Part 2: Sam

Saturday, February 27, 1993, 2:50 pm. Two figures trudged along a dusty trail leading to a side entrance of the Mount Carmel Center. The middle-aged man wore a pair of dusty Levis and a black tee shirt emblazoned with the word ‘Apocalypse’ in red and white. On his head was a red and blue bandanna, tied at the back in a knot. He sported a chemically induced, two-week growth of salt and pepper beard. An earring that wasn’t an earring gleamed in his left earlobe. His worn rawhide boots with rundown heels kicked up dust. He was conspicuously missing four teeth.

“We’re being observed from six locations, at least,” Tim muttered.

His companion, a shapely brunette in a long-sleeve cotton shirt, long denim skirt, boots nearly as trodden as her partner’s, and a Stetson hat nodded. A colorful string of Navaho beads completed her ensemble.

“I hate knowing we’ll end up in the Fed’s database. So much for keeping a low profile, huh?”

“They may be tracking us with directional mike’s, so be careful.”

Sam grunted assent. Twenty feet distant, two men holding M16 rifles watched she and Tim approach. Mostly, they concentrated their gazes on Sam. The file had indicated that most Davidians were armed with that weapon or with AK-47’s, and neither was surprised to see one.

The man on the left, wearing a denim vest over a clean white t-shirt and blue jeans warned: “Hold it right there, you two. This here’s private land. You’re trespassing.”

Sam took the lead as planned. “We’re not feeb’s, guy’s. I’m Sam, and this is my husband, Tim. We’ve come looking to join up. We were told to ask for Mr. Koresh. He’s the main guy, right? Can we talk to him?” She glanced at Tim, then the surrounding countryside. Conspiratorially, she whispered: “You know there’s people in that house ‘cross the way, spying on you, right?”

The man in the denim vest laughed. “Like that’s a surprise to us, ma’am. They been watching us for months now.” He gazed Sam up and down. “Where you folks from?”

Sam looked encouraged. “San Antonio and Austin. Before that, El Paso, and Tucson. We were told to leave the car on Elk Road, and approach on foot. Said you all are a might touchy with the feeb’s hassling you, lately.”

“They said that, did they?” Denim Vest deadpanned.

“Yes, sir. They did,” Sam said as innocently as possible.

“Well, Mr. Koresh ain’t seeing visitors right now, honey, so I suggest you turn round and head back to your car. We have phone service out here in the boonies, you know. At least, we do, for now,” he said with a chuckle. “Call and make an appointment for yourselves. Ask for Steven Schneider, or Wayne Martin. They’re Mr. Koresh’s associates. They can introduce you around, show you the place direct.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t make the mistake of approaching on foot again, though. That was bad advice, not worth listening to twice, sweetie.”

Sam offered a lopsided grin. “Bad advice is something I get a lot of, you know?” She cut her eyes toward Tim; Denim Vest cracked a grin. “I got a rock in my boot. It won’t take a moment to get rid of. Don’t shoot me, okay? I ain’t got a gun stuck down the inside, promise I don’t.” Gripping Tim’s shoulder, she extended her right foot for examination. “You can even take it off, if you want?”

The guards exchanged a grin. That invitation sounded mighty suggestive, their expressions suggested. With the tip of his barrel, Denim Vest indicated for her to go ahead.

Still gripping Tim’s shoulder for support, Sam bent to remove her boot, smiling at the pair with a vague wistfulness. Both men suddenly went rigid, eyes popping wide. No mistaking the sharp intakes of breath, nor the tightened grip on the rifles. Sam had not-inadvertently given them an eyeful of her unrestrained breasts. Making sure they continued to ogle her the further thirty seconds it took to remove, knock out her boot, and replace it, she stood erect and dusted her hands. Tim’s expression remained immobile the whole time.

“I guess we should go. Who are we supposed to call again? Steven somebody, and Wayne Newton?”

Despite looking shell-shocked, Denim Vest grinned. Glancing at his unsettled partner--did the forced celibacy of male cult members extend to the guards, Sam wondered--he drawled, “I wonder just how busy Mr. Koresh really is, today? Saturday’s are kinda slow, you know. Would hate to turn away prospective members on ‘count we got feeb’s hold up ‘cross the road.” He laughed. “A couple a drifters pick ‘em out first glance, that’s pretty pitiful, my book.”

Sam wondered what Koresh would make of the satellite coverage and stealth observers making up the real surveillance of the compound.

“Wait,” cautioned Guard Number Two, whom Sam had christened ‘Beer Belly’. “We’re not supposed to let no one in. Not even a pretty broad, you know?”

Sam flashed him a grin and laughed. “You can pat us down,” she teased. “If you send a female out to do it.”

Tim remained passive, though inside he tightened at the suggestion. Going braless was bad enough (good idea on Sam’s part, or not), but inviting a pat down by these two lunks? He didn’t believe for an instant that Denim Vest would radio for a female guard.

Denim Vest went mock serious. “Well now, you know, honey, the say-so’s not ours to make.” He held up a walkie-talkie whose frequencies the ATF and FBI had monitored for weeks. “That comes from Mr. Schneider, or Mr. Martin, inside. Either way, we ain’t got no female guards, and no one unknown goes through that gate without being thoroughly searched.” Beer Belly blinked, giving him a look that Denim Vest chose not to acknowledge. “So, how bad you want to visit inside, honey?”

Sam gave Tim a carefully controlled fretful glance. “You don’t mean, strip-search, do you?” she questioned.

Denim Vest guffawed. Then blinked rapidly, as though wondering if he hadn’t just stuck his foot in it. This time, he returned Beer Belly’s warning look. “Well, no,” he said slowly. “Not necessarily. Not if you agree to a thorough pat-down.”

Beer Belly objected: “Mr. Schneider’s not gonna sanction that, Dave! Whatya doin’?”

“They ain’t gettin’ inside without no pay-down,” Dave insisted. “That ain’t happenin’, Truck.”

“Well, I ain’t doin’ it!” Truck exclaimed. Dave didn’t look like he could be made any happier. “And you ain’t doin’ it neither, not without no say-so from Mr. Schneider, you ain’t!”

Looks like Koresh really did have his men under tight control, Sam thought. “Look, fellas...” She made a pleading gesture with her hands. “We came a long way to see Mr. Koresh. We’re tired and hungry, out of gas and money. If a little pat down is what it takes to get us inside--” She pantomimed a light frisking with hands courteously open. “--I’m okay with that. Right, Tim?”

“Sure,” Tim agreed curtly. “Just remember this is my wife, fellas. We respect each other’s wives in Texas, don’t we?”

Truck scowled. “Call inside. Then get rid of these folks.”

Dave shook his head. “Let’s remember what the sect is all about in the first place, Truck.” He lowered the assault rifle for the first time, tucking it beneath his left arm. “Our mission is to prepare the way for restoration of David’s kingdom predicted in the Bible. How are we gonna do that by turning away the faithful, the very members meant to spread the Three Angels’ message. Revelation 14 says to prepare the people for the Second Coming. Remember that.”

Truck snorted and shook his head. “He’s gonna spread the word? She is?” He guffawed.

“Someone has to,” Tim pointed out. “Mr. Koresh can’t do it all by himself.”

“Exactly!” Sam and Dave exclaimed together.

Truck rolled his eyes. “It’s on you, asshole. I I ain’t bein’ a party to this.” Stepping back, he also tucked his rifle beneath an arm.

Motioning Sam forward, Dave indicated to raise her arms, which Sam did with a smile. It remained fixed while Dave inexpertly ran his free hand along the length of both arms, top and bottom, pressed against each underarm, and then briskly went up and down her sides. So far, a completely acceptable pat down. Appearing embarrassed, Dave ran his hand up the inside of each thigh, stopping well short of her crotch. He cleared his throat.

“I gotta pat your privates. Sorry.” He actually looked sorry. “I’m a married man myself--” He threw an agonized glance at Truck, which confirmed the reports of wife-surrendering to the long-haired ‘Man of Sin.’

“Use the back of your hand,” Sam suggested.

Dave looked relieved. “Good idea. Hold still. This won’t last but a second.”

Touched firmly but non-invasively between her legs and against each upper thigh, Sam fought not to flinch, and even felt sorry for the stupid wretch. Satisfied she carried nothing concealed between her legs, Dave circled around and patted her rear end the same way, palm faced outward. Then it was time for her torso. Dave ground his teeth, truly conflicted.

“Let’s do this.” Lifting her shirt to her underarms, she revealed bare breasts for Dave’s inspection. Turning awkwardly in a circle, she proved no weapons or other contraband existed beneath her cotton shirt. Returning slowly to face him, she asked respectfully: “We okay?”

Sheepish, Dave nodded. “Saves a lot of embarrassment on both our parts, I guess.” He glanced at Truck, looking both a little shell-shocked and aroused. “You can put that down now,” he advised hurriedly.

Sam let the shirt drop back into place, smoothing it over her not-overly-large, but nicely shaped breasts. Hope you feeb’s got plenty of pictures, she thought wryly. “Is that it?”

“Not quite,” Truck intoned sourly. “Search him too.” His gun was back up, though held across his midsection, muzzle pointed at the long side of the main building.

I hope the safety’s set, Sam thought. Women and children populated the white washed buildings. She watched idly as Dave performed a perfunctory pat down of Tim.

“Okay, let’s go,” Dave said.

“You really should have called it in,” Truck grumbled.

“Give it a rest. What’s done is done. They’re harmless.” If a little disconcerting, his expression said.

With Tim and Sam walking ahead, Dave let his eyes roam up and down Sam’s slender frame, eying the swish of her denim skirt, the roll of her backside, and the effortless swing of her arms. Aware of his intent gaze, Sam wondered if she resembled his wife. How galling it must be, she thought, surrendering your masculinity along with your loved one to a charlatan. A child-rapist, Sam reminded herself. How young were some of the girls he’d claimed? The report hadn’t elaborated, stating only that he took numerous underage girls for ‘wives.’ Twenty of them, all told.

“I gotta warn you,” Dave said as they approached the gate.

“Uh-uh,” Truck warned. “That ain’t our business, Dave.”

“Fuck it ain’t!” Dave responded heatedly. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and urged her around. “The sect welcomes everyone. Just be aware that David Koresh welcomes some sect members more than others.” Casting Tim a meaningful glance, he warned: “If you value your pretty wife, keep an eye on her when you get inside. They’ll separate you, that’s standard procedure, but tell them no if someone says Sam’s bein’ billeted with the ‘wives’. That means Koresh took a liking to her and plans to lay claim to her at some point.” He gazed at Sam hard. “I don’t want to see that happnen’ to you unwarned, hear?”

Sam was unexpectedly touched. Placing a hand on Dave’s forearm, she said, “Thank you. Really. I didn’t expect--”

Truck batted her hand away with the muzzle. “No touching. Not allowed.” His voice was gruff, but the pushing away of her hand was done perfunctorily. “Keep that in mind, inside. We don’t lay hands on the opposite sex other than fambly’. Even then, it’s frowned upon by some.” He leveled a glare at Dave. “I’ll take it from here. You get back to the post. Last thing we want is Schneider catching us AWOL.”

Disgruntled, Dave told Sam to keep an eye out. “Steer clear of Schneider and Martin if you can. They’re both good men, but both hew to the boss’s teachings, and keep his best interests in mind. I’m not sayin’ they’ll feed you to the wolves, but no one misses a pretty new face in the crowd. And things are particularly tense right now ... as you may have noticed.” Glancing at Truck, he nodded and strode away, calling, “Good luck to you both,” over his shoulder.

Sam felt a little panicked. Despite knowing the dangers, she hadn’t expected to be put in this particular form of harm’s way right off the bat. Her focus should be on Maria, and her friends, should they be here. It wouldn’t do at all, to be corralled with Koresh’s harem upon making it through the front door.

“This way,” Truck directed. Using his rifle as a snowplow of sorts, he cleared a path through the main building, and out the other side, entering the compound proper. Behind them stood the rust-encased water tower, the swimming pool beside it, and the bunker in the northwest corner. Sam pushed thoughts of tomorrow’s gun battle--and the April 19th disaster to the back of her mind. Concentrate on the task at hand, she told herself: locate Maria and the others.

“This way,” Truck repeated. To all sides, women and children halted whatever activity had their attention and gazed at the newcomers. She spotted few men. What would become of these people in 52 days? She knew the answer to that, as she had the fate of hundreds of other victims on previous assignments.

Death went hand-in-hand with time-travel. On TTRA assignments, at the very least. Truth was, morbid curiosity seemed the deciding factor in most commercial ‘vacations’, as they’d come to be advertised. World War II battlefields, sites of volcanic eruptions, massive destruction wrought by earthquakes and hurricanes; a favorite destination was two weeks after Ground Zero. (Jumps to 9/11, or any catastrophe site on the day it occurred were not officially sanctioned as being too dangerous.) Topping the ‘wish list’ for five years straight was a berth on the SS Californian, the ill-starred ocean liner twenty miles NNW of HMS Titanic on a cold April night in 1912. No one wanted to be on Titanic, obviously.

Sam walked face-forward, scanning the crowds rather than any one face. No one could save them. No more than anyone could save the 1517 lost with the Titanic in 1912. The past was immutable, or very nearly so, and people that died stayed dead. Still, deep-rooted instinct begged her to scream a warning, implore these misguided fools to gather their loved ones, grab what they could of their belongings, and get the hell out of Dodge while they could.

Truck directed Sam and Tim through a side door in the next building. The ground floor comprised one room, occupied by several women and children. “You wait here and you--” He turned to Tim. “--you come with me, bucko.”

Startled at the familiarity normally reserved to Sam, Tim followed Truck outside and into the adjacent building. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll let someone know you’re here.” He paused, as though undecided to add to his dealings. “You really picked a bad day to show up, partner. Hope things work out for you and the missus.”

“Thanks,” Tim acknowledged. “Keep your head down when they start shooting.”

Grunting, Truck left the room, locking the door behind him.

...

Sam wondered what to do next. The plan had mostly relied on gaining access to the compound; once inside, they’d play the cards dealt and keep or draw as events dictated. She hadn’t expected to be separated from Tim so soon, though.

Her companions were four women in their late twenties to early thirties, all dressed similarly in simple, light colored dresses, two obviously carrying child. Three wore their hair in plattes; the plain redhead let her hair flow freely down her back. Four children, all below the age of ten played together in a corner. Sam couldn’t fathom the purpose of the room, or the women and children’s purpose in being there. How would she find Maria Martinez locked in here? She approached the redhead.

“Hi. My name’s Samantha. Can you tell me what I’m doing here? Truck, you know, he just...” She shrugged, leaving an open invitation to reply. The redhead regarded her coldly, and turned her back.

Well, I love you too, sweetheart. She smiled at a tyke with mom’s red hair, regarding her with a wooden block in each hand. He smiled tentatively back, and then winced at mom’s sharp rebuke. “We don’t talk to strangers, Caleb! Go back to your game, please.”

I wouldn’t be a stranger, if you deemed to open your mouth and talk to me, Sam thought angrily. It was then she noticed a girl with her hair in a bun, sitting alone near an unmarked door in the corner. Sam caught her eye for a moment, before the teen--she couldn’t be more than a senior in high school--looked back at her magazine. Boys Life, Sam noted. The teen was not obviously pregnant, though obviously with child. Sam instinctively knew she was tractable.

The teen glanced up again. Beside her was a vacant chair. As Sam casually made her way about the grouping of furniture in the center--every magazine was pitched toward child rearing, or youth-centric, such as Boys Life or Junior Scholastic, Sam noted—the girl became obviously alarmed at the prospect of a stranger alighting beside her. Sam eased down with a low greeting: “Is everyone in this place so hostile?”

From beneath her eyelashes, the teen cast a mortified glance around the room. “Don’t say things like that--please!”

Sam nodded slowly. “The Stranger Syndrome; I know. I’ve encountered it in more places than I can count on an abacus, sweetie. I’m Sam. Is this a doctor’s office?”

“No, why?” the teen said sharply. “Are you sick?”

Sam laughed softly. “Let me rephrase my question. Is this the pediatrician’s office? OB/GYN?”

“Were not supposed to use that term,” the girl hissed. Sam had dialed her estimate downward to a high school sophomore’s age.

“Why not? That’s what it’s called everywhere else in the world.”

“We’re not everywhere else in the world, if you haven’t noticed!” the girl said tartly.

Got a temper, this one, Sam thought wryly. “How far along are you, hon?”

“Who says I am?”

Sam made an encompassing gesture with her forefinger. “Moms, kiddies, playroom and Dr. Spock.”

Blinking, the girl said, “Who?”

“We’ll come back to that later. Is that the bathroom?”

The girl followed Sam’s pointed finger to the door beside them. She shook her head. “Over there, the one next to the TV set.”

“The one not turned on?” Sam asked.

Again, the girl cast around looks. “If you’re going to--”

“The only thing I’m gonna do,” Sam interrupted, “is pee my panties, or blow my lunch.” She suddenly looked green. The girl sat up.

“Are you... ?”

“I have a good guess,” Sam lied. “I’m in a good place to find out, apparently.”

The girl bit her lip anxiously. “OK. But don’t say panties, again. Or bra. The men don’t like those words. Underwear and brassiere are what we call them here. Don’t use any words directly associated with sex--” She whispered the word. “--or having to do with it, like OB/GYN.” She bit her lip again. “You’re not wearing a brassiere.”

Sam glanced down. “That’s a big no-no?”

“If you don’t want a public whipping on your bare bottom, yeah. Do you have one to put on?”

Bizarre heaped on bizarre. Sam shook her head. “I really need to use the bathroom, hon. Then we can worry about appropriate undergarments, okay?” She made an urking sound and doubled over convincingly. “Oh, God. I really don’t need this. I’m not even showing yet, dammit!”

Rachael, as she would introduce herself shortly, grinned apologetically at the red-haired mom, and helped Sam to her feet. “Morning sickness,” she mouthed. Red Mom glowered back; ramrod straight, her baby-bump just noticeable through the dress. “Go!” she indicated with her head. And quickly!

Rather than across the room to the expected door, Rachael guided Sam through the closed door beside them, down a short corridor to an empty room. “Here,” she said, helping Sam into the tiny restroom. It was obvious now that Red Mom had directed them next door, away from the communal bathroom. Sam closed the door and pushed upright. Rachael regarded her suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” Eyes widening, she unconsciously placed a hand over her lower abdomen, then the other, and stepped back. “David didn’t--”

“No!” Sam assured. “It’s OK. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetie. I would never do that.” She backed against the wall for emphasis. “See?” she said, raising her hands. “Nothing to hurt you with.”

Rachael was unconvinced. “Who are you, then?” She gasped. “The Feds? Are you raiding the compound?” Her eyes flared wide. “Are we in danger?”

“No! No, no, no, no, no,” Sam lied. “I’m here to find someone.” She withdrew Maria’s picture from a concealed slit in her skirt.

“Do you know this girl? Maybe as Maria?”

Without looking, Rachael vehemently shook her head. “You have to get out of here! You need to get outta this place, Sam!” She faltered. “Is that your real name?”

Sam nodded vigorously. “What’s yours?”

“Rachael,” she admitted cautiously. “Rachael Meadows. Why are you looking for her?” Her eyes flicked to the picture and back. Was there a flash of recognition?

“You know her, don’t you, hon?”

Rachael shook her head, and then nodded reluctantly. “I know her. Is she your daughter?”

Sam laughed in surprise. “No, but it’s vital that I find her. Do you know where she is?”

“Why?” Rachael asked again. “Are you getting her outta here?”

Sam extended her hand, tentatively placed it on Rachael’s left forearm. “Her mom and dad want her home, Rachael. She ran away after a fight. She didn’t even finish high school.” She paused, torn. “How old are you, sweetie.”

Rachael glanced away in embarrassment. “I didn’t finish high school, either.”

“You’re a runaway, too?”

Rachael nodded glumly. “No one came looking for me, though. No one even cares.”

I’m sure that’s not true, Sam wanted to say. But she’d been a runaway also, four times in her early-to-mid teens, and it was never her parents that reported her missing. Her grandmother, the school ... her girlfriend once. She’d left for good on her 18th birthday.

“Koresh did this to you, didn’t he?”

Rachael ran a forefinger under both eyes and sniffed wetly. “He’s gonna do it to Maria, next. Only she doesn’t call herself that here. It’s Selena.”

Sam inhaled sharply. “What do you mean, ‘do her next’?”

Rachael ground her teeth. “She’s David’s next wife. Tomorrow night she’s in the Honeymoon Suite. Like I was,” she added bitterly.

“Fuck!” Sam hissed. “How many wives does Koresh have?”

Rachael made an all-encompassing motion with her head. “He needs twenty-four to fulfill the prophecy, or something. He isn’t quite there, yet.”

Sam swore angrily. “You need to get out of here too, Rachael!”

“And go where!” she wailed. “My stepfather isn’t any better than David Koresh. I left to get away from him before he did this to me!”

Sam looked at her, anguished. “A relative, then. A group home for abused children. I know you’re not eighteen.”

Rachael snorted angrily. “I might as well stay here.”

Sam shook her head vehemently. “Not here! You can’t stay here.”

Rachael clasped her abdomen protectively. She repeated her earlier demand. “What’s going on? Is it the Feds? Are they going to raid us like everyone says they are?”

Sam almost blurted the truth. Instead, she removed three additional pictures from her skirt hem and held them out. “These are her friends. We believe all four came together. Do you recognize anyone?”

Though Rachael bent to examine the pictures, she refused to abandon her protective stance. “The guy’s Harry Markham, the blonde girl calls herself Jill.”

Conner Humphries and Sinead O’Riordan.

“What about this girl?” Sam pressed. “Do you remember her?”

Rachael pursed her lips. The picture was of Patsy Flowers, Maria’s best friend. “Maybe. She had red hair though, and it was shorter. She arrived with the others, but split like a month ago.”

“Where?” Sam asked apprehensively. They’d hoped to locate everyone together.

“The Seventh-Day Adventist headquarters in Maryland. She went as part of a delegation on behalf of David--as a peace offering, or something. He changed his name, you know, from Wayne Howell?” She shrugged apologetically. “Branch Davidians split from the Adventists back in 1955, and David took it over in 1988 from George Roden. Anyway, she didn’t come back. I think she left to get away from these two.” She tapped the photos of Conner and Sinead.

“What can you tell me about them?”

“I didn’t like them,” Rachael said uneasily. “They were up to something, I think. That’s why Phyllis left. Her,” she clarified, tapping Patsy’s photo. “They argued like crazy the weekend before, and pretty much cut her off from Selena. He disappeared, you know.”

Sam mentally groaned. “When?”

“Yesterday, or the day before. Schneider’s pissed. Thinks he was an FBI plant.” She eyed Sam questioningly.

Sam shook her head. “I can assure you he’s nothing but a drop-out troublemaker, Rachael. O’Riordan, too.”

“Who?” Rachel asked.

“Never mind. If that’s true, though, why is Koresh still... ?”

“David doesn’t care. It’s even better in his mind, probably: ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’? Not that it makes a difference what anyone thinks or says, anyway. Nothing changes David’s mind once it’s made up. He brainwashes people into believing he’s God’s prophet, even people that ought to know better, like Mr. Schneider and Mr. Martin. He uses their belief to get what he really wants...” Her expression indicated that Sam was smart enough to figure that one out on her own.

“What better reason to rescue Maria, then?” Sam pleaded.

Rachael gazed at her critically. “You don’t know Selena very well, do you?”

Sam cocked her head. “Why?”

Rachael grinned tightly: “There were three kinds of girls in school: girls like me, Heathers, and girls like Selena Gomez.”

Sam thought she understood. “I came from a poor background too. Entitled girls made my life miserable until I graduated and went to the academy. College,” she corrected hastily. “The worst, though, were girls that were just plain mean. Conceited, selfish, and bent on running you down or undercutting you just because they took a disliking to you, or God help you, you slighted or embarrassed them. Girls that took what they wanted just because it belongs to somebody else, usually a guy or a girlfriend. Am I hitting it right?”

Rachael’s sardonic grin concurred. “She had her mind set on David the instant she got here. Her two friends helped. Only... ?” She cocked her head uncertainly.

“What?” Sam pressed.

After a moment’s hesitation, Rachael said: “I don’t think they helped Selena for her own benefit. Selena is catty, stupid and spiteful, but Harry and Jill were—are—calculating and manipulative. Everything they did, it seemed like, was to get Selena noticed by David, and get her into the Honeymoon Suite. I don’t think either was her friend, really, not like Phyllis. And even she was put off by what Selena was doing. I’m not surprised she left.”

Sam carefully asked: “Did she ... Maria... ?”

Rachael laughed cynically. “No. David was done with me as soon as I got pregnant.” She blushed and looked away. “The truth is, I disappointed him pretty much. I wasn’t experienced, despite being abused, and I’m not very good in bed. Not like Selena will be, probably. Sorry,” she muttered. “That was mean.”

Sam shook her head. “I think you have a right to be upset. Listen—” She gripped Rachael’s biceps lightly. “I would get you out of here if I could—”

“Would you?” Rachael pleaded. “I don’t want to have my baby here! I’m a—what do you call it, a pariah now?” She glanced disconsolately at the door, toward the room where Sam had found her cordoned off by herself in a corner, banished by the other mothers. “I’ll help you if you promise to take me with you! I’ll get you whatever you need!”

Sam gazed at the girl, dismayed. It seemed like the rescue mission had taken an appalling turn, as if the person most in need of rescuing wasn’t whom they’d been sent to find. “Sweetie, I—”

“Please?” Rachael begged. “She sleeps in my dorm! At least, she does tonight. I can tell her that I was assigned to do her hair in the morning. That’s what I was apprenticing in before David—before I stopped working with other girls my age. She knows I’m good--I’ve done her hair before, even. Jill’s too.”

Sam had forgotten about Sinead. “Where does she billet? Jill?”

Rachael shook her head. “I’m not sure. They moved her somewhere else overnight. Suddenly, she’s persona non grata around here. She might even be locked up somewhere. Where they should have Selena,” she grumbled truculently. Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

“OK. So it is a little bit personal,” Rachael admitted. “She never hid the fact that I was in her way.”

“Still...” Sam said.

Rachael looked up. “Will you help me, then? Get me out of here with Selena?”