by Polly Iyer
Return to the Comfort Zone
Captain Jack Craven knew Ernie Lucier as well as he knew any man. Before the deaths of his wife and children, his lieutenant never took off a day he didn’t have coming, and he was back on the job the day after he buried his family. Craven had begged him to take time off, but Lucier refused. No way would he miss work for anything less than a calamity. Unless he were seriously hurt or dead, he’d have checked in.
Beecher’s description of Lucier’s automaton-like voice bothered Craven most. A no-nonsense boss, well-liked and respected by his men, he could sometimes be aloof. But no one would ever describe his speech pattern as robotic.
Beecher had brought Craven up to speed on Lucier’s investigation. He’d checked the whereabouts of Compton’s group. All were out of their offices this morning except Martin Easley, and none of the secretaries would confirm when their bosses would return. He’d called the Sunrise Mission, too, and the secretary said Edward Slater had left on a short, well-deserved vacation.”
Coincidence? Craven didn’t think so. He believed in coincidences. They happened all the time, but there were too many in this case to ignore. Lucier’s disappearance might push the right buttons to search more thoroughly into Compton’s hidden properties. He picked up the phone and called FBI agent Ralph Stallings to fill him in on the goings on.
“Any luck untangling the mess of properties owned by the men, especially Compton and Crane?” Craven asked.
“Our team of forensic accountants is working on it. The men’s multiple corporations have a tangled provenance of ownership, most through shell companies and land trusts, some registered offshore.”
“We’re looking for someplace within a few hundred miles, I’d guess,” Craven said. “Someplace a couple of hours by private plane.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Nothing concrete. I’m hunching here, Ralph.”
“Hold on.”
Craven heard the rustle of paper. He waited.
“Sorry to keep you. I wanted to make sure I had all the facts. At least those we can confirm. Hmm, let’s see.”
More paper shuffling.
“Both Crane and Compton were born in Oklahoma. In fact, all five men are Okies. People often resort to their comfort zone when seeking a place to hide. In other words, someplace they’re familiar with.”
“Which would be somewhere in Oklahoma?”
“If I were a guessing man, yes, although I’d hate to hang someone’s life on a supposition.”
“What about Slater?”
“Born in Texas. Never had enough money to buy property. Not according to his tax returns.”
“You have better resources than I do, Ralph, but go deeper into Crane’s history. This thing may go back generations. He’s the one I’m betting on, ’cause it’s his seed money. He bought Compton and the others too.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Stallings said.
“Thanks. Meanwhile, there’s one last idea I want to investigate.”
Craven hung up and buzzed Beecher to his office. The big man entered, looking more put together than usual. With Lucier AWOL and B. D. Harris retired, Beecher was senior man. Today, he wore a pressed shirt tucked it into his pants, although they were still slipping down below his gut. Beecher and Lucier were close, and Craven saw the worry lines on his detective’s face.
“Pay a visit to Martin Easley, Sam, and take Cash with you. Easley’s the only one in town this morning and the only one you verified who stayed in New Orleans this weekend. I called and made an appointment. I wanted him to think about the reason you’re coming. Think and worry, if he has reason to. I think he has.”
“Why, Captain?”
“Something strange in his history makes me wonder,” he said, referring to a folder on his desk. He opened it, riffled through until he extracted a sheet of paper. “In the late fifties, Easley’s father was accused of raping and murdering a college girl in town. The cops went to his house to question him, but he resisted, claiming he was innocent. One overzealous cop knocked him around. Easley, Sr., fought back and they beat him so bad, he later died of a brain hemorrhage. Ten-year-old Martin witnessed the whole thing. Easley’s mother filed a lawsuit, but no jury was going to convict two cops of killing a dirt-poor farmer. They got off, and later, another man confessed to the girl’s murder.”
No light bulbs seemed to be going off in Beecher’s head. Maybe his idea was off the wall, Craven thought.
“What are you thinking, Captain?” Beecher asked.
“If Compton and Crane are masterminds of a group of baby-kidnapping Satanists―of which we have no concrete evidence―Easley’s been involved. Until now. I think he opted out because his friends abducted a cop, and Easley has a deep-rooted, lifelong fear of the police.”
“That’s an awful lot of ifs, sir.”
“Yeah, I know. But right now we have nothing else. Won’t hurt to turn the screws and see his reaction. He said he’d be home at noon. Probably doesn’t want the cops to go to his office. I’m hoping we got ourselves a weak link. God knows, we need one.”
Chapter Forty-One
To Act the Part
Diana forced her eyes open. She lay on a bed in a strange room, unable to move. Not her hands or arms or legs. Not anything. It was if her body belonged to someone else. She wasn’t dead because she heard her accelerated heartbeat pounding in her ears from fear. Where am I? Inching her head to the side to see her surroundings took every ounce of strength and left her breathless. The room equaled one in a five-star hotel―expensive furnishings, luxurious draperies pulled closed. She managed to turn to the other side and saw part of a marble-tiled bathroom. A fleeting memory attacked her consciousness.
This was no hotel.
Slowly, her fingers came to life, followed by her hand and arm. Next, her body regained prickly sensation, leaving her limbs heavy and weighted.
But she felt them.
Nausea moved up from deep in her gut. She needed to get to the bathroom. Sitting up sapped her energy, and she collapsed back onto the bed. The nausea abated but still smoldered in her belly like a fire’s dying embers.
Flashes of memory hit her next―wavy visions and distorted sounds, Lucier’s heartrending helplessness as his head sank into his plate of food, the pungent aroma of lemon and salmon, the soft cushion of the fish’s flesh warm on her cheek.
The blackness from her own lapse into unconsciousness.
She closed her eyes now and more memories flooded into her mind.
Silas Compton stood over her with a welcoming smile on his face as if she’d be happy to see him. Another man, someone she didn’t know, stood next to him.
“You’re awake,” Compton said.
Her throat was so dry, tongue like sandpaper. He held out something to drink. She shook her head violently. Can’t drink. Can’t drink. Drugs.
Compton handed the glass to the other man. “Welcome to our world, Diana,” Compton said. “You will be happy here, I promise. You’ll be worshiped and adored.”
Her voice, shrill in her head, screamed and swore. She clawed at Compton. He jumped back. The other man stepped forward holding something in his hand she couldn’t see. He brought it forward. A hypodermic needle.
She fought some more, but she weakened quickly. They held her down and the other man plunged the needle into her arm.
Diana bolted upright, fully awake now, but the room spun, and she once more flopped on the bed. How did the group trick them? She and Lucier ate the same food as the others, drank the same liquids. The answer mattered little. She was locked in a room in a place she assumed she’d never leave.
Where was Lucier? The group needed the Goddess Diana but they didn’t need a New Orleans cop who could put them all in prison. Was he already dead?
No, no. She couldn’t think that.
The possibility reignited, and sorrow clashed with anger. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing tears that crawled down her cheeks. These people couldn’t be a
llowed to get away with such things. She had to stop them.
She laughed at the brave words. Stop them? She could barely move. The fury inside her forced another attempt to rise. This time she succeeded with an extra surge of energy.
Okay, Diana, swing your legs to the side.
The room spun again, and the nausea returned, gathering force from deep in her belly, rising into her throat. She swallowed to stave off the sickness until she felt steady enough to get to the bathroom.
Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
She sat up, saw the little red light high in the wall vent not unlike the camera setup in Slater’s office. She didn’t care. If watching her gave someone a thrill, let them watch. She saluted to the red light.
Scanning the room, she noticed clothes in the closet and a makeup case on the dresser. Everything a prisoner needed to make herself presentable. The clothes appeared to be the right size too. Compton had planned all contingencies. She checked the armoire for scotch. Nothing better to ease nausea than a shot of whiskey. Damn, nothing but a TV.
The dizziness returned. She held on to the footboard, waffling as her legs almost buckled beneath her. One step, then another. She would not let anyone see her vomit, so she shuffled to the bathroom, resisting the urge to flash her middle finger at the camera. She turned on the light and closed the door behind her.
Nausea and lightheadedness played tag as they surged and ebbed like ocean waves. Still weak, she lowered herself to the edge of the tub and waited for the sickness to either pass or erupt. Within a few minutes, she began to feel better. She searched the room. No suspicious holes in the walls, nothing in the vent. At least these people afforded their hostages a modicum of privacy.
What happened to her when she was out cold, helpless in the presence of the people who’d done this to her? She examined her body. It didn’t seem as if she’d been violated. Rage grew within her that she even had to check, and she shrugged off her dark thoughts.
Toothbrush and toothpaste, towels, a robe. Yeah, they’d prepared for her arrival. How could she and Lucier have been so naïve? He’d warned her not to go, but she wouldn’t listen. History repeated itself, and she ignored its lessons.
She brushed her teeth and splashed cold water on her face, dismissing the thought that her recklessness had endangered Lucier.
Concentrate on what to do to get out of this.
She was their prize, but they didn’t need her cooperation. Drugged, she became the object of the group’s adoration. Somehow, she suspected that wasn’t all they had in mind for her.
She needed a shower to revive. Deep breath, Diana. Let it out. Opening the door, she went back into the bedroom and checked the dresser drawers. Lingerie. Black, silk, and lacy. No surprise there. Satan’s women would never wear white cotton Jockeys. She looked at the camera, waved the underwear in the air, and disappeared inside the bathroom. She doubted Lucier basked in such luxurious accommodations.
Ernie. Guilt washed over her. She wanted to pray for his well-being, but years of tracking the horrors man perpetrated on other men and women and children had destroyed her faith. Maybe that’s part of the bond she shared with Edward Slater. Their journey to the dark side left their blood-pulsing organs numbed. For Lucier, she said a silent prayer. Please, God, if you’re listening, protect him.
Diana opened the glass door of the marble enclosure and turned on the water full blast hot. Too hot. She adjusted the temperature and stepped inside. Streams of liquid pleasure pulsed from multiple jets, pelting her awake, massaging her body like tiny fingers. A gold shower caddy held everything a woman needed. Expensive shampoo and conditioner, French-milled soap, a brand new loufa wrapped in cellophane. They spared nothing for the Goddess Diana. The luxury was lost on her. How could she enjoy anything in this place?
She needed time to think. Time to plan an escape. But how? She’d bury her anger and rage and let things play out―see what happened.
She showered quickly. The hot water relieved some of her tension, though she still felt lightheaded. She left her hair to dry naturally, then put on the lingerie to find the group’s one miscalculation in their perfectly orchestrated imprisonment. The bra was at least one size too big. She donned the terrycloth robe and stepped from the bathroom.
After a fleeting acknowledgement to the camera, she rummaged through the closet. The clothes were not at all to her taste. She favored tailored, simple lines, but the outfits in the closet were either ultra-feminine décolleté dresses of flowing silk or slinky black vixen numbers. Not a pair of slacks anywhere.
The key jiggled in the door. Diana cinched the robe tighter. Though scared witless, she’d be damned if she’d let them treat her without respect. After all, she was Diana, Goddess of the Moon, and she’d play the role to the hilt. Then she thought, this wasn’t a game. Not one bit.
“I’m sorry, Miss Diana, but―”
The voluptuous blonde’s hesitant tone gave her the clue Diana needed. “You have no right to barge into my room…Brigid, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded.
“Now get out!” Diana demanded.
Brigid turned bright red and stuttered, “It’s just― just, um, that someone wants to see you.”
“I said get out. If someone wants to see me, they can make an appointment. I will not have my privacy interrupted while I’m dressing.”
“But―”
“Get. Out.”
Brigid turned, flustered. The girl’s baby bump showed now. Diana thought she was more beautiful than ever. Glowing, her ample breasts heaving from a low cut dress, Brigid backed out of the room.
Diana’s posture carried her indignity, knowing the camera had recorded her temper tantrum. She had years honing her show business chops. She’d learned how to carry a scene.
Now if I can keep it up when I face someone higher on the food chain.
Chapter Forty-Two
Into the Lioness’s Den
Maia deliberated on Anat’s escape plan until it burned a hole in her brain. The scheme was dangerous. Could they pull it off? If they tried and failed, even their pitiful freedoms would be rescinded. Seth would be part of it―a means to an end, just like she had been to him. Did she have the guts to follow through?
She spent the morning in her suite with her children, making progress with Leo but not with Phillip. His reticence disturbed her. She asked which people he liked and who he didn’t. The boy measured his answers to address some questions and added nods and shakes of his head for others. No matter what Maia did, she couldn’t break through the layer of self-protection he’d constructed. The fact that a ten-year-old boy had erected a protective shield against any closeness warned her something bad had happened to him.
Iris plied her feminine charms like she’d been instructed to do. She fawned over Maia the whole time, touching her hair and tracing her fingers over her mother’s face, calling her princess mommy. She tried to monopolize Maia, determined to keep her from connecting with the boys, and seemed resentful when she did. She’d learned her lessons well.
“Let me visit with Anat for an hour or two, Seth,” Maia said when time came for the children to go. “I’m hungry for companionship.”
“Aren’t I enough for you, Maia?”
Maia had learned her lesson too. Truth got nowhere with Seth. Anat was spot-on. He was a company man, right down to the hard-on for her he carried like a warrior’s spear. No matter how much he claimed to love her, his allegiance had always been to the family. She doubted Seth planned or condoned kidnapping other peoples’ babies. That decree came straight from the top. Was he ready to buck the system?
“You’re more than enough. You always were.” Maia meant those words even if she used them to get what she wanted. Even if it meant giving in to the skilled hands now caressing her body, turning her nerve endings into firecrackers. She could no more resist his touch than she could cease breathing.
Over twenty years of brainwashing couldn’t eliminate the group’s obscene criminal off
enses. They must be stopped. She’d turned against her own people, rejected their rituals and way of life, but as Seth undressed her, as he kissed and licked her naked body, she spread her legs and let him in.
* * * * *
Later, after Seth relented and allowed Maia to visit Anat, the two women sat on the balcony, huddled close, with only the sound of the rushing water breaking the silence.
Maia’s determination held fast. If she didn’t do this now, she’d never forgive herself. In the clear light of day, she saw her responsibility stretched beyond her personal well-being. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Anat asked.
“I’ve thought about it, and yes. I have no choice. I can’t let my children live here any longer, and you’ll rot soon if you don’t leave.”
“I won’t rot, but if I don’t agree to bear another child, they’ll do what they did to you. The only reason they didn’t is because I got pregnant. They’re dying to discover who the father is, but that’s between me and him. The board, minus Seth, questioned everyone who’s ever visited me.” She gazed at Maia. “I do have friends here.”
“Thank goodness.” Maia shook her head. “I can’t believe I went along all those years. What was I thinking?”
“You weren’t thinking. If you’re one of us, you’re not supposed to think, just perform.”
Her half-sister made a good point. “Why are you different?”
“A wayward gene.” Anat’s tone changed. “There’s a bigger problem, though, one that might alter our plans.”
“Like what?”
“Ever hear of the psychic, Diana Racine?”
“Of course. She’s been at the house. Silas is fascinated by her. Why?”
“She’s here, along with her cop boyfriend?”
Maia’s stomach lurched as if an earthquake had taken residence. A flash of heat zapped her. “What? How…how do you know?”
“A visitor. She was all excited and said they’re going to keep her here. She called her Diana, Goddess of the Moon. Your father invited her to your house in New Orleans on the crescent moon, and she was the offering. She and the cop were probably drugged to get them here. All the elders attended except the Easleys. I don’t know why.”
