Plain Fear: Forgiven: A Novel (21 page)

He watched her from the window.

Rachel moved about the kitchen, stirring this, pouring that, handing her baby a cracker. David had blond fuzz on his head and wide blue eyes. Waving a spoon, knocking it against the high chair’s tray, he gummed the cracker.

Roberto stood outside the door for a long time, peering in at the domestic scene and regretting his reason for intruding, and delayed his knock. The late morning sun hurled rays in his direction like Zeus throwing lightning rods from Mount Olympus. But the sweat pouring out of his pores was from stress rather than heat.

Many times during his days as a full-time priest, he’d delivered heartbreaking news to parishioners. Some were stoic, others hysterical, and some begged questions he could not answer.
Why? Why did this happen? Why did God allow such a thing?
Roberto never pretended to understand the ways of the Lord. He doubted Rachel would ask that of him.
For
my
thoughts
are
not
your
thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.
Rachel knew the scripture from Isaiah as well as he did. But it might not be enough to hold her together when he told her the news.

Over the past few months, he’d not only presided over Roc and Rachel’s unorthodox wedding, attended only by a police officer from Philadelphia and an Amish couple, the bride’s sister and brother-in-law, but he’d watched the young couple. The wedding had been a somber occasion and yet joyful because the happy couple had a glow of contentment and eyes only for each other. When Rachel was shunned, their relationship deepened, and the couple relied on each other as they planned and built this place together. When Rachel walked into a room, Roc’s eyes lit up. If they were within a foot of each other, one’s hand sought the other’s.

But
now…who would help put her back together if she fell apart?

The door opened before he knocked. Rachel smiled at him. She was breathless and energetic. “Hi. Have you been standing there long? Sorry I didn’t hear you knock.” She eased back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

He stepped inside, ducking his head slightly and doffing his hat. “I’m sorry to bother you, Rachel.”

“Oh, no bother at all.” She fanned her face. “It’s warm out today.”

“That it is.”

Waving toward the kitchen table, she offered him a seat. “Would you like some iced tea or lemonade?”

He shook his head. “Not now. Thank you, though.”

She clasped the back of a chair, her cheeks rosy with exertion, her eyes bright with happiness. Her baby cooed from his highchair. But Rachel’s gaze grew wary. Her brow knit together. “Is everything all right, Father?”

He smiled at her use of “Father.” She’d never felt comfortable calling him by his given name, so they’d settled on something that made sense to her, because he’d taken on a fatherly role with Roc. He indicated the chair. “Can you join me for a minute?”

He sat, but she remained behind the chair, staring at him as if stunned. He stood.

“I’m sorry.” She skirted the chair and perched on the edge. Concern darkened her eyes. “Has something happened?”

Again, he settled in the chair and searched for the right words. “I don’t know.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted before she managed, “I’m confused.”

“Yes, well, it’s about Roc. We don’t know the problem, but we’ve sent scouts.”

“Did he call?” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried to the counter where a cell phone was plugged into a socket. She punched the buttons quickly. “He hasn’t left a message.” Then she punched another set of numbers—or started to. She had to stop and restart. Her hands were trembling. She placed the receiver against her ear, her gaze flitting around the room, as she waited for Roc to answer his cell phone.

“Rachel,” Roberto said, keeping his voice as calm as he could manage, “you haven’t spoken to him since he left?”

“That’s right.”

Roberto released a breath and drew another. “It could be nothing, nothing at all. It could simply be that he’s lost a signal or out of range. It does happen occasionally.”

She clicked off the phone and her gaze slammed into Roberto’s. “But you don’t know where he is?”

“Exactly.”

She looked away, staring off as if her mind were racing and she was attempting to track it. She braced a hand against the table. “Are you doing something?”

“Of course. I sent out a team.”

“When?” Her tone was clipped, demanding. “How long have they been gone?”

“Just now.” He stood. “Rachel, sit down, please. Let me get you some coffee or something. I’ll stay here while we wait to hear. The team will check in regularly.”

“No. You go. Do something…whatever you can to bring him back. And I’ll—” She stopped abruptly.

“You’ll what?”

She looked at her son. “Do what I have to do.”

Roc couldn’t open his eyes.

Not that it would do any good. Someone had bound a tight bandage about his head, and the material pinched his scalp. His hands were tied behind his back, the rope connected to his bound feet. When he jerked his hands in one direction, the rope tightened on his ankles. So he lay on the warm metal, feeling it sway beneath him. No point in struggling anyway. Each time he lifted his chin or twisted his neck, he felt the gash at the back of his head ooze and warm blood trickled down his neck. His head throbbed, and moving set off fireworks inside his eyelids, splashing red and blue sparks, which ignited a chain reaction of pain throughout his body.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was in a truck of some kind and rumbling down some forgotten or hidden highway. But who was driving? And where were they going?

He’d been a fool to go off by himself.

One thing he’d learned from Rachel in the few months they’d been married: when hopeless and defenseless, pray. It had become a habit with him, influenced by both his wife and Roberto. But his feeble attempts were constrained by his own inadequacies and failures. Still, he prayed his team would not find him. If he were to die, and the possibility seemed relatively high, he’d rather be a martyr than the first in a massacre—or worse, the last.

So he laid as still as he could, drifting in and out of crazy sleep, his dreams a parade of faces from the many he’d killed. They peered down at him, elongated and hollow eyes, eager to watch his demise, lips spread in wide, impatient, hideous grins. He jerked back away from them and woke himself. Then he prayed, his fingers moving behind his back as if he held his mother’s rosary beads, his thoughts reeling and swaying with the rhythm of the truck.

When the truck came to a stop, he jerked awake. The engine rumbled for several minutes. The air grew stuffy and warm. When he thought the invisible weight on his chest would suffocate him, he heard a clank and scraping sound of metal against metal. He faked unconsciousness and forced his muscles to relax.

“Is he dead?” a heavy voice asked. Male. Deep. Old.

“Doesn’t matter,” came another voice, this one familiar. But his memories felt fractured. “Just haul him out of there and take him to get cleaned up.” The commanding voice uttered something indistinguishable. “Stinks in there.”

Roc heard footsteps walking away and felt the truck bed dip and the metal floor quiver. Something jabbed him in the neck and he lost consciousness.

Enough of this. He had to get out. Fast.

A panicked fist twisted his gut. This was not right. Not right at all. With frantic gaze bouncing from section to section, Samuel searched the basement in the enormous house. The covered windows. The stairs. Only one option.

While no one paid attention to him as Andi spoke quietly with Maddox, who now wore a long black robe, Samuel bolted for the stairs, stumbled, then righted himself. Two steps. Three. A shadow fell across him. The bikini-clad teen leaned an arm against the doorjamb at the top of the stairs. She wore a black robe too. A grin spread slowly across her face. It was the kind of smile that gave Samuel an eerie feeling.

But he had no other choice. He scrambled up the stairs, his legs weak, as he clawed at the railing.

“Samuel?” Andi called from below. “Where are you going?”

He reached the top.

But the teen blocked the doorway. She flicked a lock of blond hair off her shoulder. “Going somewheres?”

“Yeah, I forgot…” Samuel smiled. Or hoped it was a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

But the young woman never moved. That’s when Samuel saw her eyes were solid black—the color of Andi’s. Was this a dream? A bad dream? Those eyes felt like holes Samuel fell into and he wavered unsteadily on the top step. His heart felt feeble.
Where
could
he
go?
He looked back.

Andi stood midway along the passageway, her hand on the rail. Slowly one foot mounted the next step. She spoke carefully in what seemed to be an effort not to startle him. “Samuel…”

Fear plunged into the depth of his stomach.

“Samuel,” she repeated, reaching a hand toward him, “they’re wanting to get started, so we don’t have time to go—”

Samuel bolted for the door, putting a solid shoulder to the young woman’s breadbasket. She grunted but didn’t budge. Samuel’s shoulder throbbed as if he’d slammed into a boulder. They grappled in the doorway for a moment, shoving each other one way, then the other, but Samuel was no match for her supernatural strength. He felt himself tipping backward. Twisting his torso, he ended up falling. Andi moved out of his way and let him crash, tumble, and roll to the floor below.

He laid there, his breath knocked out of him, his limbs flailing, chest burning.

She stood over him. Andi’s eyes chilled him. “Put him on the table.”

Stripped, soaked in scalding water, then rubbed dry, Roc stood, no longer blindfolded, in the center of a white-tiled room as cold as a tomb. Even though the tile appeared white, the grout, which ran between the squares like regimented veins, was stained with his blood.

No longer bound by hands or feet, Roc felt no urge to fight or run or kill. He had no energy at all, as if it had swirled down the drain hole with the water, dirt, and sweat. Two young vamps tended him. They acted disinterested and devoid of emotion, perfunctory in their motions, never speaking as they tended the wound on his neck, slapping a bandage over it, and dressed him in jeans and a button-down shirt, stiff with starch.

When they finished, they led him out of the room and down a hallway. They never touched him. Roc simply followed, hearing occasional thoughts in his own mind.
Left. Now right.
The same had happened when they’d scrubbed away the grime.
Lift
arm. Right arm. Turn around.
Roc had no real self-awareness, no thoughts of “what is happening?” or “where are we going?” or even feelings of fear or panic. It felt as if he was watching himself like a casual observer.

The hallway stretched a long way, and Roc’s limbs felt weighted as the three of them aimed for a door, a metal one which had no bolts or locks but remained closed. When they reached it, Roc heard a fluttering on either side of him, and the two vamps disappeared. Befuddled rather than relieved or worried, Roc searched one direction, then the other, and turned to look behind him. He was alone.

He should do something. But what? He couldn’t formulate a thought. Couldn’t imagine what he should do or how he should respond to this situation. He simply stood and waited. Until the door opened.

Brydon, his ex-partner, once known as Brody, stepped through the doorway. His gaze was like black magic. “Roc,” he said, as if not surprised at finding him, “it’s good to see you again.”

Those eyes locked on to Roc, and he felt himself sway, the walls tilting. He should say something. He should do something. A fleeting thought came to him to ask, “How’s it?” the way he once did in their days back in New Orleans. But he couldn’t speak the words. They fled before he fully grasped them.

Brydon rubbed a hand over his neck. “Remember the last time we met? I do. But don’t worry, Roc. I won’t hold it against you.” He grinned, but his eyes remained dark, unconvincing pools. “Come on, I want to introduce you to someone.” He pushed open the door again. “You’re quite the prize, you know.”

***

It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Brydon relished the look of glee on Jezebel’s features when he presented Roc to her. In the shade of her gazebo, she rose immediately and came forward.

Roc stood stone stiff, his coloring deathly pale.

“Oh my.” Jezebel circled Roc, her hands fluttering in an eager dance, her gaze devouring him. “He’s delightful. Truly.” When she faced Brydon, her eyes blazed. “Anything you want. Name it.”

“I’m glad you like him.” Brydon walked up the steps of the gazebo. Sitting in her chair, he gripped the armrests, his fingers curling over the edge possessively. He matched her smile but kept his request to himself. “There is plenty of time to discuss that later.”

“Until then…” She sucked in a breath as if tasting Roc’s deliciousness. “What do you recommend we do with our guest?”

“We wait. They will come for him.”

“How do you know?”

“I know how they work. I know Roc’s devious little plan to mount an army. But it is miniscule. And I left a trail even a blind bird could follow.”

Jezebel laughed. “I haven’t felt so much anticipation since”—she laughed like a young girl—“since ever.”

Naomi watched through the window, her hands submerged in the soapy water as she washed dishes, but her gaze was trained on the two sisters outside.

Standing on the drive beside a boxy blue automobile, Hannah and Rachel spoke. Hannah held one of her boys and Rachel held her baby, who was a few months older. He was waving an arm excitedly. But the two women had worried looks, they sent furtive glances toward the house, and it gave Naomi a sinking feeling in her stomach. Something was wrong.

She shouldn’t be so nosy. It was none of her business. Hannah shouldn’t be speaking to Rachel since she was being shunned, but what was a sister to do? Rachel had driven over here, but Hannah had not yet invited her inside. But would that be so awful bad? Even though the elders didn’t allow socializing with those being shunned, wasn’t it one’s Christian duty to help those in need? What if Rachel was in trouble? What if she needed help? Who else could she turn to?

Gabriel began to cry and Naomi dried her hands and went to him. She scooped him out of the crib and cuddled him close, cooing and joggling to quiet him. She didn’t know the answers or problems the young women were discussing, but God did. And so she began to pray that the good Lord would give them answers and the grace to deal with whatever problem they faced.

When Gabriel fell back to sleep, Naomi gently laid him in the crib. She went back to the kitchen and slid her hands into the water, which had cooled. The cinnamon sugar mixture had stuck to the pan and she scraped at the hardened mess. Not meaning to but unable to stop herself, she stole a glance out the window. Rachel was gone, as was her car. But where had Hannah gone?

By the time Naomi had finished cleaning the kitchen and begun working on a load of laundry, Hannah entered the back door. Gideon had fallen asleep on her shoulder and she went straight to the bedroom to put the baby into his crib next to his sleeping brother. Naomi swept the floor until Hannah returned.

“I’m sorry I deserted you in here, Naomi.” Hannah sat at the table with a bucket of green beans and began snapping them. “I meant to help you clean up.”

“It’s all right, Hannah.” She kept sweeping even though questions begged to be asked. They were not her concern.

The snapping of the beans stopped suddenly. Tears dappled Hannah’s cheeks, and Naomi rushed to her side. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She knelt beside her friend. “Are you in pain? Should I get Levi?”

Shaking her head, she sniffed and tried to shake off the tears and Naomi’s concern. “He knows.”

Naomi waited, searching Hannah’s face for some clue on how she could erase the pain. But maybe she couldn’t. Maybe there was nothing she could do. So she clasped her friend’s hands, bowed her head, and fervently prayed. The Lord would know how to help her. Sometimes prayer wasn’t the least someone could do but the most.

“Oh, Naomi,” Hannah whispered.

Still, Naomi prayed. When she had poured out her heart and concerns, she lifted her head.

Hannah’s tears had dried and peace had settled over her features. “Thank you.”

When Naomi started to rise and pull away, Hannah squeezed her hand and tugged her back. “Wait, please…”

“What can I do?”

“There’s so much you don’t understand.” A mixture of emotions flitted across her friend’s face like fireflies lighting and disappearing. Hannah drew a shuddering breath. “It’s all starting again. I know it is.”

“What is starting?”

“Have you ever done anything and it was like adding too much yeast to a batch of dough and suddenly you have way too much dough? And it was all because of your mistake? Oh, of course you haven’t. But I have. And all of this is my fault.” Her eyes filled with more tears.

Naomi wanted to say the right words but she didn’t know what those might be. She patted Hannah’s hand. “Is this about Rachel?”

Hannah’s eyes widened.

“I saw her outside earlier,” Naomi explained.

“It is in a way. Or partly. But it also has to do with Samuel.”

It felt like she’d swallowed a rock.

Hannah squeezed Naomi’s hand. “You like him, don’t you?”

She considered sounding carefree with “of course” or “who wouldn’t?” but those words stuck in her throat like a fish bone. All she could manage was the truth. “Yes.”

Hannah patted her hand. “I’m so sorry, Naomi. So sorry to tell you this.”

The pulse of her heartbeat throbbed behind her eyes and pounded loud in her ears.
Had
he
left? Had he gone off with that
English
woman? Was the young woman pregnant?
Too many possibilities arose. “What?” she breathed.

“Samuel is missing.”

She blinked, at first not comprehending. “Missing?”

“Yes. And Roc…Rachel’s husband…went to go find him to protect him but now he’s missing too.”

“I don’t understand. Protect him from what?”

Hannah swallowed hard. “I can’t say anything else. I wish I could.”

Naomi stayed on her knees, clasping Hannah’s hands tightly. “I don’t need to know anything else. We must pray.”

“Yes.” Hannah found her voice. “We’ll pray.”

“And we must ask others to pray,” Naomi said. “The more prayers, the better.”