White Heat (9 page)

Sounded more like Ethan's errand. The more people he converted, the more it would increase his power and enrich his coffers. “Otherwise, they sacrifice all association with their friends and family?”

“Yep.”

“And you think that's okay?”

“Not exactly okay, but I can understand why they do it. Ethan says Covenanters are
in
the world but not
of
the world. They offer spiritual peace and prosperity, and you can't do that if you're always looking at the person you used to be before being born again.”

So, like any good cult leader, Ethan made the most of isolation and alienation.
Very convenient.
“I see.”

A noise by the entrance distracted Thelma. A woman and two middle-grade boys had come in. “I'd better get to work,” she said. “It was great chatting with you. We're happy to have new folks in town.”

“I'm sure you'll be seeing a lot more of us,” Rachel said. “Breakfast was delicious.”

“I'm glad.” Taking their empty plates, she paused by the door on her way to the kitchen. “I'll be right with you folks,” Nate heard her say. Abby followed her
grandmother but returned a moment later with a sheet of paper she'd taken from a stack at the register. She thrust it at him, then stood resolutely beside the table as if she could communicate her thoughts simply by glaring at them.

Nate glanced at the sheet. It was a Missing flyer for the girl Thelma had been telling them about—Courtney Sinclair.

“Do you know where Courtney might be?” Rachel asked.

Shaking her head, the child made several darting hand signals.

“I'm sorry…I don't sign.”

She made the same signals again, more slowly this time, then hurried off.

The flyer had a picture of a girl that reminded Nate of the character Lily on
The Munsters.
“What do you suppose that was all about?”

Rachel shrugged, so he took the flyer and tossed twenty dollars on the table to cover the bill plus a tip.

Thelma was busy seating her new patrons as they started across the restaurant, but a grizzled Indian with bowed legs and a black cowboy hat stood in the kitchen doorway, watching.

Rachel must have assumed he was Chaske, because she paused the moment she spotted him and mimicked the child's motions. “What does this mean?”

“Bad people,” he answered, and turned away.

B
artholomew took one look at Ethan and quickly clasped his arm, then turned him around. His hair was mussed, his pupils dilated, and he smelled as though he'd walked out of a massage parlor. Ethan was doing too many drugs. Normally, Bartholomew didn't mind. He believed in freedom of choice and expression as much as Ethan did and wasn't opposed to running the compound when Ethan was indisposed. But Ethan needed to be coherent in times of trouble, and that meant now.

“You're not well, Holy One,” he said when Ethan tried to yank his arm away.

“Didn't you hear? Courtney's mother is at the gate.”

“I know.” Bartholomew encouraged him to return to the Enlightenment Hall, but Ethan tried to shake him off again.

“I need to tell that bitch to get lost!”

“I doubt she'd react favorably to that. But don't worry. I'll handle it.”

“What will you tell her?”

When Ethan stumbled over his own feet, Bartholomew had to keep him from falling facefirst in the dirt. “I'll tell her what we agreed to say.”

They finally reached the Enlightenment Hall and walked through the front doors. “What was that?”

“You'll remember when you can think straight.”

Sister Maxine stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “Is everything okay?”

Bart waved her away and led Ethan toward the stairs. He didn't want her or anyone else to see the Holy One in such a state. Despite his open acceptance of drug use, he had an image to uphold. He could not appear to be letting it get the best of him. “It's fine. Go back to your dishes.”

“Maybe you should invite her in.” Ethan was still talking about Mrs. Sinclair. “Maybe if we give her an audience, we can convince her Courtney was never here.”

“No.” Bart wasn't willing to even consider it.

Ethan's voice dropped to a whisper. “We could take her to the pit, teach her to mind her own business.”

The pit was used for their most sacred, and secret, rituals. There was one key to the heavy metal door; Ethan held it. Only the Brethren, their wives and select Covenant members knew what went on there, and they'd all taken an oath not to divulge the smallest detail. It was part of the Covenant of Brotherly Love. So far, they'd been able to maintain absolute secrecy. Each person knew what would happen if he or she talked. But a greater deterrent than the threat of harm was the fact that they were all involved. Telling would incriminate the whistle-blower as much as the rest.

“That would just make the problem bigger,” he said, and helped Ethan up the stairs.

“She won't leave us alone. She'll keep coming.”

“No, she won't.” Hoping to distract him, Bart changed the subject. “I'm afraid this isn't any happier
news, but I received notice from the investigator we hired a few weeks ago that Martha's suing the church.”

Ethan stumbled again. “
What?
Where's she getting the money to do that?”

Bart stabilized him until he could recover his balance. “Who knows? Donations, maybe. Or she's made friends with some sympathetic and overzealous lawyer. She's got the whole outside world feeling sorry for her.”

At last they reached the landing. “You told me you were going to bring her back!”

“I am.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can.”

Ethan seemed to lose direction until Bart gently guided him toward his room. “What does she hope to gain?”

“The return of her property.”

They hesitated outside the door to the suite where they each had a room. “She deserves to lose the small amount she gave up when she joined us,” Ethan said. “She's the one who broke her covenants. She's the one who disobeyed. That whore's possessed by demons.”

“When we get her back, you can cast them out.” The idea of an exorcism excited Bart. He loved watching Ethan in action. It was a sight to behold. And, as the only woman who'd ever defied them and lived to tell about it, Martha was the perfect candidate for this painful and degrading process. It galled Bart to think she was in the outside world, walking around, saying anything she wanted, after the effort they'd exerted to keep their actions, thoughts and practices to themselves. Eighty percent of the compound didn't know as much
as she did. Besides taking the Covenant, she'd participated in some of the rituals in the pit.

Bart lowered his voice to a whisper. “You should know that several of the Brethren disagree with bringing her back here.”

“Who cares? I'm the only one who matters.”

Bart swung the door wide. Fortunately, the women were dressed and leaving. He waited until they were gone to continue. “You and I know that. But they might make trouble. And we can't risk a division. Internal strife leads to self-destruction.”

“What do they expect me to do?”

“Nothing.” Bart pushed Ethan down onto the bed. “They prefer to let the scandal die.”

“The only way it will die is if she dies with it. What we've built is too good to allow Satan to destroy it. We'll use the minds and hands God gave us to protect His work.”

“Of course you're right, Holy One. I'll see that it happens.”

Ethan had been whispering, too, but in his current state his whisper was loud enough that anyone within ten feet could hear. Sister Maxine was around. As a frequent visitor to the pit, she was almost as trustworthy as Bart, but this wasn't something Bart wanted
anyone
to hear. Not yet.

Searching for the dope that was all too tempting for Ethan, he went through the dresser. When he found it, he shoved it in his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Ethan cried. “Why are you taking that?”

“So you can sober up. When your mind's clear, we'll call another meeting with the Brethren. They need to
feel included. They're getting upset thinking you've gone rogue.”

“
I'm
the Holy One. This is
my
church. I can do whatever I want.”

“We have to at least pretend to listen to their opinions. You're the one who made them Guides, granted them a voice.”

“Half of them would've left if not for that.”

“And now we've got to consider their input, that's all I'm saying. We'll enlist their help and then we won't have to worry about internal problems. About unity. We need unity more than ever.”

Ethan shook his head. “But we won't be able to convince them to act. They're too scared.”

“Now that she's filed a suit, things will be different. This will rekindle their anger. They can't afford to be dragged into court any more than we can.”

Ethan fumbled with the bedding as he tried to cover himself. “Martha will ruin us if we don't do something.”

Maybe Ethan was thinking more clearly than Bart had assumed. It was amazing what he could do, even when he was high. “We'll put a stop to her,” Bart said.

“Wait…” Ethan's lucid moment gave way to confusion. “What will we tell everyone when she goes missing? The police will come here first.”

“We'll say we haven't seen her. They can't do anything unless they can prove otherwise. The Lord will stand by us and so will our people.”

“Right. We don't know what happened to her. Like Courtney,” he said.

“Like Courtney,” Bart repeated and hurried to the
gate, where he told the hysterical Mrs. Sinclair that she had to leave or he'd call the cops and have her forcibly removed.

 

Willcox seemed like a big city compared to Portal, but it was infinitesimally small by L.A. standards and looked like the set of a John Wayne movie. According to some trivia Nate had mentioned, the building designated as city hall had once been a train depot for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Not far away, on Railroad Avenue, sat several Old West-style buildings with plank walkways and wood overhangs. In this cluster of buildings Rachel saw the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame—A Tribute to Rex Allen, the Singing Cowboy. She supposed he'd either been born in Willcox or he'd died here—maybe both.

“Interesting place,” she said as Nate slowed the truck to a crawl in accordance with the new speed limit.

“Warren Earp was shot in this town, outside a saloon,” he responded.

“You mean, Wyatt Earp?”

“No, Warren—his little brother.”

“How do you know?”

“Same place I learned the history of city hall. I saw it on the official Web page for Willcox when I was trying to figure out where we'd stay.”

She gazed around, noting the Chiricahua Mountains in the distance, the farms in between and the heavy ranching influence. “Not that I'm criticizing, but I wouldn't have minded staying here. It would've been better than a trailer with an outhouse. It doesn't even seem as hot.”

“It's not. This is high desert—about four thousand feet.”

“I like it.”

“What's not to like? Willcox is home to the world's largest hothouse tomato grower.” He winked at her. “Now
that's
something.”

She frowned. “Smart-ass.”

“Hey, I have nothing against tomatoes,” he said with a laugh.

“I'm more interested in these small, clean-looking motels.” She indicated a mom-and-pop motel with about twelve units. “Why don't I stay here until you infiltrate the cult? You can send for me when you're ready.”

“Nice try.” He motioned to a much more modern building than the ones hunched together on Railroad Avenue. “There's an AutoZone. Let's stop and get some coolant, see if the clerk's ever heard of Martha Wilson.”

Normally, Rachel would've laughed at the notion of pulling into some business and asking about a citizen without knowing of a prior connection. But in a town this size, it was entirely possible that word of Martha and her claims had circulated widely enough that they might succeed with a random inquiry.

Bracing as they rolled over a speed bump, she climbed out as soon as Nate cut the engine. “So what are we going with here?” She kept her voice low as they met near the entrance. “Newspaper reporter? Husband and wife out to photograph nature? Or what?”

“Curious people passing through should work. If not, make up something that seems to fit.”

“God, I love my job,” she muttered but she wasn't entirely serious. She loved the money and the freedom
it would eventually afford her. And she loved putting bad guys away. It made her feel that what she did was worthwhile. In this case, she even loved the idea of taking an ax to her father's “you will do as I say or go to hell” type of religion. But she did not like suffering the heat of an Arizona summer while fighting the mixed emotions she felt whenever she looked at her boss. The combination made her irritable.

An electronic squawk announced their entrance. Hefting a body that was at least a hundred pounds overweight from a stool, the guy behind the counter waited to assist them. With a buzz cut and a face as full as a baby's, he looked young—maybe eighteen or nineteen.

Rachel thought he might be the only man in town, besides Nate, who wasn't wearing a cowboy hat and Wranglers. “Hello.”

The clerk smoothed the front of the Led Zeppelin T-shirt that hung over his black pants. “Can I help you?”

Nate strode down the aisles, searching for the coolant while she approached the register. “Our air conditioner went out on us. We need some coolant.”

“Aisle five.” He spoke up so Nate could hear and pointed. “Right over there.”

While Nate followed the clerk's directions, Rachel stood where she was. “How long have you lived in Willcox?” she asked, as if merely striking up a conversation.

“I was born here.”

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

Someone older might've asked if she was visiting or
what had brought her to town. This boy, who seemed very shy, gave her nothing to work with, so she forged ahead on her own. “I hear there's a strange cult in the area.”

“
This
area?”

“In Paradise.”

“Oh, you must be talking about the Covenanters.”

“I think that's the name. You don't know anything about them, do you?”

He smoothed his shirt again—apparently a nervous habit. “Not really. I've never even met one.”

“How would you know if you had or not?” she asked.

“Most of 'em have a
C
on their foreheads. With a little mark in the middle.”

“A tattoo?”

“I guess.”

“Really! On their foreheads.”

“Right in the middle.” He indicated the spot between his own eyes.

“That would certainly make someone stand out,” she said with a laugh.

“Yeah, I'd like to see it.”

She leaned on the counter. “Why not go there?”

He rearranged a display of key rings and some deodorizers. “Paradise isn't that close. It's about an hour and a half. And from what I've been told, they're not very friendly. There's a woman running around who says they tried to stone her.” He lowered his voice.
“To death.”

“That's what I've heard. That's actually why I'm here. I'm this close—” she formed an inch with her fin
gers “—to getting my doctorate in psychology. I'm doing my thesis on cult behavior. You don't know where I could find this woman, do you? I'd love to interview her.”

“I'm pretty sure she lives here in Willcox now. There was an article in the paper about her not too long ago. But I don't know exactly where she is.” He straightened his shirt again. “There've been lots of people asking about her, though. I heard someone talking to the gas station attendant just the other day.”

“Someone?”

“A man. I'd never seen him before.”

Who else was looking for Martha? And why? “What did the gas attendant say?”

“He didn't know where to find her, either.”