He led us to a side office and seated us at a large wooden desk. He opened a file folder and took out a stack of papers, placing them in front of us. “As I’m sure you can see, these are photos of your family members and other people in your father’s church. I need you to go through and put them into two stacks—the ‘good’ ones and the ‘bad’ ones.” Although there was some overlap with the photos we had already gone through at the house, most of these photos were new.

  I stared at Celia, my mouth agape in astonishment. She looked surprised as well.

  Agent Hansen placed both hands on the desk and leaned in toward us. “Look, we’re not messing around here. We want to keep all of you safe, and we can’t do that without your help. I imagine you trust the majority of these people, but we desperately need you to identify anyone who might cause trouble. We’ll have plenty of plainclothes officers here today, as well as at the gravesite.”

  I knew immediately what “might cause trouble” meant. He might as well have said “might kill someone today.” Celia and I spent about fifteen minutes sifting through photos of people from both the LeBaron family and my father’s cult following. We identified a couple of people we weren’t sure were safe.

  When we were done, Agent Hansen smiled and thanked us. As Celia and I got up to leave, he said, “Wait one minute, please. I need to take a photo of both of you to add to the pile of ‘good,’ safe people.” Once that was done, he escorted us back out to the reception area. As others arrived at the funeral home, they were escorted to the back room, too, for the same procedure.

  I don’t remember much about the funeral itself, but I know my mother sang the hymn “O My Father.” I was still taking the medication for my walking pneumonia, which, combined with the trauma of the situation, made things fuzzy. Still, one memory remains crystal clear: I recall seeing Jim Coates, a retired sheriff who was a family friend, standing at the back of the funeral home during the service. Despite all the SWAT and FBI presence, what made me feel most secure was knowing Jim was there, gun in hand, ready to protect us should anything go down.

  After the service, the family got into six or seven limos to transport all of us to the cemetery. As we pulled out, I noticed snipers perched in trees around the funeral home. Officials shut down Interstate 10 in Houston for the procession, and policemen—in cars and on motorcycles—dotted the route. Like an event for a dignitary or celebrity, the procession went on for miles. On the way, I looked out the back window of our limo. The line of cars behind us seemed to have no end.

  At the cemetery, the men of Spring Branch Church of God stood behind the family, acting as a human shield to the grieving family members of Mark, Ed, Duane, and Jenny, willing to take a bullet for us.

  A HEAVINESS SETTLED OVER THE HOUSE in the days following Mark’s funeral. With his death, an emptiness enveloped us all. He had been a solid, steadying presence in my life. He had loved gadgets and always wanted to have the latest and greatest technology—he even owned one of the first cell phones, the kind that was so big it came in a bag.

  The FBI and police still provided protection for us. We feared for our lives because murder suspects were still on the loose, so officers were stationed in front of and behind the house to offer extra security. The kids, normally lively and boisterous, still played, but overall they were much more subdued. Lillian spent hours and hours alone in her room, emerging only to make sure the kids were fed. When she did come out, her children mobbed her, desperate to hold her hand, sit in her lap, or tell her about their day. Her eyes were hollow and lifeless. Seeing her in such a state unnerved me because she’d always been so busy and energetic.

  The days went by in dull activity, with time passing in slow motion. I recovered from my illness, but I had no idea what my future held now. Short visits from my friends, including my school friend, David, offered me some comfort and helped me see beyond the intense pain and heaviness of each day.

  Sorrow and fear lingered as well—sorrow permeating mealtime and fear increasing at bedtime. The children begged to sleep with Lillian, and she let them. At least they were able to cuddle together then; during the day, Lillian was consumed by her grief and didn’t have much to give them. So the children turned their focus to me, and I tried to keep them occupied. But it took a toll on me at night because I had a difficult time falling asleep.

  We didn’t leave the house except for emergencies, for fear that someone might be lying in wait to try to kill us. The business was temporarily closed. One day, a banking matter needed to be taken care of at the office, so Lillian sent me. I was thankful that Don accompanied me to the empty and darkened building. The appliances inside were still covered with the black dust the authorities had used to lift fingerprints off them. As I entered the office, I gasped when I saw the bullet holes in the wall.

  I also remember going to an eye doctor appointment not too long after the funeral. I was terrified the entire time driving there and back, worried that someone might follow and target me. The FBI had taught us evasive maneuvering tactics and reminded us to vary our routes if we had to drive places we frequented, like church or a relative’s house. They drilled into us how critical it was to never follow a distinct pattern with anything and to always keep on the lookout for family members we suspected. It struck me one day that when we were younger, the sister-wives had taught us to fear the authorities, yet now we were cooperating with them for our protection.

  At one point, Jim Coates and his wife, Bonnie, invited me to come stay with them for a while. Lillian had plenty of help from other siblings and the women from the church, so I didn’t feel guilty leaving her and the kids. Besides, if she needed me, I wasn’t that far away. The Coateses’ home proved to be a welcome respite for me. I hung on every word Jim said to me, soaking up his wisdom and street smarts as he drew from his law enforcement background to give me advice on how to stay safe. He was rough around the edges, but he provided comfort and security.

  One evening, before I headed out to church, Jim asked me to join him on the patio. “I have something for you.”

  I followed him out the sliding glass door and sat down at the table. “You and Bonnie have done so much for me already. That’s really not necessary.”

  “I think it is.” Jim opened a wooden box on the table. He took out something wrapped in a maroon cloth and placed it on the table between us.

  “What’s this?” I lifted one side of the cloth and pulled it back. Underneath rested a silver .25 caliber gun. “That’s . . . I don’t know how to shoot—”

  “Now don’t argue with me. I’m going to teach you everything you need to know, but I firmly believe you need to carry this weapon with you at all times—for your safety and for the safety of your family.” His deep blue eyes bored holes into mine.

  I agreed. Over the next week, Jim taught me how to hold the gun properly, gave me shooting lessons, and showed me how to clean it safely. The small gun felt odd in my hand. He told me that if I was ever stopped and questioned by the police, I needed to tell them I was “transporting it” from my home to my workplace or the other way around. Jim taught me many other tactical things as well. He said if I ever felt threatened, I should crouch down and make myself as small a target as possible, and if someone came at me, I should stand with my back against a wall and defend myself from that position.

  I can still remember the feeling of the gun tucked into the pocket of my cotton shorts that summer, especially how it banged against my leg when I walked. When I carried it, I was reminded that I could still be a target.

  Near the end of the summer, the security presence around the house was lessened, and Lillian used some of the money from Mark’s life insurance policy to fly out to California with her children to stay in the home of some friends who were on vacation. The authorities agreed that having Lillian out of the state would be preferable to having her where she would be recognized.

  I was left behind to manage the house and business, which we had reopened, helped by a few other family members.

  After they’d been gone about a month, Lillian bought me a plane ticket, using an assumed name for me—Amanda Glass. This was before IDs were required for air travel, so all I had to do was show up at the airport with ticket in hand. “I plan to attend some Bill Gothard training seminars here, and you will get a little break from running the shop,” Lillian told me on the phone.

  I appreciated the invitation, but soon after I arrived in California, I realized the actual reason she wanted me to come: She wanted me to help her start homeschooling the children. She had invested in a teaching curriculum put out by Bill Gothard’s Advanced Training Institute of America (ATIA), and she needed my help to implement the program.

  “I don’t think I can do that, Lillian. I’ve been talking with a few of my friends, and I really want to finally go to the International Institute of Accelerated Christian Education.” Prior to Mark’s death, both he and Lillian had wholeheartedly approved of my decision to attend there. I desperately needed the familiarity and support my friends offered.

  I struggled with what I should do because I didn’t want to disappoint Lillian. I knew she needed help, and she was used to having my help, but I didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to continue putting her needs above my own.

  “Well, would you at least stay with the children while I go to Chicago to meet Mr. Gothard and attend the training?”

  “Of course.” I bowed my head, disappointed that Lillian would expect me to continue putting my life on hold for her family. I was nineteen now, and I needed to start making decisions for myself.

  When Lillian got back from the training, she bubbled over with idealistic notions of how schooling her children would play out. She begged me once more to stay with them. When I declined, she sent me back to Houston.

  A few weeks later, Lillian and the children returned to Houston. Celia, the friends who dropped in to check on us, and I could all see that Lillian’s mental state had continued to decline in the months after Mark’s passing. Lillian’s mood swings were dramatic—from high to low, making it necessary for her to take prescription medication to keep balanced. However, when she returned to Houston, the reality of her situation and Mark’s death settled in, causing her to sink into a deep depression.

  I was caught in a conundrum. Part of me believed I owed it to her to stay in Houston and help her with the children and Reliance Appliance, after all she had done for me. The other part of me longed to join my friends at college and begin life on my own terms. I knew that if I didn’t separate my life from hers at that juncture, it would likely never happen. Lillian depended on me so much that it felt suffocating.

  I sought solace from Celia, and counsel from some of the older women at church. They encouraged me to follow my dreams, go to college, and enjoy my young-adult years, if that’s what I wanted. I consistently prayed about the decision and sensed the Lord calling me to go to school. Lillian supported my decision to go to college. She still had help from some of her friends and fellow church members, who were bringing meals, taking care of the kids, and doing the grocery shopping.

  Jim Coates drove me to Lewisville, Texas, and dropped me off at the ACE campus. I carried in my few possessions and stopped at the admissions office. A kind woman met me and ushered me to her desk. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Joan Baker, director of admissions.” She smiled constantly, causing wrinkles to form around the corners of both eyes.

  “It’s nice to finally be here.” I twisted my hands in my lap and tried to focus on her face, instead of letting my eyes wander around the room.

  “As you know, we’re happy to have you as part of our student body. However, as we discussed over the phone, the administration has some concerns. If parents of other students find out about the recent events in your family, especially since one of the murders took place nearby, they might be gravely concerned that their children could be at risk with you going to school here. We don’t agree with that. In fact, we would never have admitted you and invited you here if we didn’t believe all of our students, including you, would be safe. But it’s critical that we keep those events a secret, or we could have parents overreact and withdraw their students from our school.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the desk. “Do you think you can do that?”

  I nodded and said, “Yes.”

  “There’s one more condition.” Joan riffled through some papers on her desk, selected one, and pushed it toward me. “We need you to go by a different name while you’re here. The LeBaron name carries too much notoriety. Would Keturah Baron be all right with you?”

  I stared at the paper in front of me and read it quickly. “Yes, I can do that.” I chewed my lower lip and signed my “old” name on the line, agreeing that I would use my “new” name here at school.

  For a long time, most students never knew my real name or anything about my history. Then one day, a friend asked if she could look at my high school class ring so she could see the details on it. Without thinking, I slid the ring off my finger and handed it to her.

  She read the engraving on the inside. “Hey, why does it say ‘Anna K. LeBaron’?”

  Blood rushed to my face and neck, and I stammered before answering, “Listen, I can’t really discuss it, but would you just keep this between us? Please?” I hoped my eyes begged enough.

  My friend agreed and placed the ring in the palm of my hand.

  A few weeks later, I lay on the top bunk in the room I shared with a girl named Crissy, when I heard a voice. That’s odd. The voice came from inside of me, but it seemed different from my other thoughts. The voice said, “When someone dies, you can’t go back.” What does that mean? I finally concluded that I couldn’t go back in time and undo things, to make the outcome different. When someone dies, they’re dead. They’re gone. I accepted the explanation, even though I wondered why such a thought came to me.

  The next morning was Saturday, my day to do laundry. I was sorting my clothes when the phone in the room rang. Crissy answered, handed the phone to me, then disappeared down the hall.

  “Hello?”

  “Anna, is there someone nearby who cares about you?” Celia’s words filled me with dread, as I stared out the dorm room window at the cloudy north Texas day.

  “Lillian is dead, isn’t she?” The words just popped out.

  “Anna, go and get someone who cares about you and come back to the phone.”

  “Lillian committed suicide, didn’t she?”

  “Please go get someone and come back to the phone.”

  I hollered down the hall for Crissy. She hurried back from a friend’s dorm room.

  “I’ve got someone with me now. What is it?”

  “You’re right, Anna. Lillian is dead. She committed suicide, and Emily found her body this morning.”

  “Please contact Jim Coates and ask him to go to the house and not let anyone near the kids who might tell them that Lillian didn’t go to heaven because she committed suicide,” I said, recalling a tragic memory from when Isaac committed suicide at Lillian’s house. Several people at Spring Branch Church of God told me that because he took his own life and didn’t have time to ask God for forgiveness, he would go to hell. I didn’t want Lillian’s children to hear that devastating lie, so I needed someone to run interference until I could get there. I just had to protect them! I wanted them to know their mom and dad were now together in heaven.

  “I will.” Celia hung up the phone.

  I stood there frozen, holding the receiver up to my ear, as if somehow my refusal to put it down would negate the conversation. I turned around and saw the look of horror on Crissy’s face. She stumbled toward me and hugged me tightly.

  I drove to Houston with Bob and Phyllis Carpus and their kids, friends from Spring Branch Church. Once I arrived, I felt the weight of many decisions. Lillian’s sister-in-law Laura and I picked out Lillian’s clothes for burial and then drove to the funeral home to identify the body. Despite the fact that Laura was still grieving the death of her daughter, Jenny, and her ex-husband, Duane, she was a big support to me in planning the funeral. I had just turned twenty a month before, and I felt the burden of making decisions that were far beyond my years.

  When Laura and I arrived at the funeral home, the director ushered us into the room where Lillian was lying in the casket. We took one look at her and decided that the garish makeup that the mortician had applied wasn’t Lillian’s style at all. In her final caring act for her sister-in-law, Laura pulled out her own makeup to soften Lillian’s look. I was thankful she made her appear more like the Lillian we knew and loved.

  Lillian’s funeral was a small affair, with mostly local family in attendance. A few of her sisters came into town to pay their respects and figure out what would happen to the kids. Lillian was dressed in the clothes Laura and I had chosen, a pretty white button-down shirt with small pleats down the front and a long mauve skirt with a modest gathering around the waist. She looked like she was ready to go to church.

  I don’t remember much about the funeral itself. I focused my energy and attention on taking care of the kids and being there for them. At the visitation the night before the funeral, I had made sure I accompanied them into the room for the viewing. I wanted to protect them as best I could, but I also knew they needed to see their mother in order to have closure. At the service, we sang “It Is Well with My Soul,” one of Lillian’s favorites. After the funeral, while I was still in Houston, I took care of the kids and stuffed my own feelings down.

  Lillian’s death pushed all of us—me, her children, Celia, and my other siblings who knew her well—closer to the brink. Mark and Lillian had served as my surrogate parents for all of my teenage years. Trying to grieve both of their deaths and the gaping hole they left in our family overwhelmed me to the point that avoidance of my emotions felt like a better route, certainly a safer one.

 

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