Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) (21 page)

“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

Startled by the sound of a door closing, I placed the phone on the Prophet’s desk and turned my attention to the chapel. There was no mistaking that sound—someone was inside the temple! My head whipped around as I searched desperately for an escape, but the only one that existed led to the chapel.

You’re not alone, Aspen! Close the door! Hide!

I held my breath and sprinted for the door, closing it as softly as I could, and then switched off the lights and slumped down to sit against it. My heart pounded with harsh thuds and the room spun as my lungs deflated. Panic consumed me as the creaking floorboards of the chapel grew louder. I could hear the clicking of loafers against the wood.

He’s here. He’s found me.

I held my breath and waited . . . waited for the office door to open, for the Prophet to catch me, for him to cast me out of my home. For my world to come to a screeching halt, to lose everything and everyone that I held so dear. To leave without having the chance to hug my precious babies.

But then, as if Heavenly Father could feel my desperation and anguish, the footsteps changed, became more distant with each passing second. Within just a few minutes, I heard a door slam once again. They were gone.

Breathe, Aspen. Breathe.

I waited another minute, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. I had to be sure that whoever had walked through the chapel was really gone from the building before I could emerge from the office. Still surrounded by darkness, I cracked the door open quietly and peeked my head out, scanning the chapel. I was alone.

Running on my tiptoes, I crossed the chapel to the exit and clutched my knapsack, sprinting in the cold night air. Sprinting to Jonathan who waited in a small red car just where he said he’d be. I climbed into the car, feeling the seat envelop me in the safety of its warmth.

“You okay?”

I nodded, my throat dry, my brain hazy. “I think so. Someone came into the temple, right after we spoke. But they left . . . at least, I think they did.”

Jonathan’s brow knitted as he put the car into
Drive
. “Let’s get you to my place. I’ll get you something to drink and we’ll talk about it. For now, just sit back and relax, all right? You did good.”

Numb from head to toe, I nodded, pressing the back of my head into the headrest and closing my tired eyes.

You did good.

I could only hope it wasn’t in vain.

“Repent, always repent . . . and if you’re lucky, Heavenly Father will forgive.”

—The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

The gravity of my situation settled in as Jonathan brought his car to a stop in a dimly lit parking lot, shut off the engine, and turned his body toward mine. He cleared his throat, running his fingers through his thick mass of unruly brown hair. He adjusted his glasses and tipped his head forward, looking at the brick building behind me.

“This is me.”

It was the middle of the night and I was about to enter the home of a Gentile, and a man who wasn’t my husband. That in itself was considered an unforgivable sin in the eyes of Heavenly Father, but I knew it was a necessary means to an end. This couldn’t wait. Jonathan had to know the vile happenings at the temple, to know what the Prophet was up to—the lives that he was ruining. The poor, defenseless lives . . .

Without another word, we walked together into the brick building and climbed two sets of stairs before Jonathan unlocked the door to his apartment and welcomed me inside.

With my hands linked together in front of my abdomen, I walked slowly into his home, taking in every detail. The walls were stark white and empty, no pictures or paintings hung on them for decoration like Gentiles tended to do. The apartment was large, with a sitting room and a galley kitchen. Stacks of dirty dishes threatened to spill from the porcelain sink, and the countertop was covered with empty pizza boxes and Coke cans.

He shrugged, removing two cans from the countertop and tossing them into the already overflowing wastebasket. “I, uh . . . I wasn’t expecting company. It’s the cleaning lady’s day off.” He winked.

“That’s all right.” I offered a weak smile, the best one I could muster under the circumstances.

When I first met the detective, his sloppy, wrinkled shirts made me wonder if his wife was neglectful. But now I was certain that he lived alone. From the sweatshirts draped over the dark leather sofa, to the coffee table covered in newspapers, cups, and cans, it was obvious this man was single. His apartment was by no means dirty, just severely cluttered and untidy. It could most certainly use the expertise and know-how of an organized woman.

“I’m a pig; I know.” He walked to a leather armchair and cleared it of its clutter. “Have a seat.”

Standing just a few feet from the doorway, I hesitated to accept his invitation. My presence in his home was improper and embarrassing. “I should probably stay here, if that’s all right with you.”

His cheeks reddened as he stood up straight, looking confused and slightly insulted with his knitted brow and arms pressed close to his body.

“You know I would never try anything, don’t you? I’m here to help, not cause more problems. Come on, have a seat. Please?”

Snap out of it, Aspen! Why are you worrying about your modesty? About proper behavior? The Prophet is whoring girls out to Gentiles! Sit down, you foolish woman!

“All right.” I nodded and walked to the chair, sitting gingerly on the edge of the sturdy leather.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

“Water would be nice, thank you.”

Jonathan nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a glass of ice water. I thanked him and drank the cool liquid, feeling my burning throat respond immediately to its calming sensation. I pressed the glass to my chest and nodded, closing my eyes.

“Now.” Jonathan scratched the top of his head and sat down on the couch opposite me. “What happened over there? Are you ready to talk about it?”

I nodded, feeling my eyes blur with tears. “Um, it was worse than I thought—than
we
thought. So much worse, Jonathan.”

I pinched my eyes shut, shaking my head as I attempted to get the image of that bed out of my brain. “There was a bed.”

“Oh God.” He leaned back, placing a hand over his mouth.

“It was really tall, with handles and plastic . . .” A lump formed in my throat. “Plastic sheets.”

He hung his head, shaking it from side to side. “No.”

“I found it in a room attached to a classroom . . . a classroom, Jonathan. And there’s more. I found boxes of those condoms, and something called K-Y Jelly.”

Jonathan groaned in response, avoiding eye contact. He propped his forehead in his hands.

“And . . . duct tape.”

“That fucking piece of shit!” Jonathan stood from the chair and paced the room, snarling. “Goddamn it!”

Again and again he paced, until finally he pressed his fist into the white wall and leaned his forehead against it.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“What? Why?” I asked, confused. Why on earth would he need to apologize to me?

“The condom. When you brought it to the station, I blew it off. I even made light of it, calling him the Pimp Prophet, when that’s exactly what he is.”

“You didn’t know.”

“But I feel like an asshole. I just . . . I thought, this is a man of God. Sure he might be selling drugs or something to people he deems evil. It’d be a win-win for the fucker. He’d make money off the sins of Gentiles. No harm, no foul. But this? This is despicable. Horrific.”

“I know. I can only imagine who he’s doing this to.”

“Do you have any guesses?”

“His wives? Young women of the compound?”

“He has dozens of wives, doesn’t he?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes. And they’re completely under his authority. He can make them do anything he wants. And my Ruthie, in just over a year, she’ll be one of them. We have to stop him, Jonathan. We have to.”

“We will.” He paced the room again. “And so those men entering the temple, do you think those are his
clients
?” He said that word with disdain. His nostrils flared and his lips rose slightly, as if he’d just tasted a rancid lemon.

Clients.

I reached into my knapsack to retrieve the ledger, extending my hand and nodding for Jonathan to take the book.

His mouth dropped open. “Wait, what is this? Did you take this?”

Surprised by his reaction, I placed the ledger in my lap. “Yes, why?”

“Oh shit!” He moaned, chucking his glasses onto the countertop before shoving his hands into his hair. “If you take something from a crime scene, it can’t be used as evidence. Shit, shit, shit!”

“Why?”

“It’s handwritten. His lawyer will get it thrown out; I guarantee it. They’ll claim you altered it.”

My stomach lurched again, knowing I’d made an enormous error. “I—I didn’t know. I thought you needed proof.”

“Photographs. I needed photographs. We have to get that back in his office.”

“I can’t go back there!” I shrieked, horrified at the idea of entering the Prophet’s office again, of reliving that nightmare.

“I’m sorry, Aspen, but it’s the only way. You have to take it back, and once I have a warrant, we’ll get it.”

I hung my head in shame. I’d messed up and jeopardized the entire investigation.

You stupid woman!

Jonathan approached me and knelt at my feet, placing both hands on my knees. “Hey, listen to me. You didn’t know. I should have told you not to take anything. If it’s anyone’s fault here, it’s mine.”

He reached to smooth down my hair, and when I flinched, he jerked back his hands and put them up in surrender.

Rising to his feet, he stammered, “Shit, sorry. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t—I just—”

Shame swept over me as I watched Jonathan stumble over his words, clearly guilt-ridden for touching me. I shouldn’t have recoiled at his touch—after all, he was just trying to comfort me. But my presence in his apartment was unsettling, and despite knowing that we were a team and that I was indebted to him for support, I couldn’t allow anything inappropriate to happen, including a soothing touch with only the best of intentions.

“It’s all right, I’m just unhinged right now. What I saw at the temple can never be unseen. I’ll never get that image out of my head.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“In my line of work, I’ve seen a lot of fucked-up shit . . . a lot of it. I try my best to detach from it, ya know? To compartmentalize the evil that I see. But it’s damn near impossible sometimes, and there have been plenty of things I wish I could erase from my memory. But I can’t.”

He shrugged as he eased himself onto the couch across the room, giving me the space I needed.

“I’m sorry. That must be really hard.”

“It is.”

“Have you thought of quitting?”

“Nah.” He scrunched his nose, tapping his fingers against his knees. “It’s who I am. It’s what I do.”

“So, what do we do next?”

“Once you get that book back into the office, we can use your pictures to file for a warrant.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll do it. I’ve come this far; I have to end this once and for all.”

“While you have it here, can I see it?”

He rose from his seat and walked to his kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. He returned to the sitting area with latex gloves on his hands before reaching for the book. I handed it to him, and he paged through the pages of records kept by the Prophet.

“Rodriguez, Cohen . . . those don’t sound like FLDS names, that’s for damn sure.”

“Right. Those were my thoughts.”

He thumbed through several more pages and I sat, waiting quietly, sliding myself back to rest on the cushion of the armchair. Fatigue was finally setting in, and soon, despite everything that had happened that night, my body would demand sleep.

Just as Jonathan closed the book and extended his hand to give it back to me, his phone rang, breaking the silence.

“That’s odd. It’s two in the morning.” He reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone, staring down at his hand in horror. The color drained from his face.

“Aspen, where’s your phone?”

“What?” Baffled by the question, I squinted at him, attempting to understand.

“The call. It’s coming from your phone. Did you accidentally dial me?”

Rifling through my knapsack, I searched and searched, but found nothing.

“It’s gone!”

I jumped to my feet and rushed to stand beside him, staring down to see my name on his screen. A memory flashed through my brain. The slamming door—someone entering the temple. I’d placed the phone on the desk before running to close the door in time. I’d left it there right on the desk of Clarence Black.

“Oh no, I—I left it on his . . . oh no, Jonathan! It’s him, it’s the Prophet!”

Jonathan sneered. He pressed the green key on his phone, lifted it to his ear, and spoke with angry determination. “Who is this?”

He stood, his mouth agape as he listened. I inched closer to him, trying to hear the caller, but I heard nothing.

My stomach dropped to my feet—I wanted to yell, to beg, to ask what was happening, but I couldn’t. I had to remain still, quiet. The Prophet couldn’t know where I was. If he did, my children would be gone before I returned home. I’d lose them forever.

Jonathan stared at me with wide eyes, then removed the phone from his ear and held it to mine. My heart pounded furiously and sweat gathered on the back of my neck. I resisted the urge to speak and held my breath as I listened.

All I heard was the harsh sound of breathing . . . angry breathing. In and out, the person on the other end of the line breathed in and out, causing the hair on my arms to rise at attention. And within seconds, the phone clicked. He was gone.

“It was the Prophet; it had to be.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Did he say anything to you when you first picked up?” I asked.

“No.” Jonathan shook his head. “He just breathed into it. Creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“He knows.”

Jonathan nodded. “And he has your phone.”

“And the pictures. He knows what I found upstairs.”

He nodded again. “The proof we needed, it’s gone.”

“But why didn’t he say anything? I don’t understand.”

“To cover his ass.”

“I still don’t get it. He called the number, he made contact—why not speak?”

“He didn’t have to. He sent a message without saying a fucking word. And we received it loud and clear, didn’t we?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, we did.”