by S. F. Kosa
I read it over a few times, upping the flattery and including a link to the Hatchet in case he hasn’t heard of us. Small as we are, between Valentina and Miles, we’re legit enough to draw applications from Northwestern and Columbia grads, so I would think a kid from Reed might be intrigued. After I send, I search for the other two adult survivors, but both Marie Heckender, a.k.a. Fabia, and Shari Redmond, a.k.a. Ladonna, prove elusive targets. I’m searching Portland newspapers when my email pings. It’s Noah Perry.
Hi, Ms. Rodriguez! Thanks so much for showing an interest in my work. I’m actually spending a few weeks in Bend now that I’m on break. Is your story related to the Arnold Moore murder by any chance? I’d totally love to talk to you about the Children of Darius group, but for now, my sources have to remain confidential. Is that okay? I promised them that in return for their cooperation on my story. Let me know, and thanks again! I’m a big fan of the Hatchet!
This is even better than I thought. Confidential sources, a territorial but naive college journalist. He includes his phone number at the bottom, so I text him to introduce myself and let him know that I’m in Bend as well. I ask him if he wants to meet up at the Dogwood Cocktail Cabin at 8:30; it’ll give me enough time to understand what I’m dealing with before I meet up with Miles. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I feel some hope—if Miles is busy chasing sprawling leads, it might be enough to keep him off my trail.
I slip past a few smokers outside the Cocktail Cabin and pull the front door open, drawing a sharp breath between my teeth at the slice of pain in my wrist. A burst of frustration heats my chest as I rub the spot. The last thing I need is more aches and pains. Maybe it’s the stress winding along my bones like barbed wire, squeezing tight.
Noah told me that he’ll be wearing a black flannel and green T-shirt. From where I stand, a few guys might meet that description, but only one of them is staring at me from his position at the bar. Black hair, blue eyes, about the right age. He says something I can’t hear, so I walk closer. “Noah? Hi.”
His eyes dance over my face, my hair, and his brow furrows. He tilts his head and looks confused. Not an unusual reaction when I first meet people. Before they can cover it up, I get to see their confusion at the mismatch between my (relatively) unwrinkled skin and my white hair, which a lot of people assume I’ve dyed as a sort of fashion statement. He pulls it together after a second. “Dora?”
When I nod, he offers his hand to shake and gestures over to the bar. “I hope it’s okay I brought a friend of mine.” He sits down again and pats the back of a sandy-haired guy on his right, with a peach fuzz mustache and soft, round cheeks. He’s hunched over a beer but looks over at us and nods. “This is Arman.”
I wave and sit on Noah’s left. “Do you both go to Reed?”
Noah shakes his head. “Arman is a local. I’m here to do a little research on the Oracles for another story, but it’s great to have the chance to hang out with my buddy too. I was hoping to do some skiing at Mount Bachelor, but it’s waaay too early in the season, so we’ll do some hiking instead.” He hands me a menu. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ll buy,” I tell him. “You’re doing me a favor, agreeing to meet like this.” I climb onto the high barstool and settle in, wishing the seat had a back to support my aching body. I don’t drink much, but right now, I’m feeling simultaneously stressed and buoyantly hopeful, so I might make an exception. And I think I read somewhere that ibuprofen and alcohol catalyze each other.
After a quick perusal of the menu, I order a drink called the Poco Loco and promise myself I’ll drink it slowly. As I hand the menu back, I catch Noah staring at me from the corner of my eye. “Your hair is supercool,” he says when I turn to him. “Reminds me of Rogue from the X-Men.”
“Is that a good guy or a bad guy?”
“Both, kind of. She was raised as a villain and becomes a hero.”
Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s my arc. “And she has white hair?”
“Just a streak. Anyway, it was cool of you to reach out. I didn’t think anyone was interested in the story, seeing as it didn’t actually involve any Reed students.” He rolls his eyes.
“You’re going to graduate in the fall?”
“Yeah. Finally.” He does look a little older than I expected, like he took the circuitous route through school. “That piece was part of my senior project.”
“How did you choose the topic?” I ask, having to raise my voice as someone turns up the music.
“Oh, I’ve been interested in cults since I first learned about them. I think I was in middle school?” He runs a hand through his hair, revealing much lighter roots. He’s a cute guy, good-looking in a scruffy, lanky kind of way. His flannel is rolled up to his elbows, Oregon casual. There’s a tattoo on his forearm, the infinity symbol. “I just got really fascinated by cult leaders, you know? The mind fuckery is unbelievable. Do you know much about cults?” he asks. “Like Jonestown? Jim Jones?”
I shake my head and focus on the drink that was just set in front of me. I hate the word cult. I hate how people react to it. Like anyone who joins a cult is a mindless idiot. But here’s the thing, and I believe it with all my heart: no one ever joins a cult. Not on purpose. They hook up with nice people. They connect with the message of a strong leader. They feel like they belong when the rest of the world has stomped on them or turned them away. And that’s why they stay. It’s not like it’s better on the outside, right?
Or maybe I’m just letting myself off the hook.
“The Peoples Temple,” I say after taking a sip. It’s spicy and sweet and would be all too easy to down in a few gulps. “I don’t know much, but that one’s pretty famous.”
Noah nods. “Jonestown was probably the biggest cult massacre in history, by far. They were in California for years. Indiana before that. Then, as the authorities were closing in on old Jim, he took his followers down to this Promised Land in Guyana. Sounds nice, right?”
“There’s always a dark side,” I say.
“So true,” Noah says. “I guess it wasn’t the paradise they signed up for. But even with that, they stayed. And Jim started getting paranoid. Stocked up on guns. Cyanide. He had a whole plan for the apocalypse. But even as things got dark and scary, even as he started telling folks they might have to die for their faith, they stayed. Isn’t that crazy? Almost no one left. No one said, ‘Eff this, I’m not dying for this crazy-ass man,’ and walked away. I’ve always wondered about that. Why didn’t they leave?”
“Because it’s not that simple,” I mutter. I know that truth down to my bones.
“I guess,” Noah says. He’s got that pompous-college-student vibe, stuffed with facts but not much wisdom.
“Seems like you know your stuff. And the Oracles?”
“It seemed so similar but right here in Oregon: megalomaniac leader, people willing to die for him, and some of his victims weren’t even identified after because they were basically strays, right? People who fell between the cracks.”
“And kids,” I remind him.
He grunts. “It’s twisted, right? I’ve talked to some of them about how weird it is to find out your parents were crazy cultists. Talk about a mind fuck.”
Arman glances over at us before waving over the bartender and ordering another beer. Noah chuckles. “Poor Arman probably gets tired of me talking about this. Hey,” he says to the guy. “You want to change seats and talk to her?”
Arman shakes his head, but he gives me a nice smile. “I’m good with listening.”
“You’ve actually talked to the members of this group?” I ask Noah. Miles is going to be here soon, and I need to get him to go for this.
Noah nods. “Mostly by email and text. Some are in college, one in the military. Trying to set out on their own. Some of them are pretty cagey, not that I blame them.”
“Your article said the
group was planning to get together,” I say. “Are any of them in Bend now?”
Noah shrugs. “The whole get-together idea kind of fell apart. It’s so near the holidays. People couldn’t get away.”
My hope shrivels a bit. “Do you think any of them would be willing to talk to us, maybe come forward?”
Noah glances over at Arman as he orders a plate of cheese fries. “I can certainly ask,” he says as he turns back to me. “Since it’s a bigger outlet, someone might bite. Keeping in mind that we’re approaching the anniversary of their parents’ fiery deaths, that is.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. “This must be a strange time for them.”
Noah nods and sips his beer. “Super weird. And this murder? Arnold Moore? Wild, right? You obviously think it’s connected to the cult. I certainly do.”
“My colleague, Miles Connover, wants to establish that connection. There’s some evidence to suggest it’s related, but it’s really not clear how.”
Noah frowns. “You really think the Children of Darius are involved? I don’t want to cause any trouble for these people.”
“No!” I say quickly. “I’m not saying that.” Even though I hope Miles will think so. “But it’s a pretty interesting angle. A great way to develop a deeper understanding of what this kind of experience does to a person.”
Noah looks down at me. His blue eyes are intense. “Nobody really seems to get it, right?”
I hold the eye contact. “It’s hard to imagine, but we can try. It’s a fascinating story.”
Noah’s gaze skips upward, focusing on something behind me.
“Hey,” says Miles, pushing in next to me and flagging the bartender. “I figured I’d get a head start, but here you are.” He grabs a menu and talks while reading. “How are your folks? Do I get to meet them? Do they have embarrassing pics of you from high school?”
I roll my eyes and give Noah an apologetic look. “They’re fine, hopefully never, and no, they do not. Miles, I need to introduce you to someone.”
His expression goes stiff for a second, and he raises his head. “I didn’t think you were—”
“This is Noah,” I tell him, leaning back so Noah can offer his hand. “He wrote a really fantastic article for his college newspaper about the kids who were found on the Oracles compound after the fire. I’ll send it to you.”
“Which school?” asks Miles as he shakes Noah’s hand.
“Reed.”
“Ah,” says Miles. “That says it all.”
Noah chuckles. “We get a lot of that. No, I’m not a druggie.”
“But you have an interest in cults,” he guesses.
Noah nods. “And Oregon is prime cult country. There was the Rajneeshpuram, the Ecclesia Athletic Association—they actually killed a girl there and abused dozens of kids—and then the Oracles of Innocence, which was the worst in terms of the body count. I mean, in the U.S., only Heaven’s Gate is worse.”
“Solar Temple,” says Arman, leaning forward.
“That was in Canada, dude,” Noah says. Then he introduces Arman to Miles.
Arman waves and leans back, treating his cheese fries to all his attention.
“What about Waco?” asks Miles without skipping a beat. “Didn’t something like eighty people die there?”
“Seventy-six on the final day of the standoff,” says Noah. “Six on the first day. But it’s not clear if those were suicides, you know? A lot of them died in the fire on their compound.”
“Like the Oracles,” says Miles. “I don’t think anyone knows for sure what happened in that building.” Then he gets this little smile on his face. “Well. That might not be true actually.”
Noah locks gazes with me for a moment before saying, “The Oracles are a twisted one for sure. And we definitely don’t know the full story.”
“Right,” I say, leaning forward and giving Miles a hopeful look. “Like what happened to all the kids on the compound?” I gesture at Noah. “That’s why I thought his story was so fascinating. It’s been an unexplored angle until now.”
“Uh-huh,” says Miles, leaning back to talk directly to Noah. “The kids and maybe a few others who actually got out of the fire—that’s a totally unexplored angle.”
“That’s a good point,” says Noah. “With Jonestown, they could pretty much track any survivors who ran away. It was a remote part of South America—so the Americans were easy to spot, right? Bend’s remote, too, but who’s to say a few people didn’t run? Including the night of the fire. I don’t believe for a second no one got out.” His eyes gleam as he looks back and forth between us. “I guarantee you some did.”
“Whoa,” says Miles. “That’s my question exactly: Who got out? I guess you’ve done your homework.”
My whole body goes cold. I can’t freaking believe this. After all my work, are we really back to the whole bad-math thing? I want to scream.
Noah grins, revealing straight, white teeth. “I’d love to write for a place like the Hatchet after I graduate.”
Miles laughs. “Is that so?”
“Don’t laugh,” Noah says. “I’m serious.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Miles replies. “You sound a lot like I did twenty-odd years ago.”
Now Noah looks hesitant, fiddling with a button on his flannel. “Are you guys interested in having an intern at all?”
“You got a résumé?” Miles says. He turns to me and sees my subtle head shake. “What?” he whispers.
“You want to move fast and keep this story to yourself?” I murmur in his ear. My heart rate is 132. If Noah turns out to be protective of the Oracle children and interested in the people who got out of the fire, he and Miles could be a great team, and I could be screwed. “Don’t hire some college kid who’ll brag about your every move on Insta or Snap or TikTok or whatever platform he’s on.”
“Ah. Good point.” He turns back to Noah. “Let me think about it, okay? Give me your contact info, and I’ll consult with legal regarding our intern policy.” Noah gives Miles an eager nod in return, and they exchange contact info before Arman elbows his friend and the two head out.
I give Miles my prettiest smile, having temporarily stalled the situation. It’s not that I want him to fail. It’s not that I don’t want him to win a Pulitzer. I just want to keep myself safe and sane and out of a cage, and this is going to be a tricky enough dance as it is. It might all come down to one detail, but I need to be the one finding them. Checking them. Doing what needs to be done to sift out the truth.
“Did you have a good interview with Chief Ransom this afternoon?” I ask Miles once they’re gone.
“Guy’s kind of a jerk. He has no imagination when it comes to this case. Completely dismissive of the Oracle connection.” He takes a sip of his drink. “But I’m going to connect the dots for him.” He looks over at me. “Headed to the library tomorrow. That might be a treasure trove. Archived articles from 2000—text is on the web, but pictures aren’t.”
My hand is shaking, so I put my glass down. “I can do that for you. Go deep in the local coverage at the time. Try to find you more leads.”
His brown eyes narrow. “Yeah?”
I nod, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”
After a moment, he nods. “Perfect. I want every relevant article, especially if there are any pictures of these people, names paired with faces. That’s the key. I’m still trying to track down the six names that weren’t paired with an actual corpse—”
“Maybe I can find that for you.”
He shrugs. “Focus on those.”
My stomach turns. “Anything else?”
“Access Portland papers from that time. Maybe we can find reference to people who stayed behind, maybe people Darius was friends with before he went off the deep end? He was from Portland. Made h
is money in the stock market and got out just before the ’87 crash. Came home and voilà. Started a cult.”
“As one does. Anything else?”
“Oh! Oh.” He rubs at his temple. “Did you get ahold of Arnie’s girlfriend? The chief mentioned her. Pretty obvious he thinks she’s a crank, but you never know.”
“I chatted with her this afternoon,” I tell him. “The chief was right. She’s a mess.”
“But will she talk to me? Did old Arnie tell her anything about the Oracles?”
“She told me she already talked to the police about it.”
“Right, but they might not be asking the right questions.”
“She said she told them all she knew, and apparently, they didn’t believe her.”
“I might,” says Miles.
“Do you believe in little green men called ‘visitors,’ who are recruiting human agents here on Earth to kill anyone who might tell the world about them?”
He stares at me, slack jawed. “Ah, crap.”
I tell myself I’m doing Miles a favor. “She sounded like she was drunk, as in, she might have downed a fifth as we were speaking. My dad called her ‘a piece of work,’ and I can tell you right now she’s not going to give you reliable info. I’ve done follow-ups with enough sources to know when one is full of it—and you can imagine what happens when you try to hang your hat on that.”
“Yeah,” says Miles, looking crestfallen. “I’ve gotten burned before.” He throws back the rest of his drink and waves at the bartender. “It’s not like we’re hurting for leads, though.”
I nod, relief flooding my veins, turning me soggy and loose. I didn’t lie completely—I quoted Martin accurately. And she did blame aliens. She probably would have embarrassed us as a source. “We’ve got plenty to work with, and I’ll be at the library in the afternoon to get more historic references. I have some stories to run through for Valentina before then.”
“I should have known she wouldn’t let up.”