A solid-looking metal gate opened to one side, and the town car went through, following a paved asphalt road up a mountainside. Two turns later, they stopped at a checkpoint. The first entrance had reminded Caitlin of something from a Hollywood Hills McMansion: sleek and modern, but easy enough to jump over. This new gate, with its fifteen-foot razor-wire-topped chain-link fence, looked more like the U.S. border checkpoint at San Ysidro.
“Whoa,” Caitlin said.
Eve stopped the car two feet from the gate but didn’t reach for a remote this time. “It’s for our protection.”
One half of the gate swung two feet inward, and a woman in a red beret and uniform, more paramilitary than security guard, walked out with a semiautomatic rifle hanging from a shoulder strap.
Caitlin shook her head. “From who? Navy Seals?”
The guard completed a circle around the car. Unlike Gwendolyn Sunrise, or even Eve the driver, this woman didn’t waste any time faking a smile. She walked back through the gate, and both doors swung open.
Eve drove through slowly, giving Caitlin enough time to notice a second armed guard sitting in a modern-looking booth, complete with video monitors of live camera feeds.
From there, the road zigged through heavy forest and climbed, then zagged and climbed even higher. A trailhead on the left, marked by white words painted over a red rectangle, caught her eye.
“What’s ‘The Climb’?”
Eve’s smile returned. “All Daughters must make the Climb to God’s Hill. Though the others are there for support, you strip naked and climb up a rugged path.”
Caitlin thought of a hundred kung fu movies she’d watched with her dad. “Sort of a physical metaphor for the metaphysical?”
Eve looked unsure how to answer. “Don’t know, but I thought I’d die. I was lucky to be surrounded by the Daughters.”
Minutes later, they pulled into a clearing at the edge of the hill, where several large buildings with sheet-metal siding formed a U in front of four perfectly arranged acre-sized farm fields, each full of recognizable vegetables. Beyond the fields, ten or so cottages faced a three-story building constructed in the style of a farmhouse but wide like a college dormitory. Up the hill past the giant house, easily another three stories higher, a plume of white smoke rose from a bright fire.
Eve pulled into the first of the sheet-metal buildings, a long garage, open on one side. Caitlin counted ten town cars as they passed, all just as red as the one she was in. Besides that, she noted several all-terrain vehicles and a white Jeep Wrangler with KC bug lights on the rails.
They parked, and Eve came around to open her door. “Welcome to God’s Hill, Caitlin Bergman.”
Caitlin got out, instantly feeling the difference in temperature due to the change in elevation. She grabbed her laptop bag, empty except for a backup phone battery, a handful of pens, and a good old-fashioned notebook. She’d left her computer and her mother’s journal in her hotel room.
“Which way do we go?”
Eve stepped in front and smiled. “Toward the singing, of course.”
Caitlin laughed. Had it been there a second ago? She heard the voices now, singing the words Mama Maya had called the Morning Song.
The fire is dying, so come let me build
A light that can shine through to heaven above
So he’ll see me trying, and doing his will
Building my fire with light and with love
Eve led Caitlin down a path that split the well-kept fields, the song’s intensity growing with each step. Caitlin noticed others following them on the fringes, women in shades of red, some dirty from working in the fields, some from working in the motor pool.
Eve turned back, smiling at Caitlin and now singing along. Caitlin smiled in return, raising her eyebrows. It wasn’t awful, but something felt off, like Christian rap or country music played on the cello.
As they neared the cottages, Caitlin flashed back to the passage in Maya’s journal where she’d gotten to the top of the hill and a bunch of sweaty, half-naked hippies had hugged her to the point of tears.
She wasn’t ready for that in the slightest.
More women in red came out and joined the procession, and Caitlin noticed a trend: not a single man in sight.
Finally they reached the area between the cottages and the giant row house, and the group stopped, forming a semicircle behind Caitlin and Eve, facing the house.
The front door opened and two women walked out, both armed and dressed in paramilitary garb like the previous gatekeepers. From behind reflective sunglasses, they scanned the crowd, then took their places on each side of the door.
The singing reached its peak volume and they finished the last line, stopping with the thunderous roll of a pair of hand-beaten drums.
Caitlin scanned the faces. Besides Eve, most looked to be anywhere from thirty to seventy years old, of all races, but with a similar body type, slim and durable. The women, maybe fifty in total, all wore simple shirts and pants in shades of red.
Making eye contact with more than one, Caitlin received kind smiles from everyone, until their faces looked beyond her toward the house.
She turned back just in time for the arrival of the one and only Desmond Pratten.
Just like in Maya’s journal, Desmond wore an all-white sarong that covered his body down to his ankles, where a pair of leather sandals showed off pedicured toes. While he was obviously in his late sixties, his tan skin looked movie-star smooth, a result of either his unique way of life or a buttload of Botox and fillers.
He opened his mouth, revealing a bright set of perfectly aligned teeth, possibly veneers, and spoke in a loud, firm voice. “She’s here. Let’s welcome her.”
Everyone present took one step forward, smiled, and said, “Welcome, Caitlin.”
“Hey, ladies.” Caitlin gave a little wave, hearing the clang of an alarm in her head—more wacky than terrifying, like a song by the Beastie Boys she’d loved in college. “Let’s get funky.”
CHAPTER
24
LAKSHMI DIDN’T KNOW much about Pasadena, but the sprawling home surrounded by ten colors of roses and a wrought-iron fence seemed like the kind of place that kept a kennel of hounds to deal with front-door solicitors. She double-checked the address on her phone against the numbers welded into a rose in the center of the ornate gate.
Right place, just bigger than she’d expected. Much bigger. All the way bigger.
No one liked a drop-in out of the blue. She’d go back to the office and try the woman’s phone again.
She returned to her car, reached for the handle, then stopped. The only number she had found went to a foundation’s switchboard, and that hadn’t gotten her anywhere.
“Sod it,” she said, turning back to the gate.
A male voice answered before her finger made contact with the call box. “Well?”
Lakshmi drew her hand back. “Hello?”
“Hello,” the voice answered, with as much disdain as the word could carry. “How can we help you?”
“Sorry, you startled me. I hadn’t pushed the button yet.”
“Cameras,” the voice said. “They surround the property. How can we help you?”
Lakshmi straightened her blazer. Just the feel of the lapels in her fingertips reminded her why she’d started wearing it: Caitlin Bergman wore one just like it and Caitlin didn’t take shit from anybody. “I’m here to speak with Beverly.”
“Regarding?”
Lakshmi reached into her bag, pulled out a business card, and held it up toward the call box. “Our interview.”
“To the right, please.”
Lakshmi turned right but didn’t see a camera.
“Too far,” the voice chided.
Lakshmi split the difference slowly.
“Wait, NPR?”
Lakshmi pocketed the card. “That’s correct.”
If their cameras could read the words National Public Radio from that distance, they had also captured her name and phone num
ber, which meant the voice behind the microphone could just as easily call her boss and ask why she’d dropped in on a mansion in the middle of her lunch break. An apology developed in her head but hadn’t made it to her lips when the voice returned.
“Is this about the flowers?”
Lakshmi didn’t answer out loud, because she wasn’t about to start an interview with a lie, but her head’s slight movement might easily have been misconstrued as a nod, if someone wanted to split hairs.
“Mrs. Chandler told us that was tomorrow.”
The massive iron rose split in two as the gate swung inward.
“Follow the path to the garden. Mrs. Chandler will be right with you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Beverly Chandler, née Beverly Bangs, the woman who’d recruited Maya Aronson into the Dayan community, entered the English-style garden through an arch in the hedge. Her untucked bright-pink blouse flowed over her white capris and the best pair of fake boobs Lakshmi had ever seen—and these on a woman in her sixties, no less. She’d never been into plastic surgery, but the benefits of being married to one of the field’s pioneers were apparent in every inch of Beverly Chandler’s curated features.
“I am so very sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said. “I hate to admit there must have been a scheduling mix-up. My assistant said I have something tomorrow at this time with the Huntington people, and I swear your office told me we’d wait until autumn to focus on the contest preparation—” She waved her irritation away and held out her hand. “But you’re here now.”
The sunlight caught the diamonds of the woman’s tennis bracelet. “Beverly Chandler.”
“Lakshmi Anjale.”
Taking Beverly’s smooth, well-lotioned hand, Lakshmi couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a manicure or even clipped her nails.
Beverly broke out her smile again. “Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, of course,” Lakshmi said, completely unsure what she was agreeing to. She didn’t have a type exactly, but Vanna White had played a large part in her adolescent fantasies, and Beverly Chandler looked like she still had the skill to turn a girl’s letters.
“Right this way.”
Lakshmi followed her to a corner of the garden, where a three-foot fence protected a rosebush in its first weeks of blossom. Beverly opened a gate and crouched next to the plant, cradling the stem of the most brightly pink flower Lakshmi’d ever seen.
“I call her Springtime’s Maiden,” Beverly said. “She’s a disease-resistant hybrid tea that blooms continuously from spring to fall, and so far she’s a real climber. Just look at the pink color of the bud. By the end of the season, she’ll be almost burgundy, like the end of a sunset.”
“Beautiful.”
Beverly raised her eyebrows. “Should we start with me in the photos, or just the Maiden by herself?”
“Mrs. Chandler—”
“Beverly.”
“I’m not here about your roses.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were from NPR.”
“I am, though I’m not working on a story right now.”
“Well, then what—”
“Maya Aronson.”
Beverly’s smile disappeared. Suddenly, her once-flawless face looked very artificial, as though it’d been designed to smile perpetually. Anything less than happiness and the illusion melted like a cake in the sun.
“You may have known her as Sharon Sugar,” Lakshmi continued.
Beverly took a step back, not noticing that her foot had dug into the base of her prized rosebush. “How did you get into my house?”
“I’m helping a friend. Please, Mrs. Chandler—”
Beverly’s hand went to her back, then returned with a pair of pruning shears. “Get the fuck away from me.” She looked toward the house and yelled. “Carl, get security.”
“There’s no need—”
“The Dayans found me, Carl. Hurry.”
Lakshmi put her hands out in front. “I’m not a Dayan, Mrs. Chandler.”
The pruning shears came between the two. “You won’t get another second of my life. I’m not that person anymore.” Beverly seemed close to tears.
The hedge wall rustled with someone’s approach. A sturdy man in a polo shirt and shorts came through the gate, ready for action. He wasn’t huge, but he was bigger than Lakshmi. She took a last chance.
“Maya Aronson is dead. I’m helping her daughter find out why.”
Beverly relaxed slightly, took a breath, then rested her hand on the little fence. “Carl, please show this young woman out, and make sure she never makes it past my gate again.”
CHAPTER
25
“LET’S SPEAK IN the gallery,” Desmond said.
Caitlin followed the sandaled man through a pair of double doors that led into a two-story great room lit naturally by its wall of hillside-facing windows. A high-quality glossy white tile covered the floor wall to wall, and a pair of chairs waited near the glass on a twenty-foot dais. One of the seats, a high-backed armchair with ornate gold-leafed carvings and tufted red velvet cushions, looked permanent; the other, a white, wooden folding chair, like it’d been set up for the occasion.
“I’m surprised you don’t call this a throne room,” Caitlin said, watching the man ascend the two feet of stairs up the dais.
He smiled and pointed her to the folding chair at his side. She sat, then saw the reason for the room’s name.
Now facing the wall through which they’d entered, Caitlin beheld a massive collection of oil paintings, ranging from small canvases to giant murals. Even from fifty feet away, she recognized the scene depicted on the four-by-eight-foot work on the far-left wall as the painting Linda Sperry had shown Maya Aronson in the Angeles National Forest.
“I use this room for teaching,” Desmond said, his voice resonating off the tile. He pointed out the windows toward the hillside. “The voyagers look upon myself and the Eternal Flame of Ceremony Peak, the path to the heavens.” He turned back toward the gallery wall. “Whereas I look to them and the inspiration for all of this.”
“Linda’s paintings of cataclysm,” Caitlin said.
The guru turned her way, tucking his feet up and under on his throne, still flexible after all this time. If he was surprised by her knowledge of the Dayan art world or even Linda’s name, he didn’t show it. “Yes, Caitlin. Cataclysm to be sure, but above all things, hope. Gwendolyn told me you had questions, but it appears you already know something of our ways. I’d be curious to know how.”
Caitlin studied the man but held back the questions that came to mind: Who does your Botox? Are they in town, or do you keep someone on staff?
“A good journalist always does her research,” she said. “But then, I’m not here on assignment. I’m here to learn about Maya Aronson.” She watched his wrinkleless eyes for a reaction. “I believe you called her Magda.”
Blinking twice, he pursed his lips. “So it’s true. Magda has left us.” He exhaled, touched his fingertips to his temples, then raised both hands toward the ceiling. “Good-bye, my darling.”
“You two were close?” The artifice of her audience with the king had Caitlin in a fighting mood. She stood and stepped off the platform, walking toward the paintings. “That must have been nice. I never met the woman. What was she like?”
She didn’t look back but heard his chuckle.
“Fiery, devoted, a true believer, and a shepherd of lost souls.”
“Cool. Desmond—” She turned and saw him watching her, now on his feet. “Can I call you Desmond, or do you have a formal title?”
He smiled. “Desmond is fine.”
“Great. Why’d your devoted shepherd get dumped in the woods? You Dayans don’t believe in burying your dead? And I’m sorry, is it Dayans or Daughters of God? No one’s really explained it to me.”
“Each name is as good as the other to us. Feel free to use either.” Desmond stepped down from the dais and walked toward her. “You carry a lot of anger.�
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Caitlin noticed the two women with guns waiting just feet outside the still-open double doors. “And your people carry a lot of firepower. So what happened?”
He held his hands up. “Caitlin, please. It must be hard finding out your mother was still alive—”
“Don’t call her my mother.”
“—and that she devoted her life to our unconventional way of living as a Daughter of God.”
“Instead of reaching out to the daughter of her own body. Speaking of which, why are you not trying to convert me? To get me topless around the fire?”
“Conversion’s such a Christian concept.” His smile was probably meant to soothe. Caitlin felt only condescension. “The word itself implies a transition from one state to another, which implies a need to change key aspects of the self. I’m a spiritual guide, not a wizard.”
“Good to know. How about Daya?”
The man’s smile disappeared. “You’ve come to me for answers. While I understand you’re a journalist, I don’t feel that you’re here to get to know our ways and beliefs.”
Caitlin’s fists settled on her hips. “I’m betting you’re all a bunch of lunatics.”
He nodded. “Those without faith are always the first to ridicule.”
“I have faith,” she countered.
“In the Spirit?”
“In actions. Here, now, in day-to-day life. It’s organized religion I have the problem with.”
“Then we are in agreement spiritually. Ask me what you really want to know.”
“Fine.” She squared off across from the man. “You knew Maya Aronson and her past.”
“Better than anyone else in the world. More importantly, I knew the woman she became.”
“Lucky you. How did you know who I was?”
Desmond’s weight shifted to one side. “In person? Your eyes, of course. Looking at you is like looking into her soul. Moreover, Magda had me keep tabs on where you were and how you were doing throughout the years.”
“Why? In case she might contact me one day?” She braced herself for some sappy platitude.
As if he’d read her mind, Desmond shook his head side to side. “No, I won’t humor your ego and lie to you.” He pointed out the window to the hill. “She needed to protect the work she was doing here. To do so, one must be free of their past lives. As long as she was sure you were safe, she could go on with her mission.”
Sins of the Mother Page 12
