“I’m sending help,” the woman says. “We have an officer in the area.”
Out here? Out here in the middle of nowhere?
“Keep talking to me,” she says.
I’m not sure if I can drive faster and talk at the same time, but I push the van forward. The light on the control panel comes on with a ding, letting me know I am almost out of gas.
“Who are you?” the operator asks.
I can’t say anything. Just hold the wheel.
“Kyra,” Patrick says in my head. “Tell her that. Tell her where you live.”
“The Chosen Ones,” I say. “I’m part of The Chosen Ones.” It sounds like my voice is trying to escape from me.
She talks to someone else, calling for backup.
The Hummer keeps pace beside me.
Tears splash down my face. I didn’t even realize I was crying.
My hands hurt.
The pain in my head, the place where they’ll shoot me if I stop, intensifies.
Brother Laramie sticks the gun out the window. He fires at the back of the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels. I hear the bullet rip through metal. I scream.
“Hold on,” the operator says. “Hold on. I have someone coming for you.”
And just as she says it, I see flashing lights headed in my direction.
THE POLICE CARS, two, three, four of them, roar past and stop Brother Felix, who is in his police cruiser (how did I miss him back there?), and both Hummers that followed me. They are all stopped, pulled out of their cars, and while I’m watching, handcuffed.
I’m swept to a police car where a woman officer looks so angry when she sees my face that she makes her partner wait before they talk to me.
“You’re not going back there, O’Neil,” the man cop says.
“The hell I’m not,” she says. “I’m sick of what this community is doing to these children.”
I watch her march in the morning sun, her shadow falling long on the road beside her. She is so angry I think she’ll walk right through Brother Felix. She yells in his face, just inches from him. The other officers watch her. One of them is grinning.
She comes back, hand on her gun.
“Who are they?” she says to me. She’s pulled on her sunglasses. They are little mirrors and when she turns to ask me this question, I see myself. Right there. Twin reflections. Me. Me.
“The God Squad,” I say.
I move to the side of the police car, somehow getting to the sideview mirror. The lights flash. I see them go across my body.
“Honey?” Officer O’Neil says. She touches my shoulder. “What do you need?”
I look back at her, and there I am again, in her sunglasses. Two of me. I can’t answer. I just stare at myself. It’s me in the reflection. I haven’t changed at all. Not at all. I touch my lips with my fingers, see the bruising in the morning light, see my mouth trying to heal. I can hear the radio crackling in the police car.
How can this be?
I was sure, sure, I had changed. Sure of it, that only the new me would run. That if I saw me, I would be different. Sure only the new me would have been able to get away. The hollow places inside me start to fill up.
“Honey,” Officer O’Neil says, “come sit down.” She points to the backseat of the police car and I slip inside.
“What is it?” she says.
I look at her—look at me—and say, “I’m still here.”
“What?” She raises the glasses. Her eyes are dark brown.
“I thought. . .” I’m not quite sure what I thought. “I thought they might have killed me, too.”
With a gentle hand Officer O’Neil touches my face. “No, honey,” she says. “You’re safe now.”
I TELL THE DETECTIVES all of it, every single bit, even though my heart feels like it will give out the way it pounds. I tell about the Lost Boys and Bill and Ellen. All about Patrick and the graves of the unwhole children. I tell them about the beatings and the book burnings and how the girls are saved for the old men. I talk and talk until my throat burns when I sip down the orange juice they give me. I talk through tears and sometimes I’m so angry my head hurts.
After I tell them what I know, the police say I’ll be going to a safe house.
“A safe house?” I say to Officer O’Neil as we head off. I remember Joshua saying something about a safe house. Will he be there? It’s dusk and the streets are full of cars, the sidewalks full of people. Are they headed to their homes, all of them? Everything aches from my crying and talking and crying and talking.
Officer O’Neil looks at me, then she reaches for my hand.
“A place where you’ll be safe, Kyra,” she says. She clears her throat. “There’s a warrant for Mark Childs and some of those other thugs.”
By thugs she means the God Squad.
We’re quiet a moment.
“The Chosen have come here before,” she says, flipping on her blinker. We turn and chase the headlights down the road. “To Samantha Oberg’s.”
“What?”
“When polygamists run, we sometimes put them up in this house. At least for a day or two. Or until we can get them settled into the foster-care system.”
“Oh.” I look out the window. Foster care. Is that where Joshua ended up? Do the Lost Boys stay with this Samantha Oberg? We drive for a while. The radio in Officer O’Neil’s car talks to her and to other people. I don’t have to say anything.
The sky changes into an almost purple-blue. There are lots of houses lining the streets out here. Less city. More country, it seems. Some homes are big, some smaller. But nearly all of them have their lights on. The light falling out of the houses like that makes my heart hurt more. I miss my family. For a moment I see Laura in my mind, see her with her hand up as I drive away.
Officer O’Neil pulls into a driveway of a house that has a porch across the front and down both sides. A woman leans against the rail. A girl stands beside her. But there is no Joshua. No Joshua.
“That’s Samantha,” Officer O’Neil says. “We told her about you and she told me she couldn’t wait to meet you.”
She’s to us before the engine is off. She wears a pair of blue jeans and a pink top. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. At first I think she’s in her early twenties until she stands at my car window. Then I can see she’s older.
“I am so glad you’re here, Kyra,” she says when I step outside. Her face is full of smiles.
Officer O’Neil gets out of the car and hugs me good-bye. Tears fill my eyes. For a moment I’m not sure I won’t follow her right back to the police station.
“I’ll see you again,” she says into my hair. “I’ll check in on you.”
“Okay.” My voice is a whisper.
Samantha has hold of my hand in an instant. “Let’s go inside.” We walk toward the light and the house and the girl.
But I pull back. Turn to watch Officer O’Neil drive away. Then the cars that pass on the street close enough, it seems, I could reach out and touch them. I watch it all.
Less than fifty miles from here is my family. I can’t quite move, can’t quite breathe thinking of them without me.
A wind picks up and I smell something sweet. Roses maybe? Samantha touches my arm. “It’s hard at first,” she says. Her voice is low, like it rides the breeze.
I want to nod, let her know I hear her, but I can’t.
“I did it myself, Kyra,” she says.
I stare away.
“Not from The Chosen Ones, but from the Fundamentalists. I’ve been where you are now. I got the hell out of there.” She laughs. Even though things aren’t funny at all, she laughs. “I ran. And they followed me.”
Now I look at her, straight in the eyes.
“I ran more than once. I was sixteen and married. I had a baby. Somehow I carried us both away.”
I look at the girl on the porch. She’s probably my age. The air is soft around my face.
“That’s my second daughter, Madison,”
Samantha says. “The first is at the university.”
We’re both quiet. Then Samantha says, “I hear they followed you.”
“Yes,” I say.
My dress seems too tight around the wrists. She looks at me.
“And I see they gave you a good beating, too.”
“Yes.”
“Gotta keep you little ones in line, don’t they? Or you could be dangerous.”
I look back at where Officer O’Neil drove away.
“I bet you’re starved,” Samantha says. “Let’s get something to eat, you want?”
“Can I go, too, Mom?” Madison has snuck up behind us. She wears blue jeans and a top with tiny sleeves. Her bra shows. I look away. I’ll never wear anything that shows my bra. Never!
“Sure,” Samantha says. She puts an arm around her daughter. “Let’s go to IHOP.”
IN THE CAR
In the restaurant
I wonder how I will fit in here. Outside. Away and with the sin of bras that show.
My hair, my bruises, the reminder of words not that long ago, Polygamists, you can tell by their clothes, all of it separates me and makes me different. People stare when we walk in and find a seat. Like before at Applebee’s. But then I was with my mothers. Then I was with Laura.
Now I’m with strangers.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Madison asks. She’s been looking at me from the side of her eye. Maybe she’s never seen anyone who’s been beat up. At first, her looking, her sneaky stares, make me angry. But then her question, it knocks my anger aside.
“Yes,” I say. “Lots of both.” I pause. “And there are four girls with my mother.” No, that’s not right. “There were four girls. Now there are just three.”
There should be five, a voice says, but I ignore it.
Madison nods. “I’m the baby.” She scrunches her nose at me.
Mariah, too, the voice says.
“We have lots to do tomorrow,” Samantha says. She sips a cup of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. “We need to take you clothes shopping.”
“Clothes?”
“You can’t just wear that,” Madison says. “You need something else. Something in style.”
I keep my eyes on the turquoise tabletop. I don’t say anything, but I think. I think, Nothing that shows my bra like some people sitting here.
The waitress sets our food in front of us. We all have the same thing—strawberry-stuffed crepes, hash browns, and tall mugs of hot chocolate. “Because you’ll love it,” Madison said when we ordered.
She’s right, though I don’t want her to be because of the dress comment. But the whipped cream and strawberries together are so good I think I might cry again. My mother would love this.
“And you can think about school, Kyra,” Samantha says.
“You’re my age,” Madison says. She’s taking huge bites of food. And I can tell this isn’t such a treat for her as it is for me. “So you’d be with me. In eighth grade.”
“You can think about it,” Samantha says.
I eat, silent. And then, “I’d like to play a piano.”
“Now?” Madison says.
Samantha says, “There’s one at home. In the family room. I can show you tomorrow. Nothing spectacular. But it’s in tune.”
“Okay. What about a bookmobile?” For a moment, there’s Patrick, grinning at me about a novel I’ve chosen. Showing me the newest book that he’s put aside.
“A bookmobile?” Madison says, and Samantha says, “We have a great library in town.”
My throat is tight with crepes and Patrick’s memory.
“A library would be good,” I say, and my voice is just a whisper.
LATE THAT NIGHT, I lie under the sheet in this new bed. My tummy is tight, it’s so full.
“We’re glad you’re here, Kyra,” Samantha says. “You’ve got a room with us as long as you need it. Good night.” She leaves, closing the door. I hear her walk away, hear her as she tucks Madison into bed. They talk for a few minutes. Are they talking about me?
Their murmuring voices remind me of my home. I wonder at my family. Do they miss me? Do they want me back home? Do I want to go back home?
Yes! Yes, I do!
There’s a tap at the door.
“What?” I sit up, the new nightgown Samantha pulled from a package for me itching at the back of my neck.
She leans into this room again. “Can I come in, Kyra?” The soft light from down the hall breaks all around her.
I nod, then say, “Yes.”
She settles on the side of my bed. Light comes into my room fat as a slice of pie. I feel, all the sudden, heavy with grief.
“Look,” Samantha says. She takes in a deep breath. “This isn’t going to be easy for you. It’s not, Kyra. But—” She pulls in more air. Clasps her hands in front of her. “But it’s going to be worth it. In the long run.”
I can’t even move.
“I missed my family like crazy, after I ran. But not my husband. Or my sister wives. I had my Jessica when I left, so I wasn’t entirely alone.”
Like me, I think.
“But if you hang in there, you’ll be okay. I just wanted you to know that.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure she even hears me.
She sits quiet and then says, “I’ve never had anyone stay longer than a month, but maybe that can change, Kyra. If you want.”
“Maybe,” I say.
THE IRONTON COUNTY Mobile Library on Wheels rolls down the road. I sit beside Patrick, a stack of books on my lap, a Big Gulp cup balanced on top. Laura is in the back of the van, picking books up and putting them on the shelves.
“Hold those steady, Kyra,” Patrick says. “Hold them steady. You are gonna love what I picked out for you to read.”
Laura says, “The God Squad are behind us.”
I look out the window. Everything is in black and white, like all the color has been washed from the world.
“Hurry, Patrick, hurry.” The books rock on my lap.
Patrick guns the engine, and just like that we take off into the sky, straight toward heaven. Fast! The God Squad grow small, like ants, on the road below.
“They’ll never get us here,” I say.
“That’s right,” Laura says.
“You’re safe, Kyra,” Patrick says.
I AWAKE with a start.
“Patrick?”
Outside, the wind blows.
I listen for the God Squad. For Patrick. There are tapping noises at my window.
“Laura?” I say. “Laura?”
It takes me a moment to figure out where I am.
“Laura’s not here,” I say into the darkness.
The sound at the window continues. And that’s when I know, I know, that Joshua is out there. That he’s come for me.
I throw back the covers and hurry to the window. I open the curtains.
There is no Joshua, just a tree. The branches scratch on the windowpane.
“You knew he couldn’t be here,” I say.
And I did, but still I start to cry. Not just because there’s no Joshua but because there’s no Laura or Margaret or Carolina. There’s no Mariah or Mother Sarah or Father. There’s no family waiting outside the window for me.
I crumple to the floor and weep. Who would think I could cry as much as I have today? But all that crying lets something loose in my brain.
Yes, my brain tells me, this is going to be hard. Like Samantha said. It’s going to be awful, living away from what I know. Without my family.
But look what Patrick did. And Joshua, too.
I am free.
(No old man waiting for me.)
If I want, I can look for Joshua. Find him.
I am free.
Thin morning light seeps into my window through the leaves of the tree when, at last, I crawl back into bed. And just as I let my eyes close, I realize that it’s a Russian Olive outside, tapping at my window.
Table of Contents
; COVER
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
Carol Lynch Williams, The Chosen One
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