The Night We Burned

by S. F. Kosa

  She entered the hall, dim and candlelit, hazy and perfumed, close and stifling. A few people were sitting in the chairs lined up in rows in front of the altar, but most had gathered at the front and were already sitting cross-legged, their hands cupped around their meditation stones. Eszter had her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth clamped over her bottom lip, her fingers closed tightly over the rough edges of her stone. A surge of anger swelled inside Parvaneh.

  She plopped down, pulled her meditation stone out of the pocket of her robe, and peered down at its markings. He’d told her the V-shaped thing was the beak of the ancient bird, Simurg. And the other, upside-down V was a mountain. Damavand. Powerful symbols. She needed that power now.

  A crash at the back of the hall caused a collective gasp, and everyone turned to see that Darius himself had kicked the door open. It was obvious why—Ziba was in his arms, shaking against his chest, her fingers twitching.

  “She is going to join the consciousness,” he said brusquely as he came up the aisle. “Everyone, come. With her sacrifice, let Ziba allow us to touch the consciousness as she goes.”

  Everyone jumped to their feet and moved to the side so Darius could mount the steps to the altar and lay Ziba down. The old woman’s jaw was clenched. Foam frothed between her lips.

  “She can’t be saved?” Octavia asked, looking horrified.

  “It’s too late,” Darius replied.

  “We could take her to the hospital,” Parvaneh volunteered.

  “Did she take something?” Eszter asked, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe some of the froth from Ziba’s mouth. “She seemed fine earlier.”

  “Why are you all questioning me?” Darius shouted. “Don’t waste this profound moment or you’ll be wasting the gift she’s offering us!” He put his hand on Ziba’s head, stripping the scarf off her bald scalp. “Now, with all our enemies circling, this is our chance to listen to the divine wisdom of the universe, closer now and in this moment than you’ve ever felt.”

  He waved the scarf in the air like a battle flag while he stared daggers at Octavia and Eszter and Parvaneh. “You’re willing to miss it all, just so you can take a dying woman on a pointless trip to the hospital?”

  Her stomach quivering with nausea, Parvaneh moved in next to Darius, determined to get back in his good graces. “You heard him,” Parvaneh said loudly as the others moved hesitantly to the altar. One by one, they laid hands on Ziba, who looked like she was in agony. Darius put his on her throat.

  As they began to chant, Parvaneh watched him, wondering if she was imagining the increasing tension at his knuckles, the constriction, the pressure. She closed her eyes and focused on the consciousness as the voices around her merged into one.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bend, Oregon

  December 12, present day

  I cannot deal with this tonight, but here we are. All the most dangerous people in my world have converged in the last few hours, bumping up against one another in potentially devastating ways, and I’m so riddled with pain that I can’t keep them apart. Now, even though it’s after midnight, Miles has invited himself into the house, and Hailey is casting gutted looks between the two of us, wincing each time he says my name.

  If I don’t get him out of here, he’s going to start asking questions that begin my unraveling. He looks around the living room. “Not even a prom pic on the mantel?” He smiles when he notices the large, framed picture hanging between two bookcases. A dark-haired, round-cheeked toddler, her head thrown back in a laugh and her arms up, fingers spread as snow falls around her, an angel surrounded by white fluff. “Aw, you were cute!” He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints as he looks closer. “Um…”

  “Thanks for driving me home,” I say. “I’m exhausted and almost due for another Vicodin.”

  “It is late,” Hailey says, her voice faint.

  “I’ll be heading out, then,” Miles says. “Dora’s mom, so nice to meet you. Dora, I’ll see you tomorrow.” His brow furrows as he looks back and forth between me and the picture on the wall.

  Maybe he’s noticed the child has striking brown eyes, while mine are blue. But I can tell he’s not going to ask, and so I have time to make up a lie.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, backing toward the hallway as Hailey shows Miles out. She closes the door behind him and leans on it like she needs something to hold her up.

  “Dora,” she says quietly. “He kept calling you that.”

  If she took a look at my driver’s license, she’d know it all, but I can’t bear to tell her. For all intents and purposes, I’ve stolen their dead daughter’s identity. “I took her name,” I admit.

  Hailey sinks into the couch. She looks anxiously down the hall, as if she’s afraid Martin will come out and ask what’s going on. “Why?”

  “I needed a new start. But I wanted to stay connected to you.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Every time we talk, I’ve meant to tell you. You’re the only real parents I ever had, and even though I needed to be on my own, I guess I wanted to pretend I was really your daughter.”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “But you are our daughter, Christy. You didn’t need to change your name to make that real.”

  Christy was never my name anyway. It was just another lie, told to protect myself. My eyes are stinging now, but I’m too dehydrated to cry. Or maybe just too damn empty. “I never knew Dora, but I know how much you loved her.” I glance at her picture, the one I stared at every day when I first arrived.

  I remember wondering if my daughter would have looked that way, had she lived.

  I lean forward, hunching like the old woman I’m already becoming. “I’d lost so much,” I say breathlessly. “I wanted to keep this one thing close. I’m so sorry. I can leave. Go to a hotel.”

  Hailey moves to my side. Puts her hand on my back, so gently. “I won’t pretend like this doesn’t hurt me, and I also won’t pretend like I completely understand, but I’m not angry. And you’re not going anywhere.”

  I lean into her, and she holds my head against her belly, her hands in my hair, as I start to sob.

  I barely sleep. Every time I drift into a drowsy haze, I remember a different sort of pain, the one that comes with crushing grief and despair. I remember Ladonna’s eyes, her knowing gaze, her pity. I remember hating her because her pity made it all real. I remember the animal fear, the animal rage. And I wake with her face in my mind, knowing I have to go back to the hospital and find her. I have to make sure she doesn’t tell anyone who I am. I also have to keep Miles from getting to her.

  I open my eyes as I hear Martin lumber into the shower at the end of the hall. I wonder if Hailey told him. Dora, the first one, the real one, would be a year older than me now, had she survived the encounter with the drunk driver who smashed into the passenger side of the Rodriguezes’ station wagon in 1986. She hadn’t been properly secured in the back, so she was ejected from the car—and the driver got away with a citation for DUI and minimal jail time—leaving Hailey and Martin to bear the weight of guilt virtually alone.

  Last night, I resurrected all that pain. I also reminded them that they don’t know who I really am. It’s the absolute worst time to have them thinking about that. I’ve made so many mistakes. Today, I have to try to fix them. I text Miles, using voice command.

  If you send me what you have for the interview with Michelle Bathhouse, I’ll call her and get the fact-checking done.

  It takes him several minutes to respond. You’re not going back to Seattle?

  I’m fine. Send me what you have. Wouldn’t want you to get scooped.

  It turns out that’s literally impossible.

  Predictable. Miles is ambitious and aggressive to a fault when it comes to his stories, and though it feels like he’s way ahead on this one, that can always change if the New York Times or the Post or even the Daily Beast decide to s
end someone to investigate. Probably the Oregonian is the biggest threat, though—I add checking their coverage, as well as the Bulletin’s, to my to-do list. And in this respect, I’m with Miles. If the story stays quiet for now, it’s possible that I’ll be able to steer it away from dangerous shoals and cover up any sharp edges before anyone notices. I’ve already got the picture, which is a start. And I took care of Arnie’s crazy girlfriend and her list of possible unknown survivors. Now I need to get Ladonna—I mean Essie—on my side, and I need to make sure Michelle Bathhouse didn’t tell Miles anything that could lead to me.

  My inbox is slowly filling up, stories from Valentina to edit, along with Noah’s story. His subject heading reads “Call me as soon as you read.” I roll my eyes and archive the message; unless he’s willing to focus Miles on the Children of Darius story, he’s not much help to me, and I don’t want to read another unknown-survivor-focused piece. Miles’s new message appears—he’s attached his interview notes for Michelle Bathhouse. I read through what she told him.

  There’s a description of the compound. Of Darius. Of Lucy refusing to leave, telling them not to call her mother. Of a man—a description Miles has linked to Arnold Moore—brandishing a bloody knife as they drove away.

  And this:

  Names remembered: Parvaneh. Ester. Two young girls, ~18, pushing L’s wheelchair, one thin, light-brown hair, blue eyes, one overweight, pregnant, dark-blond hair, blue eyes. Cross-check with any known images, name lists, identities of the dead, call Maxwell.

  My throat constricts, seeing the two names rubbing up against each other. I lived, she died, but my god, it was close. Her death was my fault. Tears sting my eyes, even as they focus on the only other name in the paragraph. Maxwell.

  I text Miles. Who’s Maxwell?

  Michelle Bathhouse hooked me up! He was in the cult.

  My brain spirals back in time, rummaging for names and faces, panic seeping in at the edges of my thoughts. I blow out a shaky breath and voice text: Want me to call him and do a screening interview?

  Looking to flex those journalistic ambitions! You can get all that done from your sick bed?

  What else have I got to do?

  Rest? You broke your arm yesterday!

  And don’t I know it. The pain is gnawing at me, but I can’t take anything that might dull my thoughts. It’s a matter of survival. This’ll keep my mind off of everything.

  Okay. I’ll check in later. I’m heading out to Marie’s ranch to interview her husband and see if the sheriff and medical examiner out there will give me the time of day.

  I’d be a lot more panicked about that if Marie were alive. As it stands, I have some breathing room. Miles trusts me to do some of his legwork, and it’s the best news I’ve gotten in a while. We have a plan, I text him.

  Great! This could be the info we’ve been waiting for.

  He texts me the guy’s contact info. Maxwell Jennings. The name isn’t familiar, but a lot of people joined up and got their names before I even arrived in Portland. It’s why I didn’t know Ladonna’s before name until after everything burned—she’d been with Darius for two years before I became an Oracle.

  Sitting up in bed, I make my to-do list and lay out my grid of the facts I need to check. Cult names. Before names. Appearances. Quotes. Timetables and dates. Then I call Michelle Bathhouse, my heart hammering before she even picks up the phone.

  “Ms. Bathhouse? I’m Dora Rodriguez from the Hatchet. I work with Miles Connover as his fact-checker, and I’m calling to confirm the details of the interview you two did yesterday. Is this a convenient time?”

  “Oh,” she says. “I told him everything I knew yesterday. It was nice that someone cared to ask.”

  “Have you had trouble getting others to listen?”

  She sighs. “No one seemed to care much about my mom when it turned out her body wasn’t one of the people they found in the fire. I think she was dead before that. They killed her, but no one cares because the ones who did it are dead now too.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. Miles let me know that you and your brother drove down to the compound to try to get your mom out of the group.”

  “The cult? Yes,” she says, sounding impatient. “Like I said, I told him all this yesterday.”

  “I’m just verifying the facts, ma’am. It’s an important part of the journalistic process.” I check Miles’s notes. “You estimate that your visit to the compound took place on August 26?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I remember it was a Saturday because I went to church the very next day to pray for her soul, and I just broke down. But the minister told me I couldn’t give up on her, and the Lord never would either.”

  “You described the leader of the group, Darius—”

  “Oh, those stupid names they gave themselves. Stephen Millsap was a psychopath, and I won’t call him by that stupid name!”

  “Fair enough. I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  I close my eyes. “I just mean that your point of view makes sense.”

  “All those people,” she says. “Those girls. It’s so awful, what he did.”

  “The two young ladies you mentioned. I want to verify—”

  “Parvaneh,” she says. “And Eszter.”

  “You described Parvaneh and Eszter—one was pregnant and overweight, and the other was slender. Do you know which was which?”

  “I’m not sure. I think maybe Eszter was the fat one.”

  I smile, bittersweet and pained. “And both girls had brown eyes?”

  “I thought I told him they were blue.”

  “I’m looking at his notes. It says brown. Is that a mistake?”

  “Let me think.”

  “If it helps,” I offer, “I have a picture of a group of cult members, and the two women you’ve named are also identified in the picture. Their eyes look pretty dark.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I guess it’s been a long time. You’re probably right. And I guess it doesn’t matter much.”

  “One little truth can make all the difference. Facts always matter, Ms. Bathhouse.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t have a job if they didn’t.”

  “That’s correct,” I say, knowing I’ll never have a job in the business again if I’m caught. I run through the rest of the details with her, the tension in my body slowly subsiding. We end the call after a few minutes, and I’m on to the next one: Maxwell Jennings. This one is trickier. I have to be careful. I dial the number and introduce myself when he answers.

  “About time,” he says. “Michelle said you guys were gonna be all over this.”

  “Mr. Jennings—”

  “Max.”

  “Max—when did you join the Oracles?”

  “1996. I was one of the first. I knew Steve before he got the idea to give us all those Persian names. Classic cult stuff, right? Change people’s names, and you own their identities.”

  I shift as uneasiness takes hold. “You weren’t mentioned in the 2005 book.”

  “Yeah. It was a little soon. I didn’t want to out myself; I just wanted to get on with my life. But now—twenty years. God. I can’t believe it’s been twenty years.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a couple questions? We’re trying to get an accurate list of who all the cult members were so we can better understand exactly who died in the fire.”

  “Oh, I can do that,” he says. “I was basically Steve’s secretary for a while. He kept records—like, financial records and everything—for everyone who joined.”

  “I was given to understand that many who joined were…”

  “Strays?”

  “Struggling.”

  He laughs. “I guess they were both. He wanted whatever he could gather, though. As much as people were willing to tell him. Known family, any assets, whether they had access or cou
ld ask relatives for money, whether anyone might come looking for them.”

  “Do you still have these records?”

  “Hell yeah. I got the receipts, as they say.”

  Shit. “Are you willing to provide them?”

  “Depends on what you mean by provide.”

  “If you are willing to allow me to review your records so that I could verify them is what I meant,” I babble. I have to get my hands on those records.

  I can hear him shuffling papers. “Got ’em right here,” he says.

  “Would you be willing to mail them?” I ask.

  “Are you crazy? They’re my only copies!”

  Even better. “I’d be happy to meet you somewhere,” I suggest.

  He sighs. “I guess it’s time this stuff got out there. Where are you located?” he asks. “I can meet you this afternoon.”

  “I’m in Bend, actually,” I say, giving my arm a doleful look. “But I can drive up—”

  “I can meet you in Eugene,” he says. “Not quite halfway, but I have friends down there. Been a while since I visited.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I blurt out, “what was your Oracle name?”

  “My name? Oh god. This is sort of embarrassing. It was Gilgamesh.”

  “Wow,” I choke out, remembering the dark-haired, muscular guy who was one of the first Oracles I met. The one who always had his notebook with him. “That’s a regal name.” And if he recognizes me, I am in a world of trouble.

  We arrange to meet at four and end the call. I am taking a massive risk, but now that I’ve locked down that damn photograph, Max is possibly the only person alive, apart from Essie, who could link me to the Oracles. And Essie might have good reason to stay quiet.

  My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Noah. How are you doing this morning? I don’t suppose you read my story yet?

  I’m fine, I reply. I’ll try to get to your story today, but I’ve got a lot on my plate.

  I’ll buy you lunch after you read it, and you can tell me your thoughts in person

  This kid is nothing if not persistent. Will try to get back to you soon as I can.