The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “He killed a deputy, Cathy,” said Fahey. “He’s not just a boy.”

  “I know Julian better than any of you do. I have a hard time believing that he’d kill anyone.”

  “Excuse me,” said Detective Pasternak. “I’m not from this county. Maybe you could introduce yourself, ma’am?”

  The young woman stood, and Jane immediately recognized her. It was the social worker they’d met at the scene of the Circle B double homicide. “I’m Cathy Weiss, Sublette County Child Protective Services. I’ve been Julian’s caseworker for the past year.”

  “And you don’t believe he could have killed Deputy Martineau?” said Pasternak.

  “No, sir.”

  “Cathy, look at his rap sheet,” said Fahey. “The kid’s no angel.”

  “But he’s no monster. Julian is a victim. He’s a sixteen-year-old kid just trying to survive, in a world where nobody wants him.”

  “Most kids manage to survive just fine without breaking into homes and stealing cars.”

  “Most kids aren’t used and abused by cults.”

  Fahey rolled his eyes. “Here we go again with that stuff.”

  “I’ve warned you about The Gathering for years. Ever since they moved into this county and built their perfect little Stepford village. Now you’re seeing the result. This is what happens when you ignore the danger signs. When you look the other way while pedophiles operate right under your noses.”

  “You have absolutely no proof. We’ve looked into the allegations. Bobby went up there three times, and all he found were hardworking families who just want to be left alone.”

  “Left alone to abuse their children.”

  “Can we get back to the business at hand?” a man shouted from the audience.

  “Yeah, you’re wasting our time!”

  “This is the business at hand,” said Cathy, looking around the town hall. “This is the boy you’re all so eager to hunt down. A kid who’s been crying out for help. And no one’s been listening.”

  “Ms. Weiss,” said Detective Pasternak, “the search team needs all the information they can get before they set off tomorrow. You say you know Julian Perkins. Tell us what to expect from this boy. He’s out there on a bitterly cold night, with a woman who may be a hostage. Is he even capable of surviving?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “You’re that sure of it?”

  “Because he’s the grandson of Absolem Perkins.”

  There was a murmur of recognition in the room, and Detective Pasternak looked around, puzzled. “I’m sorry. Is that significant?”

  “You’d know the name if you grew up in Sublette County,” said Montgomery Loftus. “Backwoods man. Built his own cabin, lived up in the Bridger-Teton Mountains. I used to catch him hunting near my property.”

  “Julian spent most of his childhood up there,” said Cathy. “With a grandfather who taught him how to forage. How to stay alive in the wilderness with only an ax and his wits. So yes, he could survive.”

  “What’s he doing up in the mountains, anyway?” asked Jane. “Why isn’t he in school?” She didn’t think it was a stupid question, but she heard laughter ripple through the hall.

  “The Perkins kid, in school?” Fahey shook his head. “That’s like trying to teach higher mathematics to a mule.”

  “I’m afraid Julian had a hard time living here in town,” said Cathy. “He was picked on a lot in school. Got into quite a few fights. He kept running away from his foster home, eight times in thirteen months. The last time he vanished was a few weeks ago, when the weather turned warm. Before he left, he emptied out his foster mother’s pantry, so he’s got enough food to last awhile out there.”

  “We have copies of his photo,” said Fahey, and he handed a stack of papers up the aisle. “So you can all see who we’re looking for.”

  The photos were passed around the audience, and for the first time Jane saw the face of Julian Perkins. It looked like a school photo, with a standard bland background. The boy had clearly made an effort to dress up for the occasion, but he looked painfully ill at ease in a long-sleeved white shirt and a tie. His black hair had been parted and combed, but a few rebellious strands of a cowlick refused to be slicked down. His dark eyes looked directly at the camera, eyes that made Jane think of a dog gazing out of an animal shelter cage. Wary. Untrusting.

  “This photo was taken from last year’s school yearbook,” Fahey said. “It’s the most recent one we could find of him. Since then, he’s probably grown a few inches and put on some muscle.”

  “And he’s got Bobby’s gun,” Loftus added.

  Fahey looked around at the gathering. “The search team assembles at first light. I want every volunteer equipped with overnight winter gear. This isn’t going to be a picnic, so I want only the fittest men out there.” He paused, his gaze settling on Loftus, who caught the meaning of that look.

  “You trying to tell me I shouldn’t go?” said Loftus.

  “I didn’t say anything, Monty.”

  “I can outlast the whole lot of you. And I know that terrain better than anybody. It’s my own backyard.” Loftus rose to his feet. Although his hair was silver and his face deeply creased from decades in the outdoors, he looked as sturdy as any man in the room. “Let’s make quick work of this. Before someone else gets killed.” He shoved his hat on his head and walked out.

  As the others began to file out as well, Jane spotted the social worker rising to her feet, and she called out: “Ms. Weiss?”

  The woman turned as Jane approached. “Yes?”

  “We haven’t actually been introduced. I’m Detective Rizzoli.”

  “I know. You’re the folks from Boston.” Cathy glanced at Gabriel and Sansone, who were still pulling on their coats. “You people have made quite an impression on this town.”

  “Can we go someplace and talk? About Julian Perkins.”

  “You mean right now?”

  “Before they use him and our friend for target practice.”

  Cathy looked at her watch and nodded. “There’s a coffee shop right down the block. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  IT WAS more like twenty minutes. When Cathy finally swept into the coffee shop, her hair wild and windblown, she brought in the smell of tobacco on her wrinkled, smoke-permeated clothes, and Jane knew she had been sneaking a quick cigarette in her car. Now the woman looked jittery as she slid into the booth where Jane was waiting.

  “So where are your two guys?” asked Cathy, glancing at the empty seats.

  “They went to buy camping gear.”

  “They’re joining the search party tomorrow?”

  “I can’t talk them out of it.”

  Cathy gave her a long and thoughtful look. “You people have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  The waitress came by with the coffeepot. “Fill it up, Cathy?” she asked.

  “Good and strong, I hope.”

  “Always is.”

  Cathy waited for the waitress to leave before she spoke again. “The situation is complicated.”

  “They made it sound simple in that meeting. Send out the posse, hunt down a cop-killer.”

  “Right. Because people always prefer things simple. Black and white, right and wrong. Julian as the evil kid.” Cathy drank her coffee straight, gulping down the bitter brew without a wince. “That’s not what he is.”

  “What is he, then?”

  Cathy fixed her intense gaze on Jane. “Have you ever heard of the Lost Boys?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  “They’re young men, mostly teenagers, who’ve been cast out of their homes and families. They end up abandoned on the streets. Not because they’ve done anything wrong, but simply because they’re boys. In their communities, that alone makes them fatally flawed.”

  “Because boys cause trouble?”

  “No. Because they’re competition, and the older me
n don’t want them around. They want all the girls for themselves.”

  Suddenly Jane understood. “You’re talking about polygamous communities.”

  “Exactly. These are groups that have nothing at all to do with the official Mormon Church. They’re breakaway sects that form around charismatic leaders. You’ll find them in a number of states. Colorado and Arizona, Utah and Idaho. And right here in Sublette County, Wyoming.”

  “The Gathering?”

  Cathy nodded. “It’s a sect led by a so-called prophet named Jeremiah Goode. Twenty years ago, he started attracting followers in Idaho. They built a compound called Plain of Angels, northwest of Idaho Falls. Eventually it grew into a community of nearly six hundred people. They’re completely self-sufficient, grow their own food, raise their own livestock. No visitors are allowed in, so it’s impossible to know what’s really happening behind their gates.”

  “They sound like prisoners.”

  “They might as well be. The Prophet controls every aspect of their lives, and they adore him for it. That’s the way cults operate. You start with a man like Jeremiah, someone who attracts the weak-minded and the needy, people who desperately want someone to accept them. To give them love and attention, to fix their pitiful broken lives. That’s what he offers them—at first. That’s how all cults start, from the Moonies to the Manson Family.”

  “You’re equating Jeremiah Goode with Charles Manson?”

  “Yes.” Cathy’s face tightened. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s the same psychology, the same social dynamics. Once a follower drinks the Kool-Aid, they’re his. They give Jeremiah all their property, all their assets, and move into his compound. There he exerts total control. He uses their free labor to maintain a number of highly profitable businesses, from construction to furniture making to mail-order jams and jellies. To an outsider, it looks like a utopian community where everyone contributes. In return, everyone is taken care of. That’s what Bobby Martineau probably thought he saw when he visited Kingdom Come.”

  “What should he have seen instead?”

  “A dictatorship. It’s all about Jeremiah and what he wants.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Cathy’s gaze hardened to steel. “Young flesh. That’s what The Gathering is all about, Detective. Owning, controlling, and fucking young girls.”

  A woman in the next booth turned and glared at them, offended by the language.

  Cathy took a moment to regain her composure. “That’s why Jeremiah can’t afford to keep too many boys around,” she said. “So he gets rid of them. He orders families to shun their own teenage sons. The boys are driven to the nearest town and abandoned. In Idaho, they were dumped in Idaho Falls. Here, they’re dumped in Jackson or Pinedale.”

  “And these families actually cooperate?”

  “The women are obedient little robots. The men are rewarded for their loyalty with young brides of their own. Spiritual brides, they’re called, to avoid being prosecuted for polygamy. Men can have as many as they want, and it’s all biblically sanctioned.”

  Jane gave an appalled laugh. “Yeah? Which Bible?”

  “The Old Testament. Think about Abraham and Jacob, David and Solomon. The old biblical patriarchs who had multiple wives or concubines.”

  “And his followers buy in to it?”

  “Because it satisfies some burning need inside them. The women, maybe they yearn for security, for a life where they don’t have to make hard choices. The men—well, it’s obvious what the men get out of it. They get to take a fourteen-year-old to bed. And get into heaven.”

  “And Julian Perkins was part of all that?”

  “He has a mother and a fourteen-year-old sister who still live in Kingdom Come. Julian’s father died when he was only four. The mother, I’m sorry to say, is a total flake. Sharon dropped out of her kids’ lives to go find herself, or whatever bullshit you want to call it, and she dumped them on their grandfather, Absolem.”

  “The mountain man.”

  “Right. A decent guy who took good care of them. But ten years later, Sharon reappears, and woo-hoo! She’s got a new man, plus she’s discovered religion! The religion of Jeremiah Goode. She takes her kids back, and they move into Kingdom Come, the new settlement that The Gathering is building here in Wyoming. A few months later, Absolem dies, and Sharon’s the only adult left in Julian’s life.” Cathy’s voice took on a razor-sharp edge. “And she betrays him.”

  “She threw him out?”

  “Like a piece of trash. Because the Prophet demanded it.”

  The two women stared at each other, a gaze of shared rage that was broken only when the waitress returned with the coffeepot. In silence they both sipped, and the hot brew only worsened the angry burn in Jane’s stomach.

  “So why isn’t Jeremiah Goode in jail?” Jane asked.

  “You think I haven’t tried? You saw how they reacted to me at that meeting. I’m just the town scold, the annoying feminist who won’t stop talking about abused girls. And they don’t want to listen anymore.” She paused. “Or they’re getting paid not to listen.”

  “Jeremiah’s bought them off?”

  “That’s how it worked in Idaho. Cops, judges. The Gathering has loads of cash to buy them all. His settlements are cut off from outside communication—no phones, no radios. Even if a girl wanted to call for help, she wouldn’t be able to.” Cathy set down her coffee cup. “There’s nothing I want more than to see him, and the men who follow him, in shackles. But I don’t think it’s ever going to happen.”

  “Does Julian Perkins feel the same way?”

  “He hates them all. He told me so.”

  “Enough to kill?”

  Cathy frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You were at the double homicide at the Circle B lodge. That dead couple belonged to The Gathering.”

  “You aren’t thinking Julian did it.”

  “Maybe that’s why he went on the run. Why he had to kill the deputy.”

  Cathy gave a vehement shake of the head. “I’ve spent time with that boy. He hangs out with this stray dog, and you’ve never seen anyone so gentle with an animal. He doesn’t have violence in him.”

  “I think we all have it in us,” said Jane quietly. “If we’re pushed hard enough.”

  “Well, if he did do it,” Cathy said, “he had justice on his side.”

  THE SNOW CAVE WAS RIPE WITH THE ODOR OF WET DOG AND mildewed clothes and the sweat of two filthy bodies. Maura had not bathed in weeks, and the boy had probably gone far longer. But the shelter was cozy as a wolf den, just large enough for them to stretch out on the pine-branch floor, and the fire that Rat built was now bright and crackling. In the light from the flames, Maura surveyed her down jacket, once white, but now soiled with soot and blood. She imagined the horror that would greet her in a mirror. I’m turning into a wild animal, like these two, she thought. An animal hiding in a cave. She remembered accounts that she’d read of children raised by wolves. Brought back to civilization, they remained feral and impossible to tame. Now she could feel her own transformation beginning. Sleeping and eating on hard ground, living for days in the same clothes, curling up every night beside Bear’s furry warmth. Soon no one would recognize her.

  I might not recognize myself.

  Rat threw a bundle of twigs into the fire. Smoke swirled in the snow cave, stinging their eyes and throat. Without this boy, I would not survive one night out here, she thought. I would already be dead and frozen, my body vanishing under the blowing snow. But the wilderness was a world Rat seemed to feel comfortable in. Within an hour, he had dug out this cave, choosing a spot on the lee side of a hill and tunneling upward to hollow out the cavity. Together they’d gathered firewood and pine boughs, racing the darkness and the killing chill of night.

  Now, huddled in surprising comfort beside the fire, she listened to the wind moan outside their pine-branch door, and watched him root around in his backpack. Out came powdered dairy creamer and a box of
dried dog kibble. He shook out a handful of kibble and tossed it to Bear. Then he held out the box to Maura.

  “Dog food?” she asked.

  “It’s good enough for him.” Rat nodded at the dog, who was happily devouring his meal. “Better than an empty stomach.”

  But not by much, she thought as she bit resignedly into a chunk. For a moment, the only sound in the cave was three pairs of jaws crunching away. She stared across the guttering flames at the boy.

  “We have to find a way to surrender,” she said.

  He kept chewing, his attention ferociously focused on filling his belly.

  “Rat, you know as well as I do that they’re going to come after us. We can’t survive out here.”

  “I’ll take care of you. We’ll do okay.”

  “Living on dog food? Hiding in snow caves?”

  “I know a place, up in the mountains. We can stay there all winter, if we have to.” He held out packets of powdered dairy creamer. “Here. Dessert.”

  “They won’t give up. Not when the victim is a cop.” She looked at the bundle containing the dead deputy’s weapon, which Rat had wrapped in a rag and shoved into a shadowy corner, as though it were a corpse he didn’t want to look at. She thought of an autopsy she’d performed on a cop-killer who’d died in police custody. He went nuts on us, must’ve been PCP was what the officers claimed. But the bruises she saw on the torso, the lacerations on the face and scalp, told a different story. Kill a cop and you’ll pay for it was the lesson she’d learned from that. She looked at the boy and suddenly had a vision of him lying on an autopsy table, battered and bloodied by vengeful fists.

  “It’s the only way we’ll have a chance of convincing them,” she said. “If we surrender together. Otherwise, they’ll assume we murdered that man with his own gun.”

  The blunt assessment seemed to shake him, and the kibble suddenly fell from his hand as he lowered his head. She could not see his face, but she saw him shaking in the firelight and knew that he was crying.

  “It was an accident,” she said. “I’ll tell them that. I’ll tell them you were only trying to protect me.”

  He shook harder, pulling his arms around himself as though to stifle the sobs. Bear moved closer, whining, and laid his huge head on the boy’s knee.