Going Native

Going Native

A Novel

F.L. Williams

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014, F.L. Williams

All Rights Reserved

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Dedication

Thanks Lisa, Tanner, Claire, and God.

Copyright © 2014, F.L. Williams, All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1311262103

Smashword Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About the Author

Beautiful Native Excerpt

Prologue

I peeked from the safety of the pantry through the slats of the door to where Cook sat with a coffee cup gripped between her hands. It’s a shame. She’s barely out of training pants, and he’s sending her off to school?

School? The cookie I’d snatched off the counter lost its appeal at the word.

Thomas, the butler, sat across from her. Ten years old is barely out of training pants, he replied in a dry voice. He picked up an oatmeal cookie off a platter. She needs to attend school, Margaret.

Margaret? His fingers crept across the table and stroked the top of her pudgy hand. My chest tightened. She’d never told me her name was Margaret.

Cook leaned toward him, her arms pressed against the kitchen table. Why can’t he send her to a real school? It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. He’s packing her off to a convent full of nuns. No other children. She trained her eyes to the hills dotted with cedar scrub on the other side of the French doors.

Thomas pulled his chair closer, and his brown eyes skimmed across her face. "It’s for the best. Soon, she’ll be old enough to ask questions. Hopefully, this will spare her from the answers and her father."

Hmph. She took a sip of the coffee she’d poured before sitting down. Her shoulders rose and fell in a deliberate sigh. She won’t be punished, at least.

He brushed crumbs off the table into his open palm. There will still be corrections. The Sisters do like to use their rulers.

I crouched on the floor trying to comprehend what I was hearing. The scape of a chair brought my attention back to the couple.

You know what I mean. He’s been taking her down to the cellar more often, Cook whispered. I inched closer to the louvered door. Kept her there the whole night last time, not just a few hours.

He swallowed. Do you know what goes on down there?

The tight gray bun on the back of her head shook back and forth. No.

Thomas looked in my direction, and I stilled. Has the child ever said anything?

Uh-uh. Acts as if nothing occurred. Like she hadn’t been gone for hours. She paused. She does spend more time outside with Tucker afterwards.

At the mention of my dog’s name, my hand dropped to the cattle dog puppy who sat silent by my side; he had quickly become my best friend. My only friend. He went everywhere with me. Except the cellar. No one went there but Father and me.

Thomas reached out and cupped her cheek. You care for her as well as you can under the circumstances. There’s no getting away from him—for you or her. He pushed back in his chair and peered out the window. Where is she?

Cook flipped her hand toward the doors that lead to a side patio. Probably off in those hills. She’s as wild as the animals she brings home. I can’t keep her here. Her voice lowered like mine when I whispered secrets to Tucker. I wonder if she realizes she’s a mistake.

Thomas’s brows wrinkled. Margaret, he hissed, looking over his shoulder toward the door that led to main part of the house.

What? Cook threw a cautionary glance in the same direction. It’s true. JR is nothing like his father. Why’d he keep her if this was the life he was going to sentence her to? Never allows her out of her room if he’s entertaining. Never touches her, shows affection. She crossed her arms over her chest.

I know.

Cook’s knuckles were white, her grip on the cup tight. See. You realize it, too.

Thomas gave a half shrug. I see it, but there’s not a bloody thing me, or you, he gave her a pointed look, can do. There’s some part of him that can’t give her up, yet she’s everything he hates. Lexus is nothing but a constant reminder of his failures. Ones he can’t find answers to.

Chapter One

Ten years later

The native appeared in the shadows of the tree line, her hands cupped beneath her pregnant belly. She hunched over her stomach in a protective stance, her short gasps piercing the night. With a jerk, she stood and began a clumsy dash across the backyard. My eyes returned to where she had first come into view. Hocking, my brother, stood in her place with a black Doberman. He hissed the command zur spur and, in a matter of seconds, the girl lay on her side, the dog standing guard over her body.

My hands curled into useless fists at the sounds of the native’s whimpers. Call the dog off!

Sitz. The Doberman stepped back and sat at Hocking’s side. Man and dog appeared to be well paired; creatures with a dark sinister beauty, capable of carrying out whatever orders they were given. Hocking pulled her to him and leaned into her face. You’ve got to listen to what I say.

She nodded, her whimpers now muffled sobs.

He turned in my direction. Go back inside, he said, gesturing toward my balcony door.

My hands gripped the wrought iron railing separating me from them. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Instead, I stared at a face as beautiful as the statue of David. What are you going to do?

Hocking flipped his hand, and the Doberman turned his attention in my direction. Lexus, get inside. Now.

The native girl’s eyes were black orbs, too big for her face. Go on, she said, her voice void of emotion.

I followed her command and grasped the door handle. With a grunt, Hocking swept her into his arms. He strode off to my right. Was he taking her to our father? The sound of the patio doors shutting followed me as I stepped into the bedroom and closed the door.

Answers. I needed them, and what better way to get them than my father? There were plenty of reasons why I shouldn’t ask. And only one reason why I should. One I couldn’t ignore anymore.

I was a native, just like her.

Chapter Two

A wave of guilt washed over me. My family was responsible for a world where prejudice wasn’t confined to skin color or how much money you made. Now, with the development of DNA manipulation in utero, children could be born with perfect features. Black rings surrounded blue eyes the color of summer skies, skin as flawless as a newborn babe, bone structure that looked as if it had been chiseled by a master artist. Perfect was the label chosen to refer to this group because they were—perfect—a physical masterpiece.

There was just one problem. Sometimes, the manipulations failed. Children were born with eyes the color of dark chocolate, skin was sprinkled with freckles and bone structure… Well, let’s just say some noses were a bit too big, foreheads a bit too high, and breasts a bit too small if you were a woman. These unfortunate souls were referred to as natives. We looked like our ancestors before this so-called scientific breakthrough. And we stood out as different as night is to day in this world that demanded a perfection we were denied.

I had no memory of my mother and she was never mentioned. I didn’t even realize mothers existed until I’d been shipped off to the convent and given access to a library. There, I discovered families had parents. Fathers and mothers. Children were openly showed affection and, from what I read, appeared to be of importance, cared for both physically and mentally.

The only parent I knew was my father, the grandson of the founder of Bio-Genetics. The man who’d continued in his father’s footsteps, making available to the world a medical technique that had eliminated birth defects and, with enough money, offered physical perfection to unborn children. A man driven to find out why the technique, in utero manipulation of a child’s DNA, was not always successful. A goal, which had in my estimation, brought him to the brink of insanity. That and having to look at one of his greatest failures—me.

With a slow release of my breath, I focused on my decision to go downstairs. I clicked the bedside lamp on, then off. Security might realize I was up. Would Hocking tell my father? He’d appeared resigned, as if this wasn’t what he wanted. Something wasn’t right. The studies my father spoke of—the ones involving the native girls and women—what were they, really? I’d drawn blood samples from the pregnant natives on a weekly basis for the last year. Father said that was all he needed to pursue Bio-Genetics’ studies for DNA manipulation. Why would a pregnant woman attempt to flee from a home that had been offered in exchange for weekly blood samples?

The questions persisted as I slipped out of my bedroom and into the dark hall. My toes curled in protest at the cold tile floor. I darted to the wall next to the staircase and listened. Silence greeted me. From the stairway to my father’s office was a short distance, but I never knew when one of the security team would make an appearance. They seldom spoke, just stood and watched me. Please God, don’t let it happen now.

Once downstairs, I stopped short of a partially opened door and pushed up against the wall. My heart beat like the bongo drums Miguel—one of the grounds men—attempted to play whenever he’d had too much tequila. On tiptoes, I slid next to the opening and craned my neck as far as I could without putting myself at risk of being seen.

So you thought you could get away? I heard my father snort. Cold day when someone gets away from me. Were there any others?

No, only this one, Hocking said, his voice flat.

The girl was in there? My breathing sounded harsh in my ears, and I clamped my hand over my mouth.

How did it happen? I want to know who messed up. If she’d gotten away, it could have ruined my research. I know I’m on the verge of finding out why the manipulation doesn’t work every time. She could have brought the law down here. Though… My father’s voice dropped, and there was a long silence. Who’d believe a native?

His voice grew closer, and a sharp slap rang out. I drew back into the shadows of the hall, and my hand pressed against my shirt in an attempt to muffle my heart’s pounding. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face.

Who helped you?

The answer was too quiet for me to understand.

You know what you’re gonna have to do, boy. The word boy was dragged out like a slur. A rattle of glass was followed by a splash of liquid.

 She hasn’t had the baby yet. Hocking’s voice was edgy. And this one’s yours.

I’m well aware of that fact. It’s a waste, but she’s gonna have to be put down.

Yours? Put down? The words sucked the breath from me.

Nothing to be done about it. I can’t have her going back, and all the rest of those misfits thinking they might get loose and make it. This one almost did.

A yelp sounded, and the girl appeared in my narrow line of sight, face down on the study floor. Father came into view, his foot drawn back.

 Father, no! I stepped into the doorway and stood before the man I feared more than the Hell I believed in. Blue eyes swung toward me, accented by features so perfect. His beauty still caught my breath even though I knew the darkness of his soul. My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water struggling to breathe. Hocking stood with his hand on Father’s shoulder.

What… Father shook his arm and stepped back. His head swung from side to side. He rounded on Hocking. Where do you get off touching me? And you. He pivoted and advanced in my direction. Who are you to tell me to stop? To tell me anything?

The girl lay on the floor facing me. Watching. She had heard me call this monster ‘Father.’ Would she ever know I was as terrified of him as she was?

What’s wrong, girlie? The smell of Johnny Walker Blue enveloped me. Not good. Girlie was what he called me when he’d had more than a few drinks. My father’s drunken rages made his sober ones look harmless. His fingers dug into my arm. You got any questions? This is as good a time as any to ask ’em. He toed the native girl at our feet with his cowboy boot.

I twisted my face away from his sour breath. I’d never asked him where the natives went to once they had their babies. You didn’t ask my father questions. He asked you. Now I had the answer. I felt sick as the growing suspicion that this mad-man, who claimed me as his own, killed the mothers. And the babies?

His hand latched onto my chin and pulled my face back toward his. I want you to go to your room and wait for me. His fingers squeezed my chin, and I raised my eyes to his. Your temper heating up to match that red hair? Our eyes locked, and I watched as his softened. He released me with a jerk—his mood changed as fast as the storms that rolled over the Texas hill country. He stepped back and motioned toward the door. Go, he said, his voice soft, his face turned to the wall.

I vibrated—from anger or fear, or both, I wasn’t sure. My eyes left my father and focused on the ones staring up at me from the floor.

Now, girlie. The edge was back in his voice.

 Strong fingers latched onto my forearm and propelled me toward the door. I stumbled. These women weren’t being given tests and monitored, as I had let myself believe. They were guinea pigs—destroyed, put down, like a dog no one wanted.

Once in the hall, the door closed with a thud, and I was jerked up short. Blue eyes zeroed in on mine, but they weren’t Father’s. It was my brother’s.

You’re gonna push the old man too far someday, Hocking said.

You sorry... I wrenched my arm from his grasp. You knew all along what he did to those girls when he finished with them. You stood by and let it happen. His hand clamped down on my upper arm, and he pulled me down the hall. Let me go, I said, practically hissing.

I will when we’re out of earshot.

We continued toward the front of the house. I twisted and brought my arm up to my mouth, biting down hard on his hand. A muffled moan came from Hocking. He threw the parlor doors open and pushed me. The force of the shove wrenched his hand from my teeth. I fell to my knees and waited.

Get up. I’m not gonna hit you like the old man. He stalked over to the window and leaned down to study his hand in the moonlight. I can explain.

I gripped the base of a Tiffany lamp that Father had brought home from the latest auction in Dallas. The weight gave me a sense of confidence as I raised it above my head. He dropped to the floor when I made contact with his skull.

The lamp swayed over his body, heavy in my arms. I wish I was sorry, but I’m not.

Chapter Three

The clinic I had worked in, taking blood samples and treating minor complaints, was connected to the dormitory where the natives lived. That much I knew. Beyond that, I was in the dark with regard to what was happening right under my nose.

Tonight I planned to find out.

I had taken a ring of keys off of Hocking in the hope that one of them would open the door the pregnant natives used to enter the area I did the weekly assessments. All the doors in the clinic area were set up on a computerized system with codes, but I had heard the guards discuss how Father had also installed a locking system in case of some type of major power system failure. My hope was these keys were the ones that would have been used in such an event.

The bitter taste of bile rolled up my throat. How could I be so ignorant? When young women sat before me and answered questions with a mumbled yes or no, refusing or unable to make eye contact, had I honestly believed they were in a home for pregnant natives? The intuition that the natives were born with, what we referred to as knowing, had whispered something was wrong. I’d made the choice to turn the other way—fear of my father greater than my desire to seek the truth.

With a mechanical hiss, the door glided open. Sconces lined one side of the hallway before me, casting an eerie glow on the cement walls. At the end of the hall was another steel door like the one I’d opened. My heart sank. The ring in my hand held at least a dozen keys. Each one represented time. Time that increased the risk of discovery.

I looked up to my left, where the wall met the ceiling, and recognized one of the many security cameras on the property. Sliding underneath it, I glanced in the small window of the first door. A man sat in a chair, his chin on his chest with at least ten monitors in front of him, each displaying a different location. Places I didn’t recognize.

Too late to turn back, I dashed to the next door and started jamming keys into the lock. A mental clock ticked in my head. The guard would wake up. My hands shook to the point where it took both of them to hold the keys steady. On the third try, the lock clicked, and I pushed the door open, stepping through the threshold. Despair washed over me. More doors. Unsure which to open, I went for the closest one. I was rewarded with the soft click of the tumblers responding on the first attempt.

Now what do you do? You don’t even have a plan, I whispered to myself. I brushed back the hair that had worked loose from my French braid. Just push the door open and see what’s on the other side. My hand hung suspended in space, as if held by an invisible string. Just do it.

The door responded to the slight nudge, leaving an inch of open space between it and the door-jamb. I froze and listened. Silence. The room was awash in florescent light. Sweat ran down my neck. Stainless steel everywhere—tables, shelves, desks, countertops. There was a wall of steel drawers opposite of where I stood. Cold…very, very cold. The door shut behind me with a hiss, as if the room was angry that I’d come calling. No problem there. I didn’t want to be here either, yet I knew this room held a secret. One I realized I already knew.

I jammed my hands under my armpits and crept on wooden legs toward the wall of shiny metal. My reflection watched me advance, hollow eyed and ashen. I gripped a handle. With a click, the door moved toward me. Eyes squeezed shut; I pulled the drawer the remainder of the way open. The clock on the wall ticked. My shirt was so damp it was as if I was draped in a wet blanket. And the smell, my nostrils flared. I wasn’t sure what it was, except that it was close to raw meat. Not repugnant, but not alive. Off—definitely off. The drawer moved, and my eyes flew open. I gasped. With a shudder, I turned away and retched. Pasty beige vomit splattered on my pant legs and onto my green hiking boots. A slender arm dangled in my peripheral vision. My eyes trailed upward to a young woman’s body. Lying across her still chest was a premature child. A tiny face with shadowed blue circles under closed eyes. I traced the shell of the baby’s ear and made the sign of a cross with my other hand over the mother and infant. A childhood prayer I had learned slipped from my lips.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take."

Tears slid down my face as I placed the mother’s arm next to her side. I swiped the snot from under my nose and wiped my hand on my jeans. My fingers flinched when I gripped the cold metal, preparing to close the rolling tomb. Eleven more drawers to go.

The last one rolled closed. Thank goodness it had been empty. Ten native women and the one small newborn. None of the women appeared much older than me. I stepped back and noticed another door, this one with a window. My feet protested as I willed them to move. What was behind this one?

I pressed my face to the glass. A door stared back at me at the end of yet another long hall. One thing was different this time. The walls were made of metal bars.

#

My hands shook as I gripped the handle and gave a twist. Surprised it wasn’t locked, I slipped through and looked to my right. Brown eyes blinked, confusion written on a native’s face. She pushed up from a cot with pale white hands; her shirt barely covered a rounded belly protruding from a too skinny frame. I was as shocked as she was. I moved further down to the next cell, the next, and the next. Each one held a native in some stage of pregnancy. When I reached the final one, I came to a halt and stared into the face from my father’s study.

You’re alive? The keys rattled in my hand as tremors ran down my arms.

Can you get us out? Her left eye was swollen and dried blood clumped at the side of her mouth. The imprint of fingers was visible on her arms. She clung to the bars, her knuckles white with the effort. Do any of those keys open the cells?

The other prisoner’s arms waved through the bars like twigs in a hard northern wind. Murmurs and pleas could be heard up and down the hall.

Sweat dripped into my eyes, blinding me. I was as desperate as they were to escape. I needed to think. The murmurs were becoming wails. Shut up! I hissed. The guard was asleep, but if you don’t stop, none of us will get out of here.

Silence.

I jerked my glasses off and pulled my sweatshirt over my head, tying it to my waist. Okay. If any of you still know how to pray after living in this, you might want to start now, because if these keys don’t work, I pivoted around and stared at the faces pressed up against the bars and rattled the key ring, I’m out of ideas.

The woman in front of me shifted and gave a strangled moan.

I glanced up at her before looking back to the ring to try another key. What?

A faint tremble came to her voice. You’re our only chance. Evidently, we come, we go…

That explained what I’d heard my father say in his study and the women in the morgue. Native mothers were expendable. But only one woman held a child in her arms. What happened to their babies?

I kept my eyes on the key ring and tried the next one. Are the babies put up for adoption?

The native woman leaned in, her voice no more than a whisper. You don’t know?

The keys clanked against the black bars as I fumbled for the next one. What?

They, she waved toward the other cells, told me the babies never come back with the mothers when they return from having their child. If they return.

I stilled. What do they think happens?

Her hand dropped to her abdomen. They’re not sure. But some of them, she gestured toward the natives in varying stages of pregnancy, think he may be selling the native babies.

Bile burned my throat. I swallowed—hard. Stop. I can’t think. Tears dropped onto the key as it came up toward the lock. Focus. There are guards to get past.

I wiggled the key but the lock didn’t budge.

A buzzer sounded, and the cells doors slid open. Silence filled the cells again, but this time, I knew the cause wasn’t hope of freedom. The door I’d come from opened, and a man faced us with an assault rifle in his hands.

Come on. He wore a black jumpsuit and a mask over his head. He walked between the cells, waving at the women.

Who are you? I asked, willing myself to maintain eye contact as he advanced in my direction.

Let’s say I’m someone who just gave his notice, and I’m out of here. Since you decided to free all the ladies, I thought the least I could do was help, he added in a clipped English accent.

I stepped in front of him. How do we know we can trust you?

He pointed the gun at my abdomen. His eyes were ice blue with the signature black ring encircling his iris. A Perfect.

Ten years earlier when I sat in the pantry and listened to Cook and Thomas