Free Tribe by R.D. Zimmerman Page B

stayed at The Congregation, his contact with his mother had been sparse, not much more than a letter per year. When he'd started thinking about leaving the cult, though, she'd been the first and only person he'd told; knowing that they were always watching, always listening—there was a persistent rumor that the phones were tapped—Zeb had wisely snuck off the compound and called her from a pay phone. Yes, she said, run as fast and as far as you can. Don't come to Santa Fe, because they now knew where she lived. And they will look. Just run, she said, and if there is a God they won't find you.
    He was about to hang up on the eighth ring when the phone was finally answered, and he said, “Mom?”
    “Oh, my God, Zeb,” replied Martha. “Where are you? Are you all right? How's the baby?”
    “We're fine, Mom. We're in Minneapolis.”
    “I've been so worried.”
    “Really, we're okay,” he insisted, not wanting to go into it all. “How about you? You don't sound so good.”
    “It's just been…well, things have been a little rough here.”
    “What's that mean? They haven't been there, have they?”
    “Don't worry, I'm fine,” said Martha, avoiding the answer. “Just be careful, okay?”
    “But—”
    “Zeb, I want to come up there.”
    “No, you don't need to.”
    “But you might need help. I want to be close.”
    “Aw, Mom,” moaned Zeb, now wishing he'd never called her. “It's really cold up here and there's a ton of snow. There's a huge storm going on right now. You wouldn't like it.”
    “Zeb, I'm coming up.”
    “But I don't have enough room for you. My place is really small.”
    “Then I'll stay at a Holiday Inn or something. There has to be one of those downtown.”
    “Listen, Mom, we'll talk later. I'm at work.”
    “Zeb, I'm coming. I—”
    “Mom, I love you. Gotta go. Bye.”
    He hung up and stood there shaking his head. Oh, brother. He leaned his head against the wall, banged it several times. Talk about dumb things, calling his mom. It would be just like her, too, to come up here. In fact, he'd be surprised if she didn't just show up.
    What a frigging mess. He was flat broke and he thought this would have been the perfect time to slip into that room and steal some of the expensive stuff. He just hadn't been around hospitals enough, hadn't known, hadn't realized how tightly things would be controlled. Not only were all the drugs locked in one room, they were locked in cages in a locked room.
    So how the hell was he going to get it? And if not tonight, then when?
    He should just leave here. Just drop this stupid dust mop, go back to his locker, get back into his jeans, and take off. After all, all he really wanted was to see Ribka, his baby girl.

9
     
    Paul wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. He stood in the deep snow just outside the kitchen window and so far he hadn't been able to locate her, the woman who owned the house. Perhaps she was upstairs resting. Or bathing. Perhaps this man, the one who was dancing and singing out there in the living room, had come over just to watch the baby for a bit. Or maybe he'd come over to watch the child while she went out. Wait, no. Her car was in the garage, so she was here. Then again, maybe she had gone somewhere. Perhaps she was just at a neighbor's or someone had picked her up.
    The unknown made him uneasy. The snow was making him cold. Unbelievable, he thought, looking at the light in the alley. The snow was coming down in thick sheets. This had to be a sign, he thought. Perhaps this was just like one of the great biblical sandstorms that had shielded God's worthy. Most certainly. And he was The Chosen, here to rescue the infant Ribka. Praise Jehovah, for it was He who had brought this storm, He who was laying down this snow like a protective cloak. Yes, Paul would take the child in his arms and flee, and his tracks would soon be buried by the huge flakes.
    Filled with an inspired sense of purpose—by their fruits ye shall know