by Toby Neal
He must have read her reply because another email arrived. “You don’t have to know where to go from here. You’ll meet me when the time is right.”
Sophie looked around the barren room, the heavy curtains blacking out the light, the only sound the soothing whuff of Ginger’s breathing on the floor beside her. She didn’t like that he thought he was in control.
“You might find that difficult. I’m no longer at my former address,” Sophie typed, and turned off the phone.
She was off the grid, and now she was glad she was. She wanted to be the one in control of where and when she finally met the Ghost.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Mary Watson’ held the floppy straw hat on with one hand so that the slight breeze at the Hilo airport would not tug it off of her head. She smiled at the other young women climbing into a large white passenger van headed for the Waipio Valley. The light rayon sundress she wore swirled around her legs as she settled beside another woman in the backseat.
“So excited to finally see the compound at Waipio,” Sophie said. “Have you been there before?”
“No, this is my first time, too.” The woman next to her was a pretty blonde. She tugged at her tight yoga pants and smoothed her tunic top. “Have you met Sandoval Jackson yet?”
“I have heard him speak. Mesmerizing,” Sophie said. He did speak well on the YouTube videos she’d watched. “We’re so lucky to be able to get on the list for this retreat.”
The van got underway and in a very short time they were traveling along the verdant countryside of the east shore of the Big Island out of Hilo. They passed gigantic albizia trees draped in vines, great stands of hapu`u ferns, and tall waving patches of long pili grass framing glimpses of a distant blue ocean.
The driver of the van was a young mixed Hawaiian with long hair in a ponytail and the orange clothing that Sophie recognized from her recon of the compound earlier. The hour-long drive took them through the broad grassy pasturelands of Waimea and beyond. The steep walls of spectacular Waipio Valley opened before them as the van rounded a bend.
This was the first time Sophie had entered the valley by car, and the one-lane precipitous access road carved in the cliff was intimidating from her wedged-in seat in the back of the van. Off to the right she could see the broad sweep of the bay at the mouth, the valley’s river flowing into the ocean with the reddish-brown of runoff rainwater.
Finally reaching the valley floor they were met by small farms, lush with outsized banana and papaya trees, wandering loose horses, and sweeps of water-filled taro patches.
It seemed to take forever for the van to navigate the potholed, narrow dirt road with the obstacles of loose chickens, dogs, and mud puddles, but further back in the valley, where no one else was around, the road was better maintained. Sophie leaned her chin on her hand, watching the field she’d run through with a child holding her hand pass by.
Things certainly looked different in the light of day.
The doors of the compound were open to meet them when they arrived. Far from the fortified, forbidding aspect the compound had presented during her mission, today it looked welcoming and beautiful.
The children, dressed in orange dresses, T-shirts or shorts, ran up to greet them as the van pulled up. They greeted the retreat participants by draping fresh plumeria lei over their heads as they exited the vehicle. The oldest boy, who looked around thirteen, showed the eight women to their own spacious yurt. Inside, a series of four bunk beds formed corners in the round tent. In the center of the floor, a carpet patterned like a mandala gave the room a spacious, unified feel.
Sophie claimed a bottom bunk and her blonde companion, the top. She introduced herself. “I’m Mary Watson. And you are?”
“Gillie. Short for Gillian. Gillie Johnson.”
“Have you been part of the Society of Light for long?”
“Just checking it out, actually. Looking to make some lifestyle changes.” Gillie had the nervous energy and build of a whippet, and the skulls and rock band tattoos on her arms told a story of hard partying.
The boy returned. “What’s your name?” Sophie asked.
“Zeus.” He had large brown eyes, freckled skin, and a friendly smile. “I’m your guide. I’ll take you to the yoga studio if you’re ready.”
They were, so Zeus led them to a large studio that was its own yurt. Spacious and inviting, shining floors reflected light from a pale cream roof. The familiar tools of yoga were piled in neat stacks against the walls. Folded blankets, foam blocks, webbing straps, and a large basket of silky, scented eye pillows all gave Sophie a reassuring sense of familiarity in spite of her mission.
The evening progressed in a straightforward manner with a yoga class, a group dinner in the dining room, and finally, a lecture from Sandoval Jackson in the yoga studio.
Jackson arrived draped in a wrapped orange loincloth worn with an embroidered tunic. From a distance, during their surveillance, it had been hard to see what he was like, and Sophie’s research photos hadn’t shown much more than an orange-draped figure. Up close, Jackson was lean and muscular, a young-looking sixty even with his flowing silver beard. He exuded a powerful calm that Sophie found herself responding to in spite of her feelings about the children, the Society, and what might lay in the garden.
Clearly the man had charisma.
Sophie chose a purple flax-filled pillow, and sat on it in a half-circle with the other participants around Jackson’s place on a small raised dais. The residents of the compound filled in the area behind them, and the room settled into stillness as Jackson raised his hands.
“Close your eyes. Breathe.” A long pause as everyone did so. “Notice the breath entering and exiting your body. Notice your body—how it feels in this moment, taking up space and time. You are eternal. Made of star particles, returning and recycling in different forms, but for now you have this moment. It will never come again. Be in this moment. Take it as yours. Fully inhabit it. And then let it go so the next can take its place.”
It wasn’t so much what Jackson said that was so hypnotic, as the low, resonant pitch of his deep timbered voice that held the surprising edge of a Scottish burr. Jackson had immigrated to the United States with his parents at fourteen from Scotland, but she’d thought his accent would be gone by now.
Perhaps that accent had its uses—because Sophie felt like she could listen to him talk all day.
And so, apparently, did the rest. Jackson said nothing really new, but it was rich. And as Sophie sat in the lotus position, fingers resting on her knees, she had to remind herself that this man was, quite possibly, a triple murderer.
Chapter Sixteen
The compound’s bathroom was a central complex that featured a catchment shower, a small gas water heater, and several composting toilets. It was rustic, but the appointments were top quality. Sinks were made of hand thrown clay, and beautifully woven tapestry adorned the walls. Sophie got ready for bed with the other women and waited for the right time to do her nighttime recon.
She waited as the lights went out, and the breathing of her new compatriots grew soft and long. Dressed in the black yoga pants and tank top she had chosen to minimize detection, Sophie tiptoed barefoot out of the yurt and along the winding path toward the large, half-acre vegetable garden. She had a story in place should she be stopped: she couldn’t sleep. She needed to meditate, outside in nature.
Sophie walked slowly, with no illumination but the great black vault of sky, scattered with the pollen of stars brightened by the thin paring of a new moon. Coqui frogs, an invasive species from South America, chimed their shrill song from the surrounding jungle of the valley.
Her ears were tuned for any sounds of other humans, but there were none. Sophie reached the garden, defined by rows of lettuces, broccoli, staked teepees of beans and patches of chard and other leafy greens. It smelled rich and lush with new life, as she padded along a well-mulched row.
It was hard to imagine that there might be bodies unde
r these lettuces.
She made her way down a well-maintained aisle of vegetables to a center area that was not immediately visible from the rest of the compound. Even in the dim light of the moon, she could make out the undulating curves of a labyrinth.
Ah, the labyrinth. A spiritual walking practice she hadn’t been able to experience more than once or twice.
Her feet seemed to find the cool stones embedded in the dirt that marked the path almost by instinct, and she followed it. Every now and then she pulled a small, cigarette-sized stake out of the ankle sock of her tennis shoe, pushing it into the soil.
The plan for this trip was for her to attend the five-day retreat and check out the compound from within. Detect its security, its weaknesses, its patterns and procedures—and if able, gather any evidence she could find.
She was “off the grid” on this assignment, though Dunn was nearby, monitoring from the outpost they’d used before. Cell phones weren’t allowed on the retreat, but she was scheduled to contact him twice daily with the extra-small satellite phone currently hiding in her bra.
Round and around, and back and forth the path led. Surely she should have reached the middle by now? And yet, she had not.
So far, she’d seen nothing alarming or out of place at the compound.
Her mind wandered back to the photos the Ghost had sent. Such unforgettable images. She wondered if he ever watched the video he had of her in her apartment.
What was he playing at?
Did Sheldon Hamilton really want some sort of relationship with her? Was this his idea of courtship? And why was it so intriguing? She should really know better than to be so fascinated with this shady vigilante with his cat-and-mouse game.
Pain from the end of the relationship with Alika Wolcott, her former MMA coach, nagged her like the fading bruise on her mouth. Six months now, and no word from him, not even a text message—hers to him had gone unanswered, though she could see that he’d read them.
Clearly, whatever they’d had was over. It remained hard to accept. She’d let herself have hopes. But the fact that he’d chosen to return to Kaua`i permanently and cut her off still hurt.
“It wasn’t love,” Sophie muttered. But it could have been.
The center of the labyrinth was a smooth circle filled with pea gravel. She planted a few more of the stakes randomly around. She’d pick them up tomorrow, when the ninhydrin-infused paper pulp would have had time to react to any organic compounds thrown off by human decomposition. She sat down in the lotus position placing her hands on her knees. She closed her eyes, letting her senses take in the surroundings.
If she were Sandoval Jackson, this is where she’d bury the bodies: a central place, covered by gravel, where people with a mind to do so could pay their respects. Her nostrils flared. Could she smell them? Decomp had a powerful stench, and even once that phase had passed, unique organic compounds were emitted for months, even years, and could still be picked up by the spikes she’d planted, cadaver dogs, and the new LABRADOR body detection device Dunn had shown her from Security Solutions’ tech lab.
“It uses scent assessment technology to find a buried body.” Dunn had been enthused, showing her the handheld contraption, a series of gimbaled attachments that, while relatively small, would have been difficult to conceal in her backpack. He’d tried to get her to bring it, but it would have been impossible to explain if she were caught with it.
The shift and rustle of footsteps in the labyrinth warned her of someone approaching. She closed her eyes and settled into stillness.
“Is this seat taken?”
Sophie restrained herself from leaping to her feet at the sound of a deep male voice with a Scottish accent—but it wasn’t Jackson. “Of course not. You are welcome.” She lifted her head to see the man. He seemed large, backlit by the moon. He coiled himself and sat beside her. The moon cast a silvery illumination over craggy features and a bald head. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“I assumed as much.”
“I’m Mary Watson. What’s your name? I didn’t meet you at the orientation, or at dinner.” They’d been introduced to the main staff of the retreat and community then.
He shrugged. “My name is Dougal Sloane. I’m Sandoval’s head of security.”
“Oh. Have I done something wrong?”
Sloane’s teeth showed in a brief flash. “We discourage our guests from nighttime wandering. It might not be safe.”
“How could it not be safe?” Sophie gestured to the moonlit scene, to the high, corrugated walls of the sheltering valley. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“If you want to meditate, go to the chapel.” Sloane took hold of her arm. His spread fingers gripped her. She could feel, by the way he wrapped his thumb across her bicep, that he was taking a measure of her strength. “It’s time to go back to bed.” He gave her arm a little tug.
She rose to her feet meekly and followed him back along the winding route of the labyrinth, surprised that he led her that way and not across it—but they walked the whole thing. “I’m not sure I’m ready for bed.”
“I’ll escort you to the chapel, then.” A motion-activated security light bloomed into a soft amber glow outside of a small square building set apart from the rest of the commune. “This is the chapel. You’re free to spend as much time here as you like, but follow the footpath straight back to your sleeping quarters when you’re done.”
“All right. I’m sorry for any trouble.”
The amber light gleamed on Sloane’s head, and just momentarily, illuminated a tattoo of a pair of snakes forming a Celtic knot on his forearm as he slid a big hand up her arm as if he wanted to feel it again. He squeezed her muscle. “You’re fit.”
This was no peaceful yogi. This was a man of violence and action. She could feel it emanating off of him like a force field.
Sophie tilted her head, trying for flirtatious. “Thank you for showing me where I should be,” she said, her voice soft.
“It was my pleasure.” Sloane stroked his hand down her arm and gave it a final squeeze.
Sophie’s skin crawled and she suppressed a shudder. She turned with a nod and a smile, and walked up the wooden steps into the chapel.
A candle guttered on a little altar at the far corner of the perfectly square room. A stack of seating pillows filled one wall, and Sophie helped herself to one, bringing it to sit in front of the plain wooden altar. She settled upon it, holding herself upright. Her back was beginning to ache from all of the sitting unsupported.
The phone tucked in her bra seemed to burn her skin. She checked again that there was no video surveillance in this room and that she was alone, and retrieved it.
She texted Dunn.
“Security is tight and looks experienced.” She’d seen a couple of unobtrusive dark bubbles of cameras on the corners of the buildings. “Not sure how much I’ll be able to find.”
“Recon only. Stay safe. I’ve got your back,” Dunn answered promptly. Sophie let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning dawned clear and glorious. Huge rafts of cumulus cloud, scudding over the ocean, seemed to be lit from within by the sunrise as it broke over the mouth of the bay. Sophie rose with her fellow retreat participants, arriving at the chapel for a period of meditation. Everyone sat in lotus position, facing the altar upon which a pillar candle burned.
Sophie tried to calm her racing thoughts but she’d begun to chafe internally, missing her technology. The oblivion of being “wired in” to her computers, absorbed and lost in streams of information, had become a huge part of her life. A free-floating anxiety rippled along her nerves, a sort of nagging itch like she imagined an addict must feel, longing for the needle. She’d wondered how she would do without her beloved computers—and now she knew. Not well.
This was also the subject of the meditation that Sandoval Jackson led them in. “For true peace, you must learn how to really live within your own ski
n, occupying your body, mind, and soul without external influences and stimulation except those found in nature. Accepting the here and now, without the outside influence of the world, will bring you a deeper experience of life.”
Dunn could, at least, watch videos on his phone or something while he did push-ups or whatever it was he occupied himself with on a stakeout—while Sophie had to sit, cross-legged, eyes shut, with nothing to do but endure her thoughts. These inevitably spiraled into flashbacks of Assan’s abuse, memories of her mother’s indifference, and the familiar negative thoughts of the depression that stalked her like a jaguar.
Sophie made it through the meditation with difficulty and then she made it through the hour-long, strenuous yoga class that followed. Being able to move her body and focus on that was a relief. She made it through the simple morning meal, seated with the whole commune in the central cafeteria area, eating in silence. And she even made it through going out to work in the garden.
Simple chores out in the garden, picking slugs off the lettuces and pulling weeds, did have a meditative quality that seemed to still the restlessness—but she didn’t want to retrieve the spikes she’d embedded in the dirt, because part of the feeling that crawled along her nerves was the sensation of being watched.
Sophie darted her eyes around, keeping Mary’s hat brim low as she tried to observe who might be monitoring her. She’d already made a mental note of every location of a surveillance node that she could identify on the corners of the buildings.
Dougal Sloane was watching her.
Sophie spotted him leaning against one of the yurts, tattooed arms folded and one leg up with a bent knee as he observed the women working in the garden.
What was he looking for?
She felt his gaze on her like a touch. Could he be involved with choosing women for Sandoval Jackson’s bed? Or was he simply considering her for his own? Either option did not appeal.