Tara and Jake left the greenhouse when they heard the lunch horn sound and headed back to the infirmary.
“When we get back,” Jake ordered, “follow my lead, but be sure to be hesitant about doing anything without checking with the Leader first. I want to reinforce the idea in his mind that he has you totally cowed. That way, if I have a chance to distract him down the road a ways, he won’t be worried about you betraying him.”
Although Jake’s bossy tone made Tara bristle, she had to admit the idea was solid, so she tamped down her frustration with his attitude and agreed.
When they arrived back in the infirmary, Deborah was not there, having gone for her own lunch, but she’d left two trays with hot soup and slices of buttered toast. One held an antibiotic pill for Tara, which she swallowed with a big gulp of water.
Jake reached for his spoon, but she put out her hand and prevented him from eating. “We need to say grace,” she reminded him sanctimoniously.
“Of course.” His dark eyes twinkled at her, and she hoped no cameras in the room could pick up the hint of a grin on his sharply carved lips. “Why don’t you do it. You’ve been here longer. You understand more about the Powers.”
“We should just do it privately. I don’t have the right to lead a prayer. So just close your eyes for a minute and give thanks for what we’ve been given.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” They did, bowing their heads and folding their hands in a parody of prayer. Tara gave herself an extra minute so anyone watching would believe the isolation had worked its magic on her especially well. Then she raised her head and dove into the meal.
“What shall we do this afternoon?” she asked between bites.
“Well, after that walk this morning, we should probably stay inside. Maybe we can see whether we can help out in the house.”
“We shouldn’t interfere with the tasks assigned by the Leader.” Tara injected a note of anxiety into the response and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She didn’t have to manufacture the fear. As much as she hated to admit it, Owen Stephenson scared her. This place scared her. The sooner they could find Andrea and get the hell out, the happier she’d be.
“Well, if you think you’re up to more walking, we could go for another tromp outside. There are plenty of directions we could take where we wouldn’t be in anyone’s way out there.”
“That sounds good. I want to go back to my bunk and get a sweater, though. It’s a bit chilly out when you’re not working.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
• • •
JAKE WONDERED HOW fast he could reasonably get Tara to move during their afternoon excursion without raising eyebrows and suspicions. He wanted a sense of the outer reaches of the compound. They couldn’t get there today, as the place was close to four square miles in size. Not large by ranch standards, but far too big to search alone and on foot. He assumed the workers who maintained the orchards and the large, commercial vegetable greenhouses were bussed out to their jobs. But if they could get a look at any of the land and buildings, he’d be in better shape for later excursions.
He was anxious, too, to see Tara’s living quarters. When he’d arrived at the camp, he’d been assigned a bunk in a barracks-like dormitory at the very front of the property. He’d assumed that to mean they didn’t worry about him leaving. After all, at that point, as a new recruit, he wouldn’t know anything that could hurt Stephenson. Six other men shared the cabin. The one who’d been among the Chosen longest, Ezekiel, had lived there a year. It had been Ezekiel who’d explained about the horns, the assignments, and the barest bones of the religion they followed.
“You’ll pick the rest up quick enough,” he’d said. “Just keep your head down and your nose clean and you’ll do fine.” Everything about the way the man spoke screamed “ex-con” to Jake. But then, he expected most of the Chosen had been broken in some way or another long before signing up to be part of Owen Stephenson’s crew.
Tara’s cabin, he discovered when they went to find her a sweater, looked much like his own, only the beds had both upper and lower bunks, allowing for twice as many occupants. The bathroom had been built to accommodate a few more people, too, but not twice as many. It would take the women a lot longer to clean up. Deliberate? Quite possibly. But Jake had noticed the ratio of women to men at dinner. Perhaps they’d had to put in the bunks because there were simply too many women.
Tara sorted through a trunk at the foot of her bed and pulled out a heavy cotton cable-knit sweater. She pulled it over her head and slid her hand beneath her hair to pull it out of the neck. As he watched the curls bounce back, his fingers itched to slide through the silky strands. He’d caught her looking at him a couple of times when she thought him otherwise occupied and had high hopes the crazy attraction he felt might be returned, but until they found her friend and got out of the compound, he couldn’t very well explore the question.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and he led the way to his own bunk, where he pulled on a ratty sweatshirt with a Star Trek logo on it that he’d brought as part of his cover persona. She looked around, obviously as intrigued by his dwelling as he’d been by hers.
“Only six of you live here?”
“Yeah. I guess there’s a shortage of men.”
“Or not.” She started to say more, then seemed to think better of it, obviously concerned about listening devices. He doubted Stephenson would bother bugging the bunks. Much easier, generally speaking, to rely on people’s innate fear of being turned in by their peers to keep them quiet. Under normal circumstances, he’d never be alone in the cabin. But it didn’t pay to underestimate one’s opponents, as he’d learned to his cost in the past, so he didn’t press Tara for her meaning. He’d get it out of her outside.
When they left, he led the way back toward the ranch house. The property was a rough trapezoid with the bunkhouses and vegetable gardens in the front, at the southern edge. After the gardens, mostly fallow this late in the year, they passed to the right of the bean field beyond which he and Tara had worked his first day in the compound. Then came the ranch house, the dining hall, and the greenhouse they’d visited that morning. Beyond that lay open fields and then the orchard.
And past even the orchard were the commercial-sized greenhouses and storehouses he’d seen on the aerial maps of the property.
“Has anyone mentioned what’s in the big buildings at the far end of the property?” he asked Tara once they were well away from the cabin.
“No. I checked out the area online when I was researching the Chosen and noticed them, but when I asked a couple of women, I was told they were insulated and used for storing potatoes and other produce. Seems like a lot of potatoes, but whatever it is they keep out there, I sincerely doubt they’re holding prisoners, so I dismissed it as having nothing to do with Andrea’s whereabouts.
“I know the FBI and various other branches of law enforcement look askance at separatist groups for having guns and drugs, but I haven’t seen any evidence of either here apart from the weapons the guards carry. The Chosen aren’t a militia group. Maybe Andrea did discover what they were hiding out there, but it doesn’t help me figure out what happened to her afterward.”
Jake had a pretty good idea what would happen to anyone who uncovered something Owen Stephenson didn’t want them to know, but he figured Tara had been in law enforcement long enough that he didn’t have to spell it out for her. Instead, he reached out and took her hand, twining their fingers together.
In the distance, a white picket fence beckoned. He tugged Tara in that direction. A few minutes later, however, he was almost sorry he had when they arrived to find the fence surrounding a small cemetery.
“What the hell? Jake—”
“Just hold your horses. Remember, this place probably existed as a working ranch for a hundred years before the Chosen took it over. It could easily ha
ve had a cemetery on the property for that reason.”
“And the fence? The gate? They aren’t centuries old. They don’t even look a decade old.”
“So Stephenson modernized when he took over the place.” He kept his voice down. He didn’t necessarily believe the graveyard held nefarious secrets, but if it did, Stephenson would have some kind of security set up. And to tell the truth, although he enjoyed playing devil’s advocate with Tara, the gated cemetery gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“Let’s go in,” Tara suggested. “Maintaining the graves must be part of the weekly chores, because the whole place is meticulous.”
Jake raised the latch on the gate—unlocked, which argued for the spot’s innocuous nature—and ushered her in. Tara hadn’t exaggerated the perfection of the spot. Living plants covered the graves, their leaves turning brown with the change of weather. Someone had planned well, however, with cacti and other xeriscaping, so the maintenance would be minimal.
Most of the graves seemed quite old, with weathered stones dating back to the mid–nineteenth century up through the nineteen fifties. The only thing out of place was a large round brick building at the corner of the cemetery. About twelve feet tall, it had a single bank of windows ranging the entire circumference just below the peaked roof.
Tara tried the door, which opened easily. Jake followed her in.
Sunlight shone through the western windows, slanting through dust motes and illuminating the eastern quarter of the building. Rectangular niches were carved one after another in rows and columns all along the rounded wall. Boxes filled some, others were empty. After a moment, Jake realized what he was seeing.
“It’s a columbarium,” he said, whispering this time out of respect for the dead rather than fear of discovery.
“A what?”
“It’s where cremains are stored. That’s what’s in the boxes. I guess the Chosen aren’t big on burial. Cremation keeps the flock together after death rather than being farmed out to whatever cemetery has room for them.”
“Cheaper, too,” Tara muttered. “Wouldn’t want to waste money on the dead that the living yet need.”
Jake picked up one of the boxes. “Someone’s used a wood-burning tool to burn a name and date into this. ‘MATTHIAS 2007.’”
Tara lifted a box near her. “‘DAMARIS 2009.’These are definitely the Chosen.”
“They must be cremated in town and then brought back here for . . . interment. I can’t imagine the Leader running a crematorium here on the property.” He watched as Tara wandered among the boxes, which didn’t seem to be stored in any particular order that he could make out, peering at each in the dim light.
She stopped abruptly and pulled one from its niche.
“Pearl,” she whispered. “Goddammit.”
“Serena,” he reminded her.
“She was my friend.”
“Are you sure it’s her?”
“You think two women named Pearl died this year?”
“No, I suppose not.” He gave in to the impulse driving him and pulled her into his arms. Let her believe it was an act for Stephenson’s benefit if she liked. The forlorn expression on her face tore at a heart he’d believed numb to such emotions.
“They’ve been lying to me,” she said into his shoulder. “All of them. Not just him. Everyone said the same thing: she went on a mission. But someone’s keeping up the graveyard. Someone knows she’s in here. Probably lots of someones.”
“I know, sweetheart.” The endearment came naturally, and he found himself rocking her gently, the action completely out of character for him. Usually, he liked to keep his relationships with women simple: plenty of sex, little emotion, no commitment. He called it his rule of three and, given how little of himself he’d had left after the work he’d done for the Bureau, it had seemed the perfect combination.
He wasn’t particularly anxious to give up the rule that had served him so well, but he couldn’t see applying it to Tara, either. He shifted her away from him, pressing his lips quickly to her forehead before letting her go.
“Look, I am sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Why don’t we go ask the Leader about why you were told Pearl had taken a trip instead of that she’d died?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, and before she turned quickly away, the glimmers of light from the windows caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. She had to have known the likelihood that her friend would turn up dead. Missing women cases rarely ended well, and Tara of all people would know that. Obviously, despite her suspicions, she’d managed to hang on to hope.
They left the columbarium, and Jake blinked hard against the afternoon light. They walked around the side of the building and saw Owen Stephenson waiting for them at the gate. Jake felt Tara tense beside him.
“Serena. Jacob. You’ve walked quite a ways today. I assume you’re feeling better?”
“Why did you tell me A—Pearl had taken a trip when she’s actually dead?”
Jake tried not to wince at the aggressive question. Hand at the small of Tara’s back, he gave her a quick pinch to remind her who she was dealing with.
But Owen didn’t act upset. He merely frowned in a thoughtful manner. “I didn’t say she’d taken a trip. I said she’d gone on a mission. I’m sorry you misunderstood.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Leader,” Jake hurried to speak before Tara. “We believed Pearl and her cousin had left the compound.”
“They have.” Stephenson shook his head sadly. Jake wanted to strangle the man. He was being deliberately obscure.
“By dying,” Tara said.
“I’m afraid it was more than that.” Stephenson measured his words like a master tailor, revealing glimpses of the truth while hiding far more. “We don’t like to speak of suicides, and we so rarely suffer them, but even in this community some have problems they are unwilling to turn over to the Powers. And when one does not submit entirely to the will of the Powers, one cannot be truly happy. A long time ago, we decided it was easier not to remember that people had taken their own lives, and agreed to consider them merely choosing to go on in search of a better place.
“No one here meant to deceive you. We simply don’t speak of suicides. We refer to them as you’ve heard us refer to Pearl.”
“Pearl killed herself?”
“Yes. But no more on the subject. As I said, it is better not to remember the fallen in such a way. Let’s walk back to the house. You’ll want to clean up before the dinner horn sounds. Perhaps one more day in the infirmary, then you can go back to your bunks and resume duties.”
Stephenson strode ahead, simply assuming they would follow him. Much as Jake would have liked to have hung back for no reason other than to spite the man, he grit his teeth and obeyed for Tara’s sake. Their stroll was more in the manner of a forced march, and Stephenson didn’t speak another word to them. Whenever Jake sped up to draw even, Stephenson would speed up even more.
“Could we possibly slow down?” Tara asked after a few minutes. “I’m not quite myself yet.” Although she gasped the words out, Jake didn’t believe her heavy, irregular breathing for a minute. The woman was in phenomenal shape. He’d felt all those muscles beneath her skimpy scrubs when they’d shared a bed.
Once they’d adopted a more relaxed pace, Tara called out to Stephenson, “Do you cremate all the Chosen?”
“Assuming they haven’t made other arrangements themselves,” he replied. “Usually, once a person has been a member of our community for a while, he will decide that he prefers to remain a member even after death. At that point, we ask that you make a will stating your wishes.”
“I see. So Pearl made a will?”
“No, she didn’t. But John was her only relative. Since she was a member of our community, we made arrangements for her. Had we realized how close the two of you were, someone would have contacted you. Bu
t after she moved onto the ranch, she never spoke of you, so we presumed you were mere acquaintances.”
Jake could feel Tara’s frustration like a physical presence among them. He would get an earful about this later, he was certain. But with a little luck, he could convince her to leave. Her friend was dead; her reasons for joining the Chosen had dissolved.
Owen led them to the front of the ranch house where hard-eyed, hard-muscled men with guns nodded to him and glared at them as they followed him inside. A similar pair kept watch on the front entrance to the compound, the excuse being that the Chosen needed protection from Outsiders. Jake had noticed the men spread out at various tables during the few meals he’d taken with the Chosen, but nothing could convince him that they were devoted to Owen Stephenson’s safety because they believed he was a religious leader. Nor did he imagine they served in any other capacity than as guards. No way did they pick beans or plant tomatoes. But even without putting such men in the fields, in order to keep up any kind of rotation there had to be at least a dozen of them. Bought and paid for, and hired muscle didn’t come cheap.
Inside the ranch house, Owen led them directly back to the infirmary.
“Serena and I were noticing how amazing this building is,” Jake said as they passed down a long hallway. “Did you grow up here?”
“I did.”
“And now you get to live in it again. Lucky. My folks sold the house I grew up in the second I went to college. Couldn’t wait to get divorced.”
“The Outside world can be a harsh place.”
“This’d be kind of lonely, though. It’s beautiful, but so big. You live here alone?”
Owen glanced at him, probing. Jake kept his expression bland.
“There are others. The disciples live in the satellite wings, and Deborah lives here as well. Up until recently, John also shared the house. And, at various times, members of the Chosen attend me here. But I must be alone a great deal to meditate and open myself to the Powers.”
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