Desert Redemption

by Betty Webb

  As if reading my mind, Gabrielle leaned over and murmured, “It is only those things which flow from the spirit that count, not the outer shell.”

  Talk about bullshit. “You’re kidding, right? Where did you say you were from?”

  Still whispering, she replied, “Paris. Sixth Arrondissement. But if abusing lumps of clay makes him happy, the clay has not been wasted.” In a more conversational tone, she said, “And so! I will now leave you to speak with your friend. Afterwards, if you wish, I will give you a more detailed tour of Kanati’s other offerings, such as the delights of our sauna. It is located in the Hotel OK Corral, which I believe is named after a famous place, am I correct?”

  “Yep, famous. A few people had a big shootout there once.”

  Brown eyes danced. “Oh, you Americans and your guns! Our OK Corral celebrates more soothing times than gunfights. Massages. Saunas. Rejuvenating skin treatments. Even mani-pedis, which I suggest you take advantage of, my treat.” She winced as she looked at my hands.

  Karate practice can be hell on a woman’s fingernails. “Thanks, but I’ll take a raincheck.”

  She frowned. “You believe it is going to rain? I have seen no clouds during this day.”

  After I’d explained that particular Americanism, she laughed. “Ah, well. Live and be educated, as your people say.” With that, she left to talk to a group of watercolorists, few of whom showed any actual talent. Kanati might not have had rigid artistic standards, but so far the group hadn’t shown signs of secrecy, one of the hallmarks of a cult. Aside from the light woo-woo stuff I’d seen, the place might make for a pleasant weekend getaway. Craft rooms. Tennis. Croquet. Sauna. Heated pool. Four-star cafeteria...

  But it was time to do what I’d come to do: find out why a man had walked out on his wife.

  Roger, whose headband had accumulated three beads of various colors, didn’t act pleased to see me, but it may have had something to do with the way I introduced myself.

  “Hi, Roger, I’m Lena Jones, private investigator, and your wife wanted me to give you this.” I handed him the papers I’d been carrying in my tote. “You’ve been served.”

  He stood up, anger flaring in his eyes. “You bitch!” Then the anger died, as suddenly as if it had been switched off. He sat back down, put his hands together in a prayerful pose, and took a couple of deep breaths. “I beg your forgiveness, Miss Jones. As an Elevated person, I accept whatever happens to me as a result of my actions.”

  Although he sounded a bit robotic, I appreciated the apology. “Your soon-to-be ex-wife also wanted me to ask why you left her, and why you never took the time to let her know whether you were dead or alive.”

  He looked over at the lump of clay he’d been manhandling. “I don’t think you’d understand.”

  “Try me.” Looming over someone is never a good way to get them to open up, so I settled myself into the chair next to him and tried to look sympathetic—not always easy when you’ve just handed them a summons.

  Roger Gorsky may not have been a handsome man, but even after vacating his CEO chair two years earlier, he still maintained an air of power. The weight loss helped, too, as did the toned arms and chest that filled out his tee-shirt.

  “I felt empty,” he said.

  “Why? You’d done well in business, had a great house, a wife who loved you, a…”

  He waved away the rest of my sentence. “Material things that count for nothing.”

  Not noticing my usage of the past tense on the “love” word, he continued. “What the average person calls love is nothing more than a combination of lust and fear. Wanting the sexual release, fearful you either won’t get it, or if you do, you won’t be able to keep it. Here I’ve learned to live life on an Elevated level, not that you’d understand.”

  I’d heard such reductionism before, but it surprised me to hear it coming from a Kanatian. “I may not be an expert on all things spiritual, Roger, but I believe the average person has greater depth than the shallowness you just described. I won’t bore you with examples of men dying on battlefields for love of country, or parents running into burning houses to save their children, or people endangering their own lives to save total strangers. Those things happen every day.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Jones. Or is it Mizzzz?” With a sneer, he emphasized the Z.

  It was probably useless to argue with him, but the guy got my back up—which, I guess, just goes to show what a low level of spirituality I’ve attained. But then I remembered something Reverend Giblin, one my foster fathers, had told me. After failing to convert my little pagan heart, he and his wife had backed off and just loved me. Not that I’d dismissed everything he said. In fact, one lesson in particular remained with me.

  Stating the Reverend’s words as best I could, I said to Roger, “A preacher, a man I greatly respected, once told me there are four kinds of love: eros, the erotic form of love, which is the form you were talking about; philia, the kind of love we have for our friends; storge, empathy—think Mother Theresa living among the lepers and homeless; and agape, the supposed unconditional love of God for humankind.” As an added jab, due to my own lowly spiritual state, I said, “You weren’t doing so great with the philia kind of love when you left your friends behind, were you?”

  It took him a minute to get over his shock, but when he did, he reverted to his I’m-more-Elevated-than-you-are tone. “My so-called ‘friends’ were mere business associates, not soul partners, the kind I’ve developed here.”

  I looked at the long line of ill-shaped pots, each one of them made by a supposedly Elevated Kenatian. “Soul partners, hmm?”

  He made a contemptuous sound, somewhere between a grunt and a sniff. “Look, Mizzzz Jones, despite the teachings of your preacher friend—and all preachers are frauds, as far as I’m concerned—I doubt you can understand what I’m about to say, but here goes. Having soul partners means being at one with others on a deeper level than someone like you, with your superficial legalistic life, can ever realize is possible.”

  Superficial legalistic life. Well, that’s telling me.

  “I am now Elevated, Mizzzz Jones. Out there, in what un-Elevated people such as yourself perceive as the physical world, my life was meaningless. I didn’t know who I was or what the hell I was doing, other than taking one breath after another for no particular reason. As for me lying to my wife about going out for a pack of cigarettes, that was no lie. I did need cigarettes. And booze. I needed a lot of things to fill up my emptiness, so I headed off to the Circle K and bought a carton of the best cancer sticks they had. While I was at it, I bought a bottle of Cutty, too, but on the way home, a weird thing happened. I can’t explain it. I just…”

  He paused a moment to reflect, then continued. “I just passed my house and kept on driving. I didn’t know where I was headed or what I was going to do when I got there. Next thing I knew I was on the I-10 headed for Tucson, but when I stopped for gas at one of those tourist traps you always see on the interstates, I noticed this other road, so I got on that, and then I saw a gravel road so I took that road, too. It was like I was on automatic pilot. When I spotted this place, I was curious so I parked my car and walked in…” His face took on a beatific look, like a haloed angel had just appeared before him. “…and changed my life.”

  “That’s what you want me to tell your wife?”

  “I don’t care what you tell her. She’s nothing to me anymore.” With that, he returned to torturing clay.

  Gabrielle had finished talking to the watercolorists and was waiting for me at the door. “How was your friend Roger?” she asked, as we strolled across the wide plaza. Nearby, Kanatians frolicked in the pool or hit tennis balls back and forth. Supposedly a perfect day in a perfect place, regardless of your level of Elevation.

  Answering Gabrielle’s question, I said, “I’m thinking he wasn’t awarded any of
those beads for humility.”

  She averted her face, but not before I saw the grin. “He received the beads for keeping the pink Porta Potty clean, which is supposed to be a humbling experience.” Once she had her facial expressions under control, she looked back up at me, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “As you have discovered, he was awarded the beads anyway.”

  “Kind of like getting a spiritual E for Effort, then.”

  A snicker, which she also tried to hide.

  As we ambled toward the tennis courts, one of the players, a burly woman, aced a serve that had her male opponent falling on his face as he tried to return it. Instead of feeling humiliated, the man stood up and applauded her. Apparently, some people were paying attention to Kanati’s lessons about humility.

  Gabrielle called out, “Excellent, Ruby! You show your Elevation more each day. Also you, Arnold.”

  Watching her unclouded happiness, I was once again struck by how beautiful she was, with her lithe body, fine-featured face, and smoothly coiffed chestnut hair. Such physical perfection made me wonder why she had left Paris to take up residence in the middle of the Arizona desert. Had she, like Roger Gorsky, felt empty inside, or was it something else? Taking a chance, I asked, “In your life before…” I waved my hand around, “…before you joined up with all this, did you ever feel it was meaningless?”

  To my relief, the question didn’t bother her. “I have been part of all this, as you call it, for many years, but yes, there was a ‘before’ time. You see, in Paris, I was part of the fashion industry, charged with putting together fashion shows, tres haute monde. One of the most beloved models at the time was Isabelle Caro. Is it possible you are familiar with her?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I shook my head.

  “Isabelle appeared in the American video, The Price of Beauty, and I am so sorry to tell you that soon afterwards she died of anorexia.”

  Now I remembered. The former beauty had starved herself to death.

  “Isabelle was a dear friend, and with her death my heart was broken. In that brokenness, the scales fell from my eyes and I saw that the young girls I hired for our runways were getting thinner with each passing season. And I was, as you Americans say, part of the problem. But how had I allowed such an outrage to happen? How could I have been blind to the girls’ suffering? I became so filled with self-loathing that I walked away from the fashion industry and began a search for a deeper calling in life, a different way of looking at my place in the world. Like most of my countrymen, I was raised Catholic, but I found no answers in the Church, just dictates to accept an event that supposedly happened two thousand years ago. So I began searching for something more contemporary, something illuminated by modern scientific discoveries. This led me to Scientology, but I found it too controlling, and…”

  She searched for the phrase. “…and too filled with what you Americans call ‘junk science.’ I am a graduate of Ecole Polytechnique, you understand, and would never listen to such amateur foolishness. Then one beautiful day, while I was at a Buddhist retreat, someone mentioned the work being done by Adam Arneault. I investigated, and…” A bright smile. “Here I am!”

  It sounded nice, and I knew that the Ecole Polytechnique was one of the highest-rated universities in the world, so Gabrielle was no dummy. Still…

  “But let us have no more talk of young girls and death,” she said. “Kanati is not only about life, it is about a life well-lived. Here, follow me to our massage room. It is time you learn to relax.”

  Ten minutes later I was in the Hotel OK Corral, lying on a thickly padded massage table. As I inhaled the aroma of burning sage and listened to a recording of Enya cooing about Irish rivers, a heavily muscled woman pounded on me. Gabrielle lay on the table next to mine, her face a repository of bliss.

  Once the pounding was finished, and we’d showered and dressed, she said, “That was lovely, non? And now would you like another treat? I invite you to go with us to see either Black Panther or Raw Life, the new documentary.”

  “Kanati has an on-site theater?” This so-called “cult” was full of surprises.

  Brushing her hair back into its normal perfection, she said, “Unfortunately, no, but perhaps in the future. For now, every Saturday, our vans ferry those interested in film to the Tucson CinePlex, where our members can watch any film of their choosing. I myself have seen Black Panther twice, and now that it has been re-released, I wish to see it again. The title character is an exquisite black man, and the African costumes put Paris designers to shame.” She paused as we went back outside, where the lowering sun had begun to streak the blue sky with rose and orange. “But you being an investigator, you might prefer that student documentary, Raw Life. It is also showing at the CinePlex, only on the smallest screen. I have seen it and found it shocking.”

  At the thought of a film shocking a Parisian, I had to smile. “A movie about nudists?” As we left the Old West enclave and headed toward the recreation area, I saw people forming a line in front of the large teepee. Among them was Chelsea, who gave me a surprisingly friendly wave. It was meditation time. And then, dinner.

  My stomach growled at the thought.

  This time Gabrielle ignored my stomach’s complaint. “Not nudism, although walking barefoot is encouraged in that foolish EarthWay. I suggested the film to you because of your obvious fear of cults.” Her face changed, and her former bliss was replaced by a frown. “Portions of the movie were filmed at EarthWay, and although the film is of only of student quality—the sound is garbled and the editing uneven—I found its message to be quite alarming. EarthWay’s lifestyle is…” She paused for a moment, fishing for the right word. “Barbaric.”

  Her choice of the word piqued my interest. “Are they polygamists, by any chance?”

  Arizona had numerous polygamist cults in the barren northern end of the state, all headed by self-proclaimed “prophets.” Some of those “prophets” forced little girls into fraudulent “spiritual” marriages to men decades older in an ugly combination of child sexual abuse and modern-day slavery. Despite the imprisonment of one of their leaders—“Prophet” Warren Jeffs after his child rape conviction—the polygamy compounds still thrived, protected by the high-desert barrenness of their surroundings.

  “If the people at EarthWay are polygamists, it was not spoken of in the documentary,” Gabrielle answered. “But I very much doubt that they are, because the group was established by a woman called Mother Eve.” Here she vented an un-ladylike snort. “More foolishness, do you not think? I suspect the name is not her own. But I am sorely troubled by EarthWay’s health issues, which seem to be many. And, oh, the poor children! While I was speaking to Adam this morning, he suggested I invite you to come with us and see this film. Like me, Adam is very concerned about EarthWay’s babies.”

  “Adam?” I looked over at the big lodge, where Kanati’s administrative offices were located. “He saw it?”

  “Most certainly. Adam is very much the cinephile and often accompanies us to the CinePlex. Especially when they are showing the French movies. I believe he sometimes feels homesick.”

  “But I heard he was American-born.” At least that’s what Jimmy’s research had shown.

  “Quite so, in the state called Oklahoma. But he and his father spent much of their young years near Paris, where the Arneault family originated. The Arneaults are a très respected family, descended from pre-Revolution aristocracy.”

  I’d been under the impression most of the “pre-Revolution” aristocracy had lost their heads via the guillotine, although a few of them had managed to escape. Why would their descendants care about whatever was happening to EarthWay’s children?

  When I asked, Gabrielle spouted more spiritual mishmash, finishing with, “Adam Arneault very much loves children. Wherever children suffer in this world, his concerns are with them. This is why he would like you to see Raw Life. He believes
the viewing will lead you into action.”

  I had first heard about EarthWay two years ago when it moved into its location forty miles north of Scottsdale, but knew little about its beliefs other than its stated wish to return to a less complicated agrarian life off the grid. I had certainly heard nothing about EarthWay having problems with children, or I would have been up there in a heartbeat. Yet here Adam Arneault, whom I had not met, was sounding the alarm. As for the “very much loves children” bit, I had noticed there were no children at Kanati, just adults. It seemed more likely that Adam was worried EarthWay might start poaching Kanati’s own wealthy members. Places like this were expensive to keep up, and I had no doubt that any threat to Kanati’s financial well-being would be dealt with in whatever way possible, including siccing a PI on a rival organization.

  But I had also noticed the way Gabrielle’s eyes sparkled when speaking about Adam. Unless I was wrong, she was in love with her boss in an un-Elevated way. “While I appreciate the information about EarthWay, I’m not certain…”

  I was cut short by a shriek coming from the direction of the fiberglass teepee, where the line had been forming for afternoon meditation. I turned to see a scuffle between two men, one of whom was face-pounding the other. What once had been an orderly group had degenerated into chaos, with people scattering in all directions. Without thinking, I ran toward the fighters, only to be cut off by two muscular men wearing multi-beaded headbands and carrying two-way radios. Within seconds, the larger of them had grabbed the face-pounder around the waist and hauled him away from his bleeding victim.

  “Okay, Leo, you’ve gone and done this after Adam himself gave you your third and final warning,” the big man said, while his just-as-big friend rendered aid to the victim.

  “But the guy took cuts in line, Jerry!” Leo bleated. Unlike most of the members of Kanati, he wore no headband at all, just the official Kanati golf shirt. Not a good sign.