The Hero

She came to the top of the stairs and looked down at him. Her hair was cut right up to the nape, kind of messy-cute, falling over her forehead haphazardly. Gone was that thick mane that hit her butt. “Up here, Mr. Goode,” she said. “Oh, my God, I haven’t seen TV in so long. We had popcorn—I hope that’s okay. You said anything. We didn’t eat much. There’s plenty left. But the TV—my daughter is in a trance. She’s never seen TV.” Then she laughed and her whole face lit up. “Well, she was in a trance and now she’s asleep right on the floor and I’m watching baseball. I love baseball. I haven’t seen a game in years!”

He chuckled and remained at the bottom of the stairs. “No TV at the camp, I take it,” he said.

“No TV, no newspapers, no internet access, no phones. No distractions, no commercialism, no propaganda. At least for us.” There was that grin again. “Oh, how I missed it!”

“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.

She looked up “cult,” though she knew well enough what one was. And she also knew that religious affiliation aside, The Fellowship was a cult. Synonyms were “gang,” “craze,” “sect” and “denomination dominated by extreme beliefs.” Not always a bad thing, the L.A. Police Department was referred to as the biggest gang in L.A. They were but a group of like-minded people, bent on a single purpose. In fact, it was that alone that had caused the rift for Devon. She was no longer of a like mind.

In one of her last conversations with Jacob, right before Laine had offered her a way out, she’d said, “I miss my individuality, that’s all. I don’t want to be isolated and I don’t want my daughter raised by six mothers. I want to pick my own books and music, read all the papers. I want to be a part of society again.”

“Even if society is bad? Wrong? Dangerous? Greedy?” he’d asked.

“If I’m here, then I’m not doing anything to make it better,” she’d offered.

He’d sighed deeply. Painfully. “This breaks my heart, but maybe it’s for the best, Devon. You’ve never really wanted to be a part of this, one of us.”

“I always did my share! I taught the children, helped with farming and ranching, tended animals—I did everything everyone else did, too.”

“Not everything,” he reminded her.

She bit her lip and looked down, astonished that he could make her feel guilty over a purely righteous act. Once she’d realized she had conceived Mercy and that Jacob had children with other women in The Fellowship, that other women in their group visited his bed frequently, she didn’t want to be a part of that group. She wanted a partner, not a never-ending family. When she’d made love to him, she had foolishly believed he loved only her, that he held the other women as sisters, family members, not lovers. He led her to believe that. “There were too many women. It wasn’t for me.”

“There were a few, and we were all of one family, one mind,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I was of a different mind. I will only have one intimate partner.”

“It’s not our way,” he said.

“It’s probably best that I separate now,” she said. “I gave my promised two years. In fact I gave more than two. I was committed and loyal even if I didn’t agree with everything.”

“Fine, then. You really don’t fit anymore. You hold yourself slightly above the rest of us, as if you’re better.”

Shocked and hurt, she’d blurted, “You’re the only one here who holds yourself above the rest of us!”

And he’d slapped her. He glared at her and was so angry. When she’d first come to this family, he was so gentle, so tolerant. But lately he’d become so short-tempered and his controlling nature was skyrocketing. “I think as the man who founded this Fellowship and works every day to hold it together and protect it, I can be afforded some respect!”

It was a black day that burned in her memory. That had been a year before she’d finally left.

She read on about Jacob. Investigated and interviewed for allegations of kidnapping and human trafficking.

She thought she knew what human trafficking was, but looked it up just the same. The recruitment of human beings by means of kidnapping, coercion or purchase for the purpose of exploitation, usually for labor or commercial sex trade....

And she knew. She just had never thought of women over twenty-one who went willingly being the victims of human trafficking—she’d always assumed underage prostitutes or child laborers in dingy, dangerous factories were the kinds of people who would be the victims of human trafficking.

Jacob had picked her up outside a shelter in Seattle, Washington. He’d invested an hour in conversation with her learning that she was alone, that she longed for a family and was needy, afraid and desperate. She also fit his profile of wanting fair-skinned and blue-eyed members for his group. He treated them all so sweetly and provided a shelter that was clean and had plentiful food. She was introduced to a few other women who’d joined the group for the same reason she had. They all worked hard to sustain it and to make it a success. Then they were all stripped of their identities—driver’s licenses, social security cards and other personal effects stored away...or perhaps destroyed.

And they all loved him. At one time, even Devon had had a deep love for him, or perhaps it was gratitude. Sometimes some of them joked behind his back in whispers: He’s penning a new bible, you know.

Devon remembered Laine’s words to her. Tell if you have to, Laine had said. Tell about the gardens.

While it was never discussed openly, they all knew that Jacob and the family financed their plentiful compound by their special gardens. No matter how well their organic gardens produced, the bounty of fresh fruit and vegetables was not enough to generate the kind of income needed to keep The Fellowship going. There were a couple of gardens that were kept concealed in a couple of warehouses. They used grow lights run on generators, going twenty-four hours a day and tended by only a few men. Devon had been a member of The Fellowship for a couple of years before she knew about their special cash crop—it was marijuana.

Jacob explained it to her by saying, “We are only growing medicinal herbs that the government wants to regulate. If they find out what we are doing they’ll take it all away. Strip us of everything. But it’s harmless and helpful and some states have even passed laws making it legal, which this state will eventually do, as well. Then, they’ll try to tax it to the moon. We have to grow our herbs in secret. The government would love to steal from us, which is not their right.”

Brother Jacob was a drug dealer. His cult, his Fellowship, was a cover. That’s why he kept the members close by, and why he had children with them knowing that would keep them tied to him.