Page 166 of Heartbeats & Highways

Shuffling footsteps in the hallway alerted me moments before the door opened, revealing a balding man in a white doctor’s coat. He stepped inside the room and closed the door.

He looked at the floor and the mess I’d made.

Without a word, he went over to the window. He fought with the sticky sill but managed to get the window open. A waft of fresh air blew through the room, relieving the heat from the wood stove chimney and the acrid stench of my sick.

Drugs sloshed around in my veins; my sluggish mind slow to form thoughts.

He walked to the door and opened it, murmuring something I couldn’t hear to the person on the other side. When the conversation ended, he opened the door wider, stepped out into the hallway, and wheeled in a sonogram machine.

Swallowing, I kept my mouth clamped shut, refusing to ask questions, refusing to give one word to this stranger I didn’t know.

“I assume you know where you are?” he asked. His voice was nasally, like he had habitual allergies.

“The Farm,” I replied slowly.

He inclined his head. “I’m Dr. Winchester.”

“How nice for you.”

His brown eyes narrowed. “I’ve already drawn your blood and had it sent off to the lab.” His gaze dropped to my stomach. “I will be giving you a transvaginal ultrasound to determine how far along you are in your pregnancy.”

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, anger whooshing through me, obliterating my fear.

He gave me a patronizing smile. “I don’t think you have much choice in the matter.” Dr. Winchester placed his hand on my belly, letting his palm rest there for a moment before he inched the muslin dress up my legs, baring me to him.

I turned my head away and closed my eyes.

“Yes,” he purred. “It’s much better when you cooperate.”

There was no electricity in the house, but The Farm had several generators and one of the machines hummed in the background.

I heard him prepare the ultrasound and then wash his hands using the washing basin and pitcher. The dichotomy was almost laughable. A modern medical machine juxtaposed against historic, handmade furniture in a room where a woman was being held prisoner by a cult.

Dr. Winchester sat down on the wheeled stool and rolled his way to the edge of the exam bed. He took the probe, and I felt it at my entrance.

He slid the wand inside me and a few moments later I heard awhoosh, followed by an echo sound.

“Well, isn’t that good news,” Dr. Winchester said. “The Grand Patriarch will be very happy.”

I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling, praying the invasion of my body would be over quickly.

He spent a few moments moving the wand, no doubt gathering more information about me and my babies.

After he removed the probe, he lowered my dress.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Dr. Winchester called.

The door opened and the Grand Patriarch entered the room.

My father-in-law.

My husband had been the spitting image of him. Tall, muscular. My father-in-law’s hair was all gray now, and his face was lined with grief. Yet he was still a formidable adversary.

And he’d put the idea into my husband’s head to kill me. A true master of puppets. His followers were his marionettes.

The Grand Patriarch carried a tray with a plate of food as well as a glass of water and a straw. He set it down on the dresser next to the wash basin.

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