“I don’t blame you. Grace really did a number on this finger.” She stuffs her supplies back into her bag. “She just needs to let him go. That’s all there is to it. That’s when this madness will stop.” She gestures to my hand as she rises.
My mind shorts out, then returns to focus in on her words. “Wait, so Grace and Adam were together?”
“Together? No.” She hefts the black bag up to her thick shoulder. “She was his first Maiden.”
Chapter 18
Adam
We drive down the rutted road, Noah keeping the Land Rover in check as I survey the construction along the back acres of the compound. Houses are going up, each of them with a basement that connects to the other houses, creating a subterranean world—yet another one of my father’s ideas.
“I didn’t realize it was going to be this big. He’s building enough houses for the entire congregation and then some.” Noah points ahead to the roads that had been bulldozed onto the ridge ahead of us, the red Alabama dirt snaking off in several different directions.
“That’s the plan.”
A whole new world created at the will—and existing at the pleasure—of the Prophet. He calls it the “Promised Land.” I see it for the prison it really is. Constant monitoring, families under scrutiny, children in the Prophet’s schools, any deviation from the norm stamped out. The Prophet’s police force will patrol these streets, and no one will be able to come in or out without Prophet approval. Even so, hundreds of families have signed up for a spot in one of the modest homes being built here, all of them desperate for the protection and guidance the Prophet appears to provide. Idiots.
We stop where a construction crew is digging a basement.
I roll my window down and wave the foreman over to me. “Tony.”
He’s a tall man, broad, used to play for the Crimson Tide until he got injured—and then he got something worse. Religion. My father’s brand in particular.
“Hi, Adam!” He bounds up, full of energy. Not the brightest, but he doesn’t lack for enthusiasm.
I hand him an envelope. “For supplies.”
He takes it, then pulls a rough-sharpened pencil from behind his ear and writes “supplies” on the envelope, as if he couldn’t remember what is was for otherwise. “You know, the Caldwells have been giving me some trouble about buying all our roofing stuff in cash.”
“Caldwells?”
“Yeah, they got a store off Gray’s Mill Road. Go to church and everything, but they always squawk about my cash payments. Am I doing something wrong?” He scratches his chin, his red beard full and ridiculous against his thinning blond hair.
“Not wrong. You’re doing fine.” I try to give him something verging on an encouraging smile.
He flinches. “Okay, then. I’ll just get on back to work.”
“Sounds good,” Noah calls before I can respond, then eases down the muddy road. He chuckles as he turns the SUV around.
I scowl. “What?”
“You scare the shit out of him.”
“I was polite.”
“Sure, but you still scare the bejesus out of him and he’s what, six-five, two-fifty?” His chuckles grow louder. “Like, when you tried to smile, I thought he was going to piss himself.”
“I smile.”
“No, you don’t.” We head back toward the heart of the compound.
I change the subject. “I guess this means we need to head over to the Caldwells’.”
“Ugh.” His laughter stops. “I hate to do that.”
We bump up onto the black pavement as a white work truck passes us.
“We have to. That kind of talk can lead to trouble. The Caldwells need to learn to take the cash and shut the fuck up. The last thing we need is the IRS getting wind of any irregularities.”
We wind through the property, both of us assiduously avoiding turning to look at the low gray cinderblock building buried deep in one of the hollows. The Rectory.
“Fine, we can go.” Noah runs a hand through his hair. “But just don’t hurt anyone, okay? I don’t think I can take it today.”
“Still pissed about Gregory, huh?” I pop my knuckles.
His mood sours even further. “I can’t believe Dad would make me do that.”
“Gregory lived to fight another day. All’s well that ends well.” I lean back against the head rest.
“Where did you get those bones?” He cuts me a sideways glance.
“I have my ways.”
“Seriously, man. I mean, it’s great. I’m glad we didn’t have to off Gregory. But why do you have a secret bone stash to pick from?”
“Maybe I’m the psycho that Dad always wanted.” I point toward the front gates. “Let’s get this over with. Drive.”
“You really aren’t going to tell me?”
“Nope.”
“Jerk.” But his grumble is only half-hearted.
A secret stash of bones? No. A knowledge of where the Heavenly PD dump all the roadkill they find on the property? Yes.
The guard at the gate that separates the private compound from the huge Heavenly Ministries Church building waves and opens for us. The wrought iron slides sideways, and we roll out into the wide parking lot, and then down the hill to the highway.