by Cindi Myers
“Don’t you go saying anything to anyone,” Phoenix said. “It will only cause trouble. You don’t want to start out like that.”
Why would any reasonable person want to be a part of a group that hid evidence from the police? Hannah thought, but she only nodded and went back to peeling potatoes. She would have so much to tell Walt tonight—not only this bit of news about the missing young woman, but that she was sure she had found her sister’s baby. All she needed was a little proof.
* * *
WALT SET OUT with Jobie and a guy who introduced himself as Slate to gather firewood. They had one hand ax and a rusting bow saw between them, and apparently Jobie and Slate had never been Boy Scouts, because they seemed to have no clue what actually made good firewood.
“I don’t think that rotten stuff is going to burn very well,” Walt said as Slate tugged at a fallen tree trunk that was so rotten it was growing a healthy crop of mushrooms.
The log crumbled as soon as he tried to lift it. “Guess not,” he said, and straightened.
“Do you do this every day?” Walt asked.
“Pretty much,” Jobie said. “We keep telling the Prophet if we had a chain saw we could cut a bunch at once and not have to work so hard, but he says the noise would draw the wrong kind of attention.”
“Yeah, the cops have already got it in for us,” Slate said. “They’re always around here hassling us.”
“Why do you think that is?” Walt asked.
“Because they’re suspicious of anyone who colors outside the lines,” Slate said.
“We don’t bother anybody and we ask the same of them.” Jobie tugged on the end of a branch that lay beneath a tree and held up a four-foot length of juniper. He grinned and added it to his pile.
“What do we need all this wood for, anyway?” Walt asked. “Do the women cook over a fire?”
“They mostly use the camp stoves for cooking,” Jobie said. “But every night after supper we have a campfire. Sometimes there’s singing or dancing, like last night. Sometimes the Prophet has a message for us, and sometimes there’s a ceremony.”
“What kind of ceremony?” Walt asked.
“Oh, you know, like when new members join or if the Prophet has had a vision that tells him we need to perform some kind of ritual.”
“You mean like saying prayers or something?”
“Not that, so much,” Slate said. “Cooler stuff. Once we did fire walking, and another time everyone had to bring something to burn that represented stuff they were letting go of.”
“The Prophet is really big on letting go of the past,” Jobie said. “Like, if you’ve made mistakes or whatever, none of that has to hold you back now.”
“That’s what makes being part of the Family so great,” Slate said. “Nobody judges you based on what you did before. You start over clean. That’s why I chose the name I did. I’m a clean Slate.”
Walt had read Metwater’s writings about new beginnings and fresh starts. But he wondered if those teachings might not have a special appeal for people who wanted to get away with bad behavior with no consequences. Simply join up with the Prophet and all your sins are forgiven. You could get away with anything—maybe even murder.
Walt figured this wasn’t the time to share his skepticism about the Prophet’s message. “I guess that takes lots of firewood,” he said.
“Yeah.” Jobie swung the ax ineffectually at the spindly branch of a pinyon. “The Rangers think we relocated our camp because our permit expired, but really, it was just that we ran out of firewood.”
Walt joined in their laughter and led the way to the next clump of scrubby trees. He estimated they were about a mile from camp, in a part of the Curecanti wilderness that he had never visited. Probably very few people came to this roadless site. “Do you ever run into wild animals out here?” he asked. “Bears or mountain lions or anything like that?”
“Sometimes we see coyotes,” Jobie said. “And lots of rabbits.”
“We’ve found other weird stuff, though,” Slate said. “An old junk car, shot full of holes. A whole skeleton of some big animal, like a horse or something.”
“Once we found a sofa, just sitting out in the middle of nowhere,” Jobie said. “We hauled it back to camp and Kiram has it in this shack he built.”
Walt pushed through a tangle of tree branches and vines and emerged in a small clearing, no larger than the average living room. A wall of green surrounded it, with a circle of blue sky high overhead. No shot-up car or skeleton occupied the space, but a different kind of oddity that sent a cold chill up Walt’s spine. “Is that a grave?” he asked, pointing to the mound of disturbed earth, a makeshift cross at its head.
Chapter Eight
“The Prophet is not going to like this.” Jobie shook his head as the three men stared at the grave in the middle of the clearing.
Walt studied the area around the burial site. There were no clear footprints, and the soil had settled some, though he couldn’t tell if the grave had been dug in the past few days or the past few weeks. No plants grew on the surface of the mound, and the wood on the cross was new enough the cut edges were still fresh. “We need to notify the Rangers,” Walt said. “They’ll want to investigate.”
“Cell phones don’t work out here,” Jobie said. “So none of us have them.”
“We’ll have to talk to the Prophet,” Slate said. “It’s up to him.”
Walt started to point out that the grave was on public land and it wasn’t up to Daniel Metwater to decide whether or not it should be reported, but he didn’t waste his breath. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to camp.”
They gathered up the firewood they had collected and Walt led the way back toward camp. Kiram met them at the edge of the clearing. “What took you so long?” he asked.
“We have to talk to the Prophet,” Slate said.
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed before dinner,” Kiram said.
“He’s going to want to know about what we found while we were looking for wood,” Jobie said.
“What did you find?” Kiram asked.
“We’ll tell the Prophet,” Walt said. He pushed past the bearded man, dropped his load of wood beside the fire ring then strode toward Metwater’s RV. Jobie and Slate hurried to catch up with him, Kiram following, his face like a thundercloud.
Metwater opened the door before Walt could even knock. “Is something wrong?” he asked, letting his gaze drift over the four men who gathered on the steps of the RV.
Jobie, Slate and Kiram all looked at Walt. “We found a grave while we were looking for firewood,” he said. “It looks pretty fresh.”
“Whose grave?” Metwater asked.
“The marker didn’t say,” Jobie said—as if this was a perfectly reasonable question.
“We need to notify the Rangers,” Walt said. “They can determine who’s in the grave.”
“Maybe it’s that girl the cops were looking for,” Jobie said.
“If the grave is hers, I’m sure the police will find it before long,” Metwater said. “We should stay out of this.”
“It’s too late for that,” Walt said. “We found it and now we have to report it.”
Metwater put his hand on Walt’s shoulder and looked into his eyes, his expression that of a father dealing with an unruly—and perhaps stupid—child. “You aren’t a part of that outside world anymore,” he said. “Here in the Family we don’t concern ourselves with the world’s evil. That is for others, not us.”
“You can’t divorce yourself from responsibilities that way,” Walt said.
“That’s exactly what we’re doing, living here in the wilderness,” Metwater said.
“Wilderness supported by taxpayer money. You’re happy enough to take advantage of that.”
Metwater shook his head. “You have a long way to go toward gaining the understanding necessary to be a true member of the Family,” he said. “Your wife is much more in tune with our purpose than you are.”
“And you know that from talking with her for what, twenty minutes?”
“Women are much more intuitive about these things than most men. It’s one of the reasons they are so drawn to my teachings.”
And it has nothing to do with naked muscles and flowing hair, Walt thought cynically. “You can’t let that grave go unreported,” he said.
“That’s exactly what we will do,” Metwater said. “Although I will meditate on the problem and if I receive different guidance I will act on it.” He clapped a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Come. We are having a special meal to welcome you and Serenity to the fold.”
“Her name is Hannah,” Walt said, reluctantly falling into step beside Metwater, since the alternative seemed to be wrestling with the man, which probably wouldn’t go over well with Kiram and the others.
“But you and she are starting a new life here. Serenity suits her. She strikes me as someone who is looking for peace in her life.”
Hannah was looking for her missing niece—but maybe Metwater wasn’t so far off track. Maybe having the baby in her life would bring Hannah more peace of mind, and ease some of her grief for her sister. Walt wanted to help her find the baby, and the closure adopting her niece might bring.
In order to do that, he had to walk a fine line between doing anything that might blow his cover or anger Metwater to the point where he threw them out of camp, and continuing to uphold his duty as a law officer.
They reached the camp’s outdoor kitchen, where most of the residents were already lined up awaiting the meal. Jobie and Slate took their places in line, while Kiram hovered near Metwater. Was he some sort of bodyguard, or simply awaiting more orders from the Prophet?
Kiram looked over and caught Walt watching him. Certainly there was little peace and love in his eyes. Walt spotted Hannah and started toward her, but Kiram grabbed his arm. “Don’t get any ideas about sneaking out of camp to go to the police,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Try it and you will be punished.”
“I’m trembling in my boots,” Walt said.
“You should be.” He gave Walt’s arm a shake, then released his hold. “And remember—you won’t be the only one hurt.” He turned to Hannah, and the icy hatred in his eyes chilled Walt to the bone.
* * *
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” Hannah asked when she finally cornered Walt at their tent after supper that evening. They hadn’t been able to exchange more than a few words during the day, constantly surrounded as they were by Family members who were either eager to welcome them, curious to know more about them or both. After breakfast, they had both been assigned to work teams to clean up, and after that had been a speech—or more like a sermon—from Metwater. Though Hannah could admit he was a charismatic speaker, she was too focused on Walt to pay much attention to Metwater’s message. He sat across from her with a group of men, scowling at the Prophet as if the man had just kicked his dog.
The afternoon was taken up by more work. Hannah stayed with the women and did her best to avoid Metwater. She spent most of her time with Phoenix, taking every opportunity to hold the baby, growing more and more sure that this was her sister’s child. She was relieved to finally have the chance to be alone with Walt again after supper, to tell him all she had learned.
“I have to find a way to sneak out of here for a few hours tonight without anyone noticing,” he said.
The thought of him leaving her alone here sent a spike of panic through her. “Why do you have to leave?” she asked.
He glanced around. “Let’s not talk out here.” He unzipped the tent flap. “Inside. And keep your voice down.”
She crawled into the tent ahead of him and sat cross-legged on one of the sleeping bags he had unrolled. He moved in after her, zipping up the tent behind him. “Why do you need to leave?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
“When I was out gathering firewood this morning with two other men, we found a grave.”
“A grave? A person’s grave?” Her voice rose on the last word and he gripped her hand.
“Keep your voice down,” he said.
She nodded, then, realizing he probably couldn’t see her, said, “Okay, but what are you talking about? You found someone buried out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“I don’t know what’s in the grave, but I need to get word to the Rangers so they can investigate.”
“You don’t think it was from some pioneer ranching family or something?” she asked. “I mean, wasn’t some of the parkland private land at one time?”
“This wasn’t like that,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it was more recent. Much more recent.”
A chilling thought struck her and she gripped his hand more tightly. “That girl the Rangers are looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Walt said. “It’s a possibility.”
“The women I was working with this morning said she was here—in camp,” she said. “But that she left after less than a day. Metwater supposedly sent her away because she was too young.”
“I’ll be sure and let the Rangers know when I talk to them. If Metwater and his followers are lying about not knowing her, I have to wonder what else they’re covering up.”
“The men you were with—do they know about this grave?”
“Yes. They saw it, too. Two men, Jobie and Slate. We told Metwater when we got back to camp and he refused to go to the police, or to let us go.”
“He can’t keep you from telling them,” she said. “We came here voluntarily. He can’t make us stay.”
“He thinks he can.”
Something in his words ratcheted her fear up another notch. “Did he threaten you?”
“He didn’t, but a man named Kiram did. He’s the guy I told you about—Metwater’s enforcer. He said if I tried to leave, I would be punished.” He took her other hand. “He said you would be, too. In fact, instead of me leaving and coming back, I’m beginning to think we should leave together and not come back. Maybe this undercover op was a bad idea.”
“No, we can’t leave.” She pulled her hands from his. “Not when we’re so close to finding Joy and learning what happened to Emily. In fact, I think I’ve already found Joy.”
“What? Where?” He shifted toward her.
She took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts, but all that brought her was his scent, distracting and sensual. Heat curled through her, and the space inside the tent suddenly seemed too intimate. If she leaned over just a little, they would be touching, and her skin tingled in anticipation...
“Do you think one of the children in camp is your niece?” Walt prompted.
“Yes. The woman who came to get me to help with breakfast this morning—Phoenix—is a little older than some of the rest of the women here, maybe in her early forties. She has a fourteen-year-old daughter, Sophie. But she also has a baby. A little girl, about four months old.”
“Why do you think this baby is Joy?”
“Phoenix isn’t breast-feeding her. She’s using formula. She told me she wasn’t able to breast-feed, but I think she’s lying.”
“Lots of women use formula. It doesn’t mean the baby isn’t hers.”
“No, but I held this baby. I looked into her eyes. They were Emily’s eyes. The same shape—the same color.” She wished she could see his face more clearly, to judge if he believed her, but the light was too dim to make out his features.
“What color are Phoenix’s eyes?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. She tried to bring Phoenix to mind, to remember her eyes, but she couldn’t. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
He took her hand again, gentle this time. His voice was gentle, too, when he spoke. “I know you want to find your niece, and that you have good reason to believe she’s with Metwater. But you can’t let your natural biases lead you into a mistake. Think about how much pain it would cause Phoenix if this baby really is hers, and not Joy?”
She wanted to insist that she knew this baby was Emily’s daughter, but the part of her that relied on logic instead of emotion told her that everything he said made perfect sense. “Then we have to stay here and look for proof,” she said. “If I make friends with Phoenix, and with Sophie, maybe I can persuade them to tell me the truth about the baby.”
“I still have to let the Rangers know about the grave we found.”
“Of course.” She slid her hand from his and clenched it in her lap. “I’ll be fine. After all, it’s nighttime. Everyone will be sleeping.”
“Stay in the tent. I should be back before morning.” He moved toward the door.
“Let me come with you to the bike,” she said. “I can serve as a lookout until you get safely away.” And she wanted to prolong the time before he left her alone.
“All right. We’d better go now. The sooner I can get away, the sooner I’ll be back.”
They crept through the darkened camp, keeping to the edges, skirting any lights that still shone outside tents or trailers. Walt held Hannah’s hand, and she took comfort from his strong grip pulling her along, his sure steps guiding hers as they moved through the darkness.
They found the bike where they had left it, on the edge of the parking area. Walt had cut tree branches and draped them over the motorcycle to hide it from curious eyes. He quickly pulled these away and pushed the bike toward the road. “I won’t start it until I’m farther from camp,” he said. “If anyone comes to the tent looking for me, tell them I’m asleep.”
“I will.”
“And take this.” He pressed something hard into her hand.
She looked down at a knife—similar to the one she had used to peel potatoes this morning. “I palmed it at dinner,” he said. “It’s not much, but I didn’t feel right leaving you defenseless. You can keep it in your pocket.”
