Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

in.
Thank God.
    My joy didn’t last long.
    Early the next morning, as Saul and I started out to the truck to continue our own search for the runaway, we saw a sheriff’s cruiser pull up in front of Ermaline’s house. To my disbelief, a uniformed officer hauled a struggling Cynthia from the back seat and handed her over to her mother. As soon as Ermaline clasped her daughter’s arm with one of those big hands, the girl stopped struggling and stood there, head drooping in defeat.
    But that wasn’t the only thing that shocked me.
    The officer who’d brought Cynthia back was Howard Benson, the very man who had come into Desert Investigations and accused my client of murder.
    Although I desperately wanted to go to Cynthia’s aid, I couldn’t let him see me, so I waited inside Saul’s house until he’d driven out of the compound. In the meantime, I fumed. What the hell did Benson think he was doing, bringing the girl back to face a forced marriage? He was a sheriff, for God’s sake, sworn to uphold the law, and the last time I checked, polygamy was illegal as hell. Since he’d brought Cynthia back, it could only mean he supported the polygamists. If so, I could never turn to him for help.
    After Benson’s car vanished down the dusty road, I ran across the yard to Ermaline’s house.
    Most of the household’s children were already dressed, but strangely quiet, as if they knew something was wrong but weren’t sure exactly what. Ignoring their baffled looks, I hurried past them into the kitchen, where the first load of biscuits was being taken out of the oven. No Ermaline, no Cynthia. The other women looked more scared than usual.
    Sister Jean looked up from the sausage patties she was making. “You’re late.” No welcoming smile today.
    “I overslept.”
    She raised a greasy hand and motioned to the other end of the long preparation table. “Ermaline’s already measured out the ingredients. All you need to do is add them together, then cut the shortening into the mix.”
    I started work immediately, thrusting my hands into the huge bowl. But I was determined to find out what was going on. “On my way over here I saw Cynthia being brought back. Is she all right?”
    “I think so,” Jean answered, her voice so devoid of inflection that I couldn’t tell if she was upset or relieved. “Don’t concern yourself with her, Sister Lena. Just do your own job.”
    “But I was wondering…”
    Jean glared at me. “Sister Lena, could you please shut up and work?” I noticed for the first time that her eyes were almost as red as her hair. She’d been crying.
    “Yeah, yeah.” No point in upsetting her further. I’d talk to Cynthia later. Jean was not only upset, but unless I was mistaken, she was terrified.
    I’d just started patting the dough balls onto the cooking sheet when I heard the front door open and Earl Graff call out, “Sister Ermaline! We’ve come for Cynthia!”
    We?
I didn’t like the sound of that so I wiped my floury hands on my apron and hurried into the living room, to see Graff standing there with a grim-faced posse of the compound’s men. Then, to my disbelief, I saw Ermaline emerge from one of the bedrooms, dragging along an obviously terrified Cynthia.
    “Mother, please, no!” the girl cried. “No!” She squirmed and struggled, but Ermaline remained implacable.
    “Quiet, you wicked girl!” Ermaline hissed. “You gotta do the right thing or you’ll burn in Hell forever!”
    “Mother, no!”
    I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stepped in front of Ermaline. “You can’t hand her over to these men!”
    Sister Ermaline’s big hand swatted me away as if I were no more than a fly trying to land on one of her precious biscuits. “Mind your own business, Sister Lena. Cynthia’s sinned and she’s gotta be punished. It’s God’s law.”
    I refused to let it go. “Sinned? Was she with someone else? Still, that’s no reason to…”
    Earl Graff slapped me. Slapped me so hard that little pinpoints of light danced around my head, like in the comic books. I staggered for a second, trying to keep my balance, and then, without even thinking about it, I spun around and smashed the karate-hardened edge of my hand against Graff’s nose. A ragged blossom of blood and snot spewed forth as Brother Earl squealed, then hit the floor.
    The other men stared in shock, and I heard running feet as the women emerged from the kitchen to find out what was going on.
    “He hit me first,” I