by Betty Webb
Chapter Twenty-six
The next morning I was getting ready to lug the packed cartons down to my Jeep when I received the call-back I’d hoped for yesterday. Gabrielle.
“Our Adam, he has agreed to meet with you, mon amie, sometime between lunch and dinner,” she told me. “And yes, I bear even more good news. He has invited you to attend with us the morning meditation. That is a great honor, you understand, because only members of Kanati are allowed to attend.”
“Then I’ll see ya in a jiff.” Acting jovial wasn’t easy, but somehow I managed it.
Oblivious to my deceit, she laughed. “How I love your quaint Americanisms!”
What else besides quaint Americanisms had Gabrielle learned since she’d been in the U.S.? How to starve people to death? I did some quick math in my head, and realized she might have grown up in The Divine Temple of the Holy Cross, which had morphed into the quasi-rehab facility known as the Kanati Spiritual Center. Then it occurred to me that Gabrielle’s own parents could have been part of the murder/suicide pacts in Quaydon, leaving only their daughter to carry on The Divine Temple’s deadly work.
Was the sad story she’d told me about a friend in the fashion industry dying from anorexia true? Or was it just another of her lies?
I felt my rage rise again. “Here’s another Americanism for you, Gabrielle. I’m locked, loaded, and ready to rumble.”
Not understanding, she laughed again.
Before leaving for Kanati I made a quick stop at Gary’s Gun Shop to load up on hollow points for the .38. At times like this I regretted not having already bought the Glock 17 I’d been checking out, but you can’t see into the future, can you? I’d had enough trouble seeing the past.
Still, my .38 could do the job.
Foregoing my strap-on holster, I stashed the revolver in my tote bag, covering it with tissues and a couple of granola bars. Then I wrote Jimmy a note and left it on his desk downstairs.
Just in case.
Never had the drive to Kanati seemed to go so slowly, but an hour later the Jeep arrived at the guard shack in front of the former movie set. The sun shone brightly overhead while Ernie gave me a cheery smile and an “Always glad to see ya, Lena.” Then he caught sight of my arm. “Hey, what happened?”
“Accident.”
“Car?” He shot a worried look at the Jeep’s unmarked bumper.
“I fell in the shower.”
In my suspicious frame of mind, I suspected everyone, and wondered if friendly Ernie knew about The Divine Temple of the Holy Cross, and the Arneault family’s murderous history. But chances were, only a few of Kanati’s higher-end officials did know: Adam, Gabrielle, and the people walking around with the heavily beaded headbands. That was the way cults worked. The big dogs kept everything secret until the sheep had been brainwashed into believing that the murder of innocent children was part of God’s holy plan.
After assuring Ernie that I was fine, I parked the Jeep and walked through the gate into Kanati.
This time, the Old West storefronts behind the stockade looked as phony as Kanati’s Elevated belief system. The name Hotel OK Corral wasn’t funny anymore; it was dreadful. This was a place that promised a better way of life, but was a cover for a death-worshipping cult no better than Jim Jones’ People’s Temple and its cyanide-laced Kool-Aid, or Shoko Asahara’s Aum Shinrokyo and its sarin gas. They all dealt in death, not spiritual awakening.
The first person I ran across in Kanati was Roger Gorsky. He was carrying a box loaded with clay pots to one of the picturesque storefronts. Since his wares were so ugly, I couldn’t imagine they’d be popular with tourists. Come to think of it, I’d never seen any tourists at Kanati; the place was too far off the I-10. No matter. The cute Old West buildings were lies, anyway, because the real Old West hadn’t been romantic; it had been brutal.
As I passed Roger, he gave me a nod. I noted with interest that two new beads adorned his headband, meaning he’d been promoted to four. Nvgi, as the Kanatians called it in their uninformed Cherokee. Sowo, tali, tsoi, nvgi, hisgi, sudali, galiquogi, tsunela, sonela, sgohi. One through ten. But even Gabrielle’s bead collection had been halted at sonela, nine, as if she wasn’t quite part of Kanati’s elite. And if not, why not? What lie had she refused to tell for Adam? And yet I remembered the gentleness of her hand when she’d traced the scar on my forehead, the compassion in her voice when she’d said, “Your maman did not mean to shoot you, Lena Jones.”
I remembered the long scars on Gabrielle’s own wrists, her own pain.
Putting my own compassion on hold—did death merchants deserve compassion?—I continued across Kanati’s wide plaza, past the storefront declaiming RUSTLER’S ROUNDUP SALOON, past the HOTEL OK CORRAL spa/massage parlor, past all the phony Old West storefronts until I reached the huge lodge that housed Kanati’s dining area and administrative offices.
I didn’t see Gabrielle when I walked in, but I did see someone else I needed to talk to. Chelsea, Adam Arneault’s new blushing bride. She was covering the long luncheon tables with white tablecloths that must have cost a pretty penny. Kanati may have been phony from the get-go, but at least it wasn’t a third-rate phony.
“Hey, there, Chelsea,” I said, making certain no trace of my rage leaked into my voice. “How come I didn’t get invited to the wedding? And why in the world are you working on what should be your honeymoon?” Smile, smile.
Chelsea cast me a bewildered look. “Why shouldn’t I be working? Kanati teaches that work frees the soul.”
Arbeit macht frei. Work sets you free. That was the sign the Nazis hung over the gate to Auschwitz, pretending that just as long as its prisoners worked hard, everything would be fine, just fine. I remembered that the people at The Children of Abraham had always been busy, too. Chopping wood, building shelters, working in the garden. When you’re busy, you don’t have time to think.
“Work frees the soul, huh?” I said to Chelsea. “I didn’t know that.”
She stopped smoothing the linen tablecloth long enough to deliver a mini-sermon, straight from a phony prophet’s playbook. “Working together promotes a sense of harmony. Keeping our hands busy teaches us that Truth and Elevation can be found in the smallest of tasks.” Looking back at the table again, she added, “And as for you not getting a wedding invitation, only Kanatians were allowed to attend. Say, what’s wrong with your arm?”
“It had an argument with a knife. By the way, Harold was pretty upset when you sent him that text. Why’d you do it?”
With a vacuous smile, Chelsea smoothed the tablecloth again, but there were already no wrinkles left in it. Did the Kanatians iron their sheets as well as their table linens? “After what he pulled with that damned de-programmer, he’s lucky I didn’t press charges.”
So it had been revenge, then. There sure was a lot of that going around.
I faked my own smile. “Let me see your wedding ring.”
She thrust her left hand forward. A plain gold band, just like the gold bands worn by Alene Laumenthal and Megan Unruh. Just like the gold band the ER docs had to cut off me when I was only four years old.
“Pretty,” I said. “Doesn’t marriage to Kanati’s Head Honcho count for more than one lousy bead on your headband?”
She let the snipe at her new husband slide. Instead, she flushed with pleasure. “I’m being awarded eight more beads tonight in a special ceremony. That means I’ll be eligible to try for sgohi! There is no higher honor in Kanati!”
Hearing that, some of my anger vanished, replaced with concern. Whatever that final damned bead represented was dangerous. “What do you have to do to get that remaining bead?”
Her eyes danced with an edgy joy, she said, “Have to do? No one is ordered to do anything here. Whatever we do, we do willingly.”
She was so “up” it was a miracle her feet still maintained contact with the floor. For a moment
I thought it might have been drugs, but then I decided not. I was looking at religious mania in its purest form. Trying to sound soothing, I said, “C’mon, Chelsea. We’re friends, remember? You can trust me. How do you get to, uh, sgohi?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret rite.” She looked proud, and a little bit scared.
I was scared for her myself, suspecting what horrible secret that final bead represented. But from past experience I knew nothing was to be gained by attempting to reason with her when she was like this, so I just patted her on the arm. “Well, good luck. Have you seen Gabrielle, by any chance? I need to talk to her.”
“Are you thinking about joining Kanati? She told me you sounded quite excited about coming up here today.”
Another forced smile. “More excited than you can possibly imagine.”
“Gabrielle’s in the kitchen. There was some sort of screw-up in there this morning, and Adam asked her to handle it.”
After telling Chelsea I’d see her later, which was doubtful, I headed toward the kitchen. Before I got there, the double doors opened and Gabrielle emerged. For once she didn’t look serene. Strands of her chestnut hair had come loose from her chignon, and a pink bra strap peeked out from the short sleeve of her Kanati shirt. The cross expression on her face lightened when she saw me.
“Oh, my, but that was a fast drive!” Then she saw my bandaged arm. “What…?”
“Workplace injury. Did I get here in time for Adam’s meditation?”
Her smile was my answer, and a few minutes later I filed into the big meditation teepee, hand-in-hand with a possible murderess. Gabrielle, along with all the other female Kanatians, hid their hair under white scarves. The men were more decorative, with long stoles vaguely reminiscent of Messianic tallit prayer shawls. But instead of being white and decorated with blue Stars of David, these were blue, and in keeping with Kanati’s phony Native Americanisms, boasted embroidered white buffalos. I’ve always loathed it when people co-opted someone else’s religion, but I knew there was something more horrific than religious plagiarism going on at Kanati.
“Your arm?” Gabrielle asked. “Does it hurt you?”
“Not at all. It’s just a scratch.” I had long-ago learned never to show weakness in dangerous situations.
“That is a long bandage for a scratch.”
“Just an over-zealous nurse.”
A strong scent of sage smoke filled the air, and since the teepee only had one large opening at the top, and two smaller ones for the entrance and exit, I was a bit concerned about the lack of oxygen, but both tent flaps were kept open, and the ensuing cross-breeze felt fresh. As we took our seats on the large pillows, a flautist played something that sounded vaguely Navajo, while the drummer—the elderly man I had hoped to interview—delivered a slow, steady beat. In an obvious attempt to keep the ceremony from becoming overtly sexist, an attractive soprano dressed in a flowing white robe sang “Amazing Grace” in what sounded to me like flawless Cherokee.
The pre-meditation service, although a bit hokey, was no stranger than others I had encountered. To my relief, the wooden altar was too small to be used for sacrificing chickens or virgins, large enough to hold only a jumble of pseudo-Native American trappings. Feathers, drums, and a carving of a white buffalo encrusted with white beads. Speaking of beads, the soprano wore five on her headband, which from what I had been led to believe, denoted good spiritual progress. She also had a nice voice, even though with her sandy hair and gray eyes she looked more Swedish than Cherokee.
Once the last Kanatian had entered, I did a quick head count. Eighty-two, including me, too many people for such a small space. As I eyed the tent opening on the other side of the teepee, the music stopped. Even the drum fell silent. The entire room assumed an air of expectancy that was as tactile as a touch.
Then he was there.
Adam.
Golden Boy, who at the ripe old age of twelve had shot my father and infant brother to death, and who as a grown man, led a cult responsible for at least three more deaths.
“Tsalagi!” Adam said in a voice so low I shouldn’t have been able to hear it but that somehow managed to reach the farthest rows in the teepee. “Peace!”
Dressed in a loose white robe not all that different from the soprano’s, the serial killer was thin to the point of gauntness. Sharp cheekbones shadowed concave cheeks, and his mouth, which I remembered as being full, had dwindled to a thin line. With his bowed head and prayerful hands he appeared harmless, but I knew better. I touched the tote nestled between my knees, reassuring myself that my .38 was still there.
“Close your eyes,” Adam/Golden Boy murmured, his voice slightly accented from his years in France. “Take a deep breath, then relax. Let the White Buffalo speak to your innermost being.”
The old drummer began to beat a rhythm I recognized as a healthy heartbeat.
Clever. But of course, the Arneaults had always been clever.
I looked down and pretended to meditate.
For the next half hour Adam’s followers relaxed into what appeared to be a semi-conscious state. I didn’t, having no desire to converse with a white buffalo. But there was nothing I could accomplish right now, surrounded as I was by eighty-plus people who believed they were in the presence of a miraculous bovine. I had to wait for my appointment with the madman.
Finally, a quickening of the drumbeats announced the end of the meditation. When I opened my eyes, Adam was gone.
“Was that not wonderful?” Gabrielle said, her face ecstatic.
I looked around and saw the same expression on everyone’s face. “It was something, all right.”
“The best is yet to come. A personal audience with Adam himself!” Hooking her arm around mine, she led me from the big teepee and toward the lodge, her eyes glittering with adoration.
“He looked pretty thin, though, don’t you think? Like he’s been ill.”
She shook her head. “Like most men of holy nature, Adam fasts on a regular basis.”
“With a cuisine like Kanati’s?”
“Do you not see? That is the whole point!”
No, I did not see, but having other things on my mind, I let it go. If I’d stayed safely in my office and merely called the authorities, all I could offer them were nightmares about a mass slaughter somewhere in Arizona or New Mexico. As for Adam Arneault’s connection to those old killings or the contemporary deaths of Megan Unruh and the Laumenthals, I had nothing there, either, just a hodgepodge of memory and suspicion. Under such iffy circumstances, the authorities were useless. Without probable cause, they couldn’t even get a search warrant. And yet I knew Adam’s skewed world was readying itself for a fresh set of victims.
Execution was the only answer. I had come close to it once before, when a serial child molester was grooming his next victim, but someone else had lifted that burden from me.
This time there was no one left to do that for me. To save lives, I would take a life, but not before I asked Adam Arneault one final question.
“Are you excited, mon amie?” Gabrielle asked.
Forcing a smile, I answered, “You can’t imagine.”
But I felt like molten lead had been poured down my throat.
35 years earlier
It is all over. Despite Helen’s attempt to save Christina, her daughter had still died.
As had Liam.
And Jamie.
All her fault.
Nothing matters to Helen anymore, nothing.
Except revenge.
The loud chaos in the bus rises as she jerks the hot barrel of the .38 away from Brother Steve and shoots him in the head.
And after him, Brother Joseph.
Two more to go.
As Abraham, who has risen from his seat on the bus, stares open-mouthed at her, she shoots him in the neck, and with satisfaction, watches a fr
esh spurt of blood.
Now it is time for Golden Boy, Abraham’s twelve-year-old son, the killer of Helen’s husband and baby boy. He must pay for his crimes, too.
But as Helen stares into Golden Boy’s terrified eyes, she realizes that she can’t kill a child, no matter what he has done. Too many children are already dead, their bodies thrown down into that dark mineshaft.
Liam. Jamie.
Eager to end her pain, Helen angles the gun barrel toward her mouth.
“No!” A woman’s voice rises above the screams, and Helen is tackled by two women, women she’d believed paralyzed with grief over their own murdered children.
“Please let me!” Helen screams as Sister Bonita, a burly mother of two now instead of three, wrestles the gun away as Sister Jessamine, now mother of none, rams her head into Helen’s stomach.
Helen falls to the floor of the white bus.
Defeated again.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Adam Arneault’s office was on the second floor of the big cedar lodge, tucked away in the back as if trying to hide. Which he was, of course. His entire Elevated life was a lie, and liars don’t like to be found out, so he had hidden himself inside a phony community where people had no idea who he really was or what he had done—was still doing.
My father, shot to death.
My baby brother, shot to death.
Megan Unruh, starved to death.
Alene Chambers Laumenthal, starved to death.
Ford Laumenthal, starved to death.
And probably others I didn’t yet know about, because serial killers can always be counted on to kill again and again until someone stops them.
The living spaces people create for themselves always contain “tells,” so as soon as Gabrielle left me in the empty office, I studied my surroundings. I wasn’t surprised at the number and quality of books lining the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, because most cult leaders read a lot. The problem was, they misinterpreted what they read. Adam’s bookshelves contained tomes by Descartes, Kant, Nietzsche, Sartre, Diderot, as well as several different translations of the Bible. Plenty of room for misinterpretation there. I also saw books on various Indian tribes, from the Anasazi to the Zuni, with the most titles given over to the Cherokee.
