Sins of the Mother

by August Norman

  “Right.” Caitlin felt her fingers form a fist. “Her mission of not being my mother.”

  Desmond shifted back to his center, his demeanor, day-spa calm. “She was very proud of who you’ve become. We don’t often trust the media, but your work has exposed corruption and saved women around the country, tenets the Daughters of God adhere to above all.”

  “Cool, great tenets,” Caitlin said, bouncing her fist off her leg. The anger bubbling inside threatened to overpower her logical thread. Why was she there anyway? She looked back at the wall of overwhelming end-of-the-world imagery, saw a firefighter dwarfed by an immense wall of flame. The image jolted her back into the game. “So you know the name of my father.”

  Desmond tented his fingers. “It’s been some time since Magda and I spoke about her past.”

  Back in control, Caitlin gave Desmond another look. What was it about this man that made these women give up their lives? Good-looking, no doubt, especially imagining him twenty years younger, but he hadn’t exactly tried to charm her since she’d walked in. If anything, he’d done the complete opposite of what she’d expected. Maybe that was the point. His lack of effort was almost a concession: We both know I’m a fraud. Ask for what you want, and I’ll give it to you so you can leave me to my bullshit fiefdom.

  But then, what if he really believed every word but knew to hide it from a skeptic like her?

  She touched her temple, looked down, then looked back up like a thought had occurred to her. “Since the trampoline?”

  His brow furrowed. “What about a trampoline?”

  “You won’t believe me.” Caitlin stared out the window and up to the tendril of smoke rising into the sky. Time to play the game. Like Eve on the way there, the Dayans in Maya’s journal claimed to have heard messages in visions and dreams. Caitlin could have a message of her own. “I had a dream. A man and I were bouncing on a trampoline, and I was telling him things about my life, my job, the men I’ve loved, the people I’ve hurt. Then this guy stopped me and said he knew the one thing I’d always wanted to know.”

  Desmond moved closer, coming into Caitlin’s view. “What did he say?”

  “That’s the problem. I woke up. But I knew what he meant, meaning I knew what the one thing I’d always wanted to know was. That dream’s stuck with me for years. I never understood the trampoline. It’s not like there was one in my life, but I came to believe it was a symbol for something holding me down. Now I’m here, talking to a man who knows more about my biological mother than anyone else in the world. Maybe I’m crazy, and I’m not saying you’re the man of my dreams, but I have an irrefutable feeling that you know who my father was. Do you?”

  Desmond studied her with the alertness of an eagle.

  “I do,” he said, his head cocking slightly to one side before he straightened himself. “Though the name escapes my memory. This was twenty years ago. Still, I’ll have the answer in my notes. I’ll retrieve this information on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need you to describe Magda’s body.”

  There it was. Desmond had finally revealed why he wanted her in his compound in the first place.

  “You knew her better than I—”

  “They won’t allow anyone from my organization to verify—”

  “Fine.” She described the remains as she remembered them, lack of teeth and fingers included, but left out the part about the key and the journal. “I’ve given them a DNA swab. As soon as the lab runs their tests, it’ll be official.” She searched his eyes. At first, she took his reactions as genuine mourning; then concern morphed into calculation, and he turned quickly.

  “Did you notice any marks or—”

  “Hard to tell.” Caitlin slowed the pace. “She’d lost a lot of skin on the arms and back.”

  He nodded like he’d agreed with a concept only he had heard. Again, his words came out quickly. “And what do they think happened to her?”

  “Their first theory was that she fell in the woods and hit her head. Of course, that changed yesterday when they arrested a man named Johnny Larsen.”

  “I know about the Larsens. They’ve hated us for years, especially John. He must have killed her. He’d kill us all if they had the chance.”

  “Why? Do you have his thirteen-year-old daughter in this camp?”

  Desmond looked up, then stepped back, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Not at all. She came to us, but we have strict rules. Adults only, above the age of understanding.”

  “So you sent her away?”

  “Most certainly.” His eyes clouded with a faraway look. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, then shook his head and turned toward the gallery wall. “Gwendolyn?”

  As if she’d been there the entire time, Gwendolyn Sunrise walked through the open double doors. Desmond stepped off the dais and walked out, leaving Caitlin alone once again with the lawyer in red.

  CHAPTER

  26

  DESMOND TOOK THE stairs up to his suite two at a time, slamming and then locking the door behind him.

  “A dream about a trampoline?” he said, digging through a dresser drawer. “Yeah, right. You can’t shit a shitter, precious.”

  The reporter knew too much, too soon. Someone had talked, someone who knew about Magda’s recruitment in the Angeles National Forest, Linda Sperry’s visions, everything. He moved a row of underwear aside, pulled the satellite phone from the drawer, and dialed Daya’s number.

  Still no answer.

  “Fuck,” he said, hanging up.

  Someone had obviously disfigured the body to prevent identification. So who was dead: Magda, Daya, or both? And which would be worse?

  If Magda was dead, that meant Daya might still be out there but unable to return his call. Had the Larsen family grabbed her, looking for Promise? Some sort of ransom or swap?

  Desmond went out the side door into Daya’s adjoining room. Dark, like it had been for two weeks, and nothing was missing, or didn’t seem to be. He opened her closet, pushed a row of clothes to one side, removed the wall panel, and entered the combination to Daya’s safe.

  The door swung open, revealing several bound stacks of cash. He counted quickly, found the same hundred thousand dollars he’d counted every day for the past week.

  “Shit,” he said, sealing the safe and returning to his room.

  They’d had fights, sure, especially over the last year, but he couldn’t—no, not couldn’t, wouldn’t—believe she’d cut and run after more than two decades together.

  He went to his own closet’s safe, repeated the search. Four hundred grand this time. Again, as expected.

  No one had taken from either of the large piles of getaway cash, but there were ten more drops throughout the compound in places only the two of them knew.

  He’d have to check them all, but first things first. He grabbed the phone again and dialed Tanner.

  Six rings later, Tanner answered. “Shit, Desmond, is that you? I was—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Desmond fished a black duffle bag out of his bottom drawer. “Have you noticed any suspicious activity on the Sperry accounts lately?”

  “Hold on, man. I’m out on the deck and my signal’s awful.” Tanner sounded high. “How’s it going, man? I hear there are forest fires in the county south of there.”

  “Tanner, get your shit together. Check the Sperry accounts for any activity authorized by anyone but you and me.”

  “Who else would … wait, do you mean like Daya?”

  “Exactly like Daya. Call me back in five minutes.”

  Desmond hung up, switched the phone’s ringer to vibrate, tucked it into the bag, then went on the hunt. He’d checked three locations, all intact, before Tanner called back.

  “Nothing strange here, man. Should I be worried?”

  Desmond cut him off, then went for the other hiding places, but saw nothing wrong.

  So Daya hadn’t run off—and the reporter from Los Angeles, Magda�
�s daughter, couldn’t say for sure whom she’d seen in the morgue, but they’d find out as soon as the DNA results came back.

  At least one of his most trusted followers was dead. Maybe Johnny Larsen had killed Daya as well. Desmond had warned her not to mess with the Larsens, but Daya had been convinced she could squeeze them for cash.

  Not a lot, she’d said. Something small, five or ten grand. We’re already sending the girl back. Might as well get something out of the deal.

  Desmond had tried to stress the bigger concern.

  People like Anders Larsen have the kind of money to keep local law enforcement on their side. That five grand is nothing compared to the campaign contributions they make.

  And now they’d left a body. No fingers or teeth, but a message as clear as day. We can do what we want, when we want—and you’re next.

  “Shit,” Desmond muttered, standing outside the motor pool building. “Is this how it ends?”

  He looked around the grounds, saw the fields and cottages, the row house, the path up the hill to Ceremony Peak. This had been his life since Los Angeles, all that he’d known for years. Beyond the occasional trip to Vegas with Daya to sit in hot tubs and blow off steam, he’d spent the majority of his life surrounded by these women and their needs—and man, had it been a wild ride. But Linda’d had to go and name a fucking date and cock everything up.

  The end of the world was great as a concept. You won’t need your money anymore; give it to the group. You won’t need your families anymore; come and work for me. Social rules mean nothing; give in to your body. Hell, give me your body.

  But put a date on the calendar, and shit was bound to go wrong. The day had come and gone over two years ago. The Daughters had survived, but only because of Daya’s quick thinking—and ruthlessness.

  Now she was gone, either on the run or dead. Without him, at any rate.

  Could he be ruthless without her?

  He thought of the last fifty Daughters. Some too old to return to the world they’d left behind, some too weak, a few who’d seen too much. It wouldn’t be ruthless to follow the plan he and Daya had made. It’d be a kindness.

  He checked the satellite phone’s clock.

  Just past two. Plenty of time to prep for the night’s ceremony; then he’d have Caitlin Bergman returned to town with the information she wanted. If it really was the worst case, he’d need at least a day to set things in motion, far from prying eyes.

  “Darling,” he said, finding a Daughter washing one of the town cars. “Please gas up the Jeep and pull it around. I’m needed in town.”

  He walked away without waiting to hear her response. The women on God’s Hill did what he said, no questions asked.

  CHAPTER

  27

  IT WASN’T THE first time Johnny Larsen had walked out of lockup, but this freedom felt much sweeter than after his DUIs. Two trucks waited in the parking lot. The window of his father’s Escalade came down, and Anders started bitching.

  “Do you have any idea how much money I had to move to bail you out?”

  Johnny gave the old man a nod, saw his father’s attorney and his own wife in the other seats.

  “Be right back.” He walked toward the second vehicle, Gunner’s pickup.

  Both Anders and the lawyer swore an ocean of blue streaks. Gloria just sat there like always. There’d be time enough to listen to each of their earfuls. He got in the passenger side of Gunner’s truck. Gunner slapped him on the shoulder, and Stupid Tom handed him a Coors tallboy from the back bench of the extended cab.

  “What you got in mind, Johnny?” Gunner said.

  Johnny took a sip of the Rockies. “No more messing around. We’re gonna get Promise back before this gets out of hand. I need you boys to find the reporter.”

  “Why? You think she’s got Promise?”

  “She’s working with the Dogs, no doubt in my mind, and either she knows where they’ve got her or knows someone who knows.”

  Stupid Tom leaned in. “I went back to her hotel. She checked out yesterday after the you-know.”

  Johnny laughed. “Good. She’s scared. If she’s still in our county, let’s make sure she stays that way.”

  He gave them a list of places to cover and finished his beer, then returned to Anders’s SUV for the lecture and ride home.

  * * *

  Gloria didn’t say much, other than to ask if he wanted another beer or more fried chicken every five minutes.

  Johnny pushed the last bits of a drumstick to the side of his plate. “Stop fussing. I need to think.”

  “John, I gotta say something—”

  “Like hell you do.”

  He watched her look away and straighten a pile of napkins, like the house would collapse if the corners of perforated paper weren’t lined up straight. She’d been that way for the last two years. Always looking a different direction and trying to fix something that didn’t need fixing.

  She turned back with a strained smile. “How about a slice of pie, honey?”

  “Jesus, Gloria. I was in for one night.”

  “It’s apple.”

  He dropped his fork. “Maybe later.”

  “What about …?” She brushed her hair back to one side.

  He looked up, actually caught her eyes. She smiled, maybe for the first time in a month.

  He didn’t believe it. “You want to fuck right now?”

  “If you do, Johnny.”

  He stood up, pushing the chair back across the linoleum floor with a loud squawk. Gloria took a step back but didn’t look away.

  They didn’t have a lot of sex, and when they did, Johnny made it happen. Most of the time, he got more action at the strip club near the lumberyard. Not that Gloria was bad looking, even at thirty-two. She hadn’t gotten fat after Promise was born, and some days, when she didn’t know he was looking at her, he still saw the sixteen-year-old girl who’d been there waiting when he got back from Baghdad, despite the dishonorable discharge. That girl had been down for anything.

  He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wife.

  Her eyes went wide, then looked away.

  That sideways look made the whole thing bullshit. His open hand became a fist.

  “Dammit, Gloria, what happened to you? You used to have fire, confidence. Shit, Promise is more of a woman than you now.”

  Her eyes flashed back his way, plenty of fire now. “Promise isn’t here, John. You need to let her go.”

  “Let her go? That’s my daughter you’re talking about. My special girl.”

  Gloria hard-swallowed. Only seconds earlier, Johnny’d been thinking how she still looked good after all these years. Now, staring at her again, he saw creases, sags, and the beginnings of sunspots.

  “She is, right?”

  “Is what, John?”

  “Sometimes I look at Promise and I don’t see the slightest bit of me.”

  Gloria’d delivered Promise less than a year after Johnny’d come back from Iraq.

  Now the woman looked pissed. “You know damned well that she’s your daughter, Johnny Larsen. I’ve never even been with another man.”

  “You don’t seem to care that she’s gone.”

  “She’s thirteen and she ran away. She’ll either come back or she won’t. There’s no reason to go to jail over it. Maybe we should let her go.”

  He moved closer, both hands in fists now. “The more I look at you, I know damn well that girl isn’t my blood.”

  As if sensing that his kettle was ready to boil over, Gloria reached for the plate he’d pushed aside and took it to the sink. “Maybe that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

  He went after her, pulling on her shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”

  She looked away, then caught herself, and raised her eyes slowly. “To make what you do to that girl okay.”

  Johnny didn’t see her eyes anymore. His fist struck right where they’d been. She fell forward over the sink, then back onto the floor.

&
nbsp; He raised his hand again, towering over her. “What kind of mother are you?”

  She kept her face covered, muffling her sobs.

  He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “I’m going out to get Promise.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  “THIS IS WHERE Magda slept.” Gwendolyn Sunrise stepped aside to let Caitlin enter the room.

  Still in the main house, Magda’s queen-sized bed and simple bathroom reminded Caitlin of her previous hotel room, with one exception: no lock on the door.

  “You’re welcome to look through her belongings and keep anything that might be of sentiment.”

  Caitlin nodded to the woman, then started a lap around the remains of a life. She paused at a three-drawer dresser. “Mind if I—?”

  Gwendolyn nodded back. “Anything.”

  The top drawer’s stack of flowing blouses and slacks might as well have all been the same piece of rough red cloth. Caitlin was no fashionista, but even she shuddered at the thought of wearing the same outfit seven days a week.

  “Spice of life,” she said, more to herself than anything else.

  Lady Sunrise took the opportunity to come closer. “What’s that?”

  “Variety.” Caitlin slid the drawer closed and reached for the next. “So Desmond’s coming back, right? I’m under the impression he’s looking for information on my behalf.”

  “If that’s what he said.”

  The second drawer held socks, T-shirts, and tank tops but no underwear. Not exactly the get-to-know-the-dead-woman experience Caitlin had hoped for, but it would kill time until Desmond returned.

  She stepped back, checking out the rest of the room. A single-rod closet held two outfits on hangers: a flat-red dress, similar to the one worn by the woman from Daya’s Gifts in Coos Bay, and an all-weather coat.

  “What about the third drawer?” Gwendolyn said.