“Yes?” she said.
Don recognized her. She was a teacher at the elementary school. Jessica Bjorklund. She had short blonde hair, and she was wearing bright red lipstick that made her look as if she’d been drinking blood.
“I thought there was a revival here tonight,” Don said.
“It’s been moved,” she said. “I’m here to let people know in case they didn’t get the word.”
“Where has it been moved to?”
“Al McDougall’s barn. The reverend needed more room because so many people were coming.”
She looked spacey, sort of like the man from Ann Arbor who Don had arrested one summer after the guy had driven his Porsche into a maple tree. He’d been carrying a bag of cocaine, a good bit of which was also bubbling in his brain cells. Although Don doubted Jessica was on drugs, she had that same dazed, distant look in her eyes, a look that said this person had given over part of his or her control to something else.
Don headed for Al McDougall’s place. Fear, cold and clammy, rode with him.
8
Kesselring knocked on the door of the church.
It was opened by a young woman who said, “Revival’s been moved to Al McDougall’s place.”
“I’m not interested in the revival,” Kesselring said.
She looked at him blankly.
“I’m here because I need to be in a church.”
“You’ll have to go to the revival,” she said. “This church is closed.”
“But I need to pray very badly. My soul needs saving.”
“You’ll have to go—”
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her out of the building. Then he stepped inside and bolted the door. The woman hadn’t resisted; she’d simply seemed confused.
It looked like an ordinary church. Polished wooden pews, stained glass, an altar of the same light wood as the pews. He walked down the aisle, his footfalls echoing in the empty chamber. The pews were clean and empty, no clues left behind for curious policemen. He kept moving toward the altar. And then he noticed something that wasn’t as it should be.
The big cross behind the altar was slightly crooked, as if it had been removed and hurriedly replaced.
He walked up to the altar, turned, surveyed the church. He pictured the pews full of people. Our sermon today is about evil, specifically the Evil.
He walked around the altar, returned to the same spot. He looked down. Then he squatted, rubbed his fingers over a spot on the floor and examined them. There was a trace of something dry and brown. Blood?
Moving a few feet to his left, he found another spot. This time he was sure. It was blood. He knew what had happened here, but he didn’t know why it had happened in a church. Or why there had apparently been an audience.
Despite the thirty-five years he’d spent as a policeman, seeing every imaginable horror, he shuddered. Someone had died here.
Died horribly.
Twelve
1
As Don headed toward the west end of the island, where McDougall lived, the last of twilight’s gray surrendered to the night. There was no moon, and the blackness appeared thick and heavy, almost impenetrable. The headlights of Don’s Cherokee seemed to struggle to push it back even momentarily.
Generally speaking, when you thought of Ice Island, you thought of Lake Superior and the woods, a summer cabin with a small boat dock or maybe an A-frame tucked away among the trees. But Al McDougall’s place was different. He had a large white house with a screened porch, a traditional big red barn, a small heated dairy barn, an apple orchard, a field in which he grew hay for the dairy cattle, another in which he grew crops that could tolerate the cool summer and short growing season—spinach, lettuce, broccoli, turnips, radishes, and the like.
Men with flashlights were showing people where to park. Don told them he was there on official business and drove past them, toward the barn. As he passed the house, he noticed two small signs suspended between a pair of low posts. The one on top said: island animal hospital, albert mcdougall, dvm. The other said: mcdougall dairy, raw Milk, fresh butter.
Don stopped his car in front of the barn and got out. One of its big double doors was open, and people were filing in, familiar people, most of whom Don had known all his life. Looking at a big guy with a curly beard, Don said, “How you doing, Dean?”
But Dean Vanetti, who owned Dean’s Plumbing and Heating, walked past Don as if unaware of the policeman’s presence. Don started to follow him, then hesitated. There were two men, one on each side of the door, watching the people entering the barn. They neither spoke nor were spoken to. They just watched. Instead of just walking right up to the men to find out what would happen, Don moved to his left, his shoes sinking into the muddy earth, which had yet to freeze for the night. He kept moving until he could see through the open door, into the barn.
Candles burned in tall candelabra, their flickering orange light showing more than a hundred people, who were just standing there, patiently waiting. No murmur of voices. No walking over to say hi to someone you hadn’t seen in a couple of weeks. No gathering in small groups to discuss mutual interests or exchange gossip.
The two men at the door looked at Don, and he looked at them. One was J. L. Pick, who owned Spring Fresh Laundry and Dry Cleaners. The other was Rod Donahue, who operated RD Clothiers, where you could buy things like insulated boots and parkas along with fishing hats and T-shirts that said Ice Island in snow-topped icy blue letters. Liking the whole scene less and less by the moment, Don drew in a slow breath, then walked purposefully toward the entrance to the barn.
J. L. Pick blocked the way. “Sorry,” he said. “The revival’s by invitation only.”
Rod Donahue joined him; now they were both blocking his way. Don said, “This is police business.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Donahue said.
Don studied them, finding they had that same look in their eyes that the woman at the church did, as if they were floating along on some controlled substance. Don wondered whether there was a drug that could give someone control over a group of people and then erase their memory of having been controlled. He imagined the CIA using Ice Island as a field test, Reverend Pfeil the agent in charge and not a minister at all. Such thoughts were foolish, he knew that, but then outlandish explanations were the only ones he had.
“Rod,” he said, looking at the clothing store owner he’d known all his life, “what’s going on here?”
Rod Donahue was an old guy with a big red-veined nose and white hair, who reminded Don of Tip O’Neill. “Revival,” he said.
“And just what happens at these revivals?”
For a moment Donahue looked puzzled, then he said, “About what you’d expect, I’d guess.”
“Dammit, Rod! Talk to me. Something’s going on here, and I want to know what it is.”
“Private,” the old man said. “Gotta have an invitation.”
“I’ve got one,” Don said.
Donahue and Pick exchanged looks. “You don’t have one,” Donahue said.
“Yeah, I do. Want to see it?”
They just stared at him.
Don thought about simply shoving them aside. Donahue was an old man, and Pick, though only about forty, was slight and short. Don didn’t do it, because he had no legal right to do so. He had no warrant and no reason to believe that a crime had been committed—not to mention all the constitutional implications due to this being a religious event.
“Where’s Al McDougall?” Don asked.
“Don’t know,” Donahue said.
“How about Reverend Pfeil?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, can you find out? I’d like to talk to them.”
Donahue shook his head. “Can’t leave the door.”
Again Don considered simply muscling his way in, and then he noticed that two other men had drifted over toward the door, younger, beefier men than the two blocking his way. It was becoming clear that he was as welcome here as
Ralph Nader at a board meeting of General Motors. If he talked to Al McDougall or Reverend Pfeil, the answer would be the same. He wasn’t invited.
“I can get a warrant and come back,” Don said. “If you let me in now, it will be a lot less hassle for everybody.”
Don was bluffing, of course. There was no way he could get a warrant before tomorrow—if he could get one at all. Unintimidated, the two men at the door looked at him in silence.
A line had been forming behind Don, people waiting to get inside the barn. He stepped out of the way, and they began filing inside, more familiar faces—on people who seemed unaware of his presence. Don returned to his car. He’d just started the engine when he saw something that made him suck in his breath.
Allison and Sarah.
Walking into the barn.
Scrambling out of the Cherokee, Don ran to the barn, getting there just as the doors closed. He pulled on them. They were locked.
2
In the morning, Don sat at his desk, trying to figure things out. When his wife and daughter came home last night, they were unable to remember what had happened at the revival, uncertain why they had even attended it.
Having a crazed killer on the island who decapitated and took bites out of his victims was scary all by itself. But this was scarier. Because it affected his family. It was as if something had crawled into Allison’s and Sarah’s heads and taken up residence. Something alien that could take control whenever it wished.
Something that only needed them for two hours a day.
For the revivals.
Don shook his head, as if he could throw of these thoughts like a dog shaking off water. There was no entity inside the heads of Allison and Sarah and God knew how many other people on the island. This behavior was hypnotically induced or maybe narcotically induced. This was some kind of weird mind control. He knew it was possible. If all those folks in Jonestown would drink that spiked punch, it was possible to get people to do anything.
And what did Reverend Pfeil want?
What had Jim Jones wanted?
Power? Money? Was this a psycho’s weirded-out ego trip? Don tried to apply those things to Douglas Pfeil and came up with nothing. The man was quiet, usually boring. If he harbored any fantasies about becoming the next Napoleon or Hitler or Jim Jones, they were buried deep in the farthest reaches of his subconscious, totally undetectable to those around him. But then Don was no psychologist. And—
Don abruptly cut that thought off, because something new had occurred to him, something he should have realized all along. How did Pfeil get Allison and Sarah or anyone else to go to the revival the first time? Before they’d been there to get hypnotized or drugged?
The only answers Don could come up with were too weird to even consider. Something in the island’s drinking water. Subliminal suggestion carefully inserted in the TV programming by a device here on the island that overrode the signal. Or maybe everybody in TV land was getting it, but it only affected people on the island. How about barely audible signals somehow produced by the telephones while they weren’t in use, too low to be heard consciously but understood by the subconscious?
But all this was ridiculous. He hadn’t stepped into a science fiction story. This was real life, and it had a real-life explanation. Cultists didn’t need subliminal TV or drugged drinking water to attract and control their members. So there were ways it could be done, believable ways, non-science fiction ways. The trouble was he had no idea what they were.
The phone rang. This was Monday, so Corrine was back at work. She answered it, looked at Don, and said, “Lieutenant Roper.”
Don picked up his phone. “Got a chopper?” he asked. “One that’s running?”
“Would I let you down?”
“Hey, fantastic.” It was the first thing Don had heard in several days that sounded like good news. “When will you be here?”
“Tomorrow. The repairs took a little longer than expected, but they promise me they’ll have it ready to go for tomorrow morning.”
“For sure?”
“I’ve been promised a case of beer if it’s not.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“About nine. I’ll call you before they leave.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Lab guy and two detectives. That’s all the chopper will hold unless we bump the pilot.”
“Any chance you can fly the bodies out? They’re frozen, so they’ll take up a lot of room. It might mean several trips.”
“I’ll ask the pilot and see what he says. In the meantime, just hang on for one more day. Help’s on the way.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I appreciate it. I really do. On my salary I can’t give away cases of beer, but I owe you a six-pack.”
“Imported?”
“Will Detroit do?”
Roper laughed. “Detroit, Milwaukee, St. Paul. Any of those exotic places. Just as long as it makes foam when you pour it in the glass.”
Don thanked him again and hung up, feeling a little better about things. Then he thought about Allison and Sarah and the revivals, and the good feelings evaporated. He wondered why he hadn’t asked Roper about cults. Maybe the state policeman knew something or knew someone he could talk to. Inwardly Don sighed. He couldn’t expect the state police to solve all his problems for him. Besides, two state detectives would be here tomorrow, and he could talk to them about it.
Looking over at Corrine, he said, “Call the church and ask whether they’re having another revival today. And don’t say you’re calling for the police department.”
Corrine gave him a curious look, then picked up the phone and dialed. Don heard her asking someone about the revivals. When she hung up, she turned to face him and said, “Yes, there’s one today.”
“Where?”
“Al McDougall’s. Three o’clock this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
“That’s what Mrs. Pfeil said.”
“Did she say why it isn’t scheduled for the evening like the others have been?”
“No.” Corrine was staring at him. “Don, what’s this all about?”
“People who go to the revivals disappear,” he said.
She waited for him to go on, and when he didn’t she said, “I already knew that, Don. What I don’t know is what’s happening to them.”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” A few silent moments passed, then Don said, “Have you been to any of the revival meetings?”
“No.”
“Know anyone who has?”
“Yes, of course. All sorts of people are going.”
“You ask them about the meetings?”
She nodded.
“What’d they say?”
“Well, they were sort of … vague.”
“Anybody at all tell you what happened at the revivals?”
She thought about that. “No, I guess not.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”
Again Corrine took some time to consider the answer. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “it is a little strange.” She frowned. “In a way, it’s like they can’t remember. I mean, like when I asked Donna Baumgartner about it. She sort of looked blank, looked real confused, and then she changed the subject.”
“That’s been happening with a lot of people.”
“Don …” Corrine let the sentence trail off. For several seconds, she stared at him, then she looked away. Maybe she didn’t know what to ask. Or maybe she knew that Don had no answers for her.
3
It was another warm, sunny day, and the road Don was following was becoming muddier by the moment. It was like that every spring. First the snow melted, and then the sun’s warmth began penetrating deeper and deeper into the frozen earth, turning people’s yards into quagmires and the dogs who lived in them into mud monsters. But unpaved roads were the worst. Some got so bad you could only drive over them at night, after they’d refrozen.
The rear tires began spinning, and t
he Cherokee lurched to the side, scraping against the limbs of a bush. Don shifted into four-wheel drive. The road was a narrow track that wound through the woods on the west end of the island. It was used only in summer, usually by high school kids looking for a secluded place to park. Again the Cherokee tilted sharply and slid sideways, all four tires spinning in the muck, flinging it up into the wheel wells, where it hit with a rapid thump-thump-thump.
Don had no choice but to use this road. It was the only way he could approach Al McDougall’s place without being seen.
The road came to within a quarter-mile of McDougall’s property, then swung away to the north. Don left his car there and went the rest of the way on foot. Walking proved easier than driving.
The first indication that he was getting close to his destination was a glimpse of something red through the trees. McDougall’s barn. Then the woods abruptly ended, and Don found himself at the edge of McDougall’s vegetable field, which was surrounded by a low chicken-wire fence to keep the rabbits out. Don stood there a moment, recalling the time he’d tried to order some chicken wire for his own backyard garden from Ace Hardware. Kevin Waggoner had gone through all his catalogs without finding it. He finally phoned the distributor, who informed him he was looking under the wrong thing. Its official name was poultry netting, not chicken wire.
Don wondered why he was standing there thinking about chicken wire when he should be trying to figure out how to get into the barn unseen. Maybe he was trying to give himself a chance to change his mind before he went ahead and did this thing. What he was doing was illegal. He had no warrant. He could have called a judge on the mainland, asked for verbal authority—he was obviously unable to get the official paper—but the reason he hadn’t was simple. He knew the judge would have said no. Don had a whole lot of vague suspicions and no concrete evidence. Which meant the only way for him to find out what went on at the revivals was to commit unlawful entry.
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