Hold Fast (10 page)

“Oh, Courtney, I’m so sorry,” Daniel says pressing my head against his chest. “I know you have no feelings for him, but he’s not a bad man. You could learn to love him. What else can you do?”

“Daniel. Husband.
Listen
to me. Even if, somehow, I do turn out to be pregnant? Jeremiah isn’t a danger only to
me
.” How can he be this blind? Jeremiah? Not a bad man?

“If he can’t take me away from you this way? He’ll turn you in. You and Joshua both. And you know what the penalty will be! He may do it anyway, even when he has me. For revenge. You stood in his way too long.”

“Again,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “What. Else. Can. You. Do?”

“We can run! That’s what we can do,” I say, looking up at his face. His eyes are closed tightly, and the lines of laughter around his mouth make him seem old, tired. Has all the fight gone out of you? Can you not see how much danger you’re in? “If you won’t do it for yourself, think about
Joshua!
You’re not the only one in danger, here.”

“I know you still dream about your Prince Charming,” Daniel says, holding me tightly. “Some nights you call out to him in your sleep, and it breaks my heart, but you have to face reality.”

He leaves that statement hanging, and it takes every shred of my willpower not to tell him that I
saw
Sean at the market today. I want to tell him that my Prince Charming is
back
and he’s going to rescue me. But I don’t.

I trust Daniel, of course. It’s not that, not at all. I’m sure he would be happy for me, but I don’t dare tell him, so long as he stays behind. Who knows what they will do to him when they realize I’m gone? If he stays behind, the less he knows, the better. For both of us.

I take a deep breath and look into Daniel’s eyes.

“Please.
Please,
Daniel.
Run
with me,” I beg.

“You know I can’t. You know
why
I can’t.” He sighs, gives me a smile that’s so tired, so sad, that my heart breaks for him.

“Bring Joshua with you!” I plead, but I know it’s not that. Or, not
only
that. They’ve never lived in the outside world, and they’re more scared of it than they are of Father Emmanuel. They’re more afraid of living in the outside than they are of dying here.

“But if you feel brave enough to give it a go, then now’s the perfect time,” Daniel says, surprising me with the joyfulness in his voice. He’s grinning happily as he explains. “Don’t you see? After last night? After Jeremiah and your mother did this?” He waves a hand around the scattered wreckage of our life together. “It’s perfect. You were scared of Jeremiah, that’s why you ran. It even takes the heat away from me.”

“You think so?” I ask. I hadn’t even considered it that.

“Yes,” he says, squeezing me tightly again. “I can even be furious that Jeremiah would be intimidating my beloved wife like that, scaring her into running.” Daniel growls, deep in his chest. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard this gentle, sweet man show the slightest hint of anger. “And I
am
furious. Our ‘marriage’ may be a sham, Courtney, but you’ve meant a great deal to me the past five years.”

“Are you sure?” I ask him one last time. I have to give him just one more chance. “Please, both of you. Run with me.”

“I’m sure,” Daniel says. He kisses my forehead and opens his arms, releasing me. It’s a literal release, but also a symbolic one. “Courtney, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

I’m overwhelmed. I’m going to miss him, so much. His kindness and quiet strength have been a rock for me for so long. Unable to speak, I reach out to him, and Daniel takes my hand in his.

“Our marriage, Courtney? It’s not even legal out there,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the outside world. “There’s no paperwork, no licenses. It doesn’t mean anything except here on this farm. I release you from your vows,” he says, kissing the back of my hand, and then he looks me in the eye.

“If you truly believe your happiness is out there,” he says, turning and walking to the door, “then go. Find it. Grab on to it. And all my hopes and prayers will go with you.” Pausing at the door, Daniel looks back at me, meeting my eyes one last time. There’s no cheer there now, none of the self-mocking humor I’m so used to seeing from him. “But run far, Courtney. Run fast. Don’t let them bring you back here again,” he finishes, and he’s no longer looking at my eyes, but at my leg instead.

Daniel’s eyes are shiny with tears, but there’s a smile on his lips as he walks out through the door of our home. He’s a good man, trapped in such a bad situation. My heart is heavy: I’ve just said goodbye to one of my dearest friends.

As I watch him walk away, I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

* * *

I
t’s
late afternoon by the time I’m in place on the north slope of Trout Mountain. Infiltration and stealth are a SEAL’s hallmarks, and I’ve tucked myself into the edge of the tree line, about a hundred yards above Courtney’s beehive. The low hill barely deserves the title, but at least it gives me an elevated vantage point where I can see the whole… compound, I guess that’s what I’d call it. My dad’s binoculars bring everything up close and personal.

The place looks to have been built up around an old farm. There’s a sprawling main house, expanded haphazardly with additions over the years, and a ramshackle pole barn with a distinct lean to its structure. Outbuildings – shacks, really – of cinder block, sometimes even just simple plywood or sheet metal garden sheds, are scattered around the grounds. Depending on how comfortable everyone wants to be, they’ve got housing for a couple hundred people at least, maybe as many as four, if they pack ‘em in like sardines.

A few vehicles sit near the house, inside a fenced yard. In a place where most folks feel comfortable parking their car outside overnight with the keys in the ignition, these people have a hurricane fence with a chained locked gate around their vehicles. Guess they don’t want anyone going anywhere.

I haven’t been watching long enough to get a solid head count, but I’m starting to get a feel for who’s who in the compound. I spent a lot of time on overwatch in Baghdad, looking at crowded city streets through a scope for any hint of trouble and sorting out the sheep from the wolves. This evening, I only have my dad’s old binoculars. I don’t see any signs of suicide bombers or insurgents, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to worry about.

The society I see before me is heavily stratified, that much is obvious from first glance. The women invariably walk a few paces behind the men and look down when speaking to them.
Almost
invariably: some few older women receive a certain wary deference from everyone, not just the other women.

However, the men are not all at the top of the food chain—there’s a definite hierarchy there, too. Some men seem worn, tired, beaten down by the hard labor of working on a farm. Others—well-fed and well-rested—move around the compound in a wide bubble of space. Everyone, men and women alike, avoids them. I’ve seen this behavior before: enforcers. Local tough guys in a position of power.

I
study
one of the tough guys through the binoculars. In spite of the magnification, it’s hard to guess his age. Even with his local status and privilege, a life of farm work ages you early. The man glares at everyone. They avoid his gaze in return. Everyone, that is, except for a swirling knot of small children playing some game with a dog and a ball, laughing merrily. But the ball comes loose from the children and drifts across his path with the dog close behind.

The man is forced to break his stride as the dog tumbles to a halt in front of him, the ball in his mouth. It wags its tail triumphantly, looking around for approval from its young masters and mistresses. The next thing the dog catches is a heavy boot in the hip. From this distance, I can’t hear the mutt’s yelp of pain. It was a hard kick, though: the dog drops the ball and stumbles away, one leg dragging awkwardly behind. Motherfucker
.

There are people around, but nobody says a word. Turning the binoculars from person to person, I find faces that are studiously blank; eyes that focus anywhere but on the injured dog. The group of children follows the example of their elders. One little girl’s shoulders heave as she cries, wiping at her nose.

But, no: a small boy stands up, his face dark with fury. He can’t be more than six years old and probably closer to four. In another setting if would be funny to see that tiny bundle of rage shaking his fist at a grown man. But not
now
, not
here
. I’m powerless to do anything, and it’s hard to watch from a distance as the child runs up to the man, untrained fists flailing wildly. The enforcer grins broadly, dropping to a knee in front of the boy, batting away his blows.

A small crowd begins to gather. Four other men—no, five now. These are more of the tough guy types, the men the others defer to. They’re laughing, slapping each other’s backs. It’s a grand joke, isn’t it? Assholes. They’re joined by a sixth person: a terrified woman runs up to the group. She’s not in on the joke.

The woman—his mother?—reaches out for the boy, trying to pull him away from the danger he’s in, but one of the men catches her by the hair first. Her head snaps back sharply as she hits the end of the long, thick braid and it looks like he’s twisted her arm behind her back now too. Motherfucker.

The first enforcer, the one who’d kicked the dog, looks up at the woman, a nasty smile on his face. He’s distracted, and the boy lands a flying fist straight on his nose. This time the sound carries, the distant howl of pain lagging behind the movements of the asshole’s mouth. He jumps up, and when he brushes a long-sleeved arm across his face there’s a red streak on the white fabric. The boy stands there, shocked by what he’s done, visibly shaking in fear even from this distance. His face is dirty, but tears have cut streaks of brilliant white through the mud and dust. I can’t tell if he’s frozen in terror or if he’s being brave.

T
he man turns
on the boy, bellowing again. The sound hasn’t even reached me yet by the time he lands a furious backhand on the side of the child’s head, leaving him motionless in the dirt. Takes a real man to lay out a kid that age. I’ve seen your type a thousand times, in a thousand third-world shitholes, and I’ve left them with fewer teeth every chance I got. I can’t do anything about him right now: my mission priority is Courtney, and intervening here would have a negative impact on the most important thing in my world. Dear sweet baby Jesus, please let there be a reason for me to go down there tonight for Courtney, because I very much want to hurt that man. Badly. I’ve already labeled targets Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. This guy is on the list now: Target Delta.

The tough guy rounds on the woman, screaming at her, but falls silent at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Someone else has joined the crowd.

He’s an older man, tall and thin, with a wild halo of shaggy white hair. He carries a cane, but there’s no sign in his gait that he needs it for anything: it’s an affectation. He wears the same plain white long-sleeved shirt and denim jeans that seem to be the men’s uniform here, but carries himself with an aura of authority. The toughs, the enforcers, yielding to nobody at the compound, show him respect: slightly bowed heads, tipped hats. He’s in charge. Could this be Courtney’s
him
? Her own personal Satan?

At his gesture, the woman is pushed to her knees in the dust. She tries to reach for her son, but another tug at her braid turns her face back to the old man. He’s facing toward me, saying something. A quick flick of my thumb cranks the magnification to maximum, and I can read his lips.

“Sister Andrea,” he asks, “what’s the meaning of all this?”

Her back is to me; I cannot read her answer. The old man shakes his head sadly, though.

“No, Sister. No. ‘He that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity, and the rod of his anger shall fail.’ Your young Matthew, he ‘sowed iniquity’ when attempting to strike Brother Lucas, and ‘the rod of his anger’ certainly did fail. Brother Lucas merely corrected this iniquity, this vanity.”

The old man turns to the little boy, weakly attempting to sit up. That must have been one hell of a backhand. He turns back to the mother, smiling. “You see? He’s just fine. And he’s learned a powerful lesson today. ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.’ The Lord’s Word tells us this, my dear.”

I hadn’t expected an education today: Theology One-Oh-One: How to Twist the Bible, taught by Professor Crazy Asshole. Can’t wait to fill out the end of term critique on this guy.

Again, I can’t tell what Andrea says, but she lunges toward the old man against the grip of the men holding her to her knees, and a brief flicker of anger crosses his face before he settles back to an expression of calm.

“Now, Sister Andrea, I believe you may need to be reminded of a few other things as well. Does not the apostle say ‘wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands’? And does he not also say ‘for the husband is the head of the wife’? You have forgotten yourself.” He holds out a hand to-- what was his name? Brother Lucas?

I think I like Target Delta better.

“Brother Lucas,” the son of a bitch says, “if you please? We certainly cannot fail in our duty to correct error where we see it.”

Target Delta, Lucas, has an evil grin on his face as he strips off his belt and steps up to the kneeling woman. That old bastard was quoting verses about husbands and wives. Delta and Andrea are married. And that’s her son? This son-of-a-bitch hit his own kid like that? Oh yes, I do want to do very,
very
bad things to him.

My mood doesn’t improve as I watch him lay several dozen hard strokes of a thick leather belt on his wife. She huddles, trying to shield herself with her arms, but it’s futile. An arm to shield her face leaves her breasts vulnerable to the lash; covering her chest leaves belly and face open.

I can’t protect everyone, and I can’t avenge everyone, but Andrea? I vow to you: this ends.

With her whipping ended, Andrea keeps her head down and crawls to her child. The old man steps back up in front of her, and again I read his lips.

“‘All the wives,’ and this is from the book of Esther, Sister Andrea, ‘shall give to their husbands honor.’ Can you remember this, from now on, Sister Andrea? Will you give Brother Lucas your cheerful submission and obedience?”

Andrea’s body shudders, racked with pain and sobbing. Even if I’d been close enough to hear her speak, I doubt she could have formed coherent words.

“Still,” the old man says, “it’s best to be certain. To be truly sure. As The Lord’s Word says: ‘it is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and angry woman,’ and though we have plenty of wilderness around us, I simply can’t spare Brother Lucas for the next few days.” He shakes his head sadly again at the weeping mother and child. “Therefore, I think it best if we remove
you
for a while, instead.” He steps back, turns to her husband. “The penance box is empty, I believe, Brother Lucas?”

“Yes, Father Emmanuel.” Lucas nods fervently. Father Emmanuel. Now I have a name for him. There’s nobody else that could be Courtney’s
him
. You’re on my list too, you evil bastard.

“Then it’s settled!” Emmanuel beams, spreading his hands wide. “Jonah’s redemption required three days in the belly of the whale. That should be plenty to bring the woman back to the path of righteousness.” His gaze turns cold upon Lucas before he continues. “And take care, Brother Lucas. Your position requires you to set a good example. You would do well to ensure your wife and child do not stray from the path again. If you cannot keep your own family pure and in line with the Word of the Lord, then how will the rest of the flock trust you as a shepherd?”

Forget Theology One-Oh-One. This is a post-doctoral class, taught by the 2016 Nobel winner for Advances in Insanity!

Target Delta bows his head in assent. I can’t see his lips, can’t tell if he makes a response, but he roughly pulls his wife to her feet by her long, dark braid. She’s still cradling Matthew in her arms as her son of a bitch husband drags her to a small wooden building standing alone in the middle of an open area in front of the main farmhouse. It’s not much bigger than a phone booth, and with the walls and roof painted a very dark brown it must be miserable there in the summer.

Lucas pushes his family inside and slides the door shut. There’s no lock on it, only a simple latch on the outside. Apparently they don’t expect anyone outside to interfere. If I get even the smallest reason, I’m going to make sure you fucking regret that.

A rumble and a dust cloud half-hidden by the trees to the west announces the arrival of a vehicle. It’s the truck from the farmer’s market, by the sound of it. Sure enough, it’s the ugly farm truck painted with these sick assholes’ obscene church slogans.

I watch her limp away from the truck, and my fury seethes. Calm, Sean. Calm. Maintain. You’re in mission mode, now. Stay frosty. Gotta keep this cold. Hot rage leads to mistakes, and you can’t afford mistakes.

No,
Courtney
can’t afford for you to make mistakes. Not after that shit.

The greasy-haired prick from back in town, the target I’ve named Alpha, is following closely behind her. The truck is between them and the older woman, and he thinks nobody can see him pawing clumsily at Courtney’s body. She glares at him, venom dripping from her gaze, and he just laughs. My right forefinger curls, taking up the slack on an imaginary trigger. You’re lucky I’m looking at you through binoculars, Alpha. If only this was a scope instead.

Alpha’s hands are empty, but Courtney is carrying something heavy. Almost at the steps to the farmhouse’s front door, she stumbles, but recovers, resting her burden against the large shape of a full-size propane tank next to the house. I wonder if that’s full? I wish I’d thought to pack some flammables. Fire and explosions make nice distractions, and this place would look so much nicer in flames.

I follow Courtney in the high-powered binoculars as she goes from one building to another, making sure I don’t lose track of her. There are no alerts to my phone, though, and no immediately obvious threats appear.

I watch as Courtney goes to the so-called hospital, and is there for nearly an hour. Visiting Heather, I guess. Heather always was a piece of work. I suppose it makes sense that she’d descend back to her natural level. She carries a small girl around the compound in her arms, one of the children I’d seen playing with Matthew and the dog earlier, and they smile and laugh at jokes I can’t hear. Courtney is so good with the little girl, so natural, and if I didn’t know better I’d think maybe it was her daughter.