Righteous03 - The Wicked (13 page)

A scraping sound from overhead startled Madeline from her thoughts. It sounded like someone pushing the fridge out of the way and a wild hope rose in her chest. The twenty days were up. Somehow, she’d miscounted, maybe slept through the announcement of most passing days and left all those heads of lettuce uneaten. No wonder she was so hungry.

A cool breeze blew into the hole. She lifted her head and filled her lungs with the sweet, fresh air. At one edge she could see a shade of gray, a little lighter than the surrounding blackness, where the fridge had slid out of the way to reveal a sliver of the night sky.

Night. Not day, and not day twenty in the pit with lettuce and water. She hadn’t miscounted at all, but was still near the beginning of her ordeal, with more than two full weeks of purification stretching ahead of her.

“Who is it?” she called. “Benita?”

No answer.

“Who is it?” she asked. “What do you want?”

No answer. Just a darker shadow, a head. Someone peered into the darkness and listened. A tight fear clenched her gut.

Please, Lord Jesus, save me. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t whine or complain, I’ll purify myself. Just don’t destroy me. I promise.

Something dropped, bounced off the mattress. Madeline flinched. The fridge scraped again, and black replaced the sliver of gray. She tried to catch her breath, calm down. And then grew curious about whatever had fallen down.

She groped in the dark until she found it. Three bananas, soft and squishy and no doubt turned brown. It was the sort of thing the Chosen Ones scavenged from dumpsters in the city. Someone had saved them for her, dropped them into the pit. Food to help her survive.

Unless it was a test. Unless the Disciple had told Christopher or Benita to drop the bananas to see if she’d break the purifying fast to eat them. And if the Disciple sent someone down in the morning to check and he found the banana peels, would that mean three more weeks of purification? It would be summer before she got out. If she got out. She’d probably die.

And you’ll die if you don’t eat the bananas.

She peeled open the first banana. Her fingers found the soft, mushy flesh and she lifted it to her nose. Her senses filled with the rich, musty odor of overripe banana. Her stomach groaned in anticipation. She’d have to eat a little, maybe no more than half. Couldn’t risk throwing it up again and if she saved the rest, she could get half a banana a day and make them last almost a week.

It tasted like sin. She felt a sick feeling of guilt as it touched her tongue. She almost chewed and swallowed. Instead, she spit the bite into her hand. For a long moment, she sat with two and a half bananas in her lap, a mushy, partially chewed half banana in her hand and the delicious taste lingering on her tongue.

“You promised,” she whispered. “You promised God that you wouldn’t whine or complain, that you’d be good. This is Satan tempting you, lifting you up out of the desert during your fast and offering you bread. Get thee behind me, Satan.”

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she groped for one of the milk gallons that held urine and her thin, runny diarrhea, the result of a diet of lettuce. She would squat over a bucket every few days, then pour it into the gallon jug with extreme care and tighten down the lid. It cut down on the smell. She opened the lid, then forced the partially chewed banana through the narrow opening. She peeled the others and pushed them in, one after another, where they oozed through and plopped into the liquid at the bottom, then she forced in the peels after them so she wouldn’t be tempted to lick them later. Finally, she swished her mouth with water and spit it into the waste jug to get the bits of banana out of her mouth. She almost gagged at the smell when she lifted the waste jug to her mouth. She shoved it into the corner with a cry.

Madeline collapsed on the mattress and sobbed. So close. One second longer and it would have been too late. She squinted her eyes shut and thought about the Disciple with olive oil on his hands, rubbing them roughly over her body. And then, lying on top, sanctifying her.

No worse than I deserve.

Chapter Twelve:

David sat up in bed to find a woman standing over him. She held a gun in her hand. “Do not speak,” she said, “just listen.”

It was dark except for light from the hall. He must have slept the whole afternoon into the evening. His body ached and his head throbbed. He’d finally come down, and hard. And he felt curiously detached as he looked up at the gun.

“Go ahead, kill me.” His voice came out flat. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I’m not here to kill you.” She pulled the chain on the lamp and he squinted against the shards of light.

“Then why are you holding a gun?”

“It’s for protection. Someone broke into your house during the day.”

“I know she did,” David said. He started to wake up and pulled himself upright and leaned against the headboard. “She’s standing over me with a gun.”

“Someone
else
broke into your house. The back door is forced, a bunch of broken stuff in the kitchen. You didn’t hear anything?”

“No. I took a little something to help me sleep.”

“In the middle of the day? Yeah, while you were sleeping off whatever crap you put in your body, someone broke in with a crowbar and could have caved in your skull. You’re lucky to wake up.”

“Too bad they didn’t cave it in. I could use someone to put me out of my misery. I’d do it myself if I had any guts.”

“Oh, you look like you’re doing a great job to me. You’re not wondering who I am, a strange woman in your bedroom with a gun?”

“I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” Under other circumstances he knew he’d be alarmed, terrified even, but he felt so miserable that he didn’t care. “What time is it?”

“Dinner time.”

He thought about Eliza, setting off into the desert. When had that been? Yesterday? The day before? Then the trip to visit Meth Guy. Needle, injection, a fantastic rush and then a long, tapering euphoria. And a crash. Another injection, rush, crash. It was a fading stain in his memory, but now the drugs were gone and he’d have to go back to Meth Guy. Except he had no more money.

The woman checked his closet, then slipped the gun into a bag she wore slung over one shoulder. He was paying attention now, and recognized the prairie dress, the lack of makeup, the braided hair. His brain—what was left of it—started to work at last.

“So whose wife are you, my father’s or my brother’s?”

She turned with a smile. “Neither. My name is Sister Miriam, and I’m a widow. Has anyone told you that you look like Jacob?”

“Uhm…thanks, I guess.”

“No worries, that’s a compliment.” She walked around the room with a look of concentration and David had a sudden impression not of a polygamist wife, but law enforcement, studying every detail, looking for clues. She turned back to him with a hard look. “But you seem to lack his moral backbone. Unlike Jacob, you’re adrift in the world, buffeted by whichever way the wind blows. That’s why you’re here and not back with your family and friends and why I’m guessing you’ll end up dead sooner or later. My vote is on sooner. That, I’m afraid, is
not
a compliment.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Let me get to the point,” Miriam said. “Before we waste any more of each other’s time.”

“Too late for that, but go ahead. Unless there’s some way I can persuade you to go home and leave me alone.”

“Alone with this, you mean?” She opened the top drawer of his dresser, tossed socks and underwear to the floor and pulled out a Ziploc baggie filled with a dirty-brown powder.

“Hey, where did that come from?” It wasn’t the heroin that shocked him, but the quantity.

“Oh, and look at all these pills. That’s quite a stash.”

“Those aren’t mine.”

“Of course not. If they were yours, you’d have taken them by now.”

“Then, what—?”

“I planted them,” Miriam said. “What else? I’m going to call the police, tell them that you’ve got all these drugs, and they’ll bust you as a dealer. You won’t get rehab, you’ll get twenty years.”

He started to climb out of bed, alarmed and angry, but she reached into her bag where she’d put the gun. “Stay where you are.”

“You’re a cop, aren’t you? Some sort of law enforcement. What’s going on? I’ll tell them you planted the drugs, there’s no way I could get my hands on that much stuff, I haven’t got the money.”

“Right, you’re out of money. That’s why you’ve turned to dealing,” Miriam said. “And there’s enough legit crap in this place, not to mention the needle marks I’m sure we’ll find on your arms or feet or wherever you’ve chosen to poison your body, that of course they’ll think you’re a dealer. So you’re screwed.” She gave a sad shake of the head. “Here’s the way I see it. You’ve got two choices. You can come with me, or you can resist, I’ll call the cops, and you’ll go to prison.”

“And what if I do come with you? What, you’re going to take me to Zarahemla? I can’t believe Jacob is behind this.”

“No, I’ll take you to Blister Creek. Your father and I have a little disagreement we want to settle.”

The bitter feeling came up so fast he could taste bile. “I should have known that bastard was behind this.”

“You should have gone with Eliza when she asked. You weren’t so far gone then. What a difference a couple of weeks makes. From what I see, it’s too late. Only the Lord can save you now. Your Father and I disagree about whether or not He cares enough to bother.”

“And you think He does?”
“No, I think the Lord
doesn’t
care, or at least He’s got better things to worry about. Your father is expecting a miracle.”

“A miracle? What is it to him? Why would he care? I’m supposed to believe that after all these years my father is hoping to save me?”

“It’s not about you, David.”

“Oh.” His head pounded, he could feel every bruise and his ribs throbbed. He sank back into the bed. “Why don’t you go ahead and call the cops? I don’t care.”

He expected her to bluff—this whole thing was just a scam, he was sure of it—so it surprised him when she shrugged, walked to the phone, picked it up and dialed 911. She lifted the receiver, then frowned.

“Your phone is dead.”

“I forgot to pay the bill. There’s no point anyway, now that I lost my job.”

“Never mind, I’ve got a phone.”

She fished in her bag, tossed the gun on the dresser, and pulled out a phone, waited a second for it to power on. “A drug dealer in Ely State Prison. Or maybe they’ll send you to High Desert. I’ve heard some interesting stories. Not many skinny white kids there. Wonder how you’ll do. I guess it depends on whether you survive the first week.” She started to dial.

“Wait! You can’t do that.”

Miriam stopped, looked at him. “Brother David, you don’t seem to understand that you’re a dead man. If you stay here, someone is going to break in again and kill you. You have no friends and you owe a lot of people a lot of money, right? If I call the cops, a young guy like you with a smart mouth won’t stand a chance in maximum security prison. If I bring you back to Blister Creek, you’ll run away unless I keep you supplied with drugs.”

“You could try to check me into rehab, how about that?”

“Right, and you’ll listen to me when you blew off your sister? If Eliza couldn’t wake you up, how could I?” She shook her head. “Any way I look at it, you’re dead. And you don’t seem to care. So I’m going to call the cops and get it over with.”

“Can you hold on for one second and let me think?” He moved to the side of the bed and sat on the edge in his boxers, with his casted arm resting on his lap and his other hand gripping his hair by the roots. His eyes felt dry as ash when he finally lifted his head to look at her. “If you’re bluffing, you’re very good.”

“I
am
good. I was the one they always sent undercover, to track down dirtbag drug dealers, pimps, and human traffickers. If I’d come in here pretending to be a pissed-off dealer you would have believed it. I could have pretended to be one of the people who beat you up and you’d have believed that, too.” She shook her head. “But in this case, I’m not actually bluffing. Here’s my offer. You get dressed and come with me. I’ll bring you to Blister Creek and make it easy for you to get the crap you need to poison yourself. That’s what your father wants. But if you decide to fight it, I’ll be happy to be proven wrong.”

Maybe he was just angry with Miriam, maybe he wanted to prove to that jerk of a father that he was wrong. Maybe the glimmer of hope Eliza and Jacob seemed to hold for him finally took spark. He made a sudden grab for his pants where they lay bunched on the floor.

“Fine. I’ll come with you.”

Miriam smiled. “Good. I don’t hold out much hope, but who knows? The Lord does work miracles when it suits His purpose. Hurry up, I don’t want to spend the night in this sin-infested cesspool.”

David made an even more rash decision and when he said it, he really meant it. “But leave that garbage behind, or flush it down the toilet. Whatever, I won’t be needing that anymore.”

A flicker of—what?—sadness, he thought, passed over her features, then the hard look returned and Miriam shook her head. “I had to pull all kinds of favors to get my hands on this stuff. And you’ll be begging me for some about the time we hit the state line. So if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep hold of it.”

It was only then that David was sure that Sister Miriam was not now, and had never been, bluffing.

#

“I don’t know if she’s ready,” Benita said. Her fingers scratched at the scars on the inside of her arms. They were like tic-tac-toe games up and down her skin.

“Nobody is ever ready,” the Disciple said. “It is God who makes us ready.”

“You could sanctify me, first, so Eliza could see what it was about. She wouldn’t be so scared.”

“Are you questioning me? Because if you are, you don’t need sanctification, you need purification. Good, now bring in olive oil.”

Benita nodded and hurried from the room, leaving Eliza alone with Christopher and the Disciple. Christopher gave her an unpleasant smile.