"Oh, hell, yes. He rigged up a grotto for it off in the woods. He parked it there beneath a shelter made from tree boughs, and he used to sit in it to hold his meetings. But the funny thing is that, while all the others let their hair and beards grow, Quiller shaved and kept his hair short. When he didn't wear his robe, he walked around in patent leather shoes and expensive slacks and custom-made shirts that he'd brought with him. In the context of the commune, he looked twice as weird as anyone, just sitting in that car and staring toward the forest. You'd have thought he was on the freeway. God knows where his mind was taking him. And there I stood before him in my jeans and workshirt and the stubby beard I'd tried to grow, and he was saying that he'd let me be their first new member. He was smiling, and I didn't understand till later that if I'd refused, I wouldn't have had a choice. I didn't understand that I was a prisoner."
"It's like Jim Jones," Dunlap said. "Or David Koresh.'
"Or Charles Manson," Slaughter added, and they frowned at one another.
"I need a smoke," Lucas said. "Has anybody got one?" His hand was shaking as he took the cigarette that Dunlap offered. A nurse going by frowned at them. She slowed as if about to tell them that smoking wasn't allowed in the corridor. Then she saw the look in their eyes and kept moving.
Lucas drew the smoke in. "Anyway, they had these barracks like in the military, and they put me in one, watching me. By then, I understood enough to be afraid, but there was no way I could run, and they were talking about my initiation. I don't know what I thought would happen. I saw that many of them had a scar across their chests, two wavy lines that intersected. When they brought me food, I wouldn't eat it, and I wouldn't drink the water. They kept smiling, though, as if that's what they wanted. 'That's right. Stay pure,' they told me. I don't know. They had this thing about a state of nature. Quiller's notion was to purify them, to free them from the outside world. He made them pledge their loyalty, then put them through this secret ritual. Their goal was to escape the bonds of society and act upon their instincts. But the place was set up like the military, and I didn't understand how Quiller's dictatorial attitude was compatible with freedom, or how drugs had anything to do with purity. The scheme was crazy, schizophrenic, and I sometimes wonder if he didn't get some kind of voyeuristic thrill from watching them behave like animals. The second day at sundown, they were going to have the ceremony, but my father showed up that day, shooting. When they ran to find out what had happened, I escaped the men who watched me. The policeman found me."
"But you never mentioned anything about this," Slaughter told him.
"That's right. I was too afraid. I felt that Quiller would come after me. You said yourself that Quiller seemed a lot like Manson. He terrified me. I didn't want to go against him. If I told the town, the town would turn against the commune, and I knew who the commune would blame. Besides, you have to realize how much I hated my father. If I justified what he had done, he might have been released. I didn't want that. Hell, I knew that he'd come looking for me, too. As far as I could see, a guilty verdict was the best chance for my mother and me. Don't bother saying I was wrong. At eighteen, that's the way I saw things."
"But you're back now."
Lucas nodded. "And the whole damned thing is starting again. I don't mind telling you I'm scared. I figured that the commune would have scattered by now, that my father might be different. Last month I was with my mother when she died. She'd been staying in New Mexico. The last thing she said was 'Make sure your father doesn't cheat you. Half that ranch is mine, and now it's yours. But he'll try to keep it from you.'" Lucas straightened. "I'm finished running."
"Well, I guarantee you'll be protected."
"Don't underestimate my father."
"That isn't what I meant. I mean in there. I want you to look closely at the man in the bed. Tell me if he's really from the commune. We still have no proof of that. If the commune still exists, we don't know where it is. They moved it."
Lucas shuddered. "Oh, that's fine. That's fucking great."
The medical examiner stepped from the room where he'd been attending to the bearded figure.
"Well?" Slaughter asked.
The medical examiner looked troubled. "He's very sick. Apart from showing symptoms of the virus, he's undernourished and dehydrated. If he hadn't wandered into town, he'd have died by sunset. As it is, I still don't know how long he'll live. I'm feeding him intravenously."
"Can we have a look at him?"
The medical examiner debated. "I don't think that's a problem, but that cigarette will have to go."
He pointed toward what Lucas held, and Lucas nodded, dropping the cigarette, stepping on it.
"Pick it up now."
Lucas stared at him, then picked it up. He glanced at Slaughter. "Fine. Let's get this finished."
The medical examiner opened the door, and they went in. They peered toward the figure, then at Lucas.
"I don't know," Lucas told them.
"Make a guess," Slaughter said.
"I can't."
"You've got to try."
"But what if I identify him and he comes for me?"
"Does he look as if he's going to live? For Christ sake, be responsible for once."
Lucas scowled at him. The veins in his temples throbbed. Then slowly they subsided, and he studied the figure. "Maybe… Maybe I once knew him."
"Have you got a name for him?"
"I'll tell you when I'm ready. Did you notice if he had a scar?" he asked the medical examiner.
"Two wavy lines that intersect across his chest. They remind me of a swastika."
"And what about a-?"
"Tattoo on his shoulder. It's an eagle."
"Let me see it." Lucas watched the medical examiner tug at the sheet and gown. They looked at a purple eagle.
"Yes, I knew him." Lucas exhaled. "Pollock. All I ever heard him called was Pollock. He was Quiller's second in command. That eagle's like some kind of military symbol, like a captain or a major. If he wakes up, don't go near him. He's insane. If you could see his eyes, you'd understand what I mean."
Slaughter sighed. "Then the commune still exists."
"But where the hell did they go?" Dunlap wondered.
Now the figure squirmed beneath the straps. He shook his head, unconscious, flaring his nostrils, moaning, "Throne room."
"What?" The medical examiner shook his head.
"He said 'throne room'," Slaughter told him. "I don't understand it either. He was moaning that when Rettig found him." Slaughter didn't like the smell in here. Although the figure had been bathed while he was strapped down in the bed, he stank of rancid meat and sweat and mildew, and the pungent smell of medicine mixed with those other odors nauseated him.
"Where has he been living anyhow?"
"The throne room," Dunlap told him.
"Very funny."
"No, the place clearly has some importance to him. Maybe if we asked him."
"He's unconscious. You can see that."
"I don't care. Let's try it."
Slaughter looked at the medical examiner.
"It might work. I don't think that it could hurt him."
"But it's pointless," Slaughter said.
"What difference does it make? Let's try it." Dunlap bent down by the figure. "Pollock."
"Careful," Slaughter told him.
Dunlap nodded, moving slightly away from the figure. "Pollock, can you hear me?
There was no response. Dunlap waited. Then he said again but softer, "Pollock, can you hear me?"
The figure squirmed. He hissed once. Then he settled.
"Pollock, you're with friends now. Can you hear me? Talk about the throne room."
"Throne room." That was croaked, but they could hear it.
Dunlap glanced at his companions, then spoke more softly to the figure. "That's right. Talk about the throne room."
"Red room."
Dunlap frowned toward the others.
"It could be blood," the medical examiner suggested.