The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (27 page)

“Oh, sweetie,” Sunshine said, “it’s nothing like that. We’re going to go to a hotel for a few weeks, just to keep out of sight and keep you protected because the Lord and The Prophet told us to prepare for raids, that’s all.”

Hannah nodded. She wanted to believe. Sunshine wouldn’t lie, would she? They could lie to outsiders in the Void, but Chosen didn’t lie to Chosen. If the adults didn’t want you to know something, they just rebuked you for asking. But maybe this was different. Maybe Sunshine would lie because Elijah was here, and it was so obvious that Elijah wasn’t supposed to know anything. Did adults lie to adults?

Elijah cleared his throat, like apparently he was done with the topic and ready to move on to something else. Hannah tensed.

He said, “You understand, sweetie, that moving outside the Haven doesn’t change the lessons that you need to learn, right? We’re still very concerned about your spiritual health, and from some of the reports that I’ve received over the last few days, it seems you’re still letting the Devil into your life.”

Hannah didn’t say anything. Whatever it was she’d done this time, she was completely unaware of it. Maybe the confusion showed on her face, or maybe a look of pure innocence, because Elijah continued.

“Many people have noticed a gloom on your countenance,” he said. “When you are full of the Lord’s spirit, it shows, and you’ve not been letting Jesus shine through you. You need to smile more, Hannah, and let others see Jesus in you.”

Hannah nodded. There hadn’t been a whole lot to smile about lately, but that was never a basis or justification for letting her countenance darken. No matter how sad, you couldn’t show it, it was very important that you smile and let Jesus shine through you always, and with so much going on inside her heart these past few days, she had been careless about what showed on the outside.

“You can pack after lunch,” Elijah said. And when she’d nodded again, he said, “Now come give me a hug and show me that you’re right with the Lord.”

Hannah stood, leaned toward him, gave him a hug. Elijah reached around, squeezed and patted her bottom, more of that uncomfortable kind of touch.

“The Bible says, ‘Whom the Lord loves, He chastens,’ ” Elijah said, “and we only punish you because we love you and want you to be the best that you can be for Jesus.”

Hannah returned to the kitchen as slowly as possible. The only thing waiting for her was rotten vegetables, so there was no reason to hurry, and Hez couldn’t be mad if it was Elijah who’d called her away. Maybe, if she was lucky, Hez needed them right away and so had already sent someone else to do the sorting.

Hannah thought about all the things that Elijah had said, and as she always did whenever she was taken for a talk, or when any other
piece of news came her way, she searched out whatever good she could find, so that she could hold on to it and convince herself that everything was okay. As long as she could make herself believe, then the sick feeling was controllable.

Hannah reached the kitchen, but before opening the door, she paused to make sure her countenance was right. A half-smile would be enough. Too much would look fake and make it seem that she’d gotten into more trouble, and that would cause just as much of a problem.

Hand to the door, Hannah pushed it open, and every part of her body and every secret prayer reached toward Heaven in the hope that Sunshine had told the truth.

W
orking with Gideon had set Munroe back two hours, making it midafternoon before she finally rolled the Peugeot to a stop outside the Ranch gate. The routine for getting inside was the same as it had been since the beginning: a wait at the gate, a slow drive to the house, and another wait for Elijah.

But three days in, and her arrival had become routine enough that Dust, the teenage boy, accepted her offer of a ride to the door and was not nearly so reticent as he’d been at the beginning. Having the boy in the car was the first time that Munroe had been entirely alone with one of the younger set, and although a dozen questions ran through her head, the ride was too short for any of them, even if it was long enough for her to try to ingratiate herself.

Eyes fixed ahead on the gravel road, the better to avoid intimidation and to pass off the illusion of innocence, Munroe said, “You must be special; not just anyone gets to manage the gate, do they?”

In her peripheral vision, Dust grinned. “I’m a Greeter,” he said. “Not really anything special.” But his voice betrayed the pride he held in the position—even if he was but a helper—trusted only enough to open the gate for people known to the Haven, not enough to take on strangers the way Esteban was trusted.

Munroe stopped next to parking spaces that should have been
empty but weren’t. The vans were gone, and in their place stood two late-model Mercedes sedans, black and imposing with windows tinted nearly as dark as the paint. These weren’t the kind of vehicles that could inconspicuously transport fifteen people around town, nor the types of cars bought on the Haven’s very limited budget.

Munroe exited the car, walked to the rear of the sedans, stood still and stared, a deliberate gesture meant to provoke an explanation from Dust without having to ask for it.

The boy turned back, said “Visitors,” and waited for her to follow.

The likeliest explanation was Sponsors, those the Haven courted for money and protection, and this was a twist. Depending on who the Sponsors were and what connections they carried, any number of complications could be brought into the equation.

The one-word response was the best she would get from Dust without prying, and as with any grab for information, holding back for a score was better than ruining an opportunity over a tidbit. The boy could have his silence; she’d get a trace on the visitors as soon as she could get the license-plate information to Bradford.

Munroe left her overnight bag on the backseat of the car and followed Dust inside. Instead of leading her to the alcove as she expected, he took her up the stairs to a small plywood room that walled off part of the landing near the stairwell. Dust knocked to announce his presence, Elijah’s voice called them inside, and the boy poked his head beyond the door. Dust motioned Munroe onward, then turned and left, returning to whatever kept him occupied all day—certainly not waiting for the gate bell to ring.

The little room, crowded with shelves and all the paraphernalia of a home office, was clearly shared space. Elijah sat at a makeshift desk on a metal folding chair, laptop in front of him, and a stack of papers on the side. When Munroe entered, he stood to give her a hug, blocking the way before she got far into the claustrophobic space.

She bristled at the uninvited physical contact, and once again, against visions of inflicting bodily harm, forced a casual reciprocation.
Directly behind Elijah were three rows of shelves only partially veiled by a curtain, and books of Instructives visible beyond it. This was why he’d blocked her way.

Elijah still bore the distracted, frazzled look of yesterday and motioned toward the door, so that they both returned the way she’d come.

“I had another dream last night,” Munroe said, and before he could reply, handed him an envelope. “God told me to give this to you.”

Elijah took the envelope with an appropriate pause, a glance long enough to ensure gratitude and appreciation, quick enough to avoid appearing money hungry. Without opening the envelope, he said, “Thank you,” and then, guiding her back toward the stairs, said, “The Lord could use you in his service today. If you are willing, there’s a need in the kitchen.”

“I’d love that,” she said, and notwithstanding that within The Chosen willingness was never a choice, there was more truth in her simple statement than in anything she’d said to him thus far.

The kitchen was on the ground floor, far back along a hallway that ran behind the stairs, cordoned off from the rest of the house by a solid door that remained closed.

Elijah opened the door, and Munroe entered a room much warmer than the barely heated house. Whatever had been going on came to a near stop, and in the quasi-silence the hiss of large pots simmering on an industrial-size gas stove was louder than it should have been.

In the center of the kitchen, allowing minimal walking space around it, was a makeshift wooden island with enough counter space to accommodate the three teenage girls who stood chopping vegetables. On the far wall were large stainless-steel sinks, in front of them a teenage boy, and beside him a guy in his early thirties whom Munroe assumed was responsible for orchestrating whatever went on inside these walls.

Elijah introduced Munroe, spoke in English, and said little. The thirty-something introduced himself as Hez, to which Munroe guessed
Hezekiah. The boy, Jotham, faced the door only long enough for an introduction, then turned his back to the room and his hands to their labor. The girls smiled, if somewhat shyly, and moved closer together to make space.

On the other side of the island, between Morningstar—Elijah’s daughter of the night prior—and a new face called Sarai, stood Hannah, who introduced herself as Faith.

In Munroe’s mind, this should have been the moment of the great escape. This was where the good guys finally got close to the target, whipped out the guns, and dragged the kid safely out of the compound.

And technically, Munroe could do it.

All it would take was a quick stroll to the car, a click of the trunk, and a return with a weapon. The gate out front wasn’t much of an obstacle, considering that her car’s air bags had already been removed for such an eventuality. If the little band in the kitchen chose to fight instead of cower, it might be a struggle to hold on to Hannah and fend off the other four, but it was possible.

Not possible without firing a round or two, which given the potential presence of Sponsors on the property would be an unwise course of action.

But this wasn’t the movies.

These were real people, with real lives, real teenagers who, among all else, didn’t need the traumatic emotional damage of witnessing that type of violence. Especially not on top of what they already experienced in daily life. These were the brothers and sisters that Heidi and Logan and Gideon cared so intensely about, and to harm any of them as a way to rescue another was to inflict pain in the course of healing.

If violence was the only way to get Hannah out, Munroe would act. But there were other, cleaner ways. Tonight, while the Haven slept, she would plot the house and call Bradford in. Together they would extract the girl and be done with this place for good.

In the meantime, the kitchen provided the perfect opportunity to develop familiarity, confidence, and camaraderie, not only with Hannah
but also with Morningstar, Heidi’s sister. Through Morningstar, Munroe could delve further, and better understand what tack to take with Hannah once she was successfully pulled.

Hez, in Spanish that was poor at best, gave Munroe a brief run-down of what the kitchen needed to accomplish in the next two hours. She nodded meekly, and when he was finished, she shrugged out of her coat, glancing around for a place to set it.

As she’d hoped, he recommended that she keep it in the living room, and so Munroe left the kitchen, moving slowly only as long as they watched. When the door shut, she headed to the big room at a near run. She dropped the coat on one chair, placed a bug underneath another, and then mounted a microcamera close enough to the floorboards so that it was almost unnoticeable.

The camera was small, with limited battery life and limited range, but provided she didn’t go far, the receiver in her purse would pick up the signal, boost, and transmit. She aimed the lens toward the front door but had no time to check for accuracy. She’d try to fix it later.

Munroe knelt by the chair, said, “Take note. I need you to run these license plates,” and to the quiet living room recited from memory the numbers she’d taken from the black sedans.

Even if Bradford wasn’t at his desk when the bug had gone live, he’d be eager for any data coming from the Ranch and would find it soon enough. Munroe left it at that. Bradford had what he needed to get to work, and if he turned up anything urgent, he’d call the cell phone set up for that purpose, although, for the sake of appearances, outside of an emergency, it was best that she avoid calling him.

Munroe returned to the kitchen and stood at the island with the girls. Morningstar pushed a bowl of potatoes in her direction and handed her a cutting board and knife.

With a silent sigh, Munroe turned to the knife, bulky and dull. Had those in this room any inkling of what the predator inside her could do with this clunky kitchen blade, they would never so blithely carry on. Her fingers closed around the handle and the knife became one with her body, an extension of her arm. On instinct she measured
the weight and balance, pulled a potato from the bowl, and, as she was shown, cubed it.

English was the lingua franca, the conversation casual and at times even irreverent. From the sporadic banter, Munroe learned more about The Chosen and their ways than she had in all of her conversations with Elijah. Occasionally Morningstar would pause and, in turn, interpret selected phrases into Spanish, unaware, because of Munroe’s pretended ignorance, that everything said was not only understood but also recorded.

It also quickly became clear that when Spanish was spoken, Hez and Jotham understood little of what was said and cared even less.

The dynamic of the kitchen was a lesson in the division of power. This was Hez’s domain; he was responsible for making miracles with the food supplied to him, and each person yielded to him in matters of the work being done. But in all else, Morningstar, Heidi’s sister, held sway. Morningstar was the one trusted with guiding Munroe, the one from whom the others guarded thoughts and conversation, and to whom they deferred when talking with this stranger.

Time progressed, and the little group grew more comfortable with Munroe’s presence. She was integrated into the conversation, cracking quips that made the girls laugh, and asking the occasional question. Not the uncomfortable topics that were standard fare out in the Void; nothing about what they did for fun or their favorite subjects in school, and definitely no discussion about college or their career choices—as if such decisions were theirs to make. She stayed within familiar territory where there were no traps or pitfalls, or topics tiptoed around in order to make their way of life more palatable to an outsider, and thus they felt less reason to guard their conversation.