The Hero (Thunder Point #3)(8)

“Did you find something for Mercy to watch?” he asked.

“Evil cartoons. She was in heaven.”

“Have you eaten anything besides popcorn?” Rawley asked.

She nodded. “I scrambled some eggs and made some toast for Mercy. I had a sandwich, chips, soda...” She rolled her eyes. “Soda! It was so good! And then the popcorn. Should I turn off the TV now? So you can have peace and quiet?”

Rawley smiled. She looked lit up from the inside. He couldn’t remember being quite this pleased with himself. He shook his head. “I’m gonna get my newspaper and a cola. I like sports. I used to watch with my dad before he died—that’s why there’s two recliners up there. And you can watch the TV all night if you want to. It don’t bother me. Half the time I fall asleep in front of the TV.”

“Newspaper!” she said in a breath.

“I’ll share it with you.”

* * *

Mercy rarely asked about the other kids or the other sisters from the family once she was introduced to television and the undivided attention of one mother rather than six. They hardly ever left the house except to walk to the end of the street where there was a tiny park with swings and a slide, and that was just for a little exercise and fresh air. Every day Rawley brought them something new. First, a couple of toys for Mercy—a baby doll with a diaper bag filled with miniature supplies—this small child from a family compound didn’t know about diaper bags. Then he brought some crayons and coloring books and bubbles. Next, some library books—a few picture books for a three-year-old, a few novels he had asked a librarian to recommend for a thirty-year-old woman.

“Close enough,” she said with a smile. “I’m twenty-eight.”

Then he brought home a laptop computer. He said, “I thought maybe you might want to use this. It’s an old one Cooper let me have. Do you know how to use it?”

“I know how to use a computer, certainly. We just didn’t use the evil internet, which has probably grown to amazing heights in the last several years. And I can’t tell you how much I want to have a look!”

“I ain’t got no hookup. Cooper said to tell you to jump on some neighbor’s or store’s wireless—and I ain’t got the first idea how you do that.”

But Devon smiled. She’d have no trouble figuring it out.

For Devon, this time away from the compound was like sensory overload—there were so many new ideas to talk about, and programs to watch and articles to read. She was in ecstasy.

Then came several days of rain in a row, which conspired with Devon’s need to be immersed in the books, TV and computer. Rawley didn’t spend quite as many hours at work but Devon and Mercy were so happily occupied it seemed he’d barely left before he returned. She made a couple of dinners for the three of them and while Rawley wasn’t exactly talkative, he was companionable.

“How’s ’at computer working out?”

“It’s a revelation—you can find out anything.” Out of curiosity she checked out “communes in Oregon” online and found several references, but nothing really interesting. Compounds could mean a host of families, religious sects, cults and organizations ranging from non-certified health retreats and rehab facilities to known sovereign communities and anti-government separatists. She was fascinated and kept reading.

Then she found something that explained so much: a familiar name and story—Jacob Glover. Glover? They didn’t use last names—they claimed there was no need. But there was a picture, and it was definitely the Jacob she had known. He was well-known—he’d been convicted of fraud in the past. He was known as the leader of a cult who had recently been investigated for fraud, tax fraud, conspiracy and kidnapping. Huh? she thought. Well, taxes...yes, that was an issue. She remembered that very well indeed. It was one of his favorite rants, taken right from his manifesto. What am I but a poor farmer? We eat what we grow; we own our land; we don’t use any government resources—we educate our own and we pay our good money for supplies we can’t grow or breed or make. The only argument government has for our paltry income is our rare use of their roads! Property tax? For living? For paying our own way? I’ll die first!

She remembered thinking that was a compelling argument, but it was one that would never work. As for paltry income for little supplies—she was well aware that The Fellowship not only owned expensive farming equipment, but they also owned three black Lincoln SUVs with darkened windows that only the men drove. This could hardly be considered paltry by any stretch of the imagination. It was also hard to believe that the meager sale of apples, peaches, pears and vegetables brought in enough income for The Fellowship to purchase the equipment and the mammoth SUVs.

But kidnapping? There was not a chance The Fellowship could be accused of that! No one had ever come into the family unwillingly and if they ran away, Jacob looked the other way. At least he used to. When Greg had slipped away after just a few months, there was only sad disappointment. But when Caleb, who had been with the group for three years, left suddenly, Jacob’s anger roared. All three SUVs tore out of the compound and went in search, a search lasting days. But when he wasn’t found, the search was abandoned.

Then she realized that these investigations might be the reason Jacob and some of the others seemed to have changed in the past couple of years, becoming impatient and paranoid. When she’d first become a part of the group, gentleness and ease had seemed to dominate their way of life. But over the past couple of years anger and even desperation seemed to creep in. I’ll die first! The amount of time he spent writing—some of the women called his writings a diary, some a manifesto, others claimed it was his new bible—had increased. There had always been weapons that were kept locked up and managed by a few men, but they were for security and hunting, not because there was fear.