2. Ronan
Ronan
The dirt road hasn’t been graded since the last ice age, and every rut punishes my suspension.
I grip the wheel tighter, navigating the Audi around a pothole deep enough to swallow a small dog, and wonder—not for the first time—why I didn’t send someone else for this. Anyone else. A lawyer would work. An accountant, even. Some junior associate.
But I know why. This relationship requires a “light touch,” and I’m the family diplomat. The charmer who makes people forget they’re dealing with the Irish mob until the contract is already signed and the ink is dry.
Fences appear on either side of the road—weathered wood, hand-split, running in long lines toward a cluster of buildings that look transplanted from another century.
The Enclave—that’s what the occupants call this plot of two hundred acres of isolated farmland leased from the O’Rourke family for twenty-two years. They call themselves the Flock and call their leader Father.
I call them a bunch of cult-like freaks led by a narcissist with sociopathic leanings.
But, whatever. It’s a free country. If a person wants to stand on their head and fart scripture out their ass, they’re free to do so. Not that these freaks do that. I don’t think. Honestly, I don’t know. The whole community gives me the creeps, though.
But the arrangement is profitable for the O’Rourke family.
The Children of Light, as they call themselves, sell produce, crafts, handmade soap, wool, and other things through legitimate channels. Certain O’Rourke funds flow through their agricultural books and emerge squeaky clean on the other side. It’s a win-win.
My father brokered the original deal, and now I maintain and manage it.
Which means quarterly visits to review financials, ensure compliance, and shake the hand of a guy whose touch makes me—a man who frequently brushes shoulders with the worst of this city’s criminal underground—want to scrub my skin raw.
The gate is open when I arrive. A young man in what looks like homespun pants and a collarless shirt pulls it wide without meeting my eyes. They never meet my eyes, the men here. The women don’t look up at all.
I park near the chapel—the largest building.
It’s a modest, one-story whitewashed structure with a cluster of other structures surrounding it.
Everything is functional. Nothing is decorative.
There is no color anywhere except the washed-out gray-brown of wood that’s endured too many Chicago winters.
The compound smells the way it always smells—manure, wood smoke, lye soap. I breathe through my mouth and straighten my tie.
The man I’m meeting waits on the chapel steps, his silver hair swept back from his broad forehead. His face might have been handsome once, but now in his sixties, it’s mapped with deep lines, a harsh mouth, and droopy, watery eyes.
His “flock” all call him Father. I doubt they know his real name is Clive Buford and that he’s got a string of past criminal convictions. Or that before he became their spiritual guru, Buford was a straight-up con man.
He wears the same thing every time I see him—a plain white shirt, dark trousers, and a leather belt. They are simple garments for a self-centered egotist—I mean, man of God—who happens to control every aspect of two hundred-plus people’s lives.
“Mr. O’Rourke.” His voice is a murmur. He never raises it, always projecting an appearance of holy serenity. It’s an act. “Welcome. We are blessed by your visit.”
“Buford.” I extend my hand. His grip is dry and firm. “Shall we get started?”
He leads me to his office in the building adjacent to the chapel.
Spartan doesn’t cover it—a desk, two chairs, a shelf of ledgers, and a framed piece of scripture on the wall.
There is no computer, no phone. The financials are kept by hand in bound leather books, which is both a security feature and a massive pain in my ass.
Buford produces a ledger and slides it across the desk.
For thirty minutes, we work through the numbers. Agricultural revenue tracks with projections. The wool operation expanded by twelve percent this quarter. The produce co-op added two new regional buyers. On paper, everything is clean, profitable, and unremarkable.
Buford answers my questions with a measured calm. Every response is precise, every figure accounted for. He’s brilliant with money—I’ll grant him that.
“I believe that concludes our business.” I close the folder and stand. The chair scrapes against the plank floor. I’m already thinking about the drive back, about the bottle of Jameson in my desk drawer, and about the distance between this place and any fucking where else.
He gets up to walk me toward the door when movement catches in my peripheral vision through the window to my left.
Two men—large, burly bouncer-looking men—cross the yard dragging a young woman between them.
They each hold one of her arms, pulling her faster than she can walk.
Her bare feet leave grooves in the dirt as they haul her forward.
She wears a shapeless dress in faded gray.
Her hair is dark brown, long, half-fallen from whatever pins once held it.
She’s crying silently. Tears cut tracks through the dust on her face.
I stop. I don’t know why. It’s none of my business, but I freeze to the spot.
They’re dragging her toward a wooden post driven into the ground at the edge of the clearing, where a small crowd is gathering.
I think I know what the post is. I have a very good idea, anyway. None of my business. I should ignore it. Look the other way. I don’t.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
“Mr. O’Rourke.” Buford’s voice is pitched to soothe. “Our ways may seem harsh to those unfamiliar with them, but they are essential to the spiritual health of our community. I’m sure you understand.”
I try to accept this. I try to compartmentalize, the way I compartmentalize everything in this life. I’m good at boxes. I keep my world in neat little boxes—the violence, the business, the public image, and the man underneath.
I should just get in my car and leave. I don’t give a shit how a bunch of religious zealots deal with their issues. I barely have the devotion to drag myself to Mass on Sundays.
Yeah, I’m just gonna mind my own damn business.
Except then the girl lifts her head.
Her eyes sweep the yard in wild desperation, and for a half-second, they connect with mine.
They’re brown—deep brown and filled with despair.
She’s young. Twenty at most. Her face is all delicate angles—high cheekbones, tear-stained cheeks, a full mouth pressed tight with a particular stubbornness. Her body is slender, but I see lean muscle in her arms, the kind built by hard physical labor.
And she’s fucking beautiful.
Staggeringly, gut-punchingly beautiful.
As one of the men shoves her the last few yards toward the post, my feet begin to carry me forward.
Someone begins to pray aloud—a droning, rhythmic incantation.
A third man steps forward, holding a coiled whip. He reaches out and tears her dress down the front—from shoulder to waist, baring her nude body to the crowd.
She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t make a sound. Her spine is rigid as her face is turned toward the post and her arms are lifted and bound to the wood with leather straps.
Oh, hell no.
The naked curve of her back is already scarred. Faded white lines crossing other faded white lines. Old punishments layered over older punishments, a visible record of years of this abuse.
I move faster—crossing the yard in long strides that eat up the distance.
“Mr. O’Rourke—” Buford pants as he trots along just behind me, his hand reaching out. I ignore him.
The crowd parts around me—wide-eyed, startled, and uncertain. Good. I want them uncertain. I want them to remember that the man walking through their midst can end their lease, their income, and their way of life with a single phone call.
I reach the post where the man with the whip has raised his arm. He freezes when I step into his line of sight.
I don’t look at him. I bend, pick up the torn halves of the primative dress from the dirt, and toss it over my arm as I quickly unbuckle the cuffs binding her wrists. I have to steady her before I drape the coarse garment over her shoulders and instruct her to put it on. She’s trembling.
My charming smile, easy handshake, and the practiced warmth I deploy as a weapon in boardrooms and political fundraisers are gone. What’s left is the feral beast I keep buried under the tailored suits.
I straighten and turn to face Buford, who has followed me into the clearing with a calm that doesn’t fool me. He’s livid.
I don’t give a fuck.
My voice comes out controlled but lethal. “She’s coming with me.”
Buford’s pale eyes narrow. His composure holds, but I watch the calculation happen behind it—the assessment of risk, the weighing of my power against his authority, the understanding that what happens next could threaten everything he’s built.
“Mr. O’Rourke.” Buford’s smiling but his eyes are shooting daggers at me. “I must insist we move our meeting back indoors. Our disciplinary procedures are private matters.”
“Discipline.” I let the word sit in the air.
“Community life requires correction from time to time. As it does with any family.”
“What’s she being punished for?”
A pause. I can see that he’s sizing up the situation. Deciding what he can say to get me to back down and walk away.
“Willful defiance,” he finally says. “Sister Prudence has been far too headstrong as of late. Correction is an act of love, Mr. O’Rourke, as I’m sure you understand. We raise our children to walk the righteous path, and when they stray—”
“She’s a child?”
“She is nineteen.”
“That’s not a child.”
He folds his hands in front of himself, and his voice drops into the pastoral register that makes him sound as though he’s giving a sermon.
“Our ways may seem harsh to an outsider. I understand that. But the Flock has thrived for twenty-two years under the same rules—the same discipline. A flock without shepherding scatters, and scattered sheep are devoured by wolves. Would you prefer I love her less, and allow her to be devoured?”
This fucking guy. I want to punch him. I don’t, but I want to.
“She’s coming with me,” I repeat. “I’m not asking.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Every set of eyes in this compound is fixed on the two of us, waiting to see the outcome.
I assess the men around me in case this gets physical. The two burly guys who dragged her here are to my left. The one with the whip is behind me. I’m outnumbered by a factor that should make me reconsider.
It doesn’t.
Buford’s chin lifts. “I’m afraid that won’t do, Mr. O’Rourke.”