Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) (20 page)

Pennie

Keep sweet; don’t cry. Keep sweet; don’t cry.

Pennie held her tears at bay for as long as she could, but when she finally reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, she flung herself on her bed and let them come. Pressing a pillow to her mouth, she wailed and wailed until the cold cotton was warm and wet, until her eyes burned and her throat hurt.

She hates me.

A spike of adrenaline flew through her as she stared at the homemade throw pillows she and Aspen had created the year before when Paul allowed her to purchase fabric and sew new bedding. She and Aspen had spent two long days together, just the two of them in the sewing room. They’d talked for hours, with occasional laughter and dozens of stolen glances on the part of Pennie.

Two of the best days of my life.

Pennie didn’t quite understand her fascination with her newest sister wife, nor did she allow herself to question it, for she knew what that would mean. She would burn. Instead, she clung to her secret like her youngest daughter, Sabrina, clung to her teddy bear, Clyde. It was the deepest secret of her life, one she’d never share with another, even Aspen.

As infatuated as she was with the wife with naturally wavy brown locks and piercing blue eyes, she knew her feelings would never be reciprocated. She was important to Aspen, or at least she had been
,
but her true feelings were most definitely unrequited.

Sometimes, when she and Paul were intimate, she would force herself to behave differently. She’d dig her nails into his lower back as he moved above her, would whimper when he found his release and kiss the base of his neck with a fervor that she never quite felt. It was in those moments that she imagined a different neck, a different lower back, and a different person lying above her. It was those moments when she submitted to her private obsession.

She wondered if there were others like her on the compound, other wives who were more drawn to their sister wives than to their husbands, but she knew that was impossible. She was a solitary mistake on the part of Heavenly Father, and one that would certainly be rectified in the celestial kingdom. She could only hope that if she never acted on her feelings, if her thoughts were never acted upon, that Heavenly Father and the Prophet would somehow forgive the evil inside her and focus instead on the love and care she bestowed upon her husband and children. She hoped, she hoped, she hoped . . .

Everything she’d told Aspen was the truth. Weeks and weeks ago, Paul did come to her . . .

• • •

It had been a pleasant Wednesday morning, and she’d just finished up her work in the kitchen. She’d cleaned it from top to bottom and marveled at how the countertops shone in the sunlight.

Paul had emerged from the hallway that led to the sister wives’ bedrooms, which seemed odd.

Shouldn’t he be at work?

“Pennie, may I have a word with you?”

“Certainly.”

After she placed her cleaning solution under the sink and secured the child safety lock, she followed him to his study, where he closed the door and asked her to take a seat.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “You look pale.”

“No, I, uh . . . I’m concerned about Aspen. She’s not herself.”

“Really? She seems fine to me.”

The creases in Paul’s forehead deepened and he leaned forward, placing his hands in his lap. “She’s not. She’s secretive and disingenuous. And she won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“And you think she’ll talk to me?”

“You two are rather close, aren’t you?” His voice was tense, concerned.

“We are,” she answered with pride.

“Then, please . . . keep an eye on her for me. See what’s bothering her.”

“You want me to spy on her?”

“No, of course not.” He waved his hand, but then paused. “I just need you to let me know if she does anything out of the ordinary. You know, out of character. I’m worried, Pennie, and if you care about her, you should be worried too.”

That last sentence was all it took. Right then and there, she promised him that day that she would keep a close eye on her sister wife. After all, she knew Paul was just as fascinated with Aspen as she herself had become, and she was fully aware (as were most of his other wives) that when it came to Aspen, his thinking wasn’t always the most rational. He was defensive, paranoid, and determined that her affections match his own, even though to every other adult in the house, it was clear that they did not.

Pennie had followed Aspen that night at the new temple; that’s true. But she hadn’t uttered a word to Paul about it; instead, she became preoccupied with Aspen’s behavior. She’d lost her smile, that beautiful smile that Pennie longed for each day.

Aspen was never one to be jovial or effervescent. No, her smile was subtle, clever, and witty, when she chose to share it. Pennie loved how one side of her mouth would perk up ever so slowly before the rest of her mouth followed suit. She missed that smile. Not only that, but Aspen was isolating herself, pulling away from Pennie, censoring herself during conversation, and often leaving during the day to run errands that simply weren’t her norm.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Pennie was worried that Aspen planned to leave the compound. The idea alone created a gaping chasm in her chest.

Don’t leave me.

Out of pure self-preservation, Pennie continued to follow Aspen. She watched in horror as Aspen visited a police station, sure this was the beginning of the end, that Aspen was seeking assistance in leaving their family. But then weeks later when Aspen remained in Paul’s home, Pennie allowed herself to relax.

And then Jeremiah disappeared.

Aspen’s withdrawn behavior intensified. She visited the police station once again, sending Pennie into a frenzy. Every spare minute she had was focused on Aspen. And when she found the lock underneath the bed, she knew it was time to confront her sister wife, the object of her affection, the most important person in her life.

Pennie knew it wouldn’t go over well. After all, she was quite familiar with Aspen’s angry outbursts as of late, but that didn’t matter. She wanted to convince her sister wife that she was, in fact, an ally.

But she hadn’t realized Aspen knew of her spying. She
knew
.

Paul had never followed up on his request, and Pennie wondered if guilt had consumed him, knowing it was wrong to ask one sister wife to spy and inform on another. Each time he’d come to her bed, she’d brace herself for the lies she would undoubtedly need to compose. But each time they would lay together and when he was through, they’d talk cordially about the family, about his work, and about his relief that Jeremiah was found.

For all intents and purposes, her relationship with Paul had reverted to normal, and she was grateful for that. So grateful.

• • •

But now, Pennie had hit rock bottom. Aspen looked at her as if she was a foe, one that could never be trusted again. And her heart broke.

Normally, Pennie was resilient—always hopeful, always buoyant and enthusiastic. But not this time. This time, she wanted to curl up into a ball and pretend she didn’t exist, pretend the world didn’t hate her and that she wasn’t indeed going to burn in Hell for her wicked thoughts.

She wanted to drift into a cloudy dream where Aspen was her friend once again, where betrayal and anger had no place in their relationship. Where they would simply sit at their sewing machines laughing and talking, creating beautiful pillows for her bed.

And so that’s exactly what she did.

“Beware, for the Prophet sees evil . . . and isn’t afraid to quash it.”

—The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

Goose bumps covered my entire body. I’d never entered our old temple in the evening, and most certainly had never been there when others were not in attendance. This was new and eerie, as if I was seeing the building I’d known since birth with different eyes. Enlightened, suspicious eyes.

The expansive windows of the chapel lit my way and eliminated the need for flashlights, but the floorboards creaking beneath my feet made me cringe. I froze and clenched my teeth at the noise.

No one’s here, Aspen. You’re the only one who can hear it. Relax.

Willing my brain and body to relax was futile. It wasn’t possible, but I had to try. I’d always been one who believed in mind over matter, but old habits were hard to break, no matter the situation I’d gotten myself into.

Taking two large deep breaths, I climbed the altar of the temple and approached the Prophet’s office door. It was locked, of course. Wasting no time, I retrieved my hairpins and studied the lock before I went to work on it. After just a few minutes, I heard it the noise I was waiting for and my heart soared.

Click.

“Thank you, thank you,” I whispered, maneuvering the pins further into the lock, feeling the pins release and the lock pop open. “Yes!”

The Prophet’s large office was completely enclosed, so I was able to turn on the light switch next to the door. It was a tidy space, with a walnut desk and a leather chair. A laptop sat upon the desk, and several binders lined the shelf behind it. Four filing cabinets filled one wall. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work, searching for anything I could find.

I began with the laptop. Opening the lid, I peered at the screen, wondering where to begin. Although I was familiar with computers (many of the men owned one, and I was quite seasoned with my cellular phone), I had never actually used one before. The screen prompted me to enter a username and password.

Oh no.

There was no way I could possibly know either of those things, and I didn’t want to waste any precious time by guessing. With tight shoulders, I closed the laptop and glanced around the office.

The binders.

Swiveling in his chair, I reached for the first binder I could find. Sermons. Pages and pages of sermons. The next binder held religious education materials for the children, lesson plans and other such paperwork. I inspected each and every binder on that shelf, only to find perfectly legitimate materials. Nothing suspect whatsoever.

I moved to the file cabinets, walking my fingers along the manila folders that poked up from the drawers. Family names were listed on the folders. Quickly, I found Paul’s thick folder and opened it to find documents on Paul, as well as every single one of his wives and children.

I turned to Paul’s first. In the Prophet’s script handwriting, the details of Paul’s transgressions against his brother were listed. Randomly, I turned the page to an entry for over a decade ago.

January 8: Raised his voice to the Prophet inside the temple.

February 1: Ungrateful for second wife assignment. Note: Prolong gift of third wife until he’s deserving and repentant. He deserves to panic and grovel.

February 23: Late to priesthood meeting, not apologetic enough for my liking. Yet another reason to postpone third wife.

The list went on and on, and most of the “offenses” were rather minor.
My heart sank for Paul. Regardless of how he treated me during our last confrontation, I knew he was a good man. Misguided, of course, but not evil like his brother. If only Paul had been named Prophet instead of his older brother, our compound would be a very different place.

Without hesitation, I found my file within Paul’s folder and scanned the earlier years, and moved on to the current one. My mouth hung open as I read his reflections on me.

October 2: Silly, stubborn woman. I have no idea why Paul wanted her so badly.

October 13: Snooping around the temple during business with C.R. Will deal with her at wedding this weekend.

October 15: Surprised by her moxie. I’ll need to keep an eye on this one. She may be smarter than she seems.

Not wanting to read another word, I retrieved my phone and snapped a photo of the initials under October 13th’s entry. I wondered if CR was indeed the man with the leathery skin. At this point, I’d take whatever information I could possibly gather for Jonathan.

After scanning the rest of the files, only recognizing family names and deeming them harmless, I closed the file cabinet drawers and leaned against the wall, unsure where to look next, pushing back the fear of defeat that was creeping over me.

That fear disappeared when I noticed the closet.

Again, it was locked, and I knew with every fiber of my being that if the Prophet felt the need to place two locks between anyone and what was on the other side of that door, that my answers probably resided there. Removing the hairpins from my pocket, I set to work, quickly popping open the lock and opening the closet door.

The pounding of my heart was so loud, I worried that, impossible as it might be, someone might hear the blood pumping like thunder through my chest. Placing my hand against my heart, I turned on the light and studied the items in the small room. Copies of the
Book of Mormon
were stacked in the corner, next to an old paper box marked
Donations
. Leaving no stone unturned, I opened each holy book, holding them upside down to allow anything hidden inside to slip out, but nothing did.

Kneeling down, I opened the lid of the box and peered inside. A leather-bound ledger was the only item inside it.

Defeat washed over me.

“Damn it,” I whispered, quickly covering my mouth, shocked that I’d used profanity.

The ledger listed last names and dollar amounts. Disappointed, I closed the book and placed it back in the box, and then sat on the floor of the closet with my head hanging in my hands.

It’s no use. He’s covered his tracks; there’s nothing here.

A war raged in my head as one side of my brain insisted I walk away, pack up my children, and leave the compound that very night. If we were quiet enough, no one would know we were gone until morning. Certainly, Brinley would allow us to sleep on her floor until I could get myself on my feet.

The other side of my brain screamed,
No!
Keep looking! Don’t give up!

Sighing, I pushed up from the floor, leaving the closet and office open as I walked to the staircase behind the chapel. The temple only had one additional floor, where religious education was held, as well as priesthood meetings for the church elders. I doubted there was anything to find, but I had to try. I could never look back on this night, knowing there was more to the temple to search. No, I had to see this through.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I was overcome by the darkness. Swallowing hard, I retrieved my flashlight again and the soft glow urged my body to calm, for my breathing to slow and my hands to shake a bit less.

The classrooms were tidy, with schoolwork, folders, and bulletin boards. Nothing felt out of place or odd. But when I scanned the perimeter of the room, I realized that it also had a closet, or a connecting room of some kind.

My trusty hairpins opened the lock, and I walked into the carpeted room. An unfamiliar mix of odors wafted to my nostrils: masculine body odor and what might be blood were all I could discern from the unpleasant smell. The room was much larger than the Prophet’s closet, and when I turned on the light, I could see why.

A gasp left my lips as I stared at it.

It was a bed, but unlike any bed I’d ever seen. The mattress was covered in a plastic sheet and elevated several feet high into the middle of the room, with a step surrounding its perimeter. Two wooden handles sat at each end of the odd contraption.

But what froze my blood was the sight of the six chairs that formed a circle around the bed, and what that meant.

An audience.

My stomach lurched as I studied those simple chairs—the exact same chairs the children used next door to learn about Heavenly Father and the celestial kingdom.

Bile rose in my throat as my attention was drawn to the chest of drawers in the corner. With shaking hands, I removed my phone from my bag and snapped several pictures of the bed and chairs before slowly walking to the old wooden chest.

My hands trembled as I opened the first drawer. There were two large boxes of replacement plastic sheets. With hesitation, I opened the second drawer, scared of what I might find. My throat ran dry and I gasped again when I saw the drawer’s contents. Three large boxes of condoms, just like the one I’d found in the new temple. Bottles of something called K-Y Jelly, but it didn’t look like food of any kind. Towels and duct tape.

The sight of that simple, benign roll of tape made the contents of my stomach rise. I barely made it to the wastebasket next to the chest before vomit spewed from my mouth and tears sprang from my eyes. As I knelt before the plastic bin, clutching it with every bit of energy I had left inside my body, all I could think about was my sweet baby. My Ruthie.

Was this horrific room in her future if I allowed her to marry that monster? Was this where he brought his wives? Did he lay with them in front of those men? Did he tape their hands, their feet, their mouths? Pictures flashed in my head, pictures of my baby girl tied down by the Prophet, forced to do unspeakable acts while the man with the leathery skin watched her scream out in agony and horror.

I
had
to get her out. I had to protect her, to forget this mission to bring down the Prophet. I had to save my girl.

Then who else will see this room? Who else will be tortured? You can’t abandon your people, Aspen, you can’t! To be silent is to be enslaved. You’ve come too far to run away.

My head spun and beads of sweat gathered above my upper lip as I peeled myself off the floor, forcing myself to take photos of the contents of the drawer, careful not to move anything from its place.

I closed the drawer and lifted the wastebasket from the floor. If I left it like this, the Prophet would know I’d been there, that I’d found this sickening room. So I carried the basket down the hall to the bathroom, flushing its contents and then rinsing it out in the sink. Once I’d dried it with a few paper towels, I returned it to its place and locked the door behind me.

The office! I didn’t lock up!

I made my way back to the office and into the closet, ready to turn off the light and make my way home. But something told me to study that ledger one more time. Call it intuition, call it covering my tracks, but I knew in my gut that I hadn’t given it enough of my attention, assuming the Prophet had simply listed his donations.

Then why isn’t it with his other binders? Why is it inside a box in a locked closet?

I sat cross-legged on the floor of the closet and wiped the lingering tears from my eyes. Then I opened the ledger to the first page, studying the names I’d glossed over earlier, names I didn’t recognize.

Rodriguez $300

Cohen $150

Penowsky $300

Labriola $300 (x2)

Rodriguez $150

Rodriguez $150

Levinson $300 (IOU—follow up next month)

There were only a handful of bloodlines on the compound—the Barlows, Blacks, Cluffs, Jessops, and Steeds. I knew them all. In comparison, these names were ethnic, different, foreign. These were the men he was leading into the temple, the men to whom he’d promised the “product.” My hands trembled as I shoved the leather book into my bag, knowing that Jonathan needed to see everything I could provide.

I was giving him proof. The proof he needed to arrest and punish our Prophet. I returned the empty box to its spot in the closet. Unable to wait another moment, I called Jonathan. He answered immediately.

“Yeah.”

My voice was hoarse and burning pain shot through my throat as I spoke, but I didn’t care. I had to tell him, I had to hear his voice.

“I have it . . . I have proof.”

“What did you find?”

“It’s disturbing. I took pictures. I’ll show you when I get there. Can I come to your house?”

“Now? It’s one o’clock in the morning, Aspen.”

“It can’t wait! You have to see—” My voice broke, and tears formed in my eyes once again.

“Of course. I’ll pick you up. Go to the corner of Ridge and Canyon Street, and I’ll be there waiting, all right? I don’t live nearby, and I don’t want you walking alone at this time of night.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Okay,” he replied. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

“Little House?”

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”