Obstetrix(36)

Sarah and Brandon were trusted enough by Pastor John to leave, with the minivan, drive a thousand miles, and commit a kidnapping. That was quite a lot of trust. But it was about the only example of that I’d seen.

Well, and some of the men were allowed to carry guns. It wasn’t all of them, though; it was the night watchmen and some of the agricultural workers. I saw the men so much less frequently than the women that I hadn’t fully learned their names. I thought maybe a quarter of the adult men had guns at least some of the time. They didn’t store them in their homes, though; the guns were yet another thing that got locked up back in the community building.

As we were watching the children run around during the break between morning and afternoon worship, an ag drone flew overhead, and I looked up at it, thinking, Maybe I should revisit my idea about the roof. Could I spell out help with clothing stolen from the laundry? Wet towels wouldn’t blow away. Would that be visible? Would it be noticed too fast from the ground?

Joy was standing next to me; we were largely alone, the children distracted for the moment, and I said, “Joy, if you have any ideas for getting out of here, I’ll help you any way I can.”

Her head snapped to the side to look at me, and then she did a quick, paranoid survey of people in the area. No one was close enough to hear.

“I mean it,” I said. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

She chewed on her lip and said nothing for a minute. Then someone else came over, and the chance to talk more was lost.



* * *



A WEEK AFTER I sent the texts to my father, I thought, This didn’t work.

Something had gone wrong. I’d screwed up my dad’s number (impossible to check now) or the texts hadn’t gone through. Or the cops hadn’t believed him or the information wasn’t specific enough for the FBI to know where we were—maybe there were dozens of cults with compounds in this part of Idaho. Probably there were dozens of cults with compounds in this part of Idaho. Or maybe the receipt had been a red herring set out for me, specifically, and we weren’t in Idaho at all.

I needed a new plan. I tried to think of one.

The people here were very careful with the car keys, and very careful with the phones and Internet connections. Even if I could get the key to the minivan, I’d also need the key to the barn where it was kept.

They were also careful with guns. Less careful than they were with cars, though. I might be able to get my hands on a gun, which might be loaded, and then I’d have however many shots were in the magazine.

On a dreary afternoon with very few patients, I envisioned myself with one of the hunting rifles. I stared out the window at the heavy skies that looked like they were full of snow that wasn’t actually coming down yet. If I did get one of those rifles, I’d have to be willing to shoot people; they’d surely be able to tell, if I wasn’t actually willing. I am a doctor. I thought I could shoot Pastor John, and I could shoot Brother Ethan. I could probably shoot Sarah.

I couldn’t shoot someone who’d been one of my patients, and I thought about how many people here that was. They’d probably send some of the teenage boys to take me down. Clumsy but strong fifteen-year-olds. And count on my unwillingness to shoot anyone I saw as a child.

If it came right down to it, I wasn’t even entirely sure I could shoot Pastor John.

Obstetricians don’t generally treat bullet wounds, but during my month of emergency medicine during my internship rotations, there was a hunting accident and the victim got brought in. A man in his forties had been shot by a member of his own deer-hunting party because they lost track of one another and someone thought he was a deer. Alcohol was involved. The bullet hit him in the leg, and fortunately for him missed the femoral artery, but it shattered the bone. He survived the injury, but he lost the leg.

Medical careers are not a good path for the squeamish, but almost every nurse can tell you the one thing they just cannot handle. (I even know a few for whom it’s vomit. They don’t work in maternity.) For me, I looked at the horrifying mess that had been that man’s left leg and thought, Okay, wow, emergency care is not for me. The human body does enough stupid bullshit all on its own, without bringing high-velocity projectiles into it.

If I don’t think I can actually make myself shoot someone, there is no point in trying to steal a gun.

What did that leave?

If I found a phone again, I would call 911. If the call didn’t go through, I would steal the phone and try again. That would require hiding it. I had no faith that I could come up with a hiding place in my room that wouldn’t immediately be found, but my coat had an interior pocket that was hard to find, and my coat, for now, usually traveled with me.

I still had my help me notes, but I’d had no opportunities to pass them along. Unfortunately, my theory that they simply never had outsiders come to the compound seemed to be largely accurate.

I thought back to the day that one klutz had gouged himself with a chisel. I’d thought, briefly, that this might be a real emergency, something they couldn’t just have me handle. Could I fake an emergency?

I could potentially create an emergency. I could probably start a kitchen fire, “accidentally,” but they had hoses and fire extinguishers and would try to put out the fire themselves. Also, men didn’t work in the kitchen; the person I was most likely to injure with a kitchen fire was Bethany. I was pretty sure that the only way I’d convince anyone here that an emergency hospital trip was actually required would be if one of the high-status men had the emergency.