"What have you been able to learn from Myron Bell, the church's assistant pastor?"
"Very little. It appears that he was unable to repair the bus and that he too ventured on into the retreat area. He either arrived after the fact, or he managed somehow to escape from the perpetrators of the crime; we don't know which. He was discovered two days later wandering around in the woods north of here, completely incoherent and in a daze. He has been taken to the clinic in Chesterfield. So far we haven't been able to talk to him."
"I take it then that the authorities have completely dismissed the possibility that this could have been the work of some sort of animal."
"Yes, sir, the discovery of certain parts of some of the children would indicate that any theory involving an attack by wild animals can be completely dismissed. There is strong evidence to indicate that parts of these children were actually consumed."
"During the press briefing yesterday, there was some discussion about the unusual prints found throughout the area. Would you care to comment on that?"
"It's true that we have uncovered some unusual prints. They were structured such as to give us a strong indication that they weren't human."
"Would you describe these prints for our listeners, Constable Hullings?"
"Well… they are actually not unlike that of a man, but the pattern seems to indicate that there are two thumbs and three fingers — with a rather large space between the two sets."
"I see that you are being called by one of your fellow officers, Constable Hullings. Thank you."
"Well, there you have it. Authorities are still quite perplexed by the discovery. The death toll now stands at six. Three youths are still missing, and police are unable to interrogate Pastor Myron Bell about what he saw and heard here at this remote Battle Harbor forest retreat.
"This is Maxwell Rinehart reporting. Now back to our studios."
REFERENCE: INCIDENT 4
Brother Raymond is convinced we have no alternative. Brother Johnn and Sister Anita May are hopeless as well.
Our biggest concern is the attitude of the authorities. When the storm finally does abate, there is little doubt that they will come, and we are certain they will bring the media with them; they always do. The authorities and the media — like everyone else we come in contact with — are hostile to our effort.
Brother Raymond says it is only because they do not understand what it is we are trying to do — and I concur. I love Brother Raymond. He continues to demonstrate great wisdom. I will bend my soul to his and acquiesce to his judgment.
We were gone a mere 18 hours. It is a difficult journey because we must walk. The rock road had washed out for the second time this year, and the people of Livingston will not allow us to pass through their village. That is such a shame because we could market our wares there if only those people would open their hearts and minds to us.
The shock of the discovery upon our return is beyond all my descriptive powers. Even now it is difficult for me to accept the reality of what has happened.
There were four in all — Gentle, the five-year-old, Sweet Jasmine, his sister, and my own sweet fruits, David and Anna Child. None of them had witnessed more than eight summers.
They were mutilated. Oh, sweetest Jesus, how could anyone do this to the children? How could anyone outrage and violate these most precious vessels of love and innocence?
Brother Johnn found young Gentle. He had been decapitated. Sweet Jasmine had been violated, her woman-child parts eviscerated. David and Anna Child were similarly treated and then dismembered. There is strong evidence — my heart tears at the thought of this unholy desecration — that they were cannibalized.
Sister Paula was the first; may her soul rest in the everlasting light of the Almighty. Brother Johnn accepts her wrenching anguish as sufficient reason for the taking of her own life. After all, young Gentle was her first born.
It is Marry Marry and Dawn that I and the others cannot, as yet, find the inner strength to forgive. They fled. They were older. The children were left in the safety and sanctuary of their love. They abandoned their charge; they have left us with our hopes dashed, our children murdered and our prayers unanswered.
So it has come down to this. Perhaps Brother Raymond is right, perhaps man cannot live in peace. Perhaps there is no hope for that gentle faction of sweet Jesus's people who would live without war and hunger and inhumanity.
I will do as Brother Raymond bids me. I will drink because I am as one with my universe. I will drink this because it will free my tortured soul to renew its quest for all that is good and just and right and peaceful…
Researcher's note:
A crudely penciled notation was found at the bottom of the last page of the original copy of this diary:
"This journal was discovered at the mass suicide site of the members of the Owl's Head commune known around these parts as the Coalition. The evidence indicates these sick bastards disembowled and ate their own kids before they killed themselves. Sick as it is, maybe it's all for the better. We don't need their kind around these parts anyway."
PART 1
Cosmo shoved the stack of papers back at me, went through the ritual of stoking and relighting his pipe, then puffed and exhaled softly. I knew he was stalling. Cosmo always stalled; he hates to commit himself. If he committed himself, he was fixed with that commitment in time and space, a position Cosmo Leach found intolerable, a position he wished devoutly to avoid.
"Well," I grunted, "what do you think?"
"Intriguing," he granted, hiding behind another puff.
"Is that all you have to say?" It was Cosmo's game and I had to let him play it out. I had been doing so for years.
"Tell me, Elliott." (Cosmo always calls me Elliott when he's about to torpedo me.) "Where did you come up with this shit? It reads like something out of one of those supermarket rags."
This time I had him. "Does the name Brenda Cashman mean anything to you?"
He rolled his faded blue eyes and curled a few strands of his bushy white beard around his index finger while he referenced the name. "Sounds familiar. Why? Do I know her?"
"She was your graduate research assistant three years ago. You gave her excellent academic references when she applied to the University of Michigan for their doctoral program."
"Oh, yes, now I remember," he lied. In 30 years of banter, both serious and lighthearted, I have never known Cosmo to admit being wrong or forgetful. His ego just won't permit it. But the ravages of time were coming down on him and occasionally it showed. "What's all this have to do with her?" he grunted.
I leaned back, riffled through the stack of papers and asked myself how much further I wanted to push this whole affair. "Brenda Cashman sent me these documents. She said she was doing some research and ran across the first incident, the report from Choker Point. She said she poked around some, but she wasn't able to uncover anything else on it."
"We were fighting a war," Cosmo reminded me. "We were too damn busy to tie nice tidy little bows around lots of things."
I ignored the old man's caustic remarks and continued. "It's all here in her letter. A couple of months later, she uncovered the Baffin Island incident. She thought she saw some similarity in the two events and sent them to me."
"Why you?"
"Damn it, Cosmo, because I write about stuff like this," I snapped back at him. "Just once, step out of your role as resident curmudgeon and help me sort through all of this."