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“Do you know why Dad had you get all those supplies for James and the other men?” Bailey asked, trying not to sound accusatory. “I read your letters.”
There was an urgency to have answers because the window to ask these questions was closing. She felt owed this by her mother.
“I don’t question your father. That is where you and I have always been different.”
Her mother spoke as though critical thinking was some sort of crime; Bailey knew that was half the problem. Questioning things allowed people to gain a deeper understanding of the world around them, to challenge assumptions, and to learn new information. Life has to be filled with the choice to explore different perspectives and open up to new possibilities. More than any of that, questioning things creates a path to identify and address problems, and to make informed decisions based on evidence. The absence of those things is exactly how a cult can thrive.
“They’re for meth,” Bailey replied flatly. “Dad was a strict prohibitionist. A purist ideology could never tolerate the use of any mind-altering substance or something used for escapism. Don’t you think it’s strange that in the pursuit of money he changed that stance?”
Her mother showed her proverbial hand accidently. “No one was doing the drugs. Creating them for the sake of his plan is not in conflict with prohibition or purity. If we are to exist and conquer in the capitalist world, we may occasionally have to participate in its evil ways.”
Bailey had read that line verbatim in a letter from her father to her mother. It turned her stomach.
“They are using,” Bailey explained, wishing she was a big enough person to leave her argumentative tone at the door. Unfortunately there was no way for her to divorce emotion from this.
“Who?”
“Some of the men. King saw for himself. They’re tweaking. Out there cooking meth and using it too. That’s not part of Dad’s plan, is it?”
“They will be dealt with upon your father’s return.”
“He will never be back. And you will be dead. Why can’t you see that? There might still be time to save your life. I can get you to the hospital tonight. But it has to be your choice.”
“I will never choose anything that goes against your father’s will. For he is—”
“Please, Mama," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "You don't have to listen to his prophecies anymore. You don't have to die. I'm here. I'm your daughter. Choose me, for once. Let your maternal instincts kick in and fight for your life. Let me be enough for you.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed in confusion. There was no scorn or anger there. It was genuine perplexity over the words spilling from Bailey’s mouth.
“How could you ever be enough? You’re competing with God. With your father, a true prophet of the land and the Lord. It makes no sense to think just because you are my daughter, that would be enough. I’d be a fool to forsake everything I believe for just one earthly being. Don’t ask that of me.” A well of tears began building in her eyes and for the first time, Bailey saw her mother was conflicted with the idea.
Perhaps it was fear of death. Or some tiny strand of lingering doubt. But as quickly as it began, it was gone. Her mother righted herself and shook her head. “You’re tempting me with evil. I won’t be led astray.”
Bailey swelled with guilt. She remembered why she’d never asked her mother to choose her before. It wasn’t fair. The spell was too strong. Her father’s hold too strangling. It was a drug. And like any addict, it was not simply a matter of willpower or choice. An addiction this strong would require professional help, and without it, begging to be loved more than the drug would never work.
“Any time,” Bailey began, “I don’t care when it is or what is going on, if you change your mind and want to live and be treated at the hospital, I will get you there. We don’t have to agree on why you’re going. We don’t have to talk about what happens after. But just say the word, and I’ll get you help.”
“My help will come from reclaiming our land under the guidance of your father. I will be healed.”
All Bailey could do was nod and offer a small defeated smile. “I’ll let you rest,” she whispered, backing out of the room with tears streaking down her face.
It was after midnight and the cloudless sky was bright with stars and a nearly full moon.
All the familiar sounds of Cinderhill in the late night hours were echoing through the trees and filling the air with a soothing yet eerie melody. There was something comforting in knowing this symphony of nature had existed long before her and would be here well after.
The rustling of leaves underfoot, the distant hoot of an owl, the chirping of crickets, and the croaking of frogs could all be heard in the silence.
The gentle rush of wind through the leaves and the occasional rustling of a creature passing by unsettled her now. Was there something more sinister in the darkness? Something deadly?
The distant howl of a coyote and the snap of a twig heightened the sense of danger that lurked in the dark.
But it was the new and unfamiliar sound that worried her the most. King’s whispering voice on the phone. He was calling Carmen. Telling her that Bailey had screwed it all up again. Danger was at their doorstep and she needed to be rescued one more time. A reality that slapped her across the face and left a sting that wouldn’t let up. She knew, however, the pain was just starting.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
“I’m sorry to reach out so late. I know these are tough calls for you to answer.” King kept his voice low, though he wasn’t sure why. It was Carmen who needed to be clandestine about this call, not him.
“I want the updates. I stayed in the office tonight. I’m working on mobilizing what I can from here to make sure you’ve got transportation and safe housing for everyone who needs to flee in the morning.”
