LITMIR.BIZ

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      Her head jerked up as if slapped. “Josh!” she cried, without thinking. “Is he all right?”

      He beat furiously on his drums. “God judged Brother Shimron in the barn today!” he shouted with sudden fury. “Yes, cast him down to his death for his pride and his evil, rebellious thoughts! Take heed and repent, lest you likewise die!”

      She could not think. She could not move. She could only scream inside, No, no, no, no, NO! God, please! You can’t! You can’t! Not my beloved Josh. It’s not fair!

      Suddenly he jumped up. Striding rapidly across the room, he stood before her, then leaned over. Lifting her face to his, he smirked.

      “But God is merciful to you, Sister Abigail. He told me that I can cover the blood of your husband’s transgressions with the cloak of my own holiness. Therefore, after cleansing our camp from this evil, tomorrow night you and your young co-worker, Sister Deborah, will receive the Sign of the Anointed and become my newest Exalted Handmaidens.” Touching her shoulder suggestively, “May your bodies be as fruitful in the Prophet’s service as your needlework, bringing forth many Sons and Daughters of Light. Of course, before that privilege, you must still complete your sewing orders on time!”

      Abruptly taking her hands in his, he smothered them with sloppy kisses.

      Then pushing her away, “Pee-ew! Is that ‘baccy juice I smell? Get out!”

      “M-my husband!” she stammered. “Where is my darling husband?”

      But the Prophet was once more pounding away at his drums. And the guards were already pulling her along the hall, banging her injured ankle roughly against the concrete floor.

      Outside, numb with shock, she gasped, “My son—is he all right? And my husband—my husband’s b-body. I must prepare him for burial. Where is he?”

      One guard sneered. “None of your business, woman. We already nailed that varmint’s casket shut. We’ll bury him tonight just before Evening Prayer Feast. But, don’t worry, the Prophet will soon have you forgetting that loser. Consider yourself lucky.”

      The other was sterner. “Never mention that son of the devil again! And thank God the Prophet is willing to save you from condemnation. Now back to your sewing room. You still have a deadline to meet. Go on; git!”

      The pain in both heart and ankle almost overwhelmed her. Yet she knew if she dared cry out as her very soul longed to, she’d be beaten savagely. Or worse.

      You’re the one who believed in Harve, not me; I never believed in anyone but you. I can’t even understand God the way you do. Yet I never stopped hoping that this nightmare would end. That someday I would be back in your arms, and everything would be just like old times.

      But now it’s too late. Oh, dear God, never to hold you again? I can’t bear it!

      And what about her children? Little Jeremy had been in the barn, too. Did he see it all? Was he all right? Was little Amber?

      At her first step outside, she collapsed in agony. Finally she tore a strip off her dress hem to bandage her badly swollen ankle. Then, rummaging around in the weeds, she found a rickety tomato stake for a cane, and stumbled back to the sewing room.

      Amid the furtive glances and whispers of her co-workers, Melinda’s fingers were soon working as feverishly as her mind. Yes, Josh had obviously decided to leave, and take her and the children with him. He must have been found out by the Prophet, who would stop at nothing to maintain his diabolical hold over them all. Including his just-stated intention to take both Josh’s widow and her young friend to his own bed.

      The imprints of the Prophet’s lips against her hands still burned. Dear God, she loved only Josh and always had. This man must never touch her body.

      But how to stop him? In the two years since the Prophet’s “special revelation” to acquire a harem of Exalted Handmaidens, he and his wife Agnes, now the Exalted (and exceedingly plump) Prophetess, had sneeringly bestowed Sign of the Anointed chains and pendants (of common pewter, instead of precious metal like the men’s) on a dozen Disciple women, and ordered them to his bed. A bed Agnes no longer bothered to share. And, later, welcomed to the compound his mistresses’ infant Sons and Daughters of Light. Babies the Prophetess, thankfully, determined never to produce herself.

      Although almost fourteen, Melinda’s young coworker Shannon had escaped the Prophet’s attention up to now, for she was as small and unformed as a child. But rumor had it that lately he’d been eyeing several of the young girls, as well as most of the rest of the women. Dear Shannon—brought here as a child by a father who disappeared soon afterward, without ever telling her what happened to her mother. She hadn’t smiled for years, yet still dreamed of someday being able to return to “a real church and regular school. And train to be an engineer. Or even an astronaut! You know, Sister Abigail, like we used to watch on TV—back before everything changed.”

      Of course, some of the women the Prophet took might have been flattered by their leader’s attention. But, flattered or not, they had absolutely no choice. Not with the Prophet’s guards and guns around. Nor would Melinda, unless she and Shannon and her children all managed to escape before tomorrow night.

      But how?

      How to get past the many well-armed guards, including those on constant surveillance from the Tower of Sanctuary and all the guard towers; past the pit bulls, the barbed-wire-and-electric fences, the closed-circuit TV security system, the electronic bugs implanted everywhere, the massive gates at the compound’s only entrance?

      And then what? How could Melinda run with no strength, no shoes, a sprained ankle, two small, tired and hungry children, plus Shannon, an equally exhausted teen-ager? What would they do for transportation, food, money? How far could they get before the Prophet’s jeeps, trucks, and motorcycles came rumbling through the deserted countryside after them, to take them back—or bury them where they fell?

      “Trust in God,” Josh used to say, back before he was forced to say, “Trust in the Prophet,” instead. Now she silently pled with a God she had prayed to her entire life, but still didn’t really seem to know. Josh’s God. The One he had continued to love and trust unreservedly. The One she longed to love and trust completely, too.

      Dear God, please help us now!

      Chapter Four

      

      Oh, the horror of Josh’s burial! Seeing the roughly-nailed-together coffin of the only man she had ever loved, tender husband and caring father, took almost all her strength away. Of course, it was even harder on her dear children and sweet little Shannon—for whom Josh had been the only father figure she could remember. Yet none of them was allowed to comfort each other. Or to touch or even get close to the coffin.

      How did it happen? Did Josh fall from the loft or get crushed by some machinery? Could he have been saved if someone had called a doctor in Cottontree, or rushed him to the hospital over in Big Bend? There were trucks aplenty in the compound to take him either place. Apparently no one even notified the County Sheriff or Coroner—or a funeral home, for that matter.

      Why not? Were they ordered not to—by the Prophet himself ?

      It didn’t make sense. After all, Josh was not only one of the commune’s most loyal members, but—as the only computer expert among them—probably the most valuable one!

      As all the Disciples were forced to watch, four of the guards dug a rough trench in the weed-filled Disappeared Ones area outside the Tower of Sanctuary, near one of the child-sized graves. Then, without hymn, prayer, or other comfort, the Prophet shouted, “See what happened to this sinner? This is God’s warning to a rebellious people! For Jehovah Himself killed this evil one for plotting against God’s Anointed!”

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