The Chosen One (16 page)

“It’s okay, Kyra,” Patrick says. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” He turns his head. Looks at me briefly over his shoulder. Drives on.

The back of the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels sways and I am rocked against books. I pull my knees under my chin, missing my family more than I thought possible.

I’ve left my music behind. And my sisters. And mothers. And father.

And Uncle Hyrum
, a voice says.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

What will happen now?

When I don’t go back home, what will happen? When will they notice? When will they see I am gone? Will the God Squad see me not come home? What will Mother Sarah do? Will she look for me, holding her stomach where Abigail used to be? Will Mother Claire and Mother Victoria go out with Father, walk the perimeter of the Compound, check the irrigation ditches?

What will Uncle Hyrum do?

Will Laura miss me? Margaret and Carolina? Will they miss me? What about Emily? Will she be okay if I’m gone? And Mariah?

How long before the Prophet sends someone to look for me?

“Stay down until we go past where you live,” Patrick says. He flips on music and rocks his head in time. Then he says, “We’re past. Give me a mile or so more.”

I bounce a bit on the van floor. This bookmobile drives a lot more rough than our old van.

I’m so sad I can’t even look at book titles. I’m so sad I think my heart may never be okay again.

Is getting away from Uncle Hyrum worth leaving my family for?

Don’t think about home right now
, the voice says.
Just get away
.

Patrick’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You want to come sit up here with me, Kyra?” He nods at the passenger seat as we drive away from my family. My family and Uncle Hyrum.

I’m still sniffling, but I say I will.

I make my way to the front of the van, swaying with the movement.

“It’ll be okay, Kyra,” Patrick says. I look him right in the eyes. I see he believes it.

Outside, flat land rolls past.

“I miss them already,” I say and burst into fresh tears. “I’m never going to be allowed to see them again.”

I know this is the truth as soon as I say it.

Laura will sleep alone from now on.

I won’t scrooch up next to her.

I won’t hold Mariah.

Again, Patrick reaches over and pats me. This time he pats my arm, right on a bruise, but I don’t tell him so. The movement is awkward. Nothing like Father with me. Nothing like the way Mother loves me. Or Emily. But Patrick is sincere. And I have to believe in his sincerity. Maybe it will save my life.

WE HAVEN
’
T GOTTEN
even fifteen miles from the Compound when Patrick says, “What? I wasn’t breaking the speed limit.” He taps at the brakes.

I look out the sideview mirror.

A police car is behind us and has its lights on.

All the sudden I am so full of energy, I could run faster than we’re driving. “Don’t stop,” I say, my voice high and loud. “Patrick, don’t stop.”

“Why not?” he asks, still slowing the van. “It’s a cop.”

“No!” My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. “He’s from the Compound. You cannot stop.”

Patrick’s face goes all funny. He says, “Is your seat belt on, Kyra?”

“Yes.” I’m having trouble breathing.

I clutch the arms of the seat. The van bounces down the old road. Patrick slams the gas pedal all the way to the floor. He doesn’t even slow down for potholes now.

Behind us a siren goes on. I can see the flash of the lights in the mirror.

“Oh no oh no,” I say. “Oh no.”

We race, and I know, like I know I may never see my family again, that we’re racing for our lives. The scenery flies past. I’ve never gone this fast before. Not ever. Not when I’ve driven with my mothers or when I’ve driven by myself. The sage and fencing seem like a blur.

The police car drives up next to us. I see Sheriff Felix in the front. He motions with his gun for us to pull over.

I scream so loud I hurt my own ears.

“Damn it,” Patrick says. “This old thing won’t go faster than seventy-five.”

We hit a large hole and books smack onto the carpeted floor behind me. Patrick’s Big Gulp drink trembles in the cup holder.

“There’s someone else,” Patrick says. He clutches the steering wheel. His knuckles are white. His face has lost all color. I can tell he’s scared.

I’m scared. I am so scared I think I might throw up.

Again I look out the back in the mirror. As soon as I see the black Hummers, I know we’re doomed.

“This is kidnapping,” Sheriff Felix says through a loudspeaker. “Pull over.”

“We just have to make it to the Ironton County line,” Patrick says. Only he says it like he’s been running for miles, not driving.

The police car pulls in front of us, and slows down. A Hummer moves in on the side, and one closes in at the back.

“Hold on, Kyra,” Patrick says. “I’m not slowing down.” And as if to prove it, the van hits the back of Sheriff Felix’s car.

“Ohnoohnoohno,” I say. And then I start praying out loud. “Dear God, help us. Help us. Keep us safe. Help us. Please, God.”

A car from behind rams the van. My head snaps forward, the seat belt catching me before I’m thrown into the dashboard.

“Amen,” Patrick says.

“Please, God, please. I’m sorry. Help us. Please.”

“Kyra,” Patrick says. “Get my cell phone.”

With his head he nods to the glove compartment. I open it. There it is. A slim black phone. “Not too much farther up the road and we’ll get service,” he says. “Turn it on now. When we get close enough, the phone will make a
chirrup
sound. The face will light up. Then you call nine-one-one.”

“All right,” I say.

I press the On button. My hands shake as I watch the cell phone.

There’s no service at all.

“Just a little farther, baby,” Patrick says to the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels.

“Come on, baby,” I say.

A Hummer slams into the side of the van.

We swerve. More books fall from the shelves. The Big Gulp cup topples, splashing soda on my dress and legs.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Oh God. Dearest Father. Please help us. Please get us to safety.” My hands are clenched so tight I feel my nails cutting into my palms. My shoulder belt presses against my ribs and it hurts.

The Hummer hits us again. The picture of Emily and Nathan flutters to the floor.

Patrick slams on the brakes and the car behind us hits us. We swerve, running off the road. Back on. Dust billows. My mouth won’t close. A small sound escapes me. The car comes to a halt next to a ditch and the van teeters. And then slides into the hole. Books scatter everywhere. Patrick and I are trapped. And there’s still no service on the phone.

Patrick is suspended above me, his seat belt holding him. He kicks himself free. I’m lying on the door. He’s bleeding. Blood drips down his chin, splats on my face and on the window next to me.

“Sorry,” he says. And then, “Hide that phone. Run when they get us out of here, Kyra. And there’s an extra key in the Ks.”

“What?”

Patrick doesn’t answer and I only have a chance to tuck the phone away.

Then they have us both out. On our knees. Hands locked behind us. Heads bent. In the sun of the late afternoon.

_______

BROTHER FELIX TAKES ME
away in the police car. I watch Patrick as we leave. I see them kick him over and over. I see him fall to the side. One of the God Squad pulls Patrick to his knees again.

My screaming won’t stop. Not even when the sheriff hits me in the mouth, resplitting my lips. I taste blood. But I can’t stop watching Patrick, who goes in and out of view because of the dust we’ve kicked up. I watch and scream his name.

Watch as they circle him.

I watch until I can’t see him anymore.

What have I done?

More blood on my hands?

Dear God. What have I done?

“
HE
’
S A PROPHET
, you know that, don’t you?”

I won’t look at Sheriff Felix. I refuse to look at him. Don’t look, just ignore him, I hate him, I hate his guts.

Instead, I stare out the window where Patrick was before. My eyes strain to see past the nothing that is there. We’ve gone too far for me to see him. We’re headed back. Headed back.

I look and imagine that he’s there.

He’s fine, Patrick is fine. I see him getting up, standing, fighting his way free. I keep my eyes looking to where he might be. He’s in the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels, tipping it back on the tires. He’s driving to save me.

“You hear me, Kyra?” Brother Felix says.

“I hear you,” I say.

“I got a testimony of him,” Brother Felix says. And his voice goes foggy with emotion.

Now I look at the police officer.

He glances at me, and I see his eyes have filled with tears.

“I know he rules. That he stands beside Jesus in power.”

I say nothing, just listen.

“I’d do anything to serve him,” he says. “I love him.”

Behind me, what’s happening?

I close my ears to Brother Felix.

Then I close my eyes.

After a moment, I pray again.

Dear God. Dear God. Please help him. Dear God, please don’t let this prayer be too late. Please keep him safe. Please, for Nathan. For his Emily. For me.

_______

THEY DO NOTHING
to me.

Nothing.

Just send me home to Father and say, “Watch her.”

Mother Claire comes to me later. “Don’t try it again, Kyra,” she says. She’s wringing her hands. She never does that. “They’ve beaten you once. I’m surprised they didn’t beat you when they got you back.” She bites at her bottom lip. “Honey,” she says, “I have a really bad feeling. A
really
bad feeling. Promise me you won’t do it again.”

Her words scare the spit out of me. I mean I cannot even work up enough moisture to wet my tongue. I can’t answer her.

All I have in my head is Patrick. What happened to Patrick?

The next day, as soon as I see the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels van hidden near my stand of Russian Olives, like they’re trying to cover it but not, I know something is bad wrong.

The hairs rise on my neck. I slow my walk, pretending not to look, but looking anyway.

And then here comes the God Squad. Stepping out of the shadows the van makes. Two of Prophet Childs’s bodyguards. They’re big. I see them see me pretending I don’t see the van.

They watch me walk. Brother Nelson raises his sunglasses so I can see his eyes. He moves his head in a gesture like he’s saying, “You.”

They’ve parked it here on purpose. Where I can see it. To show me. So I know. Without saying a word they’re telling me to behave, to do what I’m told. Or else. Or else whatever they’ve done to Patrick, they’ll do to me.

I keep my walk steady, though I want to run back to my trees. Or run to the van. Search for Patrick. My lips have gone numb. I’m dizzy. My hands feel like they’re asleep.

I feel sick to my stomach. I’m going to throw up. Right here. Right now. Right in my yard with them watching me pretending not to see anything.

But I can’t vomit.

I have to just go on back in the house. Just go on back. With that cell phone that won’t even work tucked in my dress like I used to tuck Patrick’s books. Acting like I don’t know anything.

Oh, but I do.

I do.

I know, without seeing the body, that Patrick is dead.

WHEN THEY ARE GONE
, as evening sets in, I sneak over to the van and peer in the window. The books are still spilled, all over the back on the floor. They didn’t throw away Patrick’s Big Gulp cup. It’s crushed on the passenger’s side of the van. Did I step on it after it fell? I don’t remember.

They didn’t even clean the blood out of the van. I see it spattered all over the windshield, gone brown. On the seat. In a puddle on the carpet. Pooled and dried and cracking on the floor.

It’s Patrick’s blood, I know.

Did they kill him in here? Where’s his body?

Somehow, I make it over to my Russian Olive tree and climb as high as I am able. Straight up into the branches. Into the thorns. Even when I am stabbed, I don’t care.

My friend is dead.

I cry with my mouth open, but I don’t make a sound. Not a sound. I cry until I’m gasping for breath, and once, I almost fall from my tree. I cry until I am hoarse, even though I’ve not made one bit of noise.

My family calls for me in hushed tones, “Kyra. Kyra, come home.”

I don’t. I stay in the tree and cry.

Poor Nathan. Poor Emily. Waiting for Patrick to come home. I cry until the moon is high in the sky.

Then I go back home.

I crawl into bed beside Laura. That is when I realize, lying next to my sister, that I am not me anymore.

I’m not sure who I am. Mother Claire and Father and dead Abigail and Emily and Laura and Joshua and music and Patrick and books and death—no, murder!—it all has changed me. If I looked into the mirror, I am pretty sure that everything about me, under the bruises and cuts, would be changed. I would
not
have the same eyes. Would
not
have the same face shape. Would
not
have the same hair color.

I am not me anymore.

I go to sleep knowing that.

I am not me. Any. More.

I HAVE NO IDEA
what time I wake up. It might be ten minutes after I went to sleep, it might be almost morning. One thing I know is that I am still changed. I am not me, still. I think I’ve grown hollow.

In the semidarkness I see my wedding dress hanging from a coat hanger on the closet door. It’s like a ghost.

Quiet, I get out of bed and go looking for Mother’s sewing scissors. On the living-room floor, where Mother laid out the fabric before Abigail died, I cut the wedding dress into strips. Thin strips. Too thin for even a quilt. So thin you could only start a fire.