Trost’s daughter.
It was such an opportunity that he wondered for a moment if he were being set up. Not by Trost—that desperation about his daughter was real, Jacob was sure of it—but by some other agent.
Lucifer,
Father would have said.
He is always trying to destroy the church. Never forget it.
No, that was silly. Pure superstition.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eliza woke when she heard the truck engine turn over in the driveway. She’d slept fitfully all night, waking any time the floorboards creaked or the wind rattled the windowpanes, any time she heard footsteps in the hall. Every time she thought it was Jacob, sneaking out. When the sound died, she would lie back down and drift into unsettled dreams.
But when she heard the engine, she was sure. She made her way to the window and looked down at the driveway where Jacob had parked the extended cab pickup. Three figures made their way from the house on the other side of the Christianson compound. Miriam and David, and she supposed the third must be Officer Trost. They climbed in, one up front, and two in the back. Jacob would be the one behind the wheel.
Why me? Why am I the one who has to stay behind?
Jacob had to go—she understood about the medical supplies—and Miriam and Steve were both former FBI agents. Of course they would go. What about David? Let him stay. He was Jacob’s counselor,
he
could keep the quorum in line. And Eliza could go instead. With Jacob, where she belonged. With Steve, to keep him safe.
It wasn’t fair.
Quit whining
, she told herself.
Suck it up and do your duty.
The truck crunched slowly over gravel as it backed into the street. From there it swung south, lights still off. Jacob meant to skirt the temple and the chapel on his way to meet Steve in the flatbed truck on the far edge of the valley. In a moment they had disappeared.
“Are they gone?” a voice asked from the other bed in the room.
Eliza turned, startled. A lamp came on and Lillian propped herself on her pillows. Her long, corn-silk braids draped over her slender bosoms and she looked so young in the light, almost like one of Eliza’s teenage sisters, even though she was only two years younger than Eliza herself. And if you added the abuse she’d suffered in the Kimball cult, forced to be the polygamist wife of one of Taylor Junior’s henchmen—dead now, and may he rot in hell—it was a wonder she still carried such a fresh, youthful look.
“Yes, they’re gone,” Eliza said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Turn off the light, get some sleep.”
Lillian looked at the old windup clock on the nightstand, with its glowing hands. “Twenty to six. I need to get up in a few minutes anyway to gather eggs and feed the chickens. Milk the cows. And then I thought I’d practice shooting the M99.”
“Before breakfast? People will love that.”
“You okay?”
Eliza sighed. Lillian propped herself higher in the bed and studied her. After a moment, she patted the side of her bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know what you’re going through,” Lillian said.
“I don’t think you do. Anyway, if I talk, I’ll complain. I hate complaining. I’ll do what I have to.”
“You know I ran that place for six months?” Lillian said. “After my husband died and before Taylor Junior came back to that pit in the desert—the men left behind were worthless. Someone had to keep people alive.”
Eliza studied Lillian’s face. No, Lillian
hadn’t
faced the same thing. She’d faced worse. And not a bit of—what would you call it?—post-traumatic stress disorder. How did some people manage? Eliza still dreamed about the horrible things she’d seen: Taylor Junior with his skull bashed in, people covered in chemical burns. Women, children, suffocating in an underground bunker. Father’s glassy stare as they dressed him in his temple robes for burial. And worse, the fear that she would lose the other people she loved.
Yet here was Lillian, an innocent,
It was such an opportunity that he wondered for a moment if he were being set up. Not by Trost—that desperation about his daughter was real, Jacob was sure of it—but by some other agent.
Lucifer,
Father would have said.
He is always trying to destroy the church. Never forget it.
No, that was silly. Pure superstition.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eliza woke when she heard the truck engine turn over in the driveway. She’d slept fitfully all night, waking any time the floorboards creaked or the wind rattled the windowpanes, any time she heard footsteps in the hall. Every time she thought it was Jacob, sneaking out. When the sound died, she would lie back down and drift into unsettled dreams.
But when she heard the engine, she was sure. She made her way to the window and looked down at the driveway where Jacob had parked the extended cab pickup. Three figures made their way from the house on the other side of the Christianson compound. Miriam and David, and she supposed the third must be Officer Trost. They climbed in, one up front, and two in the back. Jacob would be the one behind the wheel.
Why me? Why am I the one who has to stay behind?
Jacob had to go—she understood about the medical supplies—and Miriam and Steve were both former FBI agents. Of course they would go. What about David? Let him stay. He was Jacob’s counselor,
he
could keep the quorum in line. And Eliza could go instead. With Jacob, where she belonged. With Steve, to keep him safe.
It wasn’t fair.
Quit whining
, she told herself.
Suck it up and do your duty.
The truck crunched slowly over gravel as it backed into the street. From there it swung south, lights still off. Jacob meant to skirt the temple and the chapel on his way to meet Steve in the flatbed truck on the far edge of the valley. In a moment they had disappeared.
“Are they gone?” a voice asked from the other bed in the room.
Eliza turned, startled. A lamp came on and Lillian propped herself on her pillows. Her long, corn-silk braids draped over her slender bosoms and she looked so young in the light, almost like one of Eliza’s teenage sisters, even though she was only two years younger than Eliza herself. And if you added the abuse she’d suffered in the Kimball cult, forced to be the polygamist wife of one of Taylor Junior’s henchmen—dead now, and may he rot in hell—it was a wonder she still carried such a fresh, youthful look.
“Yes, they’re gone,” Eliza said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Turn off the light, get some sleep.”
Lillian looked at the old windup clock on the nightstand, with its glowing hands. “Twenty to six. I need to get up in a few minutes anyway to gather eggs and feed the chickens. Milk the cows. And then I thought I’d practice shooting the M99.”
“Before breakfast? People will love that.”
“You okay?”
Eliza sighed. Lillian propped herself higher in the bed and studied her. After a moment, she patted the side of her bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know what you’re going through,” Lillian said.
“I don’t think you do. Anyway, if I talk, I’ll complain. I hate complaining. I’ll do what I have to.”
“You know I ran that place for six months?” Lillian said. “After my husband died and before Taylor Junior came back to that pit in the desert—the men left behind were worthless. Someone had to keep people alive.”
Eliza studied Lillian’s face. No, Lillian
hadn’t
faced the same thing. She’d faced worse. And not a bit of—what would you call it?—post-traumatic stress disorder. How did some people manage? Eliza still dreamed about the horrible things she’d seen: Taylor Junior with his skull bashed in, people covered in chemical burns. Women, children, suffocating in an underground bunker. Father’s glassy stare as they dressed him in his temple robes for burial. And worse, the fear that she would lose the other people she loved.
Yet here was Lillian, an innocent,
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