Blood Atonement (30 page)

Three hours of seeing only the occasional car and isolated petrol station later, the road led them up a winding hill. As they descended from the summit, in the distance they could make out a small, unspectacular town, the first they had seen for more than fifty miles. Nigel checked the map; it was Liberty. It must be - there was no other town within thirty miles. He felt his stomach tighten. It wasn’t every day you paid a visit to a town filled with fundamentalists who had chosen to cut themselves off from the civilized world. He didn’t know what to expect and wondered

whether this was such a good idea. The plan was for them to portray themselves as innocent, bewildered tourists on a road trip, perhaps seek out somewhere to stay and hope there was one person in the whole community who might be willing to speak to them without arousing suspicion.

‘Is this a good idea?’ he asked Heather as they made their way down the hill, shading their eyes. The sky above them was cloudless and the rising winter sun was directly in front.

Her eyes, red from tiredness and staring at a straight road, narrowed. ‘It’s the best one we’ve got. Why, are you getting cold feet?’

‘No,’ he lied.

We’re going to go in and ask some questions as nicely as possible. Look upon it as a piece of local history. You once told me that nothing beat a field trip, getting out there and asking questions. Consider it research.’ She smiled.

He felt partly reassured, but the grip of tension in his gut remained.

The town wasn’t signed. It was just there, as if dropped from the sky fully formed and without warning. One minute there was open road and wilderness; the next, a few houses that became a street and then other streets. The houses were simple one-storey structures, sometimes with a car parked out front, which surprised Nigel. All of them were painted white. Everything was white - the fences, the doors.

He expected it to be rather more basic. An American flag fluttered limply from a pole outside one or two, which gave a lie to the idea of it being some separatist movement.

We need a shop, or some kind of cafe,’ Heather said, driving slowly. We need people.’

‘There’s one,’ Nigel murmured. A woman was out the front of her house washing her doorstep. She stopped as their car passed, watching them. Nigel checked the rearview mirror as they pulled away. The woman continued to look. He guessed the road into town, pockmarked and battered, was barely used and rarely repaired. He checked Heather’s face and saw the first signs of apprehension.

The town itself was neat and well ordered, organized into an almost perfect grid. Nigel had half-expected it to be clapboard shacks with tin roofs, barefoot inbred urchins playing in open sewers, while wild prairie dogs roamed seeking scraps for food. Instead, although his experience of smalltown America was strictly limited, Liberty did not seem that different from Llewellyn, only reduced in scale.

Heather drove towards the centre of the grid, through identical white streets and past identikit white houses that made reference points difficult. Eventually she turned into a small square, overlooked by a larger building that Nigel guessed to be either some kind of town hall or civic building, a small fountain in the middle. The centrepiece was a tall dazzling temple, which towered over the square. On its roof a cherub blew into a trumpet. Like all the other buildings it was white, but it seemed to gleam.

There was a small parking bay filled by a few other vehicles and Heather pulled slowly in beside them. Nigel checked his watch — 9 a.m. He looked around. There must have been some form of recent celebration. Small white flags lined one side of the square; a small marquee and a few stalls lined the other.

Nigel did not notice Heather switch a silver band from her right ring finger to her left. She scanned the square: no more than a dozen buildings. Nigel was forced to squint, as the bright winter sun glanced off the pure-white buildings to create a dazzling glare. He now understood what Pettibone had meant when he advised them enigmatically to take their sunglasses. He did not have a pair.

Heather did, and put them on before sniffing the air. ‘I can smell bread,’ she said. Sure enough, in one corner of the square there appeared to be a bakery. As they walked over, Heather’s boot heels clip-clopping loudly, Nigel felt as if he was being watched by eyes from every window overlooking the square. He looked up but the glare hurt his eyes. They saw no one. It was like the bright morning after Armageddon.

A painted sign above the door said ‘Liberty Bakers’, and the smell was enticing. Loaves were stacked in the window.

A woman and a man were behind the counter in white hats. The store itself was empty. Flour hung in the air.

Heather walked in, bold as brass, Nigel in her slipstream, happy to give his aching corneas a rest from the fierce, reflecting light.

‘Good morning.’

The man’s face didn’t change from its stony setting; the woman, however, smiled a rictus grin. ‘Good morning,’

she said. There was a period of awkward silence. ‘Can I help?’ the woman finally asked, grin still fixed.

We’re lost,’ Heather said. We’re hoping you could help.’ ŚYou don’t sound like you’re local,’ the woman said, still smiling, her eyes unblinking and wide.

‘No, we’re on a bit of a road trip and we needed to make a stop.’

The man dead-panned. ‘Isn’t much to see round here.’

‘On our way to Oregon. Pinot Noir country.’

The woman kept smiling. ‘I love your accent.’

‘Thanks. English. My husband here is a wine connoisseur.’

Nigel

nodded eagerly, wondering inside, ‘What?’

Well, you won’t find any of that here,’ the woman said, a hint of disapproval in her voice. We’re a dry town.’

Heather held up her hand. ‘That can wait for Oregon.

We’re just after a place to wash and rest for a day before heading on. Made the mistake of driving through the night, miscalculating how far we had to go and everything.’

‘A major miscalculation,’ the man said, not even turning to look. ‘The Oregon road is eighty kilometres north.

You’re way off track.’

Heather turned to Nigel. ‘See, I told you we’d taken a wrong turn,’ she said, rather too theatrically he thought.

She shook her head. ‘Is there anywhere in town we can stay, maybe get some help with directions? Lord knows we need them.’

The woman’s smile never wavered as she gently shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. We have very few facilities for visitors here. But there’s a motel nine or ten kilometres on the way out of town, back towards the Interstate.’

Nigel had seen it on the way in. Small and downtrodden.

Not quite Bates Motel material, but not too appealing.

‘OK,’ Heather said. ‘Is there a cafe of some kind? We’re starving.’

The woman just stared and smiled. The man said

nothing. ‘There’s a diner,’ she said eventually. ‘Just follow the road to the left and you can’t miss it, just off the square.

I recommend the omelette.’

‘Thank you,’ Heather said. ‘I’ll take you up on that recommendation. And when we’re done, we’ll pop back and buy some of the bread. It smells terrific’

The woman nodded, the painted-on smile even wider.

‘Have a nice day.’

They left, blinking in the whiteness. Both Nigel and Heather shared the feeling the town wires would soon be humming with the news that lost, alcoholic English tourists had landed. They followed the directions to a simple diner called ‘Orson’s’. Inside there were a few beaten leather chairs and banquettes, and — a rare sight — ordinary people. They entered and made straight for a table by the window to one side, watched by those eating breakfast, the air heavy with the smell of fried food. A waitress came over and tossed two menus on the table, the dishes typed out crudely and protected from stains by clear plastic. Nigel glanced around. They were still being watched.

‘Can I get a mushroom omelette and some orange juice?’

Heather asked immediately.

Nigel was momentarily startled, not just by Heather’s adroit adaptation of the American vernacular. He’d not even had a chance to look at the options. ‘The same,’ he said, handing back his menu.

The waitress turned away without a word. Nigel continued to look. The regulars’ attention returned to the contents of their plates, bar a few who continued to stare.

A young, pretty blonde came over with a coffee percolator jug. Her hair was tied back to reveal a proud, handsome face spoilt only by a toothy smile. The jug’s contents weren’t coffee. For a start, it was green.

‘Herbal tea?’ she said haltingly.

Yes, please,’ Heather replied eagerly, pushing her cup forward.

The young woman was about to pour but stopped. She looked at Heather in a state of shock.

‘Yes, we’re not from round here,’ Heather added by way of explanation. We’re English.’

The girl continued to stare. Eventually, she poured, hand visibly shaking. Then without saying anything, or offering Nigel any of the tea, she turned on her heels and returned swiftly to the counter.

‘Now I know what it might be like to be a little green man from Mars,’ Heather said, taking a sip of the tea and wincing. ‘Hmm. Not sure about that.’

Nigel watched the girl disappear into the kitchen. She didn’t come back. Instead the older waitress who took their order came over a few minutes later with their food. She set it down. It looked and smelled good but he didn’t have much of an appetite. He made a polite effort and realized he was hungrier than he thought and the food was good.

Watching them eat seemed to loosen up the waitress. She came over when they’d finished.

‘You people were hungry,’ she said softly, smiling at last.

Nigel couldn’t help but be cynical. Treat us like weirdos initially, he thought, but now you want your tip.

‘Seems very quiet in town,’ Heather said.

The woman nodded. ‘It usually is. We’re a very quiet town. But today in particular. Yesterday was a public holiday here in Liberty’

‘Is there anything to see here in town?’

What do you mean?’ She looked apprehensive.

‘Any sights. We’ve got a bit lost. But seeing as we’re here, we were wondering if there was anything of any historical interest.’

The waitress looked blank. ‘No, I don’t think there is,’ she said and laughed nervously. The temple, I suppose, but…’

A portly man appeared at her shoulder and she stopped.

He was wearing an apron. Nigel assumed he was the

cook.

‘Can I be of assistance?’ he said, looking directly at Nigel, putting hands with fingers like sausages on his hips.

He was breathing heavily through his mouth.

The waitress did not resume her sentence. She gave them a tight smile and cleared the table before scurrying back to her post.

Your waitress was just being of great assistance,’

Heather replied.

Nigel could sense the irritation in her voice. The man ignored her and continued to look coldly at Nigel.

He knew it was best to speak before Heather flipped.

We’re a bit lost and looking for some recommendations what to do here in Liberty,’ he said simply.

‘The best thing you can do is get in your car and head out of town,’ came the response. The cook rubbed his chin. ‘There ain’t nothing here for you people.’

‘Oh,’ Nigel said. ‘Fair enough.’

‘And quit diverting my staff,’ he added. ‘Now, that meal was on the house. Just be on your way’ He wiped his hands on his apron, fixed Nigel with another stare and headed back to his kitchen.

They got up and left without speaking. Nigel tried to smile at their waitress but she avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Outside in the gleaming white light, they shared a look.

What did we expect?’ Nigel said.

‘There must be someone in this place who doesn’t

bear a pathological distrust of outsiders. The waitress mentioned the temple, before Guy the Gorilla intervened.

Let’s go there. Maybe there’s a vicar or priest of some sort we can speak to. A man of the cloth might be less insular.’

Nigel had reservations. For a start, he wasn’t sure the Mormon faith, fundamentalist or not, had people like vicars.

Heather was having nothing of it; he recognized the defiant cut of her jaw as she strode across the square to the temple that loomed over it.

The portico was supported by three white pillars. At either side of the building was a pair of smooth cylindrical towers with turrets at the top, studded with arched windows. A semicircle of white stone steps swept up to double doors, one of which appeared to be slightly ajar.

Without stopping to knock or call out, Heather walked through into a cool, dark vestibule.

It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust from the bright light outside. The temple was silent. In front of them was a wall, with open arches either side. To the right and left were doors, both locked.

Heather looked at Nigel and shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s some kind of office where we can find someone,’ she suggested.

They

went through one of the arches that opened into

the main part of the temple. In front of them were rows and rows of pews and a carpeted floor. There were precious few religious adornments, save an inscription on the back wall that read ‘the lord has seen our sacrifice’

and a single cross. They looked around but saw no one. In the corner to their left was a door that Heather tried, and which was also locked.

Wait here,’ Heather said, and started wandering towards the front, where there were more doors.

Nigel felt a cold chill down his spine. The fact the temple was open but as deserted as the rest of the town made him uneasy. He glanced round and saw behind him, at the back wall to his right, a small table, draped in white cloth, complete with a couple of books. Above it, on the wall, was a large notice or message board, listing forthcoming events and other community arcana. Nigel perused them — they ranged from the profound, a service celebrating the anniversary of the town’s founding, to the trivial, someone advertising a crochet group for ladies. There was little to distinguish it from the day-to-day activities of any small church in any religion.