Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  The two younger women immediately started changing clothes, no questions asked. Andie and the older woman exchanged glances.

  “Well, I’m not putting on this ratty old stuff,” said Ingrid.

  She was clearly looking to Andie for some show of solidarity. Andie looked away, then started peeling off her clothes and stuffing them into the bag.

  Gus’s anger only swelled as the day went on. He suppressed it long enough to pick Morgan up from school, but by the time Carla came by to fix dinner he needed to vent.

  “I’m beyond mad,” he said from his seat at the kitchen table. “I’d like to kick his ass.”

  Carla stirred the sautéed vegetables. “Geez, why didn’t you think of that earlier? That will solve everything.”

  “Fine. Be sarcastic. But when Beth disappeared, the police thought I was a wife beater who killed my wife and dumped the body. Now that they’ve moved beyond that theory, they think Beth is a cult member and accomplice to serial murders. I don’t know why they keep treating us like criminals.”

  “They’re just being thorough, I guess. Exploring every possibility.”

  “Do you honestly think Beth could have been mixed up with a cult?”

  “No more than I think you’re a wife beater.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m tired of the little digs, Carla. I’m sorry your old boyfriend used to hit you, and I feel sorry for you for having lived through it. But I’m not him, and I was never like him.”

  “This is not about him.”

  “Why do you protect the man who beat you?”

  “I don’t protect him!”

  “Yes, you do. I don’t know how to explain it, but I get this feeling that all the things you wish you had said to him, you say to me. You’re misdirecting your anger. Damn, sometimes I would swear you still love the guy.”

  She glared and said, “Don’t presume to psychoanalyze me.”

  “I was just—”

  “Just doing what you do best. Blaming people for their own misfortune so you don’t have to help them.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There are a lot of brothers who look out for their sisters. Who aren’t so wrapped up in themselves. Who wouldn’t have been so quick to believe that all those black eyes and bruises came from falling off a horse.”

  He wasn’t sure that was fair. But if laying the guilt on him was a way of putting her own past behind her, so be it. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just forget it.”

  “No, you have a point. Based on no evidence at all, I haul off and suggest my sister still loves the guy who beat her. Yet in the same breath I’m outraged at the cops for twisting the evidence about my wife.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Beth being accused. That’s just one of many theories, I’m sure.”

  “But once the cops get it in their heads that maybe she’s a willing participant in some cult murders, the danger is they’ll start looking for evidence to support their theory. If they don’t see what they want to see, they’ll cross their eyes, squint, stand on their heads—they’ll look at it every way imaginable until they see it in a light that supports their theory.”

  Carla lowered the burner to simmer and covered the sauce pan. “Well, for Beth’s sake, I hope you’re wrong about that.”

  “I’m not wrong. And the real shame is that I’d love to tell them all the things Shirley’s lawyer told me.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “That the real target of the conspiracy to commit murder wasn’t a homeless person but her own mother. That her unnamed accomplices were possibly gang members. The gang theory sounds even more interesting now that the FBI is talking about a cult. But if I mention it now, you know what will happen?”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. If I give them inside information about Shirley’s conspiracy to commit murder, they’ll probably think Beth was one of Shirley’s unnamed accomplices.”

  Carla shot a look across the kitchen, then returned to cooking. It was a brief exchange, but Gus seemed to know what she was thinking.

  “I have to do this, don’t I, Carla?”

  “Do what?”

  “If I’m going to debunk the FBI’s suspicions about Beth, the first thing I have to do is prove she wasn’t part of Shirley’s little group.”

  “I didn’t say you had to do anything.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  It was the darkness of a new moon. Miles away from the glow of city lights, just an hour past sunset seemed like the dead of night. With each passing moment, another cluster of stars seemed to emerge in the ocean of blackness overhead.

  Andie, Ingrid, and their two younger roommates walked together from their cabin to the camp area near the river. As instructed, they had their paper shopping bags with them, filled with their belongings. It was a large campfire with flames that reached eye level. The group was seated around it, just close enough to bask in its glow and feel its warmth. They eagerly expanded the circle to make room for the newcomers.

  Andie didn’t see Blechman among the group. The meal had begun without him. No one was talking. The group was taking its cue from Felicia and the other “lieutenants,” as Andie had labeled them. As long as the honchos ate in silence, so would everyone else.

  Several baskets of food were passed around. Andie watched and imitated Felicia. The drill was to take something from each basket as it passed, place it on a big cloth napkin on the ground before you, and eat at your own pace. Andie took one of everything, leaving her with an assortment of delicacies. She first ate the smoked salmon, which was more like a jerky than the delicacy served in restaurants. The dried berries were tasty, left over from last summer. The meat—some kind of stringy and pungent game—she left for last. She tried something that resembled a cookie, somewhat sweet but very dry.

  “It’s a camas-root cake,” said Felicia, breaking the silence. She had been watching Andie pick over her food.

  “It’s good,” said Andie.

  “Camas root is the bulb of lilies indigenous to this area. It has been a natural source of nourishment for peoples of the land for thousands of years.”

  “How do you make them?”

  “The roots are dug from the ground and baked in an oven over well-heated stones. Then you pound them till the mass is as fine as cornmeal, knead them into cakes, and dry them in the sun.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “You’ll have help.”

  Andie realized she’d just been volunteered. Felicia asked, “Who wants to help Kira make the camas cakes for tomorrow’s meal?”

  Andie’s eager young roommates thrust their hands into the air.

  “Very good,” said Felicia. “Ingrid, how about you? Care to make it a project for your whole cabin?”

  The older woman hedged. “Oh, I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid.”

  “Then you can gather the roots,” she said reprovingly.

  Ingrid nodded nervously. “Whatever you say.”

  Andie leaned toward her and said quietly, “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

  The older woman smiled awkwardly and whispered, “She seemed a lot nicer at the sign-up.”

  They ate in silence for several minutes more. When the last among them had finished, the baskets were passed around again to gather the leftovers. A young woman collected the baskets and took them away. At Felicia’s direction, a man stoked the fire and added a few more logs. Finally, Felicia rose to address the group.

  “We have six newcomers with us tonight, and the principal purpose of tonight’s banquet is to welcome all of you. We don’t have a secret handshake or password or anything like that. None of us is big on ceremonies and rituals. But there is one tradition that has developed over time. This is something we have done on the first night of every retreat for as long as I can remember. It does have a certain symbolic significance. But more important, it will put each of you in t
he proper frame of mind to get the most out of this retreat.

  “At this time, I would ask each of the newcomers to please stand.”

  Andie and the others rose. Ingrid was at her side. Her other two roommates were down to her right. Two men were standing on the opposite side of the fire.

  Felicia continued, “Each of you heard Steve Blechman’s speech earlier this week. Obviously, it touched you in some way, or you wouldn’t be here tonight. But none of us is here simply to be moved or inspired. We’re here to be transformed. If you listened to Steve carefully, you understand that to be transformed, you must rid yourself of the worldly things that bind you.

  “When you arrived this afternoon, each of you was given everything you will need for the weekend. You placed everything you had brought with you in a paper bag. Did you bring those bags with you?”

  One of the men answered, “Yes.” The others just nodded.

  “Ingrid?” said Felicia.

  The older woman started.

  “Place your bag in the fire.”

  Ingrid clutched it like the payroll. “You want me to burn my things?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes darted nervously. She was suddenly digging into her bag. “Well, okay I guess, but let me get my wallet—”

  “Burn it,” she said firmly. “Burn everything you brought with you.”

  “But I have credit cards and photographs—”

  “Burn them.”

  She froze. All eyes were upon her. “I don’t want to be difficult, but—”

  “Ingrid. Throw the bag in fire.”

  “At least let me keep the pictures of my husband.”

  “You mustn’t cling to the things of this world.”

  “They’re my memories. They’re all I have.”

  “They’re all you’ll ever have. Be seated.”

  Ingrid was shaking, seeming to shrink as she returned to her seat. Andie wanted to go to her and tell her not to be intimidated, that she’d done the right thing. But now wasn’t the time.

  “Kira?” said Felicia.

  Andie looked alert.

  “Will you take the first step?”

  Andie could feel the gaze of the group turn toward her. She hated to make Ingrid feel even more like an outcast, but she knew what she had to do. She took her bag, stepped forward, and pitched it into the fire. The flames shot higher as they consumed all of Kira’s belongings. The group seemed transfixed by the ceremonial burning. Andie stepped back, her task complete.

  “Wait,” said Felicia.

  Andie halted and looked up inquisitively.

  Felicia said, “The ring.”

  “What?”

  “The ring on your finger. You brought that with you, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It has to go.”

  Andie hesitated. The struggle wasn’t staged.

  “Kira, it must go. Feed the fire.”

  With some obvious reluctance she pulled the ring from her finger, held it for a moment, and then tossed it into the flames.

  Felicia smiled. She clapped her hands, and the entire group promptly applauded her. One by one, each of them rose from their place in the circle and stepped forward to embrace her. Warm, full embraces, each one taking a full ten seconds or more. They said nothing, but their actions said it all. Nothing she had ever done in her life had earned her such immediate acceptance and approval.

  When the last had embraced her, she faced Felicia. She smiled with her eyes, but she did not rise to embrace her. The clear implication was that a newcomer had to travel much further to gain the praise of the inner circle.

  “Welcome, Kira,” she said simply.

  Andie gave a quick nod and returned to her seat. She listened as Felicia called out the name of the next newcomer, but she was so fixated on the fire that their voices faded behind the hissing and crackling of logs. She stared at the dancing yellow flames, searching helplessly for the ring. It wasn’t just any piece of jewelry. It was a very special ring. Hidden inside it was the tiny electronic tracking transmitter that Isaac Underwood had insisted she carry for her own safety. And now it was incinerated.

  Kira had won acceptance. But Andie was truly on her own.

  Fifty-one

  Gus called his investigator at home early Saturday morning. Dex was on his way out the kitchen door, fishing pole in hand. It was his first weekend off in months, and he had planned to make the most of it. Gus had other ideas.

  “I need you to find Shirley Borge’s mother for me.”

  Naturally, he wanted to know why, and Gus explained in less than a minute.

  Dex said, “As I recall from Shirley’s polygraph results, she didn’t even know if her mother was still alive.”

  “That’s true. But if she is, I want to talk to her.”

  “Is the FBI looking for her?”

  “They don’t even know she was the real target of Shirley’s conspiracy to commit murder. That was something Shirley’s lawyer told me. If I shared any of that with the FBI, they’d have Beth tagged as one of her unnamed co-conspirators.”

  “You think your wife could have been?”

  “No,” he said harshly.

  Dex was silent, as if giving his client time to think about it. “No way,” said Gus, this time a little less firmly.

  “It’s all right. This isn’t the first time someone has hired me to find out if a spouse is really involved in a crime rather than sharing their information with the police.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “You may not realize it. But that is what you’re doing.”

  “You’re starting to make me mad.”

  “Don’t be mad at me. Don’t be mad at the FBI either. With that phone call from Beth, her shoplifting and her clothes found in a thrift shop where Agent Henning is working undercover, it seems plausible that a cult or a gang could have played a role in these murders. And that Beth might be…involved.”

  “Beth couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “She could have played a more passive role. She is an attractive woman.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m just talking hypothetically here. Remember, the serial killer’s first two victims were men killed in their homes. No sign of forced entry at the second one. Sending an attractive woman to the door is a good way to catch a man off guard, get inside. I’ve used that ruse myself. Hired myself an attractive cocktail waitress who pretends her car broke down, knocks on some guy’s door, and asks to borrow the phone. Once inside, she plants a bug for me.”

  “You’re saying Beth is the one who opened the door for a serial killer?”

  “All I’m saying is that she doesn’t have to strangle someone with her own hands to be involved in these killings.”

  “Yet another possibility,” said Gus. “Someone wants the police to think she is an accomplice. He is planting evidence of Beth’s involvement, like that phone call to Morgan.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to throw the cops off the track. Maybe to make the FBI think they should be looking for a cult in Yakima when they should be chasing down Shirley’s little gang in Seattle. That’s just one more thing I have to find out.”

  “You want me to tackle that one?”

  “I just want you to find Shirley’s mother. Can you do that fast?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Call me when you do,” said Gus.

  It was an unusually warm Saturday afternoon for early March. The valley had been in winter’s icy grip since Thanksgiving, but over the last week or so temperatures had been steadily rising in anticipation of spring. The humming of lawn mowers could be heard in the nearby town of Selah, the first cut of the year. It was time to store away the snowmobiles till next season, a good day to leave the jacket inside and feel the warmth on your skin.

  It was Flora’s first day out of the house in more than a week.

  There was always plenty of work to
do around the farm, and today was no exception. Two hundred newly hatched chicks had been delivered to the coop last week. In six weeks the pullets would be grown and tender and ready for slaughter. This afternoon her job was menial but necessary. In a way, it was even philosophical. They called it culling. Every delivery of chicks included some infirm ones. It wasn’t wise to wait for the weak to infect the strong. Every day someone had to walk down to the coop, select the weaklings, and snap their necks. As clichéd as it sounded, it really was all in the wrist. The fuzzy little body fit easily in one hand. A little squirming, a few innocent chirps. With one quick jerk it was all over.

  She had hated it at first but had grown accustomed to it. It wasn’t so much the killing that bothered her anymore. It was the odor. Nothing smelled worse than a chicken coop.

  To her credit, she could at least come and go without holding her nose, a vast improvement over her first visit to the compound more than a year ago. Of course, it wasn’t the thought of raising chickens or picking apples that had drawn her there. It was the typical laundry list of personal problems. Trouble at home. An unhappy marriage. A husband who had become a stranger. She’d attended dozens of enlightenment workshops and lectures, none of which had lasted more than a day. Over time she had found herself drawn to a different kind of family, to the group’s teachings. Working in the orchards or tending to the farm was therapeutic, though she had never honestly planned on staying.

  Now leaving was out of the question.

  “Flora?” the man’s voice echoed from the farmhouse. He was standing on the back porch nearly a quarter mile away.

  She didn’t answer. He called again, this time more sternly. “Flora!”

  The second time it hit her. He was calling her. Despite the drilling, she wasn’t used to her new name yet.

  Quickly and without a word, she tossed the last of the dead culls into her basket and obediently started toward the house. This was the part she dreaded. She knew the pattern by now. Every time he gave her something, like free time, he laid another burden on her. The burden of guilt.