The Night We Burned

by S. F. Kosa

  I give up and jog home after less than a mile. Not nearly enough. I limp into the house, where I’m greeted by Hailey, who’s got her wet hair in rollers and is holding a steaming cup of coffee. I can hear the shower going down the hall; Martin’s getting ready for work. “How was your run?” she asks.

  “I need a softer surface,” I tell her. “Lots of aches and pains lately.”

  “They’ve really improved the River Trail over the last few years, and it’s mostly packed dirt south of the Old Mill District. Rocky but really pretty.”

  I thank her, turn down her offer of breakfast, listen as she informs me that her cleaning lady is coming tomorrow and could I please leave my key—it’s their extra one—under the mat if I’m not here when they arrive? I promise her I will. Then I start the edits on the stories Valentina sent as I wait for my turn in the shower. The sooner I get through them, the sooner I can get to the library, but if I rush and make mistakes, I’ll be screwed. So I try to focus, but I’m restless and distracted.

  It’s four days until the anniversary. I feel it like a shadow stretching long at my side.

  Someone decided to murder Tadeas. Arnie. Someone drew out their plan on his body and followed it through, sliding a knife through flesh and guts. Kidneys and lungs. Heart and liver.

  They all have a different feel, a different give.

  The memories shouldn’t be this keen, this sharp and merciless, but there they are, where they’ve always been in my empty moments.

  I pull myself together and edit the damn stories.

  I make it to the library by one. The lady at the information desk tells me yes, they do have the Bend Bulletin in the microfilm archives, from 1903 to 2014. After that, it was entirely digital. Before that, the digital archives don’t have image files because the photos were made using film, and they were never scanned in.

  Just like Miles told me. I’m so glad I made it here before he did.

  After thanking the info lady, I head down to the microfilm room, open the door, and freeze.

  Noah’s at the desk in front of one of the machines and grins when he sees me. “Hey!”

  “Hey. What a coincidence.” I scan his workspace. He’s got a couple films out, dated March 2000–July 2000 and November 2000–December 2000. Shit. “What are you up to?”

  He looks behind him, following my gaze. “Figured I’d peruse the archives, see what the local coverage was.”

  “Of the fire?”

  He nods. “Did you know they used to come to town? People hired them to clean houses and stuff. I guess they made some of their money that way.”

  “Huh,” I say. “That’s interesting.”

  “I wonder if anyone around here remembers them,” he says. “I’m trying to write a story on the anniversary and the Moore murder.”

  “What’s your angle?”

  He frowns. “I don’t just want to rehash what happened. But after talking with Miles last night, it got me thinking about the survivors.”

  “The kids?”

  “They’re important. And I’m going to get their comments about this stuff. But I want to highlight the survivors who no one is talking about.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You and Miles. Are you guys sure you want to plant your flags on that particular hill? I mean, if no one’s talking about it, maybe there’s a reason. Honestly, I’m just trying to help Miles keep his story on the rails—we can’t go off into conspiracy-theory land. I talked to one possible source yesterday who thought there were people who escaped…because they were rescued by aliens.”

  He snorts. “Well, we both know that wasn’t what happened.”

  “Right,” I say, looking away from his gaze. “Are you done with your research session? Miles sent me over to make sure he has all the relevant local coverage.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I don’t want to get in your way. I’m good for now.” He looks down. Shuffles his feet. He looks so young. “Hey, would you be willing to read a draft of what I write? I’d be grateful to get feedback from an actual professional.”

  “I’m not a journalist.”

  “I know. Miles said you’re his copy editor. His fact-checker. He said you keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “That’s me,” I say quietly. “And sure. I’ll read your piece. Send it over once you’re done?”

  He nods, eager like a child. I endure another few minutes of small talk with him. He tells me that he and Arman are going hiking this afternoon along the river trail, and I tell him I’m planning to go for a run there tomorrow. And then he’s gone, and I can finally get to work.

  I don’t know the date, but I know it was June. I reach for the reel, then look around the room. Everything I want is already right here—Noah accessed the very reels I need, so I don’t sign my name on the clipboard next to the archive.

  I sit down at the scanner and pick up the March-through-July reel. I know because the info lady told me that the library’s database includes a searchable index for the paper. I input the word Oracles just to see what led Noah to pull this particular reel, given that the fire didn’t happen until December of that year. And sure enough, it’s as I feared.

  I remember the moment, remember thinking it wasn’t what we were supposed to be doing, remember thinking Darius would be furious if he knew.

  The Oracles Are Here, and They Want to Clean Your House

  Such a stupid headline. But that’s the one I want; I put the reel on its peg, thread it under the glass, and wind it onto the receiving peg. Once the film is loaded, I skim through for the date the index gave me—June 26. “They call themselves the Oracles of Innocence,” the author, Joel Keeler, wrote. “You can call them a church, a cult, or a social club, but here’s what they really want you to call them: your favorite new house cleaners.”

  I skim the article, just two columns and a picture—with a caption. Shit. Pictured, right to left: Octavia, Fabia, Zana, Roshanak, Parvaneh, Eszter, Laleh, and Minu. They say they do not have last names, only the names given by their god. My heart stops—I remember him checking the spelling of our names, and I remember Fabia’s certainty. I didn’t want to be caught like that, frozen. But there I am, among all those smiling faces, eight women in robes, looking sunny and carefree. I stare at myself from twenty years ago, so clueless, so in love with all of it, still blind to what was coming even though it had already started to tilt sideways, just a slight list, the kind that makes you seasick before you even realize the world is unsteady.

  All but two of us are dead.

  I look stupid in that picture—and I was. I can’t believe I gave him my name. I close my eyes and breathe. That name is not my name anymore. It’s just a few syllables, a chain of letters, completely unofficial. It links me to nothing.

  It’s the picture that freaks me out. Did Noah actually see this, or had he only just searched the archive when I walked in on him? And if he did see it, would he even recognize me? I look so different. My hair especially.

  But he’s noticed my hair.

  Of course he did. Everyone does.

  I stare at Fabia’s face, as plain as I remember it. Marie Heck-en-der. She always looked peevish to me, like she’d just tasted something sour. I wonder if a decade in jail cured her of that. I wonder where she’s hiding, how she’s rebuilt her life, whether she still thinks about the moment she locked us all inside.

  It was already burning. Just little fires, scattered about. But she knew what she was doing. Darius had known exactly whom to give that particular job to. Would anyone else have done it if he’d asked?

  Probably most of them, now that I think about it.

  I peruse the archive and find one other story before the fire, from September 2000. Something I didn’t know about before. The article mentions concern voiced at a meeting of the Deschutes County council about the Oracles, with three property owners complaining that thei
r proximity to the compound might lower property values and another woman expressing concern for the well-being of the children on the compound because she’d seen one little boy at the edge of her property, wandering alone. Darius himself showed up to explain that the children were all too young to attend formal schooling and that they were extremely loved and well cared for. He also stated to the council that the Oracles had improved the 210-acre property by drilling two wells and installing septic systems, by building structures that could be assessed and taxed, and by respecting all zoning laws. He questioned whether anything but prejudice could be at the heart of all these complaints. The article notes that the meeting ended without a recommendation of action.

  When I was there, I never questioned the property, the buildings, the surplus of food. We never starved. We didn’t live in luxury, but we had everything we needed. I hadn’t always had that in my life to that point, so it made it harder to think of leaving. I was trapped.

  No, I was a coward. What would my life have been like if I’d gotten out sooner?

  I try not to wonder if I could have had something good and normal. I remind myself that nothing ever had been good or normal, that I was probably doomed either way.

  Except for one critical thing: I wouldn’t have had blood on my hands. His, hers. I didn’t know what I was capable of until that night.

  I load up the reel for December 2000 and brace myself. Numb and cold, I read through each story. A fire at the Oracle camp. Children unharmed, sent to foster care. I stare at the sentence, read it twice. It says there were twelve children, doesn’t give their ages. I hate that. I hate not knowing.

  Because really, there were thirteen.

  I shiver. Reading these articles, looking at that picture of all of us—it’s like shaking the hand of a ghost.

  My phone buzzes, making me jump. It’s Miles. “Hey,” I say. “What are you up to?”

  “Ransom is an asshole. I’m going to have to file a Freedom of Information request to get the autopsy reports and the crime scene report.”

  “What a pain.” Thank god. It buys me time.

  “Today I’m focusing on Portland and on tracking down Marie Heckender. Her and Shari Redmond. Fabia and Ladonna were their cult names.”

  “Any idea where they’re hiding now that they’re out of jail?”

  “I’ll get there. Did you make it to the library?”

  “I’m here now. There aren’t many stories about the cult before the fire.”

  “Any pictures? Do we have images of these people? That could really help,” he says. “Because with facial recognition software—”

  “I couldn’t find any,” I tell him. “I combed the entire 2000 archive. Do you want me to go back to 1999?”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Sure, if you have time,” he finally says. “I’m trying to track down a few leads in Portland, like family members of the ones who died. I’m building a running tally of who was on the compound at the time of the fire.”

  “I can do that,” I say quickly. “It’s no problem. But this is a lot, so if you’re hoping to get it before the anniversary—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just get whatever you can. This could be a series, multiple stories over the next month or two.”

  “I’ll do my best to find them. And if I find Fabia and Ladonna, maybe I could even interview them for you?” Not that I’d actually talk to either of them…but he wouldn’t know that.

  He laughs. “Eager for a byline?”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “If you can even find them, you’re a lifesaver. This frees me up in the best way.”

  We end the call, and I go back to the archive, feeling more restless than ever, realizing I didn’t ask what he intended to do with his freed-up time. I can’t worry about it now, though—I’ve already taken the most dangerous bits from him. I’ll be able to make sure he only finds what it’s safe for him to find. I can do this.

  But telling myself that doesn’t make me feel better. Forget tomorrow; I need to go running this afternoon. This morning’s little jog wasn’t nearly enough, and I feel like I’m going to explode. Seeing that picture in the archives, knowing it’s been there the entire time, like a screaming indictment for anyone who knows where to look, such a close call. If Miles had come in here and found this… I have to go. I have to move.

  I need to run. More than I need to breathe.

  I slip the reel containing the photo into my purse. I get up, find a reel box marked March–June 1992, and remove it, putting the empty box back on the shelf and slotting the 1992 reel into the March–June 2000 box. I put it away along with the other one Noah pulled.

  I make one final check of the room, remove a white hair I’ve left on the chair cushion. I erase the cache on the browser and sign Noah out, realizing too late that I could have seen what he searched for before I arrived, which could have been interesting. There’s something about him that’s unsettling, but he’s also young and naive and just wants a good story.

  Like a less-experienced version of Miles, who takes more of my attention. With the reel in my purse, I feel safer than I have since he first mentioned Arnold Moore and going to Bend.

  I zip the purse, wince as I turn to the door; everything aches. But it doesn’t matter. I know what I need, and the only thing between me and the trail is an hour or so of searching for Marie Heckender and Shari Redmond. Fabia and Ladonna.

  Those two could end everything for me.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Retreat

  May 17, 2000

  Parvaneh stood outside the closed bedroom door, the tray of pureed food cooling as she dawdled. She hadn’t seen Shirin since the incident in the meeting hall, and she wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for Basir. Stressed with the arrival of a delivery truck bringing their monthly supply of flour, sugar, rice, and all the things they couldn’t grow or butcher themselves, he’d told Parvaneh to take care of the old woman, and she hadn’t had a choice in the matter.

  As nice as Darius had been the day Shirin’s leg broke, as much as it seemed he’d forgiven her, the last week had made Parvaneh feel as invisible as she’d ever been on the streets of Portland. With the exception of sympathetic, kind looks from Eszter, no one else would even meet her eyes. Except for stern orders, even Basir wouldn’t speak to her. Darius had told her this was by his instruction, so she could understand the importance of remaining on a journey even when you weren’t being constantly praised for each step. She wasn’t a dog, was she? Did she really need to be fed a treat every time she sat on command?

  She’d promised herself she’d learn the lesson, and she knew it would be worth it. And as hard as this was, it was still a million times better here than the streets. No one took advantage of her. She never went hungry. She had a place to sleep each night. Even though no one was speaking to or looking at her, she knew they were doing it to help her. And she had a shot at something more if she could just get over herself, her greed and mistrust. Maybe that would start today, with Shirin. She let out a breath and, steadying the tray, opened Shirin’s bedroom door.

  Shirin lay beneath her blanket, with her splinted, wrapped leg propped on a special wooden platform that had probably been made by Tadeas, who seemed fairly handy. She peered at the ceiling, her lips moving but only hoarse whispers coming forth.

  “Hi,” Parvaneh said quietly, not wanting to startle the old woman, who hadn’t seemed to notice her entrance. She shuffled forward with the tray, around the mattress, to the little table and chair next to the bed, the only other furniture in the room. “I brought you a meal.” She smiled. “Made with love.”

  Shirin didn’t respond. The ceiling held her interest.

  Parvaneh sat down in the chair, picked up the spoon. Basir had said she’d probably need to feed Shirin. “Do you want an extra pillow under your head?”

  “Tell hi
m I won’t,” Shirin said, her voice weak and rustling. “He can try to get me, but I won’t go.”

  “Shirin?”

  “Don’t tell Aunt Jewell. She crocheted that sweater for me last Christmas, and he threw it into the fire. That’s how I burned them.” Shirin splayed her skinny fingers wide.

  “Shirin,” said Parvaneh. “It’s time to eat.” She scooped up a small amount of the mush from the bowl. “Have a bite. It sure does smell good.” She passed the spoon beneath Shirin’s nose to give her a whiff.

  “I think it was synthetic,” Shirin whispered. “It melted. And then it burned, and he made me watch.”

  “Here you go.” Parvaneh moved the spoon close to Shirin’s papery lips.

  “I won’t,” she said. “I won’t.” Tears glinted at the corners of her eyes.

  “You need to eat,” Parvaneh said gently. It seemed like Shirin was drifting between now and then, present and past. There was a strange energy in the faint pulse in the hollow of her throat. She poked the corner of Shirin’s mouth, and a bit of food smeared on her upper lip.

  Shirin flinched. “I already signed it,” she said. “You can’t do anything now.”

  “Please,” Parvaneh said. “If you don’t eat, I might get in trouble.” She poked Shirin’s mouth again, and just as she went to slip the spoon between her lips, Shirin turned her head, so this time, the food smeared across her cheek. “Come on!”

  She scooped up another bite of food, sweat prickling on the back of her neck in the stuffy, dark room.

  “Look at that,” Shirin said, her eyes unfocused. “Yes, I’d love to dance.” She smiled at the ceiling. “I haven’t seen you here before.” She began to hum a tune, off-key and grating.

  Parvaneh shuddered. She leaned over and tried to part the old woman’s lips. Shirin grimaced but didn’t resist. She opened her mouth to say something, and Parvaneh slipped the spoon inside, depositing a lump of the congealed slop on the woman’s tongue. Shirin’s eyes went wide, and she gasped.

  And then her eyes went wider. Her mouth hung open and her body lurched. Her hands clawed at her throat. Parvaneh watched, paralyzed as a million thoughts spun inside her mind. How could someone choke on porridge?