“And then my other son. Only that was on me most of all. Norman reached out a couple times right after his mother died, but when I looked in his face, all I could see was my own failure, and when I turned away, all he could feel was denied.”
John D let go of the photograph, and it fluttered to the floor.
“Ten, I got nothing left. And all I can think is Norman’s out there in the dark somewhere, full of fear and shame, and with no one to lead him into the light.”
“Send him love, John D. He’s sure to feel it.”
“It’s too late for love,” John D said.
I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with cold juice from the fridge. I brought it to John D.
“Drink,” I said.
He drank.
“It’s too late for love,” he said again.
I pulled up an address on my phone and wrote it down for him.
He read the name and address, then looked up at me, bewildered.
“Norman’s wife,” I said. “Her name is Becky. You need to pay her a visit. She needs you in her life, now more than ever. It’s never too late, John D.”
He nodded, and I could see a faint shaft of hope push from behind the pain.
“What about you? What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I’m going to find my Mustang and two missing cult members. Not necessarily in that order.”
John D reached down for the discarded photo and handed it to me.
“Take us with you,” he said. “For luck.”
As I crossed the yard, my phone went off. I saw it was Wesley, Freda’s husband, and my heart clenched.
“Wesley?”
“She’s gone. They said there wasn’t any Freda left in there anyway, so we stopped all the machines. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You any closer to finding out what happened?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Well, they’re cutting her up right now. I talked to her doctors about what you’d said, and they agreed with me that under the circumstances it made sense to do an autopsy, so …” His voice caught, and he hung up.
I felt a swelling sensation, building hot behind my eyes. Shame, this time. Another death. Another loss. Maybe not my fault, but I was in too deep not to feel responsible.
I sprinted across John D’s field, vaulted the fence, and raced down the hill into Paradise. I ran hard. It helped.
I stopped and listened. The faint thrum-thrum-thrum of some kind of industrial equipment echoed across the predawn sky. I pegged it as originating at the pig farm.
I jogged from yurt to yurt, beaming my flashlight into the dim curves. The cots were made. The floors were swept. The yurts were totally empty. I ducked into Liam’s headquarters and played my light across the floor. A couple of wooden cases with Italian lettering had been pried open and emptied-looked like they’d held some sort of liquor or wine.
I swung my light to the far side of the yurt and illuminated two still bodies. I ran over and knelt by the first, a young man, and checked for a pulse. The open-eyed stare belonged to the third cult member I’d seen at the farmer’s market. Up close, he was more child than man, and he was very dead. Sister Rose lay next to him, gray and still as a slab of granite.
I punched 911 and fired information at the operator: exact location, number of victims, extent of injuries, and cause of death.
“Strangulation,” I said, noting the necklace of raw bruising around the young man’s throat. Om mani padme hum. The violent hands of Brother Liam had been hard at work, choking life out of two more sinners. I was sure in this case their sin was a last-minute reluctance to get on a helicopter.
A ragged moan caused my skin to shrink-wrap with dread.
I looked around, then down. Sister Rose was working her mouth. I leaned my ear close to her mouth.
“Help me,” she rasped.
I took her hand, careful not to jostle her until help came.
“I’m here, Sister Rose,” I said. “You’re safe now. I’m here.”
I sat with her. I would sit with her forever, if necessary.
Forever turned out to be five interminable minutes. The Emergency Responders found us first. They said the cops were right behind them. Sister Rose’s breath was rough and labored, but an EMT checked her vitals, and said she’d live.
I waited until they had loaded her safely into the ambulance.
I ran to the far side of the Paradise property. Sure enough, my Shelby was right where Jacob had told me she was, parked under a tree, covered by a blue plastic tarp. From here, the thrumming sound was even louder. I jumped the fence and dashed across the far boundary of the pig farm, and up the steep hill, to my favorite vantage point.
Barsotti’s Mercedes was already in his designated spot. I checked my watch. Barely four in the morning. Barsotti was keeping monastery hours, though I doubted he was meditating in there. A familiar battered green pickup was also in the lot. Off to my left, a bright halo of light spotlighted the source of the thrumming. I started downhill in the direction of the light, but skidded to a stop when a pair of black-and-whites screamed by.
A door slammed. Barsotti burst out of the office building and ran into the lot just as a car squealed off the main road and up the farm’s driveway.
Florio’s silver Maserati, in a big, big hurry.
He fishtailed the curves, spewing gravel, and slewed to a stop. Tommy got out, mouth already wagging at Barsotti. He jabbed a finger to the south, then up in the air, then south again.
I had a pretty good notion of the subject matter.
Barsotti jumped in the pickup. Headlights off, he crept out of the parking lot and headed up the dirt road toward the back of the property, with Tommy following right behind. I was tempted to go back for my car, but the problem with that was literally easy to see: a bright yellow sports car was going to be hard to miss out here. I decided to leg it.
Two pairs of brake lights flickered and bumped to a stop a half mile away. I motored after them by foot, digging deep for my best pace given the uncertain terrain. I used one arm to press the Wilson tight against my rib cage.
It was a hard, four-minute slog. I stopped just outside the circle of light to catch my breath and reconnoiter. Two vehicles: one green pickup, one silver Maserati, both lit up by a bank of temporary lights. Two sounds: the throb of a gas-powered generator, and the whunk-whunk-whunk of a drill biting into the ground.
Three men.
I moved closer, taking cover behind an ancient, gnarly almond tree. Tommy Jr. stood leaning against his car with his arms crossed as Barsotti talked and gestured and talked some more to his favorite multitasking employee, man number three: Jose Guttierez-washer of cars, stealer of weed, basher of friends, and who-knows-what-of-what this particular morning.
Barsotti clapped Jose on the back in a hearty, good-job kind of way. He dug out his wallet and gave Jose a bill. Then he climbed into the Maserati beside Tommy and drove away.
Jose loaded the back of his pickup with tools, and killed the drill and gas generator. The dawn air was suddenly, inconveniently silent.
I ran for my car.
Ten minutes later, Jose’s pickup bumped its way down the hill, through the lot, and onto the main road toward town. I followed, hanging back as far as I could without losing him.
Streaks of light brightened the sky like luminous ribbons. Jose turned into a strip mall and parked under a blinking neon sign shaped like a sombrero. “Los Caballeros,” it flashed, promising an all-night refuge for bad boys and insomniacs. I parked on the street and followed Jose inside.
It was a dismal place, a virtual monument to loneliness. A jowly man in a dirty shirt stood guard behind the bar. I counted three customers, including me. Jose was already staring down a draft beer. A blowsy middle-aged woman, raucous and bleached blond, swigged straight from a bottle at the other end of the bar. The jukebox was playing a sad country song about liquor and losers.