LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Sister Abigail.” She added passionately, “Oh, I hate that name!”

      Noah glared at her. “What’s that got to do with you kidnapping these poor kids?”

      “I-I’m trying to tell you, sir. See, our farm used to be a Christian commune, paid for by all of us. Now it’s called Osborn Christian Ministries, with Rev. Osborn owning everything. Our family would have left long ago, but we became the Prophet’s prisoners, his slaves. Calling it a Christian ministry is a lie. Everyone’s kept there at gunpoint except for the Prophet and Prophetess and their guards.”

      Noah’s wife Silvia nodded sympathetically. “Si. I remember when you people bought that farm. Ten years ago, no?”

      Pete still looked grim. “Yeah, but what about this business of murdering your husband?”

      Melinda burst into tears. “No, no, I’d never do that! I love Josh and always will. But yesterday something did happen to him. I-I don’t know what. The Prophet—that is, Rev. Osborn—and his guards told me Josh was killed. But they wouldn’t tell me when or how or anything. I wasn’t even allowed to see his body, and nobody would call the doctor or Sheriff or anyone to get help for him! They just buried him in an old pine coffin right there on the farm!

      Then, to make matters worse, tonight Shannon and I were going to be forced to sleep with the Prophet—with Rev. Osborn— as his new so-called wives. He pretends to be so religious, you know.” Shuddering, “But he drinks and does drugs, and treats all the women and girls like his own private harem!”

      Noah rubbed his chin. “You know, I did hear about something like that. The way them fellers carouse around town, well, I figured they wasn’t up to no good. But letting one of their employees just die—now that’s hard to believe, ma’am.”

      Afraid to wake the children, Melinda tried hard not to sob. “Oh, sir, everything there is hard to believe—including at least a dozen other deaths there that I know of that were never reported, such as old men and little babies and women in childbirth! We’ve all gone through torture for years now. Even little children are forced to work day and night, with never enough to eat or wear. Never a moment to rest or play. Never a possession to call our own—not even Bibles or IDs or our own legal names. They just laugh at the law. And at real Christian love.”

      Pointing to her foot, “Look at this ankle—that’s from being pushed down a flight of stairs at gunpoint today. Look at little Shannon’s hand—from having to operate a sewing machine all last night without any rest, and finally dozing off and running a machine needle right through her flesh. Neither of us had any medical care for our wounds until your dear family just now helped us. And we would never have had medical care, period, if we’d stayed at the compound. Only the Prophet, the Prophetess, and their guards are allowed to see doctors.”

      Pointing to Shannon and her own two children, sound asleep with Noah’s grandchildren and Miracle on some of the bus seats, “None of the kids there go to school. And they’re not being home schooled, either. They’re just working slaves, like the adults.

      “Neither Shannon nor I had had any food since yesterday morning—until your wife’s tortillas just now. The Prophet makes us sew beautiful clothes—you know, you found some bundles of them on the road back there—so he can sell them and keep the money for himself. But look at the awful clothes we’re forced to wear. We’re not even allowed shoes—just galoshes in the wintertime! Maybe that’s to keep us from trying to escape over the barbed wire fence.”

      Sighing, “I-I know people don’t really go to Hell till they die—and then only if they don’t love God. But, oh, that commune is as near to Hell as I ever want to come!”

      Then between sobs, Melinda told the whole story from California to now, including the getaway and the bundles falling off the truck—the same bundles the Andersons had found.

      Though the children were long since dead to the world, the adults sat wide awake, riveted, as she told her bitter story. Finally Mr. Anderson put away his rifle.

      “A shipment of homemade clothes hiding a shipment of ammo, plus phosphate fertilizer?” he repeated. “I don’t like the sound of this, folks. Sheriff Shelton don’t have no farm. But he do like to tinker around with explosives. Even throws them in Bounty River to kill the fish—and calls it fishing! Plus I never figured that Osborn fellow was up to any good, the way he calls hisself a reverend, yet when he and his men gits into Cottontree or Big Bend, they act like utter trash. Lord-a-mercy, passing hisself off as a godly preacher! Anybody else’d get thrown into the slammer. But the Sheriff never lays a finger on him. Now that ain’t right in the sight of God or man. Just ain’t right at all!”

      His son nodded soberly. “Fellows down at the car lot say the Sheriff and his deputies are all part of a big militia unit called ‘Putting America First.’ Rev. Osborn must be in on it, too. They’ve even got their own survival training camp down at Mt. Pisgah Junction in the woods back of Billy Cox’s place—you know, next to Arrowhead Park, where Rainbow Creek empties into Bounty.”

      Melinda wiped her eyes. “Then that explains the sign by our commune gate,” she remarked. “The ‘Putting America First’ one.”

      “Si,” agreed Silvia. “Sometimes the Sheriff ’s deputies will drive by our fields and shoot into the air over our workers’ heads to scare them. And when we complain, they just laugh and say, ‘If you don’t like it, git back where you come from. America is for Americans only—not lowdown wetback furriners!’ But I’m just as American as they are! I worked and studied hard and now I’m proud to be a citizen. Dios mio! They make fun of our helpers too— Ricardo and Luis, because they come from Mexico and LeRoy because he’s African-American!”

      SueAnn took Melinda’s hand. “What can we do for you, dear?”

      “I-If you could just help us get to Big Bend City, maybe we

      can find a place to live there, even at the Rescue Mission you mentioned—just till I can get in touch with my folks back in California. Once they get over the shock of finding out I’m still alive, maybe they will send me some money to go back there and start a new life with the children. And—and give Josh a proper burial. We’d appreciate if you’d pray for us all too.”

      SueAnn nodded. “Of course we’ll pray for you. But saving you from those fiends is going to take more than prayer. We’ve got to use our brains.” Pulling the scarf off Melinda’s blonde curls, “See, there’s not a chance of an ice cube in a teapot that you’re just going to blend into the woodwork around here without a bit of help. Not with that long, blonde hair. That sprained ankle and swollen lip. And dressed like—like something out of the Middle Ages! And not after that APB out on you. By this time tomorrow every cop for miles around will be on the lookout. In fact, since this park is right by the highway, the Sheriff ’s men could pop by here any minute.”

      Grinning she added, “So, we’ll just have to make it hard for them, won’t we? First I’m going to take some quick snapshots of what all of you look like right now—and of the sewing bundles— in case we need them for evidence later on. Then we’ll see how good we are at disguises.”

      As SueAnn quickly snapped some photos, Silvia checked the sleeping children, then closed the bus’ homemade window curtains. After rummaging around at the back of the vehicle, her daughter-in-law held up a plastic wash basin, some clothes meant for the Rescue Mission, and a big box of beauty supplies ordered by her Aunt Conchita.

      “I’m not as good at this as my aunt is,” she announced cheerfully, “but I’ve certainly watched her enough times, so here goes! You’re first, Melinda!”

      An hour later, all the females in the bus were brunettes, two with still-wet, very dark hair. Shannon’s, Melinda’s, and Amber’s long tresses had all been cut short, as well—even Jeremy’s (at the commune, only the Anointed men were permitted shaves or haircuts). Soon just two now-empty bottles of black hair dye and a pile of hair clippings at the bottom of the bus wastebasket were left to tell the tale.

      Next, holding up a travel blanket

Скачать книгу