RUNAWAY TWINS (Runaway Twins series #1) (2 page)

The morning sky over Sheba
Hill was streaked with red and orange from the rising sun, and there was still a residue of gray smoke in the air from the fires the night before. The twins stepped off their front porch, buttoned their coats, and headed for the temple to attend early morning chapel. They were required to attend one of the Sunday services, and they always chose the earliest so they would be free for the rest of the day.

“No one said a word about arson,” Janie said.

“They wouldn’t admit it, even if they suspected,” said Rachel. “Our people are above such crimes. Arson is for the outside world.”

“But the fire department—”

“They’re all church members. They’ll say what the Prophet wants them to say. Anyway, there may not be any evidence. That was a hot, hot fire. Nothing left.”

“The kerosene?”

“Gone—no smell, nothing.”

“Good, let’s hope so.”

They were wearing matching beige cloth coats, matching long dark blue dresses, and even their shoes were identical. They hated dressing this way. They preferred to express their individuality, but the Prophet insisted that when attending public affairs, they appear as a team, a unit, a double image. He explained that they symbolized a double portion—and God demanded double portions.

The Prophet’s full name was
John Joseph Flack, son of John Joseph Flack, and grandson of John Joseph Flack. The Sheba Hill Fellowship was an offshoot of an offshoot of the Latter Day Saints. When the Mormons opted for respectability by discontinuing polygamy, a small group chose to ignore such restrictions and moved their operation to South Dakota. And some years later when the South Dakota group decided to minimize polygamy (while not outlawing it), the original J.J. Flack herded his people into the Montana wilderness with the comment that God doesn’t change, and therefore neither should the practices and beliefs of God’s people change. In Montana they established the town of Sheba, and on the highest point in the area, they built the Sheba Hill Temple. The first two J.J. Flacks were gone, and all power was now concentrated in the hands of John Joseph III who ran the sect as if it were his own private kingdom—which in fact it was.

In chapel he wore a long purple robe and stood on an extremely high dais as he addressed his subjects. “Please come to order, my dear friends.”

Rachel and Janie sat with their three little brothers (each from a different mother) sandwiched between them. The boys were five, seven, and nine; and the instruction to come to order did not change their behavior. All three were fidgeting, shoving, and kicking, and it didn’t appear Moses himself could settle them down.

“Young men!” the Prophet said sharply. “Please sit still and behave or we will think of some creative punishment for you after chapel.”

The boys ceased their activity at once. Even at their age, they knew that punishment on Sheba Hill could be very severe indeed, and they wanted no part of it.

Toward the end of his
message the Prophet announced a decision that changed everything. At first the girls thought they were receiving good news, for the Prophet decreed that because of the fire, the marriage of the Lemon twins to Elder Biggars would not take place. The girls were overjoyed, and they nudged one another in relief. Their scheme had worked.

Biggars didn’t like the news one bit, and against all Sheba Hill protocol he leapt to his feet in protest. “What’s this?” he stammered. “What’s this all about?” His jowly round face was scarlet with anxiety and fury, and he was breaking the primary commandment of the Sheba Hill society: never question the Prophet. He was sovereign and no dissent of any kind was tolerated.

“Settle down, brother,” the Prophet said smoothly. “God has appeared to me personally and made it clear that—”

“But, sir…there’s no need to—” He now realized he was going too far, and he looked around to see who was watching and listening.

The Prophet hurriedly dismissed the congregation and took Biggars by the arm and led him to a small alcove off the main auditorium.

After shooing their little brothers out the front door, Rachel and Janie crept back inside the temple to see if they could overhear what Biggars and the Prophet were talking about. The two men’s voices were muffled, and the girls knew if they were to understand what was being said, they needed to make it to a position behind the marble pillar that stood about ten feet from the alcove. They measured each step carefully, halting when there was a pause in the men’s conversation and creeping forward again when the men resumed talking. At the pillar, Rachel looked into her sister’s bright green eyes and indicated with a nod that they should both squeeze into the space between the pillar and the wall.

“God makes the final decisions in these matters,” said the Prophet.

“Yes, yes, I know. But why is it necessary to cancel—”

“Because God has told me the Lemon girls are to be my wives.”

“No, wait,” Biggars stammered. “You got Mary, and now you want her sisters. That’s not fair. I’ve always been loyal—a good soldier and I deserve—”

“Yes, you’re a good soldier, and I need you and count on you. You’re my most trusted aide. But God makes these choices, not me.”

Biggars lowered his head submissively. “I know that. But it hurts, and it doesn’t seem right.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

The Elder assented, but his voice was weak and unhappy.

The twins stared at each other in astonishment. The fire had not saved them after all. It had given the Prophet the excuse he needed to claim them as his own. Janie gasped at the thought, and Rachel reached out and covered her sister’s mouth with her hand. But the men had heard the sound, and they stopped their conversation abruptly. They remained silent for several long moments, and then Biggars said, “What was that?”

“Hold on,” the Prophet said, “let’s see.”

The girls burrowed into their nook, folding into each other’s arms so they could slip deeper into the narrow space behind the pillar.

The men began to search the chapel to see if anyone was present. They examined the aisles toward the back entrance and then turned to walk toward the front near the altar. Seeing nothing, they grunted with satisfaction. “No one,” said the Prophet.

The girls held their breath; and Janie reached out and tucked the hem of her dress under her leg. She motioned for Rachel to do the same, for the blue material from their long dresses was extending beyond the pillar and out onto the hardwood floor.

The men moved down the aisle in the direction of the rear exit, and as they passed the pillar their faces came into view. The Prophet’s expression was one of control and self-satisfaction, but Hank Biggars’ face was contorted with rage, and his eyes were filled with hate.

When they were alone, the twins eased out of their hiding place and went out through the side door behind the dais. They ran to the gazebo, and when they were seated on the familiar safe bench, they turned to each other in dismay. “What now?” asked Rachel.

“I don’t know,” said Janie, “but I know one thing for sure. We are not going to end up like Mary.”

“We’ve got to get away,” said Rachel, “get to Sheba, get some help.”

They were startled by a sound at the base of the gazebo, about five feet below where they were sitting. They jumped up at the same time and saw a boy disappearing into the nearby woods. He had apparently been sitting on the grass with his back against the latticework. He was carrying a book in his hand.

“Do you think he heard us?” asked Janie.

“How could he help but hear.”

“Do you think he’ll tell?”

Rachel shrugged. “Probably. They’re all brainwashed in this place.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“I think it was the new boy Justin—the one who came in with his aunt a couple of months ago.”

“Maybe they haven’t had time to brainwash him yet.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

One week after her thirteenth
birthday, the twins’ older sister Mary Lemon had become the tenth wife of J.J. Flack, the Prophet of Sheba Hill, a hatchet-faced, black-eyed, Doberman pinscher of a man in his fifties. Some years earlier, he had decreed she was to be the wife of Elder Hank Biggars, his trusted aide-de-camp; but the Prophet watched her as she developed, and when it became obvious she was going to blossom into an extraordinary beauty, he claimed her for himself. Elder Biggars didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do because the Prophet ruled the Sheba Hill Temple with an iron fist.

Rachel and Janie Lemon were eleven at the time, and they were told that one day they would replace their sister in Hank Biggars’ harem. They were supposed to look forward to their thirteenth birthday when they would step in as his sixth and seventh, or maybe his eighth and ninth wives, depending on who caught his fancy in the interim. He was fat, in his mid-forties, arrogant, and cruel; and to say Rachel and Janie were not eagerly anticipating the day when they would join his family, would be the understatement of the century.

Mary didn’t live up to the expectations of her bridegroom, for almost immediately after her wedding, she descended into a physical, spiritual, emotional, and mental funk that turned her into a zombie in a polyester housecoat. Her decline was astonishing to see, and by the time she reached her fourteenth birthday, everyone in the compound knew it was unlikely she would live to see fifteen. Rachel and Janie were devastated. They loved their older sister and they begged their mother and father to help Mary, to save her. But Seth and Esther Lemon’s response was to go to the Prophet and ask him what he thought about Mary’s deterioration. He assured them she was fine and healthy and was merely going through a stage that would soon disappear as she recognized God’s working in her life. Seth and Esther were satisfied with his answer, as they were with every answer the Prophet gave them. They belonged to him, body and soul, and for them to question his judgment or his decisions was inconceivable.

Rachel and Janie were considerably less impressed. They suspected that the only god the Prophet worshipped was himself—but they were too young to fight him, too young to contest his will, too young to help Mary. “Maybe we should go back to Mother and Father,” Janie said, “try to convince them to do something.”

Rachel shook her head. “Mother is dominated by Father, and he’s not going to make any waves. He likes things the way they are.”

“He doesn’t want Mary to suffer.”

“That’s not what I mean….Father is forty-four years old. He has four wives and he wants more. If he causes trouble he’ll move down on the waiting list, and he knows that.”

“Then Mother—”

“Mother doesn’t think for herself anymore. We both know that. No, it’s up to us to help Mary. We’ll have to come up with a plan.”

“What kind of a plan, Rachel?”

“I don’t know.”

But before they could organize their ideas or even think the matter through clearly, Mary died, and the plan to save her became meaningless. The Prophet said it was a stroke, but the twins knew better. Except in very rare instances, children don’t get strokes. Mary had given up. She’d stared into the future and had seen no hope, no love, and no reason to continue living.

Rachel and Janie Lemon were determined they would not share the same fate.

At Mary’s funeral Elder Hank
Biggars, their betrothed, tried to comfort the girls by assuring them Mary was in a better place. But all he succeeded in doing was to turn their stomachs and to cause Janie to agree there was little doubt their sister was in a better place. Biggars was too pompous and self-absorbed to pick up on the broader meaning in Janie’s comment, even when she muttered under her breath that it wouldn’t be hard to find a better place than Sheba Hill, Montana.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “a better place.” As he spoke, his greedy pig’s eyes carefully evaluated the twins, and it was obvious he was thinking about the day when they would become his brides.

Rachel and Janie exchanged glances and shared a moment of silent determination. Such a marriage would never take place, not if they could prevent it.

“I despise him,” said Janie, after Biggars departed.

“He’s an easy man to despise,” Rachel said.

The twins did their best
to avoid Elder Biggars and the Prophet during the next year, but they were not entirely successful. On many occasions they felt both men watching them, studying them. The girls knew as they approached their thirteenth birthday, they were emerging, changing, growing into graceful young women—still awkward, but with unlimited promise. And they were certain their keepers knew also.

Fortunately, Biggars and the Prophet couldn’t give undivided attention to the twins’ development, for this was a difficult period for the church. The sect was buffeted by the authorities, by rejected relatives who wanted their family members back, and by former church members who had left the movement and were now attacking from the outside. The leaders couldn’t breathe; and they spent most of their waking hours hiding the truth about their beliefs from those who would like to do harm to the organization.

Rachel and Janie desperately wished to escape from the Sheba Hill Temple, to run away, to find refuge. The problem was they didn’t know how. They thought they might go into the town of Sheba to see if any of the newcomers would help them; but there were now new rules against leaving the compound. Before the trouble with the outsiders, all of the children, teenagers, and young adults had constant access to Sheba. After all, the town was essentially an extension of the Sheba Hill congregation. Church members owned most of the businesses and ran most of the institutions. There was no risk of what the leaders called negative influence, because there were few residents or visitors who didn’t subscribe to the doctrines of the Sheba Hill Temple. But with the onset of the trouble, this began to change. The FBI was in town looking for witnesses to crimes against minors, and everyone knew it; and the girls thought if only they could steal away from the compound and make it to the FBI’s temporary office, they would be safe. They would never have to sit across the breakfast table from Elder Biggars and listen to him expound on why they were so lucky to be a part of his family. The very thought caused them to double and redouble their planning.

And yet, the more they concentrated and schemed, the less practical their ideas seemed. The temple guards were everywhere—especially at night; and every exit from the compound was covered. The Prophet explained he was protecting his flock from the harassment of outsiders, so all could focus on the things of God and not on the things of the world. But the twins knew that while he certainly didn’t want to let outsiders in, he was also deathly afraid of letting rebels out.

“We can’t get out and we can’t stay here,” said Rachel, “not with our wedding coming up in less than four months.” Her bottle-green eyes were filled with frustration and anger, and she hurled a schoolbook against the bedroom wall, causing a small figurine to fall from the shelf. It didn’t break, and she put it back in place.

“What can we do?” asked Janie. Her tear-filled eyes were lighter than her sister’s, a brighter green, like undiluted antifreeze. Everyone knew the surest way to tell the girls apart was to look at their eyes. But those who knew them best also knew another way to identify them was to see who had taken the lead, for Rachel was the more aggressive of the two.

“Don’t cry, Janie,” said Rachel, “we’ll come up with something. I’ve been working on an idea.”

“What?”

And they began to plan their night run to Sheba.