“No, we just got back from a week at the beach late this afternoon. I was unpacking the car when Bryan’s mother drove up. We spoke for a few minutes, and then she let herself into the house. Within seconds, she came out screaming, and I called 9-1-1.”
“Did you go into the house?”
“Of course not. Whatever that woman saw scared her half to death. I made sure no one else went in either.”
I’ll bet you did.
“Thank you, Mrs. Chesterton. We’ll be in touch.”
Rob walked over to them, nodded at the woman, grabbed Lilith’s elbow, and propelled her toward the car. She was about to complain about his caveman behavior, but the fury and frustration on his face kept her silent.
“The local precinct is sending officers to question the neighbors. They’ll copy us on whatever they get, and we can follow up where we need to tomorrow.” Using his head, he indicated the woman still standing on the sidewalk behind him. “Did she give you anything useful?”
Lilith got into the car, barely getting the door closed before Rob started the engine and put the vehicle in gear. She fastened her seat belt as he pulled away from the curb, lights flashing, siren blaring once more.
“More than I expected, and you aren’t going to like it.” With each detail, he pressed harder on the accelerator until they were moving much faster than a police car should in a residential neighborhood like this one. “Sound familiar to you? And for God’s sake, slow down. Getting ourselves or anyone else killed isn’t going to help.”
Rob eased up on the gas pedal. “Sorry. Yeah, that sounds too damn familiar, and I don’t believe in coincidence. Kate Newcomb, the Harvester’s first victim, would have a son that age. I’m positive his name was Ethan.”
“Shit.”
• • •
Jacob finished his last bite of steak and pushed the empty plate away. The meal had been excellent, better than many he’d eaten over the years in hotel restaurants. Usually, he hated dining in public alone, but given the mood he was in, he was lousy company even for himself.
When he did opt for a fancy meal, it was usually complemented by a fine wine and an even finer dinner companion. He wasn’t a monk by any means and appreciated the ladies, but he had no desire to get married and raise a family. He liked his life exactly the way it was—or rather the way it had been. He and Andrew had been able to come and go as they’d pleased with only the responsibilities of the farms to concern them. Hours were long during planting and harvest, but there was lots of time for fun things between seasons. In the last couple of years, Andrew had bemoaned the fact that he had no great-grandchildren, but between all of the families of those who worked for him to fuss over, the old man had been well satisfied with at least one baby fix a week.
He slumped in the chair and let the memories of the man he’d loved wash over him. As his friend and mentor would’ve said, Jacob had come to Boston on a fool’s errand. He should’ve known something had gone seriously wrong when he couldn’t reach Eloise. But as much as it pained him to admit it, there was nothing he could’ve done for his sister. She and the Williamsons died before her flight was scheduled to leave Boston. No matter what kind of monster James might have become, there’s no way he’d have condoned Eloise’s murder. But their uncle ... that holier than thou bastard would’ve had her killed if he’d known she was defying him and running away. God, what he wouldn’t give to wrap his hands around the son of a bitch’s throat and squeeze. The sooner he could disassociate himself from his brother and uncle, the better.
While he might not be without family in the truest sense of the word, if his older brothers were blindly following his uncle as James had done, Jacob wanted nothing to do with either of them. And his cousins? Well, they’d always been in awe of their father. Hopefully his sister Sara had fared better than Eloise. On that thought came another—even if he wanted to find her, he had no idea where to look. Hadn’t Agent Munroe said the cult vanished?
Closing his eyes, he massaged his temples, trying to rid himself of the idea that he should never have left New Horizon. What would’ve happened if he’d walked into the compound hale and whole? Would his uncle have welcomed a prodigal son, or would he have had him killed? After all, how many people could return from the dead before it lost its “wow” factor? He doubted his uncle would want to share his throne. And what if he’d gone back for Eloise? How long would it have taken his uncle to call the authorities and charge him with kidnapping or worse? Duncan Lucius knew how to get the most out of the cards he held.
He missed Andrew and his wisdom more now than ever. He’d have known what to do, what to say. From the moment Jacob had awakened in the desert after the storm, he and Andrew had been inseparable. They’d struck out together, a frightened seventeen-year-old boy and a sixty-year-old man, and had taken whatever life had thrown at them and thrived on the adventure. Conquering the Australian wilderness, they’d prospected together, and truth be told, the biggest strikes were Andrew’s, but he insisted Jacob take the glory.
“What can this old Indian do with a diamond mine?” he’d said and laughed. “You, my son, are destined for greater things. Take what you’ve been given and follow your heart.”
With Andrew’s approval, Jacob had bought two rundown farms and invested in the land. For a man born in the Arizona desert, one who’d spent most of his life in the Grand Canyon, Andrew had embraced the tropical climate of the Northern Territory, and when he tired of the lush vegetation, they’d go walkabout for a week or two. Ayers Rock and the outback called to them both. They’d lived the good life, made many friends among the Aborigines as well as the other farmers, and traveled extensively throughout the Far East.
The morning Jacob had gone looking for Andrew and found him dead had been the saddest day of his life—until now—but knowing his mentor had gone to meet his maker peacefully was a great comfort. As he’d wished, Andrew had been cremated, his ashes interred under his prize Sturt's Desert Roses, the floral emblem of the Northern Territory where they’d struck it rich.
God, please tell me Eloise didn’t suffer. When he got her ashes home, he’d put them there, too.
When he returned to Australia, he’d go walkabout and do some more prospecting. He’d been reborn in the desert once, maybe he could do it again.
Thoughts of showing Lilith Munroe the beauty of his adopted homeland appealed to him, but once she knew the whole truth about his tainted ancestry, he’d be the last person she’d want to spend time with.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the waiter asked, pouring the rest of the beer he’d ordered into his glass. Jacob had wanted an Australian beer with his meal purely for comfort’s sake, but the hotel didn’t stock any.
“Just the docket—the bill—thanks.”
What the hell had happened to the people of New Horizon in the last eighteen years? Sure, his uncle had delusions of godhood, but James? Jacob remembered a gentle and sensitive soul who’d been shy around girls, not that there’d been a lot of them in the commune. How had that kindhearted boy morphed into a serial rapist-kidnapper hell-bent on creating a dynasty?
Too disgusted from his own thoughts to stay in public any longer, afraid someone else might recognize his resemblance to the rapist, Jacob finished his beer, assigned the charge to his room, tipped the waiter generously, and went up to his suite. Entering the living room, he walked over to the bar, cracked open the bottle of scotch he’d bought on his way back to the hotel, and poured some into the glass. He downed it. Tossing his suit jacket on the bed, he undressed.
Naked, he padded into the bathroom and took the hottest shower he could stand, using a facecloth to scrub his skin as if he could rid himself of the genes he shared with James and his uncle. Running the soapy cloth over the scars left by the whip and the branch that had pierced his side, he still felt dirty, tainted by the sins of the family he hoped he’d never see again.
Turning off the water, he dried himself and put on the terrycloth robe the hotel pro
vided. He returned to the living room, picked up the phone beside the sofa, and pressed the button for the front desk.
“Yes, Mr. Andrews,” the concierge said, answering on the second ring. “How may I help you?”
“Good evening. Can you send someone up to get my laundry, please? I need my suit cleaned. And do they sell ball caps and t-shirts in the store in the lobby?”
“They do.”
“Send me up a cap and a shirt—any color, size large.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He hung up the phone and turned on his tablet. Time to do a little research of his own. He brought up his browser and typed in Boston Harvester. Moving to the mini fridge, he filled a glass with ice cubes and then added the scotch to it. Back at the computer, he watched the browser page fill with entries.
It was going to be a long night.
• • •
Lilith was impressed with the way Rob negotiated the crowded Boston streets, especially at the speed he was driving, knowing his mind was elsewhere. Even though it was well past peak rush hour, traffic was heavy along the main arteries.
“I think I’ve figured out how the killers get into the house,” she said, feeling the need to fill the heavy silence and wanting to run her theory by Rob before presenting it to Trevor. “I’m convinced the witness is correct, and there are definitely two people involved.”
“Go on.”
“It’s the flowers. There were flowers on the Richardsons’ dining room table, and the bouquet is identical. The witness in Baltimore thought there might’ve been a sign in the van’s window. Since we know both families have recently moved—not sure yet if they used the same movers, but I’ll check that as soon as we get back—it would be easy for the perps to drive up in a floral delivery van with a bouquet supposedly from the local Welcome Wagon.”
“I like it. The guy’s got a mitt-full, so they open the door to let him in, and his partner sneaks in behind him and incapacitates whoever answered the door, and they go to work. Well done.”
“Thanks.” She looked out the window, but instead of houses, cars, and bright lights, she saw Bryan Winchester staring up at her. She swallowed. No doubt her nightly terrors would have a new component tonight.
Every missing infant case she failed to locate added weight to the cross she bore. Now, she had three more to add to her own list.
Lilith prayed her niece had found someone to love her. If she knew the child was happy, could she let her go? Jacob Andrews had left his siblings behind, knowing what life would be like for them in that commune. Maybe it hadn’t been all bad. Rob was right, and she shouldn’t judge him so harshly. If she found Kelly Kirk tomorrow, with the other members of the FFOW who’d escaped, would she be able to go in and face her tormentor to save the girl?
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Needing to leave those thoughts behind before they crippled her, she forced her mind back to the current case.
“That garrote was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. If the Prophet is behind this, this killer is the new Harvester doing his dirty work, God help us. The man is a sociopath. All the Richardsons and Winchesters did was open their homes and their hearts to orphans.”
“I’ve been on the job almost twenty years, and I thought I’d seen everything, but never in my wildest dreams would I ever have suspected a weapon like that existed. Thank Christ it’s not a popular one. I know we won’t be sure the family’s boy is Kate Newcomb’s son until the people at CPS confirm it, but if Savannah Richardson is Faith Volt, then the odds are he is.”
Lilith sighed. “Something about tonight’s kidnapping has been bothering me. He took both children. Why leave pictures of one?”
“Yeah. That is odd. Any theories?”
“None that really make any sense, but then not much in these cases does. By taking Ethan’s pictures, it’ll take us more time to get out a full scale Amber Alert, but we’ve already posted one on Cassie. Maybe he doesn’t care if we broadcast her picture from here to kingdom come because he’s convinced we won’t find her or the others. Why?”
Rob frowned. “You don’t think he’s planning to kill her, do you?”
“No. Absolutely not. If he’s a child trafficker, that little girl is worth a lot of money.”
“And if he’s not? If we’re right and he’s working for the Prophet?”
“Then this new Harvester has reaped a bumper crop from that field. Cults prize children, all children, and a cult that practices polygamy needs women. He’s sure we won’t find them because he believes his hiding place is secure. We have to locate the third child before he does, or we’ll lose them all.”
“Agreed. I’ll make some calls as soon as we get back to the station. But he won’t stop with the orphans, will he?”
“I doubt it. He’ll want them all back. We’ve got to find a way to protect those women. I know you may think your wife is safe...”
“But she’s not, and I don’t know how to ensure her safety.”
“What about the Witness Protection Program? They can make people disappear in a good way.”
“Maybe, even if it were just a temporary measure, but the Prophet, which is what we should call him from now on, had eyes and ears everywhere. Maybe he still does. I’ve got to contact Mary Green, too. Her son Liam was born in July, shortly after the rescue. If this new Harvester knows where we stashed the orphans, then I’m sure he knows where to find the women and their children.”
“When I read the file, my heart went out to her. That poor woman’s been through a world of pain already. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to discover your mother had been murdered like that. Her throat was slit like Eloise’s, wasn’t it?”
Rob nodded. “The coroner matched the wound on her neck with the one on the Williamsons, bringing the case full circle. It was Faye’s certainty that Mary would never want a child that put me onto the drugging and rape aspect of the case, but if you saw Mary with Liam, you’d think he was exactly what she’d wanted her entire life.”
“The maternal instinct is strong. The other thing we have to consider is that the Prophet will want the rest of his followers back, too. I assume he can’t get at them easily?”
“They’re in seclusion. We thought he might send one of his spies in with cyanide to keep them from talking, so we’re holding them as material witnesses until we decide what to do with them. The four girls under eighteen are at a juvenile detention center. Faye actually wanted to bring one home—a twelve-year-old girl named Annie—but eventually, Trevor convinced her it was too dangerous. They’ve brought in deprogrammers to work with the girls, but from what I hear, they aren’t having a lot of success.”
“And they won’t. I’m not sure when the Prophet rose to power, but my guess is nineteen or twenty years ago, around the time the dengue fever epidemic hit. I can confirm that with Jacob tomorrow. Anyone under twenty won’t remember any other way of life; those under thirty would’ve been children, so they probably have few memories of that time, too. As for the older ones, cult leaders like the Prophet tend to be charismatic, and then, if there’s any drug use ...”
“We ordered tox screens, but the lab’s really backed up. We should get something soon. Those people can’t really believe he’s a god.”
“I’m sure they believe he’s divine in some way. People who choose to be a part of cults are looking for something they can’t find anywhere else. If he survived the fever, and somehow life improved when they started following his rules, it’s going to be damn hard to convince them that he’s not who he claims he is. The Prophet isn’t the first and won’t be the last man to convince people he speaks to God and God answers.”
“Hell, Munroe. I do that, too. Only difference is my God doesn’t tell me to go out and murder innocent people. It’s called prayer, and believe me, I did a lot of it when Faye went missing.”
“Yeah, but for you and millions of others, it’s faith. For him, it’s a delus
ion. I’ve read the bullshit in that manifesto that he passes off as the words of the Creator. I came face to face with a man who claimed to be the son of God, and believe me, if he was anybody’s son, it was Satan’s. Look at Charles Manson and what his followers were willing to do for him. Two million Americans are members of one cult or another, and that’s not counting all of those who belong to fringe groups with legal religious status.”
“You’re not making me feel any better here. The Prophet may be small potatoes in the scheme of things, but ... We need to put a name to the face in that picture—if it is his. Maybe Jacob can help us with that. If the guy was there eighteen years ago, he’s bound to know exactly who that bastard is.”
“Don’t underestimate the Prophet. A man convinced of his righteousness is very dangerous. Think of Adolf Hitler. If the Prophet’s determined to repossess what’s his, he’ll want all of them,” she said softly, “including the children yet to be born. We know Faye’s baby isn’t his, and even if he’s seen the medical report, he probably doesn’t believe it. You can’t reason with fanatics.”
“Damn! Faye just started sleeping without nightmares. I’ll see what kind of protective custody I can set up. My wife really doesn’t need this, and she hates the fact I’m as cautious as I am. She considers it my He-Man mode.”
Lilith chuckled. “Well, He-Man, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Rob signaled and pulled into the underground parking lot.
Thirty minutes later, armed with another cup of coffee, Faye sat at one of the empty desks in the bullpen, transcribing her notes from the crime scene. They’d briefed Trevor. The forensic team would send pictures by morning. Rob made calls from his desk.
“Damn,” he said, slamming the phone down.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I can’t reach anyone at CPS. All I get is a recording to leave a message. Mary’s phone is going straight to voicemail, too. The last time that happened, the cult had her. I’ll have Faye e-mail her and hope she answers that. I get that sense of déjà vu, and I don’t like this one damn bit. The number I have for Elisa Robertson, the woman James kidnapped after Mary Green, is out of service, and Ruth Hamilton is on vacation. The woman who answered refused to say where and hung up on me.”
The White Lily Page 8
