Shadows on the Sand (20 page)

After Harl’s backside was asleep from waiting so long and his head ached from the slant of the blinding sun, they left, a defeated pair with stooped shoulders and sad faces. Maybe they were going to the undertakers’ to make arrangements. Or maybe they were going to the grocery store to get milk. Who cared? They were gone.

As soon as their car turned the corner, Harl moved. He wore a uniform with
Joe
sewn on the pocket in case someone saw him, but it was a cul-de-sac where hedges divided the small, well-maintained properties and no one appeared to be home in any of the houses he passed. He was inside Jason’s in minutes.

The house was a split level with three bedrooms and two baths, one off the master bedroom. If he were a regular thief, he wouldn’t find anything of value in this place except the fifty-four-inch television in the lower level. Trouble was, you couldn’t carry something that size off under your arm.

Jason’s room was obvious with its few clothes and a neatness he’d learned at the compound. Harl went through it from floor to ceiling, looking in every drawer, on every shelf, yanking clothes off every hanger, checking pockets and linings. He pulled the bed apart, sliding the mattress off the box springs to be certain nothing was hidden between the two or in the mattress cover. He looked under the rug for loose floorboards.

He found some stray cash and Jason’s laptop stashed on the top shelf of his closet under a sweater. The fact that it was hidden, however poorly, piqued Harl’s curiosity. He hadn’t found what he was looking for, but maybe the laptop would be just as good.

Then he tackled the rest of the house, going through it as thoroughly as he’d searched Jason’s room, but he found nothing more of interest. He clutched the laptop as he left. At least it would be something to show Mike.

“What do you mean, you couldn’t find it?” Michael hissed when Harl stood before him, heels together, shoulders back, head high. Harl had a rule that he never let Michael see his fear. His submission, yes; his fear, no.

Harl sometimes resented Mike almost as much as he used to resent his father, though he was careful to never let it show. It was Mike’s I-know-it-all-and-you’re-too-stupid-for-words attitude that the man didn’t bother to hide unless he was in front of his flock or on camera. It was quite evident now, like it was Harl’s fault the object of his search wasn’t in the house.

“I looked in every drawer, under every mattress. I tore the place apart! And I found this hidden in Jason’s closet.” Harl held out the laptop.

Mike eyed it, then him. “Have you opened it?”

Harl shook his head, unfazed by the lie. When it came to ethics, what was a lie after all the other questionable or outright illegal things the two of them had done and probably would continue to do? “I knew you’d want to be the one to look at it first.”

Mike nodded, flipped up the lid, and pushed the On button. The screen came to life. Mike’s eyes flicked in surprise. He turned the laptop. “Look!”

Harl made his eyes widen. “That’s home.”

He made the spartan furnace of the southern Arizona wasteland sound like it was the best place in the world. Sometimes he wondered why he stayed and chose to be uncomfortable when all he wanted was a Big Mac, a
soft breeze, and a softer mattress. And trees instead of cacti. Sometimes he yearned for green with a physical ache. He thought it was from all those evergreens in his youth.

But he stayed, and for good reasons. Power. Control. Sex. Freedom from legal restraint. As Mike’s second in command in their little world, he had it all. And he had all the warm temperatures he could long for.

Mike studied the icons on Jason’s screen as all around them Harl heard little motors kick on, putt, purr, then zoom off.

You want the file called TP
, Harl wanted to tell Mike.
For The Pathway. It’s an exposé, and it contains enough dynamite to blow you out of the water. Me too. It’s a good thing the man is dead is all I can say
.

He forced himself to wait quietly for Mike to provide the next clue to how he should act or react. While he waited, he pondered a question that bothered him mightily. Had Jason posted any of this material on the Internet? The answer seemed obvious. He couldn’t have, or the feds and cops would have been all over the compound.

But if he hadn’t, why not?

Maybe he was saving everything for one big splash, like a book deal with appearances on
Today
and
Good Morning America
and all the other talk shows. He doubtless envisioned cozy chats with Bill O’Reilly and Anderson Cooper, maybe Charlie Rose. Too bad he’d miss Oprah.

The book would be a bestseller, no question. Even if Jason’s writing was lousy, several publishers would pay megabig bucks for a book that exposed Mike and hire someone to make it read right.

Jason Peoples on
The New York Times
bestseller list. Harl laughed to himself. Even the thought of that would give Mike a coronary! If the cost wouldn’t be equally as high for Harl himself, he’d enjoy seeing his leader swinging in the wind.

Harl returned to the present with a thud when Mike swore, surprised
not only by the volume but the choice of words. Mike’d worked hard to rid himself of any vestige of his street days. He was now a spiritual man of impeccable behavior and unimpeachable standards—don’t make me laugh. Coarse language was forbidden to all at the compound.

“He’s writing an insider’s look at The Pathway.” Mike was outraged.

Well, what did Mike expect? “What? That’s awful!” Harl knew it was worse than awful. He’d read what was there, and just thinking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.

For the briefest moment Mike looked uncertain. “What made him turn on me, Harl? On us? I don’t understand it. After all I did for him!”

Harl shrugged, careful to keep his face neutral while he marveled at Mike’s stupidity, at least about Jason’s motives. Any fool could see that Jennie was Jason’s backbreaking straw, and reading the chapter about her confirmed that. If Mike hadn’t refused Jason’s request to marry her, the guy’d still be alive, a happy camper, and that incendiary missing item wouldn’t be missing.

Harl waited while Mike scrolled through chapter headings.

“Jennie?” Mike looked at Harl, then opened the file and began to read.

It wasn’t pretty, Harl knew. In it Jason accused Mike of the rape of a young follower. He accused him of being responsible for Jennie’s death, even going so far as to call it murder.

“I did not murder her!” Mike’s face turned red with fury. “She fell. She had an attack of some kind.”

Harl nodded, but he remembered the situation more as Jason did. After all, Harl had seen everything from his position in the video room where he controlled the three cameras that recorded the initiation ceremonies of all The Pathway brides-to-be. The two of them often joked that Harl had almost as much fun as Mike on these prewedding nights.

Sometimes he saw the night Jennie died in his dreams, heard Jennie’s
pleas, her screams, her sobs. He heard Mike order her to shut up and submit. He heard Jennie’s defiance and her fear.

“Please, please don’t make me marry the man you selected! Let me marry the man I love. Please!”

He saw the slaps and then the fist to the jaw. He saw her fall, saw Mike fall on her, saw her violation, saw Mike’s hand over her mouth and nose to stifle her screams, saw Jennie’s deathly stillness.

When Mike rose and Jennie didn’t, Mike had panicked. He yelled for Harl, knowing he’d seen what happened.

Harl raced to Mike’s bedroom where the two of them stared down at the dead girl. When their shock receded, they came up with the story of Jennie’s seizure and fall. Who knew epilepsy could just appear like that? They cleaned her up and dressed her, arranged her on the floor in the sitting area of the bedroom as if she’d fallen there. The bed was made as immaculately as if Marty, wife number one and a saint if ever there was one, had done it.

In their haste to cover up the crime, manslaughter at the very least, though Harl thought a good case could be made for murder, they both forgot the camera that kept recording everything on a DVD. When Harl went to retrieve the DVD several hours later, it was gone.

For two days they waited for the sky to fall, but nothing happened. Harl found himself wanting to believe the missing disc was a case of cosmic intervention to preserve Mike and The Pathway. And him.

Then came Jennie’s funeral followed a day later by Jason’s disappearance. Oh, Jason tried to cover his flight with the phony accident that fooled no one. The police contacted The Pathway about the burned car because the license plate led them to the organization. The sign-out sheet indicating who was using one of The Pathway’s cars then led them to Jason.

Once Harl’s heart started to beat regularly after the fear-based rush of
adrenaline at the cops’ appearance, he got a kick out of Jason’s daring attempt at vanishing.

“There was no one in the car when it burned,” the cops said. “Nothing burns completely. There would be some indication if someone had been trapped.”

Jason, Jennie, a stolen DVD—it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Mike told the followers that Jason was killed in the fiery crash. They even had a memorial service for him at which Mike eulogized Jason in a voice that shook with emotion. Harl smirked in the back row. Anger could make the voice quiver much like sorrow.

“He must be found,” Mike raged to Harl in the privacy of his office. “He’s too dangerous to be allowed to live. Find him! Get that DVD at all costs.”

Harl began his quest locally, showing Jason’s picture at airports, train stations, and bus depots. Nothing. He broadened his search to used car dealers and car rental agencies. He checked newspapers for individuals who were selling cars privately.

The whole time he searched, he kept coming back to the issue of money. How could Jason buy a car or a ticket without money? Any time he was sent to town for supplies, he used The Pathway’s credit card. Careful checking of records showed he hadn’t been foolish enough to use the card for his escape.

So where had he gotten the necessary money?

On a whim Harl hired a private investigator in New Jersey to check out Jason’s parents. He couldn’t believe Jason would be foolish enough to go someplace so obvious, but he might have talked them into wiring him funds.

Bingo! Three weeks after he disappeared, Jason was spotted in Seaside. Harl found it strange that Jason seemed to be leading a normal life, going to
college and working at some restaurant. What was he waiting for? What did he hope to gain by keeping the DVD secret? Blackmail? The thought chilled Harl’s blood.

“We’re going to Seaside,” Mike had announced as they sat once again in his luxurious office, relaxed in the wake of the private investigator’s report. Mike was leaning back in his leather executive chair, feet resting on his desk, while Harl sat on the plush sofa along the wall. Harl often wondered what would happen if the women living in those sterile dorms across the compound could see how well Mike lived.

“You want to go to Seaside?” Was he nuts? “Come on, Mike. You can’t go flying off to New Jersey. You can’t be anywhere near Jason. We’ll stay here and use the same PI to find the DVD.”

Mike stood and walked across the room, his footsteps muffled by the deep pile of the rug. He poured himself two fingers of scotch. He rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed. “No one but the two of us must ever know about that DVD, Harl. No one.
We
have to find it.”

Harl hated it when Mike’s arguments made sense. What if the private investigator looked at the thing? Disaster.

Mike poured himself another glass. “We need to make several videos that can be posted to YouTube while we’re gone so everyone thinks we’re here. And for the followers here, we’ll make a big deal of going to the retreat house to commune with God.”

Mike smiled that arrogant, smug smile Harl hated. “We’ll find the DVD and go fishing. Maybe do some other business while we’re at it. Check for good deals.” And he walked out.

If he wouldn’t be brought as low as Mike, Harl would wish the DVD went viral on YouTube. It was exactly what Mike deserved.

I
set my coffee cup down on Greg’s table. I still found it hard to believe that I had actually caught some of our golden brown, crunchy, and delicious dinner. I decided I liked fishing. Talk about a good ROI—return on investment.

Conversation during the meal had been general—what television shows we liked and why, what channel had the best newscasts, who were our favorite actors. I allowed him a slight crush on Gwyneth Paltrow and he ignored my swoon over Ewan McGregor.

Earlier I had been much more open than usual about my growing-up years, but I’d wanted Greg to realize the worst about me. If who I was and where I came from were too much for him, we both needed to know that before we became any more involved.

Of course my emotions were seriously engaged already. I thought of the old saying about it being as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man, and I disagreed. Falling in love seemed to be something beyond a person’s control, at least this person’s.