The White Lily

by Susanne Matthews

  “When I left the compound, I lost touch with everyone, including Eloise, until three months ago. I was surprised she was in Boston. I didn’t think my uncle would ever let her leave the commune.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t and the silence between them weighed heavily, she sighed.

  “The New Horizon compound in New Mexico is deserted. We don’t know why, but it appears they abandoned it sometime within the last two years. Eloise and the Williamsons must have been among the first to leave since they established themselves in Boston before that. We believe the commune has changed, evolved into a cult, its leader a religious fanatic who thinks of himself as God’s prophet with the right to decide who lives and who dies. He and his followers are bent on death and destruction in the name of the Creator. Unfortunately, they’ve vanished. Maybe you can give us some idea where they might go.”

  Pain followed swiftly by fury, the anger she’d expected earlier, crossed his face.

  “Agent Munroe,” he said bitterly, as if the words he was speaking revolted him. “I escaped from whatever New Horizon was becoming after my uncle almost killed me for standing up to him when I disagreed with his ideas and those of his cronies. He was a cruel, sadistic son of a bitch who enjoyed watching people suffer. He had me whipped, taken out into the desert, and left there without food or water to ponder my sin. What sin? I was seventeen. Two years earlier, my father and grandfather, along with a number of well-respected people in the commune, died as the result of an epidemic—what I know now was probably a particularly virulent form of dengue hemorrhagic fever. It’s rare but not unheard of in the States, and since the commune didn’t have access to modern medicine, it’s a wonder we didn’t all die.”

  “I’ve never heard of that disease.” She’d grown up in San Diego. Surely she’d have remembered a disease that severe running rampant through nearby states. As protective as Mom and Dad had been of both her and her older sister, Ruby-Ann, they’d have made a big deal of it.

  “It’s sometimes called breakbone fever. It’s quite common in Queensland and other parts of Australia, which is why I recognize it now. It’s spread by infected mosquitoes. It’s not supposed to be contagious, but it went through the commune like wildfire. Those who caught it were in agony, suffered high fevers, nausea, and bleeding. Some died quickly, while others suffered for well over a week before succumbing to the illness. Those who recovered, usually the older children, teens, and strong, healthy adults, did so within a few days.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you get sick as well?”

  “No, I was one of the lucky ones.”

  She nodded. “Please go on.”

  He stood and paced. “The second night I was in the desert, there was a vicious spring storm that spawned a flash flood. Weak and dehydrated as I was, I didn’t have the strength to climb to high ground. I was caught in the raging water, tossed around until I probably swallowed as much water as I floated in. I got snagged by the branches of a tree and went along for the ride.”

  “Didn’t anyone go out to get you?” What kind of monster was this uncle? She knew all too well the pain a whip inflicted, but to be lashed and left out in the desert to die from heat exhaustion or thirst or drown in a flash flood was inhuman.

  “Not to my knowledge. Jacob Colchester died in the desert that day. I was reborn. Andrew Jackson, an old Havasupai Indian, found me washed up against some brush on the reservation. He claimed the spirit of his ancestors had told him where to find me—it’s the color of my eyes, I guess. If you ever go to Supai, you’ll see the water’s the same color. From that moment on, I was Andrew’s, hence my choice of surname. He took me in, nursed me back to health, and adopted me as his grandson. Once I was well enough to go, we crossed the border into Canada, where we stayed on a Sioux reservation. They helped me find work in the oil fields, and through the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Andrew Jackson and Jacob Andrews were issued United States passports. When I’d amassed enough money, we left North America. Andrew was by my side until he died two weeks ago. He was more of a parent to me than my father or uncle ever were. His ashes are buried on my farm near Darwin, and I miss him dearly. I have no desire to see or speak to anyone from New Horizon.”

  “Then why did you come back? I’m sure it wasn’t to sample our hospitality.”

  He dropped into the chair. “I came back for Eloise, but I’m too late.”

  • • •

  Jacob rubbed his face, surprised to find it wet again. He’d cried more today than he had since the morning he’d found Andrew had passed on during the night. Why was he still here?

  Raising his head, his gaze met the expressive eyes of the woman across from him.

  Because of her.

  These people had abused him shamelessly, treated him like a criminal, and instead of leaving when he could, he’d opted to stay here and spend more time with this woman who puzzled him.

  The FBI agent was a contradiction. In her men’s cut, navy-blue pantsuit and yellow blouse, she looked professional, an image further emphasized by the way she wore her light auburn hair in a tight chignon and her minimal use of cosmetics. She had a flawless peaches and cream complexion. Either she wore tons of sunscreen, or she worked long hours indoors not to have even a trace of a tan.

  Idiot, she’s so fair, she’d probably burn to a crisp if she went out into the sun unprotected. She wouldn’t last a day in the outback.

  Contrasting with her tough, professional exterior were her warm, dark brown eyes, currently bright with unshed tears. She reminded him of the Asiatic lilies Andrew had planted in the garden in Darwin. The flawless white of the star-shaped flower was broken only by the deep brown of the stamens. While the lily was tough enough to survive the heat and drought, its petals could be marred by the slightest touch, but when they were all in bloom, the scent could overwhelm you. This woman could easily overpower his defenses if she wanted to. He’d already told her more about himself than he’d ever revealed to anyone.

  That the New Horizon commune had morphed into some weird cult really shouldn’t surprise him. Being God would appeal to his uncle.

  He focused on Agent Munroe once more. How had she drawn the short straw? Being the one to apologize for the department’s caveman antics was one thing, but being forced to answer his questions—possibly pump him for information while she was at it—wasn’t an easy task. So far, what she’d told him, as shocking to him as it had been, was relayed clearly, but he read her discomfort in those sensitive eyes.

  “Why did you decide to come after Eloise now, after all these years?”

  Feeling more composed, he leaned back in the chair. “Three months ago, I hired a couple of young American backpackers on walkabout—on a world tour. One of the boys had just about every inch of his torso inked. Tats are common among the Aborigines, and each one has personal meaning for its owner. He and some of my men were talking about one of them, an eagle in flight, when I happened to join them. He mentioned seeing this girl where he’d had his passport picture taken who had something similar on the left side of her face. He’d asked her about it, and she’d said it was to cover a burn scar.” He licked his lips—he’d never forget the fateful day his sister’s life had changed.

  “That got me thinking about my youngest sister. Eloise was a happy, vibrant child. She was an unexpected surprise, and my father had indulged her. She was only five when she tripped running through the kitchen and landed with her face against the wood stove on baking day. To this day, I still think my uncle tripped her, but I couldn’t prove it. Mom begged for permission to take her to the hospital, but he wouldn’t allow it. He said the burn was her punishment for disobedience—she wasn’t supposed to run in the house. By then, his word was law. Watching my sister suffer through that pain was the worse thing I’d ever done. Mom died of cancer six months later. I cursed him that day. My mother probably would have survived if my uncle had let her seek proper treatment.”

  “That must have been awful for her, for
all of you.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Dying was probably the only way out Mom had. From that day on, Eloise’s life was hell. The other kids in the commune, including my cousins, made fun of her and said the burn was Satan’s mark on her—something they’d heard my uncle say—but when I was around they left her alone. When I confronted my uncle about that and other things, I ended up in the desert.”

  He closed his eyes, seeing a tearful Eloise held back by her aunt as he was led out to be disciplined.

  “Leaving my brothers and sisters wasn’t easy, but I figured Jimmy would step into the breach and protect Eloise. They’d always been close. The conversation with that boy got me thinking that maybe she’d somehow escaped from the commune, and I decided to look for her.”

  “My God, knowing what her life was like, how could you do it? How could you walk away from that poor child and leave her there for eighteen years? And when you decided to look for her, you waited again. Why?”

  The implication that if he’d come sooner he might’ve saved Eloise was clear.

  “Because I was an angry, seventeen-year-old bastard who’d almost died, and I was too damn scared to go back,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t judge me, Agent Munroe. Until you’ve been brutalized as I was, you don’t have the right to.”

  Her face paled, no doubt stunned by the viciousness of his attack, but he didn’t care. No one could possibly hate him as much at the moment as he hated himself.

  “As for coming after her a few months ago, fate conspired against us. Andrew had a heart attack, and I made the choice to stay with him, a decision I refuse to regret. I hired a private investigator in Boston to find the girl with the tattoo. He found her right away, in mid-June. When I saw the picture, I knew it was my sister. She looks—I mean looked—like my mother. The PI arranged for me to contact her. She told me James had taken her to get that tattoo on her sixteenth birthday.”

  “How did Eloise feel about seeing you again?” Her voice had lost its warmth, and her eyes were cold.

  “She was surprised, but excited when I told her I wanted to bring her to Australia to live with me. She was worried about what might happen if my uncle discovered I’d survived and that she was planning to leave the States. I gathered from what she’d said that New Horizon had changed and not for the better. Through the man who’d found her, I made arrangements for her to get a passport and a ticket to Sydney. My agent gave her a prepaid mobile phone two weeks before she was supposed to fly out, and I warned her to keep it hidden. I talked to her the day before her flight. Everything was in place, and she was looking forward to getting on the plane. She was concerned about the Williamsons. They’d been gone a few days, and she hated the thought of leaving them without saying goodbye. They couldn’t know she was going; nobody could. If my uncle found out ... I went to the airport to meet her flight, and she was a no-show. I called her number, the numbers the detective had given me for both the Williamsons’ home and their work number, but got no answer. Andrew took a turn for the worse and died. As soon as I could, I made arrangements and came out to look for her myself.” He paused and massaged his temples. Between his jet lag and the mess here, he was surprised he was still functioning.

  “Why didn’t you contact the private investigator you hired? He could’ve brought her to you.”

  “I tried,” he defended himself, “but apparently he’s decided to take some wilderness vacation and can’t be reached.”

  He yawned. “Sorry. I’m still jetlagged, and it’s been a long day. Can I see my sister before I go back? I’ll want to make arrangements for her cremation and having her ashes sent to me. As for James, I don’t care what you do with him, but I’ll cover the cost.”

  She nodded. “That’s kind of you. They’re both still in the police morgue. I’m not sure when the bodies will be released, but I’ll talk to Special Agent Clark and see what he can set up. He’s in charge of the task force.” He noted the empathy was back in her voice if not in her eyes, and the eyes didn’t lie.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t help you with the commune, but if they’ve left New Mexico, I haven’t the foggiest idea where they’d go. I know my uncle had friends living in other communes in Utah and other western states.”

  “Well, wherever they’ve gone, we’ll find them.”

  He noted she’d clasped her hands—what had he said to upset her? Before he could ask, she continued, but her voice wasn’t as steady as it had been.

  “We have members of the cult in custody, and we’ll work on them. Maybe make a deal with the women who must have helped with sanitizing the apartments or cleansing the bodies.”

  “Bodies? Are you telling me James killed the women he assaulted?” There was no way the boy who’d cried when he’d had to shoot the coyote who’d killed his uncle’s chickens would ever kill someone. He refused to believe it. The other charges had been preposterous, but this ... this was ridiculous.

  “No. From what we know, someone else did the deed. Five people including your sister had their throats cut because they defied the cult in some way or posed a danger. Four of the women who gave birth asked to leave and were released, but they didn’t realize the cult’s idea of release and theirs were different. They were found, dressed in white nightgowns, their bodies cleaned with a bleach solution, and then wrapped in either a pink or a blue blanket. They were poisoned with potassium cyanide.”

  Jacob stood, too agitated by the news she’d just given him to sit still any longer. He ran his hands through his hair again. This was a nightmare.

  “What you’ve described, minus the use of cyanide, is the way the commune prepared its dead for burial. The bleach bath purified the vessel, the white gown or shroud stood for innocence and purity, but they didn’t use blankets and none of them were murdered.” Things were moving from bad to worse, and without a doubt, his uncle was at the root of it all.

  “Where did you find the bodies?”

  “In parks and playgrounds.”

  “Not buried?”

  “No.”

  “They weren’t members of the commune, or cult as you call it, were they?”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  He shook his head and paced the small room, his hands moving of their own accord as he spoke. “My God. What’s happened to those people? The commune didn’t believe in embalming its dead, which they saw as desecrating the body. Grandpa had seen too many monks set themselves on fire to condone cremation, so after being cleansed and purified, a body was shrouded, placed in a pine box, and interred. At the end, no matter who you were, you were treated the same way. When I was living in New Horizon, there was a strict code of behavior. Grandpa and his closest friends who’d helped him build the commune had created it using a variety of ideas they’d picked up in Vietnam. One of the most sacrosanct rules strictly forbade violent actions against one another.”

  “And murder would be against that rule?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  “It most certainly would.” He slammed his fist on the desk, making her jump, and he regretted the display of temper. Calming, he continued. “Many people may have thought my grandfather was nuttier than a fruitcake at the end, but he believed in what he’d created at New Horizon. To his way of thinking, good people were reborn, sometimes at a better place in life, sometimes at a worse one to atone for sin. Bad people were condemned to hell. If those women weren’t members of the commune, the bodies were left in the open so their families could reclaim them. Grandpa had known too many men who hadn’t made it back from Vietnam whose families had never found closure. If the cult members thought those women had died of natural causes, they might have used blankets to represent coffins, but I can’t accept they’d just leave them out in the open like that, and I certainly don’t believe they’d aid and abet in murder.”

  Jacob reached up and loosened the collar of his shirt. He was hot and dizzy and far angrier than he’d been in years. How could his uncle have bastardized his own father’
s teachings that way?

  “Your grandfather sounds like a good man,” Agent Munroe said. “The blankets used to wrap the victims indicate the sex of the woman’s child.”

  “Child! They’ve killed children as well as innocent women?”

  “No, of course not. None of the children were harmed. We rescued five of your brother’s children.”

  “Stupid question, I know, but are you sure they’re his?”

  “One hundred percent paternal DNA match. He has six children now, since one of the women gave birth to a boy shortly after the raid. Another is due in November. Detective Halliday’s wife was one of the kidnapped women, but her baby isn’t due until February. They’ve done tests, and that child isn’t your brother’s.”

  Jacob stood there, rooted to the spot, letting the full extent of her words fill him. That crazy bastard. There was no way James had concocted this scheme alone.

  Sighing, he focused on her eyes once more, but she looked away. How could he blame her?

  “You’re telling me James came up with a way to increase New Horizon’s population by drugging and raping women to impregnate them, kidnap them, and then have them killed after they’d given birth, and keep the children? No. Absolutely not. It’s true the commune’s population dropped substantially after the fever, and I don’t remember any babies born the last couple of years I was there, but what you’re saying is the kind of nonsense one would find in a really bad film.”

  “Well, truth can be stranger than fiction. New Horizon has done away with the ‘do no harm’ motto your grandfather espoused. Death seems to be the most common punishment meted out to those who disobey the rules. According to one of the women we rescued, the Prophet, not your brother, is the one who released the women. Not knowing this, after the first couple of bodies were found, the local newspaper nicknamed the killer the Harvester. It should be of some comfort to know that despite what he did do, your brother probably wasn’t a murderer.”