Moving toward the doorway, Ben hoped the elders would allow him to follow his oldest son's path. He prayed he would be allowed to continue on into the building's hallway instead of inexplicably returning to the malodorous innards of the prohibitive boulder. Leaving the room, he stepped into Malice's thoroughfare. It was moonlit and empty; both Adam and the cattle were gone.

Ben stood painfully still, hastened in place by an untenable combination of uneasiness and confusion. He knew where he was, but he did not know when he was. Although he had been allowed to remain in the small, forsaken town, with Adam and the cattle missing there was no way to truly know how much time had elapsed between the moment of the past he had just left and this one.

He briefly considered going back through the doorway before dismissing the idea. There was no predicting where it would lead him the second time. He had no desire to risk his current surroundings for those of a dank cave; he did not wish to be so quickly re-ensnared in the elders' pestiferous company. Remaining here was decidedly preferable, even if he was alone.

He looked between the ends of the thoroughfare, each seeming too close and far away in their own ways, one direction led to the rugged trail, the other to a collection of staggering boulders which contained their own jagged secrets. He wondered which direction Adam had walked toward when he left his brother behind in their room, what he had done and found once there. Compelled by frustration, had he pushed on the side of the boulder too and found himself captive to its insides and those who lurked inside of it? Or had he sought and found the woman who had dared make him impious promises via telegraph. Supposed promises, Ben thought, oddly grateful for the distinction. After all, he had not read the message Adam had secretly received. His only account was the telegraph clerk's indecorous yet vague insinuations. The elders faulted Adam for responding to the telegraph, a supposed scandalous invitation to meet the mystifying woman who called herself a midwife and who they devoutly referred to as She.

She was the one whom had been caring for Little Joe when Ben and Hoss first arrived. She was the one whom Hoss avoided when she visited the room, citing her silence and her dark, gleaming eyes too bothersome to endure. She was the one who had taken such vehement pleasure in Ben's confusion, advising him not to ask who, what, how, or why. She was the one who had been with Adam in the boulder's innards. She had fed him his father's blood and then she had led him away.

Ben was certain She was the one to blame for the telegraphs. He only wished he understood how she had sent them, why she had targeted Adam, when exactly her powers had overtaken him, and where she had hidden him now. And among all these questions which begun in ways which this place had deemed verboten, there emerged the beginning of another which had yet to be banned: What could be done about any of it now? The midwife's eyes had gleamed with an unsettling, unholy sheen, and momentarily in the muted candlelight illuminating the cavern, Adam's had too. What that meant, Ben did not know—he was not entirely sure he wanted to.

"If you continue to allow yourself to become captive to ceaseless, unanswerable questions, then you will never truly know anything," a familiar voice stated suddenly from behind him. "Especially here."

Turning around, Ben wanted to be surprised to find the midwife had appeared, seemingly walking through the same doorway of which he himself had emerged. Maintaining the youth she had obtained when he last saw her inside of the cavern, she still wore his and Hoss's sidearms, the leather of the gun belts wrapped, crisscross around her boney shoulders, the holsters hanging loosely around her torso.

Staring at her, Ben wanted to be angry for all the confusion She bore, the truth and certainties she refused to share. He wanted to demand She disclose where Adam had gone, why She had wanted him in the first place, how She convinced him to follow her, and what possessed either of them to ingest his blood. Instead, he forced an amicable expression. He would not risk the safety of his family by giving into turbulent emotions. He would not jeopardize an interaction that could lead him to locate his eldest son. Adam was not with her; she had come alone.

"I do not wish to engage in your games," he said evenly.

"Then what do you wish for?" she asked.

"Not what."

The midwife grinned, thin lips curling away from too-sharp teeth. If her question had been intended as a test, it was obvious he had passed. "I see you have finally become acquainted with the rules."

"Not what," Ben repeated obediently. "Not how, why, or where, those are the things you cannot ask if you want answers."

Smile waning, the midwife was disappointed by the response. "Perhaps, you have learned nothing at all."

Ben nearly asked why she thought such a thing, then thought better of it. "Please… will you explain further?"

This phrasing pleased her, and she smiled again. "I'm not so sure I want to. I am quite content to allow you to figure it out by yourself. A game is no fun if the participants are allowed to cheat."

"This is a game?"

"Don't play stupid or coy. Those are your words, not mine. "I do not wish to engage in your games," that's what you said. You view this as a game, therefore that is what it is." Her expression twisted with bitterness. "Men are fools. They are always so limited by their beliefs, the truths they think are unshakable, and the things they believe they understand. Your ignorance inhibits you; your faith in what you think you know stifles you; and your determination to ask questions guarantees that you will never obtain the answers you seek."

"I think I've grown quite accustomed to not asking questions."

"You may not voice them, but you still think them. You still question all that has been put before you."

"Not everything," Ben disagreed. He had never questioned Adam's actions. Not for a single second had he ever believed his son was guilty of what he had been accused of. Even after watching their disagreement unfold, he had not believed Adam had genuinely harmed Joe. Despite seeing the glowing glint in his eyes or the blood staining his son's teeth and lips, he had not believed Adam had done anything truly reprehensible. Startling, yes. Demeritorious, no.

"Like I said, men are fools," the midwife said. "You are a fool; your oldest son is a fool, too. I suppose he never really had a choice to be any different. Inanity begets inanity; a son is always destined to walk the path his father traveled first."

"Adam is far from inane," Ben dissented. "The path leading to this place was one he traveled first. It was I who followed him, first to this town when I received word he was in trouble." He nodded at the dilapidated doorway. "And then through that door after I watched him leave Joe's side."

"It was you who taught him not to fear the unknown, to help others when he could, if he could. Maybe you did not travel the path leading to this specific place before he did, but in a way you have."

Evaluating Ben, the midwife's dark eyes bore into him, seeming to penetrate his brain, heart, and soul.

"You believe what you have been shown is true," she said. "You are so focused on not having your faith in your sons questioned that it has kept you from considering if you should question the factuality of what you have been shown."

Thinking back to what the elders had chosen to show him and the things they had said, Ben was unnerved. Were they deceiving him? Was there a purpose to such a distraction? "I don't understand why the elders would lie," he said, wishing he felt the certainty his voice conveyed. He didn't trust them. He had never trusted them.

"Oh, they would never lie. They just misrepresent. They want to control everything and in doing so they control nothing at all."

There was a sharpness to her words, a sadness lurking in her tone which made Ben doubt his original assumptions about her relationship to the trio. He had assumed they were together because they chose to be, but now he was not so certain that was true. Did anyone actually choose to come to a town called Malice? Or were they called to it by powers beyond explanation or understanding only to become trapped?

"They certainly hold you in high regard," he said, hoping to elicit a more extensive response. "The Almighty She."

She frowned, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she kicked at the ground, drawing attention to her bare feet. "Don't be a fool," she warned. "The only thing worse than asking questions is becoming aware of things you aren't meant to know exist."

"Apparently, I can't help it. I am a man and you said men are fools. You called me a fool specifically, in fact. You called Adam one too."

The midwife's expression softened at the mention of his son's name, her eyes drifting to the worn exterior of the jailhouse. She did not venture a reply to silence, threaten, or confuse him as a gentle longing overcame her strangely ever-softening features. When he first saw her, Ben swore she was as old as the surrounding town. Suddenly she looked almost juvenile, her long blonde hair free and flowing, her suntanned skin unwrinkled and unblemished. There was no denying she was pretty, if not decidedly too young in her current state to be pursued by his oldest son. Before she had been too old, and now she was too young. Never once had she appeared an appropriate age to be the focus of a grown man's affections, and yet she seemed to have desired them steadfastly. She had sent Adam the telegraph; she had led him away from Ben in the cavern.

Taken aback by her youth, he tried to remind himself that this was the woman who had chased him through the thoroughfare shrieking and taunting him. It was the woman who had taken such explicit pleasure trapping him inside of the boulder, covering her fingertips with the blood dripping from the wound on his chin, licking all but one clean and then thrusting the soiled finger into Adam's mouth. It was difficult to reconcile that woman with the girl in front of him. It was hard to think that the sudden uncertainty lurking in the dark eyes of this person could ever rival the evil of that one. Was it the mention of Adam that had led to this change? Or would it have unfolded on its own?

"You're fond of him," Ben carefully probed. "I don't suppose I can fault you for that. Lots of women are, lots of women have been over the years."

"There's a lot to like about that one."

"You said he was your favorite."

"He is."

"You wanted to meet him so badly that you sent him a telegraph. You sent me one too, asking for cattle so that he would have a reason to adhere to your request."

"I did."

"You asked me for cattle, but you tasked him with bringing you blood."

"I didn't say that," she disagreed. "He did."

"You said some of it, and Adam said the rest, after you told him to, of course. I suppose you told him to do other things, too. I may be a fool but even I saw that you hold some strange power over him. He isn't the same person in this town that he is outside of it; I can only assume that's due to your power and influence."

"I didn't tell him to hurt his brother if that's what you're trying to infer. He did that all on his own."

"I don't believe that."

"This place doesn't care what you believe."

"The elders showed me the truth. They showed me Adam and Joe's fight in the thoroughfare. I saw it and now I know I have been right about my son all along. Adam didn't try to kill Joe."

"If you believe that, then you really are a stubborn, old fool," she scoffed.

"If I'm a fool for having faith in my son, then what are you?"

Frowning, her expression hardened as she stood tall, her determined gaze holding his own. "I don't like obvious questions," she said, her tone as stony as her expression.

Ben had angered her, but he did not care because he was angry too.

"And I don't like games," he said, his own voice deepening. "If I can't play stupid or coy, then neither can you. If I'm expected to understand then there are some questions you are going to have to tolerate, there are answers you are going to have to provide."

"I don't have to do anything!" she roared, her voice shrill and loud. "You aren't the one who gets to dictate to me!"

She lunged at him, holding her fists high in the air in preparation to slam them on his chest. Ban caught her wrists before her hands could hit his body. He willed himself to retain his firm hold as she wriggled and writhed, twisting her body and arms at awkward angles in effort to break loose.

"You don't get to decide how this works!" she screamed. "You don't get to decide what you do and don't want to know! The elders told you to trust, to place your faith in what is righteous and pure! They told you to see so that you could know! They told you that I will be the one to allow you to accept what I wish you to have and what I must take from you!"

Holding her tightly, Ben was undeterred. "And you said the elders lied."

"I didn't—!"

"You inferred it when you said that I was so focused on not having my faith in my sons questioned that I had not considered to question the factuality of what I was shown. Either everything they share is a lie, or nothing is. You can't pick and choose the details that would suit you best."

"None of it suits me! Don't you understand? No one wants to be stuck in a place where nothing matters! No one would choose—!"

Eyes widening, she snapped her mouth closed, unsettled by whatever it was she had begun to say. She hung her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Help me," she whispered, quiet, desperate words which emerged from her mouth like a prayer. "Hear me and help me."

Her arms became limp, her wrists hanging lifelessly in Ben's hands. If not for his steady strength holding her upright she would have collapsed on the ground at his feet. He did not have time to consider what had led to the startling change in her demeanor, how he would respond if she snapped out of her sudden, dissident trance—or what he would do if she didn't. Attention shifting to the entry to the jailhouse, all cognizance left Ben as he watched a figure emerge.

Shoulders squared and spine erect, Adam strode the thoroughfare purposefully. Around his waist he wore his holster and the left-handed gun-belt belonging to Joe, and on his face, he wore a deep frown of outrage. His expression was formidable, his posture was menacing. It was obvious he had heard their screaming; it was clear had he appeared to serve as someone's savior. Judging by the telling glint in Adam's eyes as his son became close, Ben knew he would not be his.

TBC