Plain Fear: Forgiven: A Novel (13 page)

“See!” Anger shot through Samuel. “I don’t understand—”

Roberto leaned down, his hand pressing hard on Samuel’s chest. “You understand what you choose to understand. Open your eyes. Look around you, Samuel. This world is full of mysteries and darkness. You’ve lived a simple life, plain, and yet that’s what it all comes down to—the difference between black and white, good and evil. Pretty simple, don’t you think?”

Nothing seemed simple at all. Samuel felt beaten, defeated, broken.

All the way back to Levi’s, his motorcycle wobbled beneath him as he could barely clutch the handlebars, which caused excruciating pain in his hands. He arrived long after dark, way past Levi and Hannah’s bedtime, and he sat outside while he gathered the energy to head inside.

With the tips of his fingers, he turned the knob and entered the house. A single lamp remained on, surprising him. Naomi, head bowed over an open Bible on her lap, sat in a chair. Everyone at the farm, including the horses and chickens, were tucked in for the night. And she should have already returned to her folks’. She looked up as the door swung open, and a smile spread easily across her features.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked, not moving forward.

She closed the Bible and stood, straightening her apron. “Gabriel was fussy, so I told Hannah I’d sit up with him for a while. I just got him down a few minutes ago.” Her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?” She stepped toward him. “What happened to you…your face…hands?”

“Nothing. I…uh—”
How
could
he
explain
tonight?
He touched his cheekbone with the back of his hand. The rope had scraped a raw patch. His shirt was wrinkled and bloody with only a couple of the buttons fastened, as that was the best he could manage. He’d forgotten his coat.

Reaching toward him, she cupped one of his hands, then the other, drawing it toward the light, and studied his bloody, raw palms. “Sit down. Here.”

Before he could protest, she tugged him over to the kitchen table. She hurried to the sink and pulled several rags from the cabinet, dampened them, and returned to him. She knelt and dabbed at his wounds with the clean cloth. Her silence made Samuel feel as if he should explain.
But
how?

“It’s nothing really.” When she pressed the cloth to the bloody blisters, he hissed out a breath. “And not what you think.”

“And how would you know what I’m thinking, Samuel Fisher?” Her face was calm but her words stung.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Was it that motorcycle you ride?”

“My—? No.”

She watched his face, concern in her eyes. “Were you in a fight?”

“No.” But he read the doubt in her troubled eyes. “My knuckles would be raw if I’d been in a fight. Not my palms.”

She drew her lower lip between her teeth as she contemplated his injuries. “Are you in much pain?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She finished cleaning his hands, applied ointment, and wrapped them in clean bandages she found in the pantry. Finally, she sat back and surveyed her handiwork. “I’ll check them in the morning. The aloe vera should help.”

He had to admit his palms no longer stung and throbbed. She surveyed his cheek and neck, then cleaned those wounds and dabbed on more of the green goop, but as her finger slid just inside his collar, she stopped, her face just inches from his, her breath warm on his skin. Her gaze darted toward him, then she backed away. She stuck out the aloe vera leaf and said, “Here. In case you need any more.”

He cupped it between his wrists and plopped it on the table. “Thanks.”

“I should be getting home. It’s late.”

“I’ll walk you.” He stood, but it took more effort than he anticipated, and he grunted.

“I know the way.” She readjusted her apron and seemed out of sorts and restless, her hands fidgeting.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night. It isn’t safe.”

“Hannah made me promise to ask you to see me home but”—she touched her
kapp
—“really I’ll be fine. You’re injured, and I’m not worried. The good Lord will protect me.” The speed of her words revealed her sudden nervousness.

Was
she
nervous
to
be
alone
with
him?
He couldn’t imagine that. He was as harmless as a ladybug with his hands wrapped, his arms and shoulders stiff and sore, and his body aching.

“Hannah’s right. It isn’t safe. I’ll take you home.” Samuel hobbled toward the door, feeling every joint, every muscle protest. “I don’t mind.”

“Really, Samuel, it’s all right. This is silly. What ever happens in Promise?”

Apparently, plenty happened here. Even though he didn’t feel capable of protecting a fly, he wasn’t about to send Naomi out into the dark alone.

“What happened to you tonight?” she asked, her voice barely audible, her gaze scanning his slightly bent posture.

He couldn’t straighten his arms fully. With his hands cupped and wrapped, his shirt wrinkled and bloody, he must look a sight. “I was”—his mind whirled for an answer—“helping a friend.”

Her silence revealed her doubts, but she kept them to herself.

“Come on.” He reached for the door but hesitated before placing his hand on the doorknob.

“Here”—she rushed forward—“let me.” She opened the door and shut it behind them.

“Do you want me to hitch the horse to the buggy?” Samuel asked, his hands throbbing at the thought of grabbing the leather reins. Riding his motorcycle had been nearly impossible by himself. No way could he manage with Naomi behind him.

“I like to walk. And it’s not far. But I don’t mind going alone—”

Samuel raised a bandaged hand to stop her protest. “We’ll walk. Together.” He kept even with her pace as they descended the steps. “What’s wrong with Gabriel?” he asked to change the subject. “Is he sick?”

“I don’t think so. Probably a gas bubble.”

They walked to the end of the drive and turned onto Slow Gait Road, which would take them to Naomi’s parents’ farm. “Hard to tell with babies,” he surmised, “since they don’t talk.”

“Exactly. Maybe he just wasn’t sleepy. The twins are awake more now. And they’re so sweet.” She gazed up at the stars and released a contented sigh. “
When
I
consider
thy
heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him?
”

He remembered the verse from Psalms and felt very small indeed beneath the vast sky. Was the God of the universe mindful of him? Sometimes he didn’t understand those around him who prayed constantly and managed to rely on God for every morsel and breath when he sometimes forgot to pray, forgot to even think about God.
How
did
others
have
a
relationship
with
the
Almighty?
For God must see man like a flea.

Naomi seemed wrapped in her own thoughts as she crossed her arms over her stomach, rubbing her arms with her palms. The night was calm, the air cool but not chilly. At least for him. “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been indoors all day and it feels good to be outside.”

Right now, it would feel good to be in bed. Every step pained Samuel. When he took a deep breath, his side pinched. He figured he’d have a good-sized bruise by tomorrow. His thoughts drifted back toward his conversation with Roberto. Was he right? Did he only understand what he chose to understand? Many Amish were closed-minded, especially to the
English
. Others were more practical, utilizing things from the
English
world when it made sense, and yet simply choosing the Amish way. His father camped in the first group; Levi remained in the second. And Rachel had ventured way beyond the careful and plain Amish way of life. But what would he choose?

Even though he didn’t want to be a remake of his father, he realized he’d reacted the same way—running from the memory, the guilt, the horror of the unknown. Yet the supernatural world was not unknown to the Amish. They believed in the afterlife, the presence of angels, the reality of evil. Was it all manifested in a way he had simply not wanted to see?

“Samuel?” Naomi’s voice called to him.

He stopped and looked around, startled that she wasn’t beside him. She stood a few feet back, at the turn into her family’s drive, and he retraced his steps.

The moon illuminated the slight smile tugging at her lips. “Are you all right?”

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. “Sure. Just thinking about…”

“Can I help?” she asked when he didn’t complete his sentence. “Is it some girl?” A teasing tone lilted her voice.

He arced an eyebrow at her forward question.

She dipped her chin and peered up at him beneath her lashes. “You have the same baffled look my brothers get when they are seeing someone.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Well, that’s good.” Her words startled him. And apparently her. Her eyes widened. “I, uh, mean…well…it’s good that you aren’t missing some girl from Ohio. That would be hard. For you. For her. For…you know.”

The air around them crackled with tension. It made Samuel shift uncomfortably. He had the urge to change the topic again—for Naomi’s sake, as well as his own. “Can I ask you a question?”

Her eyebrows rose this time. “Sure.”

“You believe in evil,
ja
?”

Her chin jutted backward. “Yes.”

“And man is inherently evil.”

She nodded.

“But do you think it’s possible for a man to do good?”

She weighed his questions carefully before speaking. “Yes, I do. Not of our own abilities, Samuel, but through God’s grace. Through the good Lord’s help, it is possible to do good. Yes, I believe that.”

“And is living this way, in our own district, minding our business, keeping out of
English
ways, is that the best way?”

She tilted her head and studied him. Moonlight slanted across her cheek, illuminating her pale skin. “Not always, no. Does it surprise you I’d admit that?”

He felt his heart kicking his rib cage. “It does.”

“Are you feeling a calling beyond home, Samuel?”

He released the breath he’d been holding. “I don’t know.”

“Evil isn’t locked out of our district.” She spoke each word carefully. “It lives in the heart of man, no matter if that is in the
English
world or Amish,
ja
? It is Christ who changes our hearts for good.”

“But how do you think that change takes place? Do you think it’s instantaneous?”

“I think it takes a lifetime of perfecting through our own trials and carrying the cross, like Christ. Take up your cross daily and follow me.
Ja
?”

He nodded.

“And what do you think your cross is, Samuel?”

She asked hard questions. He crossed his arms over his belly, but it hurt his arms. He felt a cramp in his bicep. “It’s a cross I’m not sure I can carry.”

She laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. “You are stronger than you think.”

He wished he could believe that.

If one wanted to buy cheap land, this was the place. Brydon and his guards, riding in a U-Haul truck, hadn’t passed a town or even a lonesome house in miles and miles. Grassy fields undulated outward from the two-lane road, which led nowhere. Or so it appeared. Kansas didn’t seem to have much of a population. He spotted not even one cow or tornado.

The miles rolled along, the clicking of the tires, the hum of the engine, all while Brydon considered his two options: find out who wanted him and for what, or these three vamps—Kachada, Walden, and Lamandre—he’d have to kill.

The driver, Kachada, gave orders. He had coppery skin and long, black hair with a feather tied in it, a throwback to Cochise. Was he the new
Dances
with
Vampires
? Brydon had discovered that many vamps, in losing their normal lives, embraced their families’ or make-believe ancestry. Lamandre, who looked like he’d embraced the rapping world of Snoop Dogg, sat beside him in the passenger seat. The third vamp, Walden, was in the enclosed part of the U-Haul truck, torturing their prisoner. Occasionally the back end lurched, and Brydon heard a wretched scream. Over the course of several hours, the cries had grown weaker.

Hunger gnawed at him. They had deprived Brydon of any blood, and he felt weak, which he assumed they wanted.

Ahead, as if sprouting out of nowhere, a large, flat building emerged, surrounded by several others. This one, lone road led toward the conglomeration, and they followed the long stretch of it. Brydon sensed their journey was coming to a quick end.

The compound sat all alone in the heart of a vast prairie, surrounded by a sixteen-foot chain-link fence with loops of wire along the top. Nothing seemed unusual about these buildings other than their very existence and the lack of windows.

“What is all of this?” Brydon asked, but as with every question he’d posed during their journey, he was once again ignored. He’d attempted to probe their minds but gave up after learning their names. The work was exhausting, and they were experts at hiding their thoughts.

They came to a halt at an impressive gate. A guard stepped up to the U-Haul truck. He wore a beige uniform but carried no weapon. He didn’t need to. His black eyes told of his abilities. He looked straight at Kachada, then Brydon, and finally Lamandre. No words were needed. The guard gave a nod and the gate behind him slid sideways.

The U-Haul eased down the deserted pathways, moving at a slower pace. Did no one work here other than the guard? Or did they stay inside the buildings? Kachada needed no directions as he turned into a bare-bones parking lot, where a small assortment of vehicles of all makes and models were assembled.

Flinging his hair back off one shoulder, Kachada gave Brydon a hard, fierce look. “Don’t attempt anything. There’s no escape. You understand?”

“You mean from Shangri-La? Wouldn’t think of it. Looks like a real happenin’ place.” Brydon added a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Without comment, the two vamps disembarked from the truck. Lamandre waited for Brydon to follow. He stood so close that they bumped into each other.

“Really, dude,” Brydon said, “give me some breathing room. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

The black vamp stood his ground and scowled. Brydon ignored him and walked toward the back of the truck, where Kachada unlocked the latch.

Walden stuck his blond head out the opening. “Here already?” He sounded disappointed. Hopping out of the back, he yanked on a leather cord. “End of the road,
schatz
.”

Attached to the end of the five-foot strip was a disheveled young woman. Her eyes were glazed, and she moved in a jerking fashion, as if she were barely conscious. When they’d found her, she’d reeked of living outdoors, and her stiff, filthy jeans and bulky sweater hid most of her waiflike body. She wore mismatched gloves, scarves, and a ragged coat. The leather strap chafed her neck raw.

She blinked slowly and raised a hand as if to shield her eyes from the sun’s intensity, but she didn’t have enough energy to lift her hand. She stumbled out of the opening.

The three amigos had snatched her and a friend in Topeka. The friend hadn’t made it far. She’d been dinner, her remains left on a deserted roadway.

The woman whimpered. “Can we rest here?”

Kachada grasped the woman’s chin and jerked her head sideways. He stared at the wound on her neck and snarled at Walden. Shoving her away, he slammed a hand against the tall blond’s chest. “What were you thinking?”

“She was too feisty. I had to calm her down.”

“She’s a present,” Kachada spoke in a chilling tone, his lips thinning.

Walden grinned. “I can attest to the fact that she’s tasty.”

Kachada pushed past Walden with a growling sound. “This way.”

His stride stiff with confidence and irritation, Kachada led the way. His long black hair swayed behind him. They bypassed the outer buildings and a concrete slab where a multitude of eighteen-wheelers were parked. The compound was laid out in a methodical manner with several outbuildings surrounding an inner square, which protected one main building at its center. When they reached the most protected structure, cameras popped up in unexpected areas, aiming lenses at each door and walkway; most had motion sensors and followed their progress. The monitoring system appeared quite sophisticated.

“What kind of a place is this?” Brydon asked again.

“Store supplies.” Walden treated the woman like a mangy mutt, jerking on her leash when she strayed off the path.

“Store?” Brydon asked. “What kind of store?”

The sound of a metal door behind them had Brydon looking around when someone hollered, “Hold up there!”

The one who called was slight of build and wore the same uniform as the gate guard. He carried no weapon either, but once he drew close, Brydon saw he had all the weapons he needed in his own fingertips and incisors.

“What’s the problem?” Kachada puffed out his chest, exerting his own authority.

“Did you check in?” the thin vamp demanded.

“We’ve been under orders.”

“
Everyone
must check in. You know the rules.”

Kachada glowered at the intruding vamp but gave a jerking nod to his cohorts. Lamandre clasped Brydon’s arm and turned him in the direction of another building. Brydon jerked his arm away and straightened the sleeve of his leather jacket.

No number or sign indicated which building was which or what the purpose was for any of them. All of the buildings were nondescript, appearing to be exact duplicates. Walden swiped a trickle of blood off the woman’s neck and licked his finger. Feeling the gnawing hunger in his gut, Brydon breathed in the sweet scent of her blood, his nostrils flaring. He quickened his steps, inching closer to her. Her hair swung sideways, revealing a fist-sized bruise on the side of her face.

Before he could satisfy his own thirst, they entered the side of a warehouse. A pungent odor nearly knocked Brydon over. Death saturated the very air around them. His eyes adjusted quickly to the shadowy darkness. A dozen or more bodies dangled from the rafters, strung upside down on scaffolds, the heads removed. Beneath the bodies were drains set in the concrete where the blood could be washed away. But the stench of this place would never leave him.

The woman beside him bucked and began screaming. Walden backhanded her and she slammed into the floor, out cold. The ensuing silence filled the cavernous warehouse.

“Now you done it,” Lamandre said, stepping over the unconscious woman. No one else paid any attention to her. Screams here were commonplace. With an irritated sigh, Walden lifted her over his shoulder and carried her toward a long table.

“Breakers,” Walden explained with a sniff of disdain aimed at the bodies. “Vamps who broke the law.”

“What law is that?” Brydon asked, more curious than scared, although he figured he might be dangling and headless soon enough.

“
Her
law,” Kachada said. “There is no other.”

If he had learned anything in the past nine months as a vampire, he’d learned vampires had their own rules and hierarchy. This was no democracy. The bloods respected strength, not weakness. Being dragged in here, he knew, looked pathetic. But he didn’t have much of a choice.
Or
did
he?

A cold stone settled in his gut. He wasn’t sure why he had been summoned. If Jezebel wanted him destroyed, then her minions could have done so already. Or maybe she wanted to do it herself. What he’d done to tick her off, he had no idea.

At the end of the aisle, they reached a table where a child-sized vamp sat. She had straight black hair cut into sharp angles, but her cheeks were rosy, as if she’d just eaten, and her eyes glittered brightly. She opened a book and neatly printed each of their names along with the date. From a box, she pulled a plastic tag and each of the guards looped the attached cord around their necks and waited while Brydon did the same. Only a bar code went across the middle. Slowly, he slipped it over his head, and the tag slapped against his stomach. They did not give one to the unconscious woman.

The child slid a disdainful gaze over the unconscious woman. “You can’t take her in looking like that.” The younger vamp jerked her chin and two teenage boys, tall and wiry, hurried toward them. “Take her and get her readied.”

The teenage boys carried the unconscious woman away.

Walden nudged Brydon’s back. Through a side door, they were escorted into another building. A maze of shelves held thousands upon thousands of crates and boxes. Was this merchandise? Brydon read a few labels: fake blood, plastic mace, cobwebs, clown wigs, candy vampire teeth. Then Lamandre gave him a push, and they hurried through walkways wide enough for forklifts to navigate.

Flanked on either side by two of the black-clad thugs, Brydon walked through the well-organized horror warehouse, passing other vamps going about their business without paying much attention to them. They reached the end of the hall in front of a pair of doors that were heavy oak. Carved into the corners of the doorframe were skulls. The wood was streaked gray, giving it a sinister look. Along one panel, someone had scratched “Save yourself!”

He suspected Jezebel was on the other side of the door, waiting with his fate. But he had other plans.