You’ll answer to Gray Tamatoa. You’ll answer to the law. And you’ll answer to me.”
“I answer to nobody but God,” the Prophet said.
“Eventually,” Drew said. “In the short term, answering to me hurts more.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, the list Victoria had drawn up for him the night before. He held it up to show the Prophet, and then he read from it. Slowly, and with emphasis.
“Section 128 of the Crimes Act,” the voice that had launched hundreds of epic battles rang out. A voice New Zealand would listen to. A voice they’d care about. “Rape. Fourteen years. Section 189. Injuring with intent. Five to ten years. Section 189A. Strangulation or suffocation. Seven years. Section 194A. Assault on person in family relationship. Two years. And violation of a protection order. Three years.” He lowered the loud-hailer, then raised it again. “And accessory after the fact to crime. Five years, or half the maximum term of imprisonment. That would be you.”
The Prophet said, “A fine list. But nobody has laid a complaint.”
I took the loud-hailer from Drew and said, “That isn’t Frankie’s list. That’s mine. And it’s not the complaint I will make. It’s the complaint I already have. I went to the police and did it last night. Twelve years too late, and not a minute too soon. I imagine you’ll be seeing them here later today. Another good use of the Lord’s day. Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”
“The Prophet said. “Blasphemer. Liar. Whore.”
Gray was all but quivering beside me. In another minute, he was going through the fence. I said, “No. The truth. Unless you bring Frankie out here, I’ll take you down along with Gilead. I’ll tell them everything. And then I’ll write a book.”
A long, long moment, the only sounds the far-off barking of a dog, the rumble of generators, the lowing of a milk cow who hadn’t been milked. And two hundred people holding their breath. I stared at my great-uncle, and he stared back at me. I could see my father on his right. “The strong right hand of the Prophet,” he’d have called it. I could see my mother, too. Standing behind him, shrunken and silent and small. My throat ached to see her. The first time in twelve years.
A flurry in the crowd, and running feet. Frankie, bursting through. And somebody else, holding her hand. The taller girl shouted, “It’s Prudence. I got her, Daisy. I got her out.”
Frankie’s face was swollen. Not just from tears. From blows. He’d slapped her. Back and forth, over and over.
The crowd was silent. The cameras kept filming. I stepped forward until I was a bare half meter from the fence and called to my sister. “All you have to do is come with me. All you have to do is come.”
She took a step, then stopped. She said, “He said … he said …”
A struggle, behind her. Gilead, being held back by Uncle Aaron. And by Gabriel, tall and strong. Gilead was shouting. Spewing the words. Ugly. Brutal.
I said, “He told you he’d come after Oriana. That he’d come after Honor. That he’d come after me. That we’d have no safety and no peace unless you came back.”
She didn’t say anything. She choked back a sob and nodded.
I said, “It’s not true, baby. It’s not true. We’re here. We’ve got the law behind us. We’ve got strength and protection and power behind us. He’s got nothing. He’s going to prison. All you have to do is say that you want to leave, and you’re free.”
Frankie was clutching Prudence’s hand. The two of them, peas in a pod, always. Prudence was crying, and she was pushing Frankie forward, saying, “Go. You have to go, Frankie. The minute I can, I’m coming, too. Go.”
The Prophet shouted, “Hell awaits the ungodly woman.”
Frankie didn’t even look at him. She turned and hugged Prudence hard, then walked to the gate. She stood there a minute, a meter away from freedom, and then she took off her cap and dropped it on the ground. She untied her apron, stripped it off, and dropped it. She worked the ugly white shoes off her feet, kicked them aside, and stood there, the brown dress shapeless around her, and pulled the pins out of her hair. And the cameras recorded it all.
“I want to go,” she said, her dark eyes burning in her face, where the marks of slaps stood out, livid.