Where could they be? Maybe Betty can provide some information.
Back in the field with the gunnysack of potato eyes, she waited until it was safe before questioning Betty.
“Where are the girls?” she whispered.
Betty quickly glanced from side to side. “God’s plan for young women. All the new girls are kept isolated for the first two weeks and instructed in their proper role as wives.”
“Brainwashing, you mean. Why wasn’t I included?”
“You’re not a virgin. The Prophet likes to initiate all the new virgins. He may give you away as a wife to one of the other men.”
“Over my dead body,” Emily hissed. “I need to get out of here so I can let people know what’s going on. Will you help me, Betty?”
When one of the matron’s assistants walked by, the two women bent back into their work, heads down, mouths shut. She appraised the rows they had planted, then frowned. “Step it up, ladies. Stop lollygagging or you’ll be working instead of eating supper tonight.”
Slaves, Emily thought with disgust. These poor women are nothing but sex slaves and worker bees.
When the woman was out of earshot, she whispered, “Tonight, Betty. Will you help me? Can you unlock my door and the front door?”
“No. I don’t have keys to the locks. There’s nothing I can do.”
Ever since she had been taken captive, Emily’s focus had been on how to escape from the compound and notify authorities. Without someone to unlock the doors, she would have to climb out of her window and scale the eight-foot wall surrounding the women’s compound—unnoticed—a difficult, if not impossible, feat. Ascending walls like these had been part of her police training, but not in a ridiculous dress, and not with coiled razor wire strung along the top. There was also the unknown on the other side of the wall, but she would face that obstacle when she came to it. First she had to convince Betty to help her.
“Is this any way to live, Betty? Don’t you want to get away from here—see your son and husband again?”
The other woman kept her head down, blinking away tears she tried to hide. “I don’t know what I can do.”
“I need different clothes—jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, gloves, and wire cutters. Can you get your hands on anything like that?”
Emily waited for a response while Betty chopped at the earth with a hoe. With her brow wrinkled and mouth set in a frown, she appeared to be in deep concentration. At the end of the row, her head still down, she spoke in a halting voice. “I still have some of my son’s clothes. If I help you, will you get me out of here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I have laundry duty tonight. While everyone is in the chapel, another woman and I will pick up the dirty laundry from each room and bring in clean linens. I’ll hide the clothes between the sheets and towels and leave them in your room, under the bed.”
“All right, good. The wire cutters?”
“I’ll look for some when I return my tools to the shed. If I can pick any up without anyone noticing, I’ll put them in with the clothes.” She shuddered. “Lordy, if I get caught . . .”
“Whatever happens—if they stop me—I will never implicate you. I promise.” After a period of silence, Emily said, “Can I count on you, Betty?”
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “I want my family back. I want my life.”
Abe and Bertha parked their vehicles on a side street near the courthouse and met under the shade of a giant blue spruce. “We know this much about Harmony Home,” Abe said. “They’re a weird religious cult, an offshoot of a mainstream church. And, according to all those building permits they applied for, they’ve been doing a lot of construction. Why don’t you check with the local hardware stores, building-supply companies—anyplace you think these people might have frequented? This is a small town. They must have gotten some folks’ attention.”
“I know what to do, Abe, and I know where the businesses are.” Bertha pursed her mouth in a frown. “Tired and worried and mad as I am, I’d just as soon scream and slap the hell out of somebody. But I’ll try to keep my cool. We’ll meet back at the café like we planned and share what we learned, if anything. I sure hope Will shows up. I’m afraid of what my son might get into his head to do.” She exhaled a long sigh. “Where are you headed?”
“I got an idea, Bertha. Do they have a newspaper in this town?”
“The Cortez Journal. Their office is down there, close to the Safeway—East Roger Smith Avenue, I think. Why do you want the newspaper?”
“Maybe someone else was curious about the goings-on at Harmony Home Ranch and did a story. I don’t know—it’s worth a shot. If I’m lucky, they might have even gotten inside for an interview and taken pictures. I’ll go through their archives.”
Bertha nodded. “There’s plenty of Mormons in this part of the country. I’ve been thinking they got kicked out of the Church of Latter-Day Saints and formed their own crazy religion—practicing polygamy and all.”
“Makes sense. And it’s why they want these young girls,” Abe said. “Sick bastards.”
“Well, let’s get a move on. If Joe Hosteen doesn’t get a warrant, I’ll still find a way to get in there without one. Montezuma Street is at the next intersection. Take a right and you’ll run into East Roger Smith. Turn left. It’ll get you to the newspaper office.” She turned and walked briskly away.
The flat, rectangular building housing the Cortez Journal was exactly where Bertha described. The flags of Colorado and the United States hung from a pole in front of the main entrance. Abe pulled a tattered notebook out of his glove compartment, groped around for something to write with, and entered the foyer. A woman was hunched over a computer at a large wooden desk situated catawampus, near the center of the room. Numerous framed pictures of children or grandchildren shared space with stacks of papers, Post-it notes, and a telephone, keyboard, and monitor.
He approached the woman, notebook in hand, having decided in advance to say he was writing an article on self-sustaining communities in the Four Corners area and had heard rumors about the Harmony Home Ranch. He introduced himself as a freelance writer, Lance Jeffrey, and asked if the managing editor was in.
“Which magazine?” The gray-haired receptionist peered up at him through horn-rimmed glasses, raised her eyebrows, and pursed her lips when she saw his battle wounds. A nameplate on her desk read, “Tina Brewster: Secretary/Receptionist. The Superglue That Holds This Place Together.”
“High Country News.” Abe smiled to cover the lie. It was the only title he could come up with. He hoped it would work. He had seen a stack of magazines in Mattie Simmons’s house with High Country News on top, and thought it seemed appropriate for this area. “I guess you can’t help but notice my face—just took a tumble when I was out hiking.”
“Uh huh. Well, hold on. I’ll see if the mister is free.” She picked up an old-style phone and pressed a button. “Phil, there’s a writer out here says he’s with High Country News and wants to ask you a few questions . . . He’s looking for information on those strange people out at Harmony Home . . . Yeah, okay.”
“He can give you ten minutes before he has to cover a city council meeting. Mr. Brewster’s office is through the door on the left. Go on in, he’s expecting you.”
“Thanks. You two related?”
“You could say so.”
Phil Brewster stood up to meet Abe with an outstretched hand. “Brewster,” he said, shaking Abe’s hand, “but call me Brew. Looks like your last interview didn’t go so well if that black eye is any indication.” He nodded toward a worn, overstuffed love seat, adding, “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.” After sliding into a frayed leather chair behind his cluttered desk, he swiveled to face Abe. “Now, how can I help you?”
Brew and his wife, Tina, like many couples who have been married a long time, shared characteristic mannerisms. The managing editor, pink-faced and portly, glanced up from the papers spread across his desk. He, like his wi
fe, came straight to the point. “You’re not actually writing an article for High Country News, are you? What’s your story?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Abe decided to be straight with the man. He had felt foolish the minute he told the lie about working for a magazine. Why wouldn’t a newspaper be interested in getting an inside scoop on a local kidnapping?
He silently chastised himself and then said, “You’re right. I don’t work for any magazine. I’m trying to find my girlfriend and two Navajo girls. They were kidnapped from the reservation, and I have reason to believe they’re being held at the Harmony Home compound. I’m looking for any information that will help in securing a search warrant so we can investigate the ranch. I’d appreciate whatever information you can give me. Please, I’m concerned about their safety—the Navajo families are worried sick.”
“What makes you think they’re at Harmony Home?”
“We suspect the two men who abducted them are members of a cult that practices polygamy, and the ranch is their headquarters.”
Brew looked at his watch. “I know about the kidnapping. It’s a big story. You got ten minutes. My top reporter is out of town, and I need to cover a council meeting. A bunch of old windbags and egotistical hotheads, but I’ll want to talk to you more later—get the full story.” Phil Brewster cleared his throat and pushed his bifocals up his nose. “Tina called it right. Those people out there are peculiar. Once a month, some of the women come to town to cash their welfare checks. They always look the same—long pastel-colored dresses, hair pinned up in an old-fashioned style, no makeup or jewelry. Plain is what they are.”
“What about the men?”
“Hardworking, good carpenters, not too friendly. Some of the men work here in town doing construction and such, but they are a tight-lipped bunch and keep to themselves. I wanted to go to the ranch and do a feature story, look around, take some pictures, and talk to the person in charge, but he wouldn’t have any of it. So all I got was a telephone interview.”
“You have his name, though, right?”
“Said his name was Rupert Langley. Not sure if it’s his real name. Gave me a story about building a self-sustaining community and sanctuary for unwed mothers and their children—as well as providing them with a good God-fearing Christian education. That’s why so many of the women are on food stamps and the government assistance plan for women, infants, and children—WIC. His answers to other questions were curt. I had Tina do a background search on the name he gave me, but nothing came up. I wrote the story, even though it didn’t amount to much.”
Brew stood up and Abe followed suit.
“Thanks for your time. If it’s possible, I’d like to see the article.”
“Sure. Tell Tina I said you can go through the archives. Sorry to rush off. Hope you find your girls. Since the cops put out an APB, I’ll post their pictures if you have them, run a story. I can’t mention Harmony Home yet, though. By the way, there’s a rancher by the name of Hank Lovato—has a small plane. I overheard him talking at the Dew Drop Inn the other day. Said he was flying his Cessna over Harmony Home Ranch, and when he looked down, he thought he saw a goddamned village with a big castle smack-dab in the middle. You might want to get in touch with him.”
Abe’s heart beat a little faster. “Thanks. I’ll have a Navajo police officer contact you concerning information about the missing girls.” He stopped Phil Brewster before he made it out the front door. “What did you say the rancher’s name was? Do you think he might have taken pictures?”
“Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. He’s in the phone book. Hank Lovato, out at the Twisted T Ranch.”
Abe scribbled the rancher’s name in his notebook, adding the notation “pilot” and, before he forgot, jotted down “Rupert Langley—Harmony House leader—kidnapper.” When he returned to the front office, he looked for the editor’s wife.
“Mrs. Brewster?”
“Call me Tina.”
“Tina. I need a couple of favors, and I will level with you. I lied. I’m not a reporter. I’m looking for a kidnapped lady police officer and two young Navajo girls. They might be at the Harmony Home Ranch.”
“Well, that sounds more believable. I wasn’t buying the story about High Country News anyway. What’s your real name, mister?”
“Abe Freeman. I need to go through your archives, and I’d like to get in touch with Hank Lovato. Can you get me the number?”
“Sure thing, sugar. The morgue is down those stairs. Old newspapers are filed on racks according to the year and date. The article Brew wrote on the Harmony Home Ranch was five or six years ago, sometime in the summer, if memory serves me right. There’re a few more short articles listing building permits and such that happened before Brew tried to get the interview. So much construction going on—it’s what got him interested in the first place. Watch out when you go down. Lights are on the left, but the stairs are narrow.”
Abe thanked Tina and headed in the direction she indicated. The basement where they stored past issues reeked of ink, old paper, and mildew. He browsed the long rows until he found the racks for 1985 and 1986, and quickly skimmed through the summer editions for anything relating to the Harmony Home. It was slow, tedious work. Most newspapers stored their past editions on microfiche now, he knew, but he finally found pay dirt.
While he read the article, Abe jotted down a few notes. Brew had been right. The information was sketchy, and Langley attempted to portray a rosy image of Harmony Home. It was nearly noon when he finished, but he wanted to talk to Lovato before he met with Bertha and Will.
After Tina handed him the rancher’s number, he decided to ask for one more favor. “Tina, I’m pressed for time. Would you mind . . . ?”
“Calling him for you? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” After dialing, she handed the phone to Abe.
Bertha and Hosteen were already sitting at a corner table when Abe arrived at La Casita a little after twelve. Bertha, fidgeting with her napkin, looked more anxious than ever. The little café was filling up with a lunch crowd, but there was no sign of Will. Abe took a chair beside her. “How’re you holding up? You look tired.”
“As good as can be expected, and I’m no more tired than you. At least I don’t have a bum knee or bruises and cuts all over my face. You look like you’ve been in a barroom brawl. I’m thinking too much—about Emily with those awful people, and about Will.”
“They’ll be all right. Let’s give Will a little time. Joe?” he said, acknowledging the Navajo police officer. “Any luck with the search warrant?”
Hosteen rubbed his chin. “First thing in the morning. Judge is coming back late tonight. It’s the best we can do.”
They waited while the waitress wiped the table, dispersed place mats, silverware, water, and menus.
Abe sipped his water. “I have some news. I’ve got a name for the person in charge at Harmony Home Ranch. It may not be his real name, but maybe you’ll come up with something when you run a check on it, Joe.”
“Give it to me. I’ll call it in.”
“Rupert Langley is the name he gave the editor at the Journal. Editor’s name is Phil Brewster. He didn’t give much credence to the name, especially after he couldn’t find anything when he tried a background check. Maybe the cops will have better luck. Anyway, the paper wants to run a headline story on the kidnapping—put the girls’ pictures out there. I said you’d get in touch.”
Hosteen scribbled the names on a notepad and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Will do. Radio and TV are running stories as well. Anything else?”
“The paper hooked me up with a rancher who has flown over the compound in his Cessna, and I gave him a call. As far as I know, he’s about the only one who can provide a description of the layout inside the fence.”
Before Abe could add more, Will—dusty but unharmed—ambled through the doorway, his eyes searching the crowd for familiar faces.
Bertha spotted him and waved to get his attention.
When he joined them at the table, she studied his haggard face. “Are you okay, son?”
After downing the contents of his water glass, he faced his mother with a tired smile. “I’m doin’ all right, but the ranch out there is about as hard to enter as a bank vault. Rocky canyons and arroyos on both sides, a steep mesa in the back. The only way to get in is on foot or through the gate. How are you holding up, Ma?”
Bertha looked to be on the verge of a breakdown. Nodding her head, she blinked back tears.
“Shimá, I want you to go home,” said Will. “There’s nothing more you can do here. We can handle it, and you need to take care of yourself—be at the house in case Emily calls.”
Hosteen, who had been quietly listening, broke into the conversation. “He’s right, Mrs. Etcitty. Go back home. You can be our liaison with the families of the girls. It would be a huge help.”
“Bertha,” said Abe, “as soon as we learn anything, we’ll let you know.”
Emily’s mother stood, excused herself, and went to the restroom. The men frowned, Abe dawdled with his napkin, and Hosteen scratched his head.
“She’ll go,” said Will. “And it’s better this way.”
When Bertha returned to the table, she said, “You promise you will keep me informed about what happens? And I mean right away?” Before she turned to leave, she added, “I didn’t learn much today. Talked to a man at the hardware store who said those people just about bought him out. They spend a lot of money in town, but they are probably set up now to live off the grid, he said. I got too depressed after I heard that and couldn’t deal with talking to any more people. You’re right. I’m no use here.”
Will stood up and put an arm around his mother. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Yes, shiyáázh,” she said. “You bring our Emily back home, and stay safe.”
“I’ll be singing for the holy ones to protect her and the two girls, and to give Lina the strength to hold on. Go on now, Shimá.”
Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty) Page 12
