by Oram, Jean
“Nice work, Andrews.” Paul shot him a grin from his own desk. “Third one this week.”
Ben sighed and slumped back into his own chair. “Same old scam. Why do people keep falling for it?”
“Tugs on the heartstrings. Old lady claims she’s been mugged and needs gas money to get back home? Who’s going to say no to that?”
“Well, they should.” Ben ground his teeth and turned his attention to his computer. The woman had raised more than two hundred dollars in one day by hustling people on the beach and amid the downtown shops, and the irritation stabbed like a splinter in his chest.
“Forget about it,” Paul advised. “It’s all part of the job.”
Yes, Ben knew that. And he was grateful to be here in Indigo Bay, rounding up petty thieves instead of facing down a drug cartel in Atlanta. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his exasperation. Paul was right; it was part of the job.
“I think you’re cranky about something else,” Amelia said from the reception desk. She flashed him a syrupy grin. “I’ve seen the way you keep pulling up pictures of that girl on your phone.”
“Pictures of a girl?” Paul said, instantly alert. “You got someone sending you skin pics? Are you holding out on me?”
Ben gritted his teeth. “No.”
“Lame.” Paul shrugged and ducked his head back to his work.
Amelia rolled her eyes in Paul’s direction, then turned to Ben. “She works at the chocolate shop, right?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Eva,” Ben said. He’d texted her about delaying the picnic, but hadn’t heard back from her yet. Hopefully she wasn’t mad. It had already been five days since he’d seen her, five days too long. They were both busy with work and errant panhandlers didn’t help his schedule. But there was something else too. She’d drawn back recently. She didn’t text him as often, and when she did, her texts seemed more forced.
He sighed and shook his head. Maybe it was because she’d been working such long hours with the summer rush. Or maybe he was imagining it; it was always so hard to read tone over a text.
“She seems nice,” Amelia said, breaking into his thoughts.
“Yeah, she is.” Ben managed a smile before turning back to his work. He didn’t want to talk about Eva with his coworkers as casually as if she were just some girl he was dating. She was more than that.
He glanced at the window again. It was tightly shut and he wished he could open it. A bit of a salty breeze would make sitting at a desk so much easier. But the rest of the guys liked the cool, sterile climate from the air conditioner and he was still the newbie, in no position to make demands.
“Andrews!” Chief Nielsen’s voice boomed from his office.
Ben exchanged a quick look with Amelia as he rose and went to the door. “Yes, sir?”
The chief’s attention was focused on his computer screen. “Shut the door.”
Ben clicked the door shut and took the seat opposite the chief’s desk. “What’s going on?”
Chief Nielsen swiveled his screen to show a mugshot of a young guy. He was vaguely familiar, but in a way Ben couldn’t place. His dark hair was stringy and hung slightly past his shoulders, and he stared unsmilingly at the camera. He wore a baggy black shirt and his blue eyes held a look of thinly veiled hostility.
“Who’s that?” Ben asked.
“Says his name is Sambium.”
“Come again?”
“Sambium.” The chief gave a derisive snort. “From one of those nutjob groups that sprout like weeds. He says he’s here on orders from someone named …” The chief consulted his notes. “Father Neezrahiah, who is a genuine prophet and has declared Armageddon will start by the end of the year.” The amusement was plain in his voice.
There was something familiar about the name. A drop of sweat prickled between Ben’s shoulder blades. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Sambium.”
“No, the guy who thinks he’s a prophet?”
“Neezrahiah,” the chief said, then spelled it for him. “This idiot claims it’s something to do with Planet X and the aliens who are coming back for their gold.” He widened his eyes theatrically.
Ben’s mind churned. “What was the guy arrested for?”
“Shoplifting at the grocery store. Took a pocketknife and a couple of energy drinks.”
Ben could think of a lot of other, more worthy things to get caught shoplifting, but said nothing as the chief continued. “He claims he came in on a bus from Georgia and was here visiting. But he didn’t have a motel room or an address where he was staying. Plus, no ID and less than ten bucks in cash on him.”
Ben looked at the screen again, the hair on the back of his neck starting to rise. It was the eyes. The man’s eyes were familiar. Large, deep blue, something otherworldly about them. “So he’s in jail now?”
The chief shook his head. “That’s why I pulled you in here; got a call from the desk. A girl just came in and bailed him out.”
Ben’s gut clenched. He knew the answer before he’d asked the question. “Who was it?”
“Eva Malone.”
* * *
Ben sat in the car in his parents’ driveway for a long time. His stomach churned and his hands were icy. A thousand questions whirled through his mind.
After meeting with the chief, he’d gone back to his desk, ignoring the questioning looks from Paul and Amelia, and ducked his head over his computer. By the time he’d finished Googling, the back of his neck was slick with sweat and his stomach cramped. With the correct spelling of the so-called “prophet,” Google was much more forthcoming. Pages of hits came up, full of details Eva had never even hinted at.
“The Family” was not a commune of hippies; it was a cult. Officially named The Nineteenth Day Church, in reference to Father Neezrahiah’s prophecy, the cult believed a group of aliens would visit the Earth and cleanse it with fire on the nineteenth day. Father Neezrahiah had originally set this event to happen in 2012, but after that date came and went, he changed it to coincide with the return of Planet X, which was supposed to show up at the end of 2017.
The Nineteenth Day Church wasn’t the only group who believed in Planet X, but they had made a name for themselves no cop would ever forget during what turned out to be the dry run, in early December 2012.
Ben had been in Atlanta, new to the force and still learning the ropes, when news had come down that a weird doomsday cult was acting up. They were just a couple of hours northeast of Atlanta, so the guys had paid attention.
An elementary school near the cult’s property burned to the ground in the middle of the night, and it wasn’t an accident. Along with accelerant and lighters, the police found a sign zip-tied to the chain-link fence at the back of the baseball field that read, “Armageddon Starts Now.” It was signed by the Prophet Neezrahiah.
When the police showed up at the Compound with arrest warrants, they found the place barricaded—gates locked and rifles aimed through the windows. Knowing they were in over their heads, the police called in the Feds and the standoff began. Ruby Ridge and Waco were going on twenty years old, but the idea of a cult standoff made everyone nervous. The Feds were cautious, but it was obvious the cult had prepared for the long fight. They had fuel, food, and supplies to last months.
The situation simmered for several days while the police buzzed the buildings with helicopters, gathering intel and trying to fend off news crews who were waiting to film any action with their own helicopters.
Then, on the tenth day, a man ran out of a shelter with a rifle and started shooting at a circling police chopper. A bullet hit the FBI agent who was inside taking pictures, killing him instantly.
The government prepared for a firefight, but to their surprise, the man with the rifle surrendered the next morning and was now serving a life sentence courtesy of United States taxpayers. Several other people in the cult were arrested for the school fire and were given sentences ranging from two to ten years. The local police renamed their justi
ce building after the dead FBI agent, Georgia State offered lifetime scholarships to his kids, and everyone went back to regular life. The Nineteenth Day Church lapsed back into obscurity.
Ben knew the story, had learned some of the details online this afternoon. But what really chilled him were the photographs, published by one of the big news stations out of Atlanta and taken seconds before the fatal shot.
The cult member was probably in his late thirties, grungy, with long hair and a shaggy beard. He wore a tunic-style shirt over frayed khakis and wouldn’t have been out of place at a 1960s–era hippie concert. But Ben’s attention had honed in on the figure standing several feet away. Her dark hair hung past her hips and she wore a shapeless dress with a round neckline, belted at the waist. The dress reached to her ankles and she was barefoot. Even though the photo was grainy, her face was clear enough.
It was Eva. And she held a rifle.
Was it her rifle? Had she been participating in the standoff? Or was it a spare for the killer? From the reports, only the man had fired, and after he’d made the kill shot, they’d ducked back under cover before anyone in the chopper could react.
Ben swiped his fingers across his sweaty forehead. He’d turned off the car, and with the windows rolled up, the air was acrid and stale. Or maybe he was just having a hard time breathing. There was a dull ache in his chest where, a few hours earlier, his heart had been beating, alive and full of anticipation at seeing her tonight. Full of hope and … love.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He thought back to the conversations they’d had about her past. She’d been cagey, evasive. His radar should have gone off immediately, but all he’d seen was the vulnerability in those blue eyes and he’d jumped right in. Tyler was right. He’d wanted to be the hero, the protector. And now he was the boyfriend of a cop killer.
Nice job, idiot.
He jumped at the light tapping on the passenger window. It was his mother. She wore a big straw sunhat and carried a pair of mud-caked gardening gloves. He rolled the window down.
“What are you doing lurking out here?” Her quick smile faded as she got a good look at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Well, Eva asked me to tell you she’s waiting on the beach.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you go disappointing her, Ben. She’s borrowed my picnic things and has everything all set up.”
Ben popped the door and she stood back so he could get out of the car. He slammed the door and turned to his mother, unable to hold back any longer. “What has she told you, Mom?”
“That she wanted to have a nice picnic on the beach. Why?”
“No, I mean when she moved here. What did she tell you about where she’d come from? About her past?”
Understanding dawned on her face. “She told me enough, Ben. She’s had a hard life.”
“So she told you she’s a cop killer?” The words tasted like bile.
“I know about the standoff,” his mother said carefully. “And she’s not a killer. She didn’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice,” he grated.
A hint of steel flashed in his mom’s hazel eyes. “It sounds to me like she hasn’t told you everything,” she said. “Maybe you should ask her before jumping to conclusions.”
“I thought I did already.”
“I don’t think you know the whole story.”
“Okay,” Ben sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
But as he made his way across the lawn and then along the sandy trail through the dunes, all he could see was the shock on Griffin’s face as the bullet pierced his neck.
* * *
Eva sat just beyond the dunes on a blanket, next to the picnic basket she’d borrowed from Marjorie. She’d moved far enough along the beach that she could keep the trail leading between the dunes in her peripheral vision and watch for Ben. Her excitement had been building all day, tempered by dread he would ask about Sam. Ben would know she’d bailed Sam out, wouldn’t he? She didn’t know how much information was shared between the jail and the police department, but word traveled fast in Indigo Bay. Miss Lucille probably knew by now.
Her heart jumped as Ben appeared between the dunes. It was late in the day and the beach crowd had thinned, but he still stopped for a minute to search for her among the joggers, strolling couples, and tired families packing up their things. She was about to wave to him when he spotted her and began walking in her direction. He wore his cargo shorts and a navy jacket, open over a blue-and-green-striped T-shirt.
He walked slowly, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and her smile slid away as he got closer. He knew.
“Hi.” He dropped onto the blanket, and she felt a physical ache at the space he put between them. Normally he would have sat close, gathered her into his arms, and pressed a kiss to her lips. But tonight he kept his distance, sitting at the edge of the blanket, toying with the fabric. “Our family beach blanket,” he said with a small smile.
“Yeah, your mom was really nice to let me borrow it, along with the basket.” She flapped one hand weakly toward the wicker basket at her side. The picnic wasn’t anything special—chicken salad sandwiches on croissants she’d picked up from the grocery store, along with red grapes, a bag of chips, and some chocolate chip cookies Marjorie had sent along with the basket.
And the red wine, with a pair of cheap goblets. She’d been trying to plan a romantic picnic, but now, with the way Ben was acting, her cheeks burned in embarrassment at her presumption.
“I used to fall asleep on this blanket,” Ben mused. His fingers pinched the red and blue folds, but his eyes were focused on the thundering waves. “We’d stay out here until we were absolutely fried with exhaustion. Then my dad would carry me to bed. That’s the best feeling isn’t it? Having your Dad ca— …” He trailed off as he turned his head; he must have remembered who he was talking to.
“I wouldn’t know,” Eva said.
Ben flushed. “Sorry. I got reminiscing and …” He met her eyes for a long moment, then ducked his head, lacing his fingers together at the back of his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me it was a cult?” he whispered.
Eva felt the sting of tension between her shoulder blades. Why indeed? Because calling it the Family, or the Church, or the Compound was so much more benign than calling it a cult. Admitting it was a cult meant admitting she’d been taken in, she’d been fooled, and even though she’d been so young and it wasn’t her fault, how did you explain that you let it go on for eighteen years, even after you’d grown up enough that you knew? How did you explain that kind of learned helplessness and fear?
She pressed her suddenly shaking hands between her knees. “I didn’t think of it as a … a cult,” she said. “To us, it was just the Family.”
“The Nineteenth Day Church,” Ben clarified, his voice scraping on the words. He yanked open the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a folded piece of paper, tossed it to her across the bright plaid blanket. “And they killed a man.”
The paper fluttered in the breeze, like the delicate cicada wings she’d seen on the trees. Only this wasn’t a mere insect. From Ben’s tone, it could have been a bomb. Slowly she opened it to find a black-and-white printout of a photo she’d never seen, though she knew in an instant what it was.
Memories of the day came washing over her like a sandstorm, dark and smothering. They’d been in a bunker, stuffed too full with people. It was hot, there were no windows, Naralyiea’s baby had a dirty diaper. Sam’s hungry, pinched face pleaded for her to do something, and all she could think of was air. She needed air.
So when Dagon had jumped up, screaming for someone to follow, it was all the invitation Eva needed. Anything was better than sitting still. After days of waiting amid the ever-increasing tension, inside the bunker was worse than what was out there. Even the possibility of getting shot had seemed abstruse. She’d followed Dagon into the yard, taken the rifle he’d thrust into her han
ds. She didn’t know how to use it and had followed stupidly at his heels as he’d stalked to the clearing to confront the buzzing helicopters.
It was over before she could even process what had happened. The rifle fired once, or maybe twice, and there was one brief image of a man slumping over, his face coated in blood. Then the helicopter screamed off and Dagon dragged her back to the bunker.
“Why’d they surrender?” Ben’s voice broke through the nightmare. “Agent Garrett died; your side scored a point. But the next day they turned the shooter over to the police. I went through the records and I couldn’t find any reason why.”
“He …” Eva’s voice stuck. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I think Father Neezrahiah realized he’d been wrong about the end of the world. He didn’t want any more press coverage. So he made Dagon turn himself in.”
“So this was supposed to have been some big going-away party? Take out as many nonbelievers as you can before the aliens swooped in to save you?”
“Something like that. But I didn’t want …” She held up the picture. “I didn’t know this would happen.”
“Really? You grabbed a rifle and followed the crazy guy because you thought he was going to do what? Shoot rabbits?”
Eva flinched. “You weren’t there.”
“I didn’t have to be there to know killing people is wrong.”
Her patience snapped. “You think everyone can be Lawrence Oates, nobly putting the needs of the group above their own. It’s a nice concept when you grow up safe and protected with a family who loves you. But what about when every day is a matter of survival, the strong prey on the weak, and there’s nowhere to run? You’ve been sheltered, Ben. You don’t understand.”
“I was a cop in Atlanta for six years,” Ben growled. “I’ve seen things you’d better hope to God you never have to see. I know just as well as you do about survival. But I’ve also seen people choose to be heroic and brave.”