The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (36 page)

“‘Submit yourself for the Lord’s sake,’” she said
in a distant, raspy whisper. “‘Submit to the authority instituted among men, to
those sent by Him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do
right.’”

A terrible feeling of dread came over me. I sat
silently, remembering bits and pieces of the last few days, trying to see if
they fell into place. My heart sank. They did. It was possible. Except…

There were some aspects of the incident that I
would have thought beyond this woman’s capabilities. I hoped so, anyway.

Meanwhile, Baara was speaking so rapidly her words
tumbled over each other, spitting from her mouth as if a pressurized seal had
been breached.

“…trust? Who? Not Enoch, not Moses, not Gabriel…
Expect the judgment… Only me. Only me. The promise… by faith… He is the
Father…”

I put my arm around her. She was quivering and
damp from sweat. I rocked with her and made soft, soothing sounds. “Sh, sh,
sh.”

After a few moments, I felt her shoulders relax
just a bit, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. We kept rocking, but the
pace grew less frantic, more rhythmic.

Her words slowed too, and became more coherent.
And more frightening.

“Anyone who attacks the Father must be put to
death. Anyone who curses the Father must be put to death. You must serve the
Father wholeheartedly, with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind.
Serve the Father, not men, and Father will reward everyone for whatever good he
does as slave.”

I closed my eyes and decided to take the chance.
“Baara?”

“Hmm?” she said.

“What happened to Enoch? He didn’t run away to Las
Vegas, did he?”

“No,” she shook her head. “At first, Father
thought he did, because that’s where Enoch used to live. And it’s a sinful
city, so Father thought that’s where Enoch would go. That’s why he sent Moses
there. And then Moses had one of his spells and Justus had to go get him.
Justus told me Moses got drunk and was consorting with immoral women, so Justus
had to do all the work.”

“What work?”

“I don’t know, but he had to take some of Enoch’s
clothes and things in a big suitcase. He got them from me because I do the
laundry for everyone. Some of the clothes were still dirty too, but Justus
wouldn’t let me wash them. I don’t know why he needed all those clothes anyway,
because Enoch didn’t really go away like we thought. He came back to Father
when all the rest of the Seven were out looking for him, and he yelled at
Father.” Baara turned to me, her eyes wide in remembered horror. “He told
Father he was wrong. Father was, he meant, which is just as crazy as crazy can
be because Father
can’t
be wrong. Right? And I got so mad.”

“Where were you all?”

“At Father’s house. I was in the kitchen because I
bring his supper over. He likes it hot, and I always hurry fast. They were
yelling at each other. I got scared. So I went and peeked in the office door.”

“What did you see?”

“What I already said. Enoch was yelling at Father.
Oh, and he had his suitcase and a duffel bag, and he said he was leaving and
not coming back. He said Father was a bad man and a liar.”

Baara’s lips thinned to a slit and her muscles
coiled beneath my arm. She shrugged it off as though irritated by the weight.

“That made you very angry,” I said.

She nodded. “I almost got in trouble. Father saw
me peeking in and I thought he was going to yell at me.”

“But he didn’t?”

“No. He told me, ‘Baara, go call Casper.’ I went
back to the kitchen because there’s a phone back there.” She paused, looking
troubled.

“Did Casper come over?”

She shook her head slowly. “I went back to the
office because I was mad at Enoch. I came and stood inside the door, just like
a soldier, all straight and tall.”

I closed my eyes. “Did Father tell you to leave?”

“No. He just smiled a little, tiny bit, but I knew
that meant it was okay for me to stay. Enoch pretended he didn’t see me, but I
didn’t even care. And then Father looked right at Enoch and said, ‘Then he took
his firstborn son, who was to succeed him as King, and offered him as a
sacrifice on the city wall.’ Father looked so sad when he said that. And I knew
why. Enoch was his son. Father used to call him that. And Enoch was highest in
rank, like a prince. Father looked right at me. I knew what he wanted.”

My mouth dried and it took me a moment to talk.
“What did Father want?”

“To sacrifice Enoch. And I was ready. I was the
Flame that day. That’s what Father named me. The Flame. Remember I told you
that?”

I nodded. “The Flame of God.”

She sighed; happily, it seemed.

“What did you do?” I forced myself to ask.

Her brow furrowed. She didn’t answer right away.
When she did it was only to make a slashing motion through the air in front of
us with her hand.

I nodded again. “You, uh, stabbed him? With a
knife from the kitchen?”

“I knew what Father wanted. And I was happy it was
me who could make the sacrifice. I know the Seven are supposed to be his right
hand, but only Casper was still here and Casper is not the Flame.”

“No,” I agreed. “Casper is not the Flame.” Baara
seemed completely calm now, but I no longer knew what might set her off. I was
desperate to change the subject. “You… You must be very special to Father.”

 “I am. He calls me the Daughter of Zion because I
am obedient. He used to call Enoch his son, but now I’m his daughter.”

“Father must trust you an awful lot. I bet you
know a lot more than people realize.”

She smiled and hugged herself. And nodded.

“I bet… I bet you even know where they took Beth
today?” My heart thumped dully. I was taking a chance. She could easily think
that telling me anything was betraying Father, and she felt as unpredictable as
nitroglycerin. I badly wanted out of there before the “Flame” got set off
again.

But she cocked her head, thinking hard. “Maybe to
Sheol?”

“Sheol? What’s that?”

“That means Hell. We’re not supposed to go there.
Except some people can, but only if Father tells them to. He never lets me go.”
A shadow crept into her eyes.

It made me nervous, but I wasn’t sure if I was
understanding her correctly. I tried again. “Is Sheol a real place? I mean,
could I drive a car there?”

“Yes, but not today. Father took all the keys to
the cars. When I took Father’s pasghetti over at lunch, I heard Casper tell
Justus to get the ones at Sheol and bring them back too. They’re gonna lock all
the keys up. Father is mad at Moses and Rachel, because people might get scared
and leave him. Some of them really might. They aren’t obedient like me.”

“I bet not.”

Sheol, perfectly named, had to be the meth camp. I
guessed they were holding Beth there. An image of the padlocked shed rose in my
mind.

Baara stood abruptly. “Come on,” she said as she
loomed over me.

“What? Where?” I jumped to my feet too.

“To Father,” Baara said. Her eyes had narrowed at
my question. “To ask for forgiveness for your doubts. Otherwise, I can’t be
your friend, and I like you, Leona. You’re nice to me.” She smiled shyly and
reached over to touch my shoulder.

I almost corrected her, but then I realized she
was referring to my new Elect name. Her eyes made me nervous. Despite a
pleasant smile, they glittered with a frightening intensity.

“I… um… Yes, I probably should ask for forgiveness
for… um…”

“For doubting,” she said patiently. “Doubt is a
sin.”

She took my hand and started to lead me to the
exit. Since that was the direction I wanted to go, I complied, but I was
already planning my escape as soon as we hit the cold air. As we passed a stack
of hay bales, Baara leaned sideways and tugged at something. A glint of silver
arced through the dim light as she swung and punched me in the thigh with
whatever she had grabbed. I screamed and shoved her sideways. She fell over the
bales, landing on the cement floor with a grunt. The thing she struck me with
had snagged for a moment on my skirt, then it fell with a clang. I snatched it
up, staring stupidly at an instrument that looked like a severed pirate
appendage.

Baling hook.

The thing in my hand gleamed evilly, despite the
rust spots dotting the slender metal like clotted blood. My thigh burned and I
realized I hadn’t been punched. I had been stabbed with the business end of the
baling hook.

The bitch had
stabbed
me.

Baara got calmly to her feet. More frightening
than anything else, a smile lingered on her lips. I braced myself, but she
didn’t rush me. Instead, she just stood, her eyes scanning the walls.

My gaze skittered after hers.

My word, there were a lot of farm implements that
could be used to end someone’s life. Just to the left of me, loops of twine
dangled limply from a nail on the wall, useful for a little face-to-face
choking encounter. They would be super nice for binding someone up too. A large
pair of scissors dangled next to them on its own little nail. Lots of ways to
cause damage with those. A pair of pitchforks had been propped in the corner
just waiting to be used to scoop horse bedding and/or to be thrust into some
poor slob’s chest. And, oh look, another baling hook—twin to the one currently
dripping blood on my foot.
My
blood.

I snatched the scissors off their nail and held
them in front of me, like a swordsman.

Baara seemed overwhelmed with so many options of murder
weapons at her disposal. I decided not to wait. I lurched into a run, half
limping, half stumbling, as I headed for the door. My back tingled as it
anticipated a blow from behind, but when I made it to the exit and turned back,
Baara hadn’t moved.

She still stood there, watching. Smiling.

I ran like hell.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I
ended up
taking refuge in the isolation shed, even though the streak of blood on the
floor freaked me out every time I thought about it. The possibility of being
discovered and locked in was worse. But at least it had a sink and toilet. And
even better, I still had the scissors I had grabbed in the barn. I couldn’t
stand to have the baling hook anywhere near me, so despite it’s proven
effectiveness in combat, I slung it into the woods.

My right leg was slick with blood, although the
bleeding looked like it was tapering off. The gash burned and throbbed, making
my whole leg feel like it had been hit with a bat. Tendrils of panic started
creeping into my body again, so I tried humming “Home On The Range” to reboot
any fleeting stoicism I might have inherited from my Midwestern ancestors. When
that didn’t work, I forced myself through several calming exercises.
Eventually, I made myself admit the gash was only the width of my forefinger,
less than a quarter inch deep, and only about four inches long.

Only
. Ha.

Thank God I’d turned to sweets after giving up
booze, thus giving my thigh a nice fatty layer of “protection” for the hook to
plow through before anything vital was hit. Lemonade out of lemons, I told
myself.

Then, just as I was complimenting myself on the
pioneer-woman toughness I was displaying, my shaking fingers discovered a
ragged flap that had been scraped off my skin like an apple peel, and currently
dangled at the bottom of the gash. I leaned over and puked.

Screw tough.

I hobbled over to the bathroom to rinse out my
mouth out and see if I could find anything to use to bind up the wound. The
little room had been stripped of even the half-used roll of toilet paper, and
they had shut the water off in anticipation of the encroaching Wisconsin winter.
The scissors came in handy; I cut off a strip of my skirt and wrapped the
material around my thigh. The wound still hurt like a bitch, but the action
made me feel more effectual. More in control.

I hadn’t walked two feet before the binding slid
down and puddled on my foot. I pulled it back up and carefully retied it.

Three feet, and it slipped again. This time I tied
it tight enough to act as a tourniquet and made it all the way to the exit
before it slid, eel-like, down my leg.

I was done messing with it. I kicked the wrapping
to a corner and, brandishing my scissors like a saber, headed out into the
woods to find my friend.

The whole situation felt surreal. Despite
everything—Moses’ss psychotic break, Rachel’s death, Justus slapping me—there
was still a small part of me that kept telling me this was all just a
misunderstanding. Maybe even an overreaction on my part.

It was that pervasive,
don’t-make-anyone-feel-uncomfortable voice that had been instilled in a
childhood overshadowed by a drunken father and his enabling family. Lots of
women have a don’t-make-waves voice just like mine. That same little lying
voice tells potential rape victims to go ahead and get on the elevator, no
matter what internal warning bells are shrieking at her to run away.

Fear of being socially awkward could kill.

A sharp breeze kicked up. I scuttled down the path
at an erratic pace, my thigh burning and my arms outstretched like
Frankenstein’s monster to block any stray branch from slapping me in the face.
I wanted to go faster, but everyone knew that running with scissors was a good
way to lose an eye. And that thought reminded me of Moses, which made me gag
again.

I’d lost track of time and distance, and
occasionally even the path, when I heard a loud rustling on the trail behind
me. I froze, but whatever it was kept coming. I only had the briefest of
moments to envision angry villagers wielding torches and pitchforks. Or, in
this case, religious fanatics with flashlights and shotguns.