Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Nelly
Blocking out the noise around me, I lie in bed and stare at the contact in my phone.
Jake.
Just reading his name sparks a reaction in my body that I can’t seem to shut down.
Thinking about what we did in that dirty, earthen tunnel makes me quiver.
I came so hard.
I was so loud I could have caused a cave-in.
And here I am, staring at his name in my phone like some lovesick teenager?
It was just a hookup. It was a bargain in exchange for his keeping his mouth shut about me.
I know why he gave me his number.
He wants to see me again. He wants to hook up again, but he wants me to initiate it.
However, I can’t give out my number.
Someone knocks softly on the door to my room, and I quickly shove my phone under my pillow.
One of the sister-wives peeks her head in. Mary, the worn and tired seventh wife of the late Elder Trace. One of several non-biological moms to Louisa, the woman who escaped last year.
“If you want to eat, better come now before the kids devour all the potato soup,” she says.
Mary dutifully made room for me at the elders’ request, after they’d decided my provenance checked out.
The house is teeming with children, both hers and those of two other sister-wives. To make room for me, one of those mothers moved out and was afforded a trip with her husband to another of the church’s compounds in Arizona.
I climb off my noisy little twin bed and go into the kitchen, grateful for some watery potato soup. I can’t be too much of a recluse, or people will start to think I’m weird. And one thing you don’t want to do is stand out in this crowd for the wrong reasons.
“How was your visit to the emergency room, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mary asks as I slurp the thin, disappointing potato soup.
Oh. That. “Fine. The ER doctor is recommending a hysterectomy, but I’m undecided about it. My late husband didn’t approve of anything invasive like that. So I may get a second opinion from the homeopath next week.”
I gulp, hoping she buys this story.
And I hope that I can convince Carl to let me visit that coffee shop again. While I was there, I heard some older women in line quietly whispering about one of the baristas, referring to him as a “Lost Boy.”
From what I understand, that refers to teen boys who are routinely kicked out of cults. That might be a proper inside source I’m looking for.
If word gets around that I have these types of issues, it’s more likely I’ll be allowed to leave the compound for a “doctor visit.” And maybe I can arrange a meeting with that barista to get more information. Also, the less likely I am to get notified that I’ve been “promised” to one of the elders.
Mary nods in understanding. “Trace never wanted me to get my fibroids removed either. He didn’t trust me not to get my tubes tied once the doctors were in there.”
I’m shocked at this revelation. “And did you? Get the lumps removed?”
She nods and gives a small smile. “And mysteriously, I never conceived again. So it all worked out.”
Mary holds my gaze a second too long, giving everything away. She went against her husband’s wishes and requested to have her tubes tied without his knowledge. Thank god. Nine children are already too much for one body. And she wanted me to know.
Pleased at discovering that Mary has a rebellious streak, I angle for more information.
“It must be difficult for you, being alone without your husband,” I say. “Not being allowed to leave the house without permission from the elders. Having to care for other people’s kids.”
She gives an odd smile. “I miss his occasional company very much. And I’m sorry that the youngest child will grow up without their father. But to tell you the truth, not much has changed for me.”
“How so?”
Mary gestures around the meager space. “I didn’t have enough before, and I still don’t have enough to scrape by.”
“According to the principles of the church, widows are supposed to be provided for. You’re supposed to be married to someone else within months, so you don’t fall into poverty.”
She laughs ruefully and sits down at the table while a few of the older children begin cleaning up dishes, pots, and pans. “I’ve never not had to stretch every dollar that came my way.”
I try, “Was Trace in trouble with the elders because of it?”
Might as well dig into the murders if I can’t get information about forced domestic servitude.
The look Mary gives me is severe. “He was no different than any of them.”
I nod. “It must be difficult to feed everyone you’re responsible for.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s not difficult. There are silos out there chock full of food. The problem is, they think we have to save it all for the apocalypse. You know this, Wynella. You grew up in the Wyoming church, didn’t you? You’re a Smith and you’re from the Barkers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She seems a little exasperated with me. “So, you know how it works. We have to suffer in this life to be glorified in the next.”
Yeah, I do know this from my research and from hanging around these people for the last while. But when she says it so forcefully, it lacks the ring of truth. Mary doesn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth.
I put on a phony, wistful face. “I never had children because of my health issues. Sometimes it’s easy to forget what it’s like for everyone having to feed so many kids. I can see, as in the case of Elder Trace, why it would make a person depressed.”
She says nothing but gulps down what remains at the bottom of the bowl in front of her.
“Is that why he disappeared in the mountains? He was overwhelmed by everything? That’s what I heard. I had an uncle who did that. Just abandoned his family and went into the woods and took his own life. It was terrible.”
Mary glances over her shoulder to make sure none of the children are listening. Most of them have gone outside.
“Trace didn’t kill himself, Wynella. The Prophet had him shot dead for asking questions. He didn’t want to hand over his daughters to another elder.”
I blink at her and lean forward, hoping to god my mic is working.
“You’re telling me they killed your husband to get him out of the way?”
“I’m telling you they’re monsters and they’re killing off their own.”
I swallow hard. “I’m sure that’s not still happening now that Orlyn Moffatt is in jail.”
She blinks at me. “You really don’t know how things work in Montana, do you?”
“Who else has The Prophet ordered dead?” I whisper, a smile pulling at my lips.
The list she gives me is astonishing. She ticks off at least twelve people on her fingers.
My blood runs cold. I’ve investigated mob bosses. Drug kingpins. Weapons smugglers. Child traffickers. The worst of the worst.
My mouth is dry, though I have to get her on record for what I have to ask next. “But if The Prophet’s in jail, who’s pulling the trigger, Mary?”
She blinks at me. “His wives did, of course. The ones who always do the dirty work.”
“Why?” I ask with a hoarse voice.
“Because the wives are expendable,” she says flatly, then moves to the sink to finish washing the dishes.
She says nothing when I join her to rinse, dry, and put away.
I stay silent for the rest of the evening, wrapping my head around what she’s just told me.
Orlyn Moffatt is a serial killer.