Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) (4 page)

“Excuse me, Detective. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

“Sure I do.” I nodded, gesturing for him to come in. And then I noticed the bruises on his right hand. “You all right?”

Porter looked down at his hand. “Aw, this? Just got into an argument with a wall.” He laughed uncomfortably and took a seat in front of my desk.

“Porter, right?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

That was the first time he’d ever called me that—yep, the kid was definitely sober.

“How can I help you, Porter?”

“Well, uh, I kinda . . . well, I met a girl.”

Aha.

“Well, um . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say exactly, so I tipped my head forward, urging him to continue.

“A few months ago, and uh . . . well, she’s from my old . . . she’s from Short Creek . . . like me. But she left. She’s free now, staying with her cousin.”

“Oh . . . well, that’s good to hear.”

“I need to get clean,” he blurted, staring down at his trembling hands. “For her.”

“I see.”

“A few years ago, you offered to help me, remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“Did you mean it?”

Offering a decisive nod, I locked eyes with Porter Hammond. “One hundred percent.”

He sighed and scratched his forehead. “Good, ‘cause I need it, man. I can’t do it on my own. I’m too weak.”

“So if I set you up with a sponsor, you’ll go to NA?”

He nodded, his eyes welling with tears. “Yeah, I . . . uh, I think so. I want to make a life with her, a real one. I can’t do that if I’m fucked up all the time. She’ll leave me, I know it.”

“I’m not picking up the phone until you’re sure.” I shook my head. “Only if you’re sure.”

He paused for a moment, wiped his tears with the back of his sleeve, and nodded. “I’ll go. I’ll go every fuckin’ week, man, I will. I swear it.”

“All right.”

Retrieving my cell phone, I dialed the one person I knew who could handle Porter Hammond—my uncle, Jesse Goodman. A drug addict for years, my uncle had finally turned his life around and was a dedicated member of NA.

After explaining Porter’s situation to Jesse, my uncle gave me the address of the NA meeting he attended every week. I thanked him profusely, but he cut me off. “If he shows up, I’ll consider sponsoring him. If not, you can forget it.”

He never did mince words.

Four days later, I drove Porter to his first NA meeting. I dropped him off at the local Mormon church and used the time to sit in my car, avoiding my wife, who I knew was planning to ask for a divorce. It was just me, a burger and fries, and my smartphone . . . a perfect Tuesday night. Later, Jesse told me he took notice of Porter immediately and knew he wanted to help the kid. I guess there was something about that former FLDS kid that fostered compassion in others.

“Hey, man,” Porter said, sliding into the booth of the diner down the street from the station, pulling me from Aspen-induced anxiety. She and her kids were all I could think about. This was the place we met every so often for a cup of coffee, the best cream-cheese-stuffed french toast in town, and a favor or two. In the early days of our friendship, most of the favors were requested from Porter’s side of the booth, but not this time.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Porter ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and signaled for the waitress to bring him some coffee. “Sorry, just woke up, haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“I get it. I’m a zombie without it—can’t even leave the house until it’s kicked in.”

Porter nodded, his lips pressed together in an understanding smile. The waitress greeted Porter and poured him a tall cup of steaming coffee.

“Don’t go far, okay? He’ll polish that off in seconds,” I teased.

Porter laughed before blowing on the billowing steam of his cup. “Touché.”

She nodded, offered a playful salute, and walked back to the counter, leaving us alone and giving me the opportunity to broach the topic of the compound with Porter. I knew he hated going back there, but I had to help Aspen any way I could and, aside from her, Porter was my gateway to that world.

“So, I know how much you hate discussing this, but—”

Porter waved me away. “Fuck that. How’s Aspen?”

No wonder he and Jesse got along so well, neither one of them minced words.

“Not good.”

Porter’s shoulders sank. “Shit.”

I shifted in my seat and tapped my fingers against the wood of the table. My anxiety over Aspen was overwhelming. “Has your wife heard from her?”

“No, not for a few weeks. She’s worried sick, man.” He took a sip of his coffee. “What about you?”

“It’s a long story, but she uncovered some really messed-up shit, Porter. We think we know what’s going on, but it’s not entirely clear. I was hoping you might help me make sense out of it.”

“I’ll do my best.” He nodded. “What’s going on?”

“She snuck into the temple and found . . . well, she found a lot more than we’d expected her to find.”

I relayed everything Aspen had found in the temple: the ledger, the bed with plastic sheets, the fucking duct tape. His skin turned a murky shade of grey and he sank into the booth.

“Someone’s being abused, but we don’t know for sure. His wives? The girls he plans to marry? We just don’t know. My gut says it’s children . . . they’re the easiest to keep under his thumb . . . the easiest to convince it’s for their own good.”

Porter sneered and leaned forward, gripping his cup and staring down at the table. His knuckles turned pale as he clutched the white ceramic. He said nothing. I could only imagine he was thinking about all the sisters he left behind in his family, all the innocent lives that were vulnerable to the prophet’s abuse, and again I felt guilty for dragging him into something he’d tried to escape for years. But could he ever really escape the compound?

“You all right, man? I’m sorry to bring you into this, really I am. I just—”

“No, it’s fine. I just . . . I feel so powerless.” He cleared his throat. “And that fucking prophet. He’s just . . . he’s evil, ya know? And yet, they follow him blindly. It’s baffling.”

“Diabolical,” I agreed. “The control he has over thousands of lives is alarming, especially now that Aspen has uncovered this . . . business of his.”

“Where is she now?”

“Back on the compound. She couldn’t leave her kids.”

Porter’s cheeks reddened as he leaned over the table. “Why the hell not?”

“Because he knows.”

Porter’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened. “
What?
”

“She left her phone at the temple and he called me. That fucker just breathed into the phone, letting us know he was onto us.”

“Holy fuck.” He sat for a moment, staring off into space. “We have to get them, Cooke. They aren’t safe there.”

“I know, I’ve begged her to leave, but she won’t go. She won’t turn her back on her faith.”

“Then we have to convince her. She can go back when it’s safe.”

“Will it ever be?” I asked, knowing even if Clarence Black was locked away, someone else would rise to power and take his place. The cycle of mind control and abuse would inevitably continue right where it left off. Aspen would be trapped no matter what.

Porter ignored my question, seemingly lost in his own thoughts of rescuing Aspen and her children. “Maybe she’ll listen to Brin.”

“Problem is, the prophet has her phone. There’s no way to reach her without going there—and putting her in more jeopardy.”

He drained his cup and slammed it back on the saucer, cracking the fragile ceramic. “Fuck.”

“I was hoping you might remember something from when you lived there. If any of the girls, you know, said something or acted strangely. We have no idea how long this has been going on.”

He stared at me in silence, then swallowed hard, shaking his head and breaking eye contact. “No, not that I can remember. Sorry, man, I-I was pretty wrapped up in myself back then. It makes me sick to think of all those poor kids.”

“It could be his wives. We don’t know yet.”

Porter nodded, licking his lips. “One of my sisters is married to the prophet. She married him just a couple months before I got kicked out,” he said softly.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “No matter what, odds are someone I loved has been in that room, right?”

“Right.” I pulled my bottom lip in with my teeth. “I just hate to drag you back there, man.”

“Don’t censor yourself, it’s fine. I’m fine.” His phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen. Porter then inspected the cracked saucer and scooted to the edge of the booth. “Listen, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I gotta run. I’m needed on site and if I’m not there soon, my boss’ll kick my ass.”

He rose to his feet and gestured to our cups of coffee. “I’ll take care of this.”

I waved him away, knowing I planned to stay for an order of french toast. “Nah, I got it.”

He shook his head and laughed uncomfortably. “I gotta pay for that damn saucer anyway.”

I slid from the booth and stood opposite him, extending my hand. “I got it, kid. Thanks for coming.”

He nodded, patting me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. If you get word on Aspen, text me, okay?”

“Will do.”

The bell of the door rang as he left the building. Our waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee. “Where’d your friend go? I had a batch made special.”

“Sorry, darlin,’ but he had to run. I’ll take a fresh cup, though, and an order of blueberry-stuffed french toast, please.”

“You got it.”

My thoughts returned to Aspen, and I checked my phone five times before my breakfast arrived. Word from her couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter 4

Aspen was restless, anxiety-ridden and worst of all, without the opportunity to call Jonathan, completely exposed and vulnerable. She hadn’t spoken to him in weeks since Pennie left her phone at the house. Since then, there’d been no opportunities, and although she may have been paranoid, Aspen was convinced everyone in her household was watching her—waiting for her to crack, to expose her intentions toward the prophet. Her sister wives were biding their time—waiting for an opportunity.

Fools. That will never happen.

True, in the three Sundays on the compound since discovering his crimes, she wanted nothing more than to grab his microphone and proclaim his savagery to the community at large. To scream of his abuse, to whoop and holler and demand the church elders follow her upstairs to his chamber of horrors. But she was too smart for such impulsive behavior, and that would be nothing but a fool’s errand. The prophet would humiliate her in front of the congregation and leave her a pariah within the entire community. Those church elders would let her beg at their feet, scoffing at the stupidity of a silly woman.

And she couldn’t let that happen.

Never.

No. She would make Clarence Black pay. She just didn’t know quite how. For that piece of the puzzle relied upon Detective Cooke, and under Flora’s and Paul’s watchful eyes, she’d barely had the opportunity to take her children to the park, let alone sneak away for a visit to the police station.

Paul. Paul. Paul.

If ever a human being caused her emotional turmoil, it was the man who formerly called himself her husband. Since he severed his vows and declared that she was no longer his wife, she could no longer look him in the eye, which was new to her. Both mortified and angry when in his presence, Aspen found herself in constant conflict. Despite his acrimony, she knew he still loved her . . . somewhere tucked beneath his fury. She’d noticed it in the shy glances he stole during dinner and in the way his footsteps slowed when he passed by her room at night. Never did he enter, but just the sight of her door gave him pause. She knew it in her gut. However, that didn’t matter. Not only had he abandoned her when she needed him the most, but he trusted the evil that was Clarence Black more than he trusted her. How could she ever forgive that? And if she could forgive, could she ever truly forget?