PART 2
I called 911 from the driveway in my pajamas.
“My husband took our two children in the middle of the night. He’s part of a survivalist group. He told our daughter I’m not allowed to come. He’s driving to a bunker in the national forest right now. I can see his location.” The dispatcher stayed on the line while I gave her every turn of that blue dot.
Then she connected me to a county sheriff’s sergeant.
“Ma’am, do you know how many people are at that compound?”
“No. But my daughter said there are bunk beds. And other children.”
There was a long pause.
“Stay where you are,” he said. “We’re going up.”
I didn’t stay where I was. My neighbor drove me to the bottom of the forest road, and I waited there with a blanket around my shoulders, watching the dot stop at the end of the road.
At 6:40 a.m., four sheriff’s trucks went up the dirt road. Then two more. Then a van from the state police.
I waited three hours.
At 9:52 a.m., the first truck came back down.
Clara was in the back seat. She was holding the fishbowl in her lap with both hands. Bubbles was swimming in circles.
Otis was asleep against her shoulder.
When she saw me, she pressed her face to the window and screamed, “MOMMY!”
I’ve never run so fast.
The deputies told me what they’d found. A compound hidden in the trees. Two old shipping containers buried under the ground. Bunk beds. Months of food. Weapons.
And eleven children from five families. Some of them hadn’t been to school in a year.
Brother Ezekiel had told the fathers that “the bad day” was coming that Sunday. The children had to be brought in before dawn. The mothers were to be left behind, because they were “unbelievers.”
Three other mothers had reported their children missing that same morning. None of them knew where to look.
Mine was the only phone with a blue dot.
Brother Ezekiel, whose real name was Harlan Moss, had been convicted of fraud twice in Oregon. He’d collected thousands of dollars from every family who joined.
He was arrested at the compound for illegal weapons and child endangerment. More charges came later.
Garth was arrested too. For interfering with custody and child endangerment. He’d forged my signature on the school forms.
In the back of his truck, deputies found a letter addressed to me. He planned to leave it on the kitchen table.
“Abby. The children are safe now. Don’t look for us. When it’s over, you’ll understand.”
The judge gave me emergency custody that Monday. Then full custody in the spring.
Garth took a plea deal. He’s on probation and in court-ordered counseling. He’s allowed supervised visits once a month. At the last one, he cried and told Clara he was sorry.
She told him she forgave him. Then she asked if he’d stopped believing in “the bad day.”
He said he didn’t know yet.
We’re working on it. All of us.
Clara and Otis went back to school the next week. The other eleven children from the compound were placed with their mothers or grandparents.
Two of those mothers came to my house in December. They brought a casserole and a card.
“Thank you for the blue dot,” it said.
Bubbles is still alive. He lives on Clara’s dresser in a bigger bowl now, with a little castle in it.
Last week, Clara asked me if Bubbles knew he’d been in a bunker.
“Probably not,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want him to be scared.”
Then she looked up at me.
“Mommy, I’m glad I told you.”
“Me too, baby.”
“Even though Daddy said not to.”
“Especially because Daddy said not to.”
THE END.
