and you can try to do it yourself.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.” He nodded. “We have to get you inside those rooms. My gut tells me they hold the answer.”

“Well, I’m willing to learn whatever you can teach me.”

“Can you remember anything else?”

“The other guy had a gun, and they argued a lot. He threatened to take his business elsewhere.”

“Ooh, I’ll bet that didn’t go over so well.”

“I remember the Prophet saying no one could deliver like he could.”

“It’s gotta be drugs.”

“But what about the condom? I found it up on the third floor.”

“At this point, the condom is just a coincidence. I hardly believe the Prophet’s running a brothel.” He laughed again. “That’d be absurd. The Prophet Pimp—I can see the headlines now.”

“A what?”

“A pimp. You know, for prostitutes.”

Again, I shook my head.

“Women who sell their bodies for sex. A pimp is . . .” He paused, seeming uncomfortable as he scratched his head. “He’s like a manager for the women. He arranges for the . . . encounters.”

My mind couldn’t wrap around that. Sex was for procreation. There was no way the Prophet would be helping Gentile women sell their bodies. “That’s disgusting. People actually do that?”

“World’s oldest profession, I’m afraid.” He waved a hand in the air. “Enough about that. I’ll make a note of the condom, of course, but I really think it’s something else. Drugs, more than likely. My guess is he’s storing ’em up there where no one can see them.”

“Right.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s highly illegal. And if you get me proof, I can get a warrant and hopefully lock him up, at least temporarily.”

“Okay.”

Detective Cooke clapped his hands together. “But first things first. Let’s show you how to pick a lock. You have some pins in your hair, right?”

Sheepishly, I touched my braid, knowing I had several on the top of my head, keeping everything in place.

“Good. Now, more than likely these are pin-and-tumbler locks. They’re the most common, and they’re actually really easy to pick, especially with hairpins, which you just happen to have. Perfect scenario, really.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned.

Without meaning to, I giggled behind my hand. There was something about the detective’s sense of humor that appealed to me.

“C’mere,” he said, hopping off the desk and gesturing for me to leave my seat. We walked to the door and he removed a set of keys from his pocket. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the grooves in the keys are a unique match to each lock.”

I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Okay, so all we’re going to do is manipulate the pins to emulate those grooves. I need two of your hairpins, please.”

He watched as I removed two pins from the top of my head, pulling them from my auburn hair, hoping it wouldn’t destroy my braid. I placed them in his hand.

“Thanks.” He then focused on the hairpins, bending one of them open. “You want the ends of this to be about ninety degrees apart.”

Math was not my strong suit. I knew nothing of degrees, but I watched the metal bend. I studied the exact formation that he was creating with my pin. I might not have been talented with arithmetic, but I could follow directions with the best of them.

“This rubber part has to go.” He bit down on the pin and removed the small rubber ball with his teeth, turning his head to spit it into the air. Normally, such an action would disgust me, but I was too invested in what he was demonstrating to care about his manners. “Now we bend the other end into a bit of a handle, which will make this a hell of a lot easier to control.”

He held up the other hairpin. “Now, we have to make this into a lever, by bending it like so.” He bent the top portion over and pressed it into the lock of the office door. I watched as he eased the metal in. “The first step is to put tension on the lever with one hand so that the barrel of the lock is under pressure to turn. Here, give it a try.”

I stepped in front of the detective, and he placed one pin into my hand while I took hold of the lever with the other. My heart pounded with discomfort at our proximity, and my throat ran dry.

I have to do this. I have to.

I followed his directions, but was disappointed when nothing happened. “It won’t turn.”

“It’s not supposed to. Not yet.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I thought I was doing something wrong.”

“No, you’re fine. Now, keep constant pressure on that lever, but push up with the other pin.”

I did as I was told and at first, the pin moved easily, until I seemed to hit a difficult spot. “It won’t move any more.”

“Good, that’s what we want. This is the seized pin we need to focus on. Very carefully, force it upward.”

“Like this?” Slowly, I moved the pin to push up.

“Yes, good job. Once it aligns with the barrel, we should hear an audible click.”

Slowly, I kept pushing upward, but nothing clicked. I turned back to look at the detective, panicked that I was messing this up.

“You’re fine, just keep going.”

Click
.