The Night We Burned

by S. F. Kosa

  “I understand,” Zana said quickly. “Thank you for offering me that wisdom.”

  “Come on,” Ladonna said. “She’s been out there almost an hour. We have to get going.”

  They followed her to the van and piled inside. Parvaneh wondered if it was the wisest thing for Darius to choose Eszter, pregnant as she was, to be in the search party when Kazem and Tadeas would be faster and stronger. But then she remembered how Eszter had soothed the boy, almost getting him to forget what he’d just witnessed happening to his mother. And Parvaneh had helped. It made sense that they would go. They might even be able to sweet-talk the boy into coming back without a fuss.

  “Why would she do this?” Zana asked, shaking her head. “She has no right.”

  “She thinks because she gave birth to them, they belong to her,” said Ladonna. “Darius was right when he said she was selfish.” She started the van. The headlights illuminated the gravel of the drive, rutted with puddles that had formed from a few days of late September rain. Octavia had delighted in the deluge; she’d spun around with her face to the sky, her mouth open, and she’d gotten a few of the toddlers and Xerxes to join her. Parvaneh had watched from the kitchen and laughed at the pure joy of it.

  Now Octavia had run. Left them. And taken the child Darius had said would be an important conduit.

  She peered through the windshield, trying to spot a flutter of robes, a glimpse of blond hair, the smear of a muddy footprint. Ladonna switched on the brights, widening their view of the dark forest on either side of the narrow road. “There they are,” Ladonna announced after a few minutes, speeding up.

  Sure enough, a few hundred yards ahead, two forms were jogging along the road. Xerxes and Octavia, who must have had the infant cradled against her body. When she realized they were coming, she knelt next to Xerxes and said something to him, then got up and started sprinting down the road.

  Xerxes ran at a right angle to her, straight into the woods.

  Ladonna cursed and slammed on the brakes. The van skidded to a halt. “Parvaneh and Eszter, go get him back. We’ll get Octavia and the baby.”

  Parvaneh shoved the door wide and jumped out. Eszter lumbered out behind her and took off into the woods, leaving Parvaneh to slide the door shut. As soon as she did, the van shot forward. To her right, she could hear Xerxes shriek and the crash/crackle of Eszter running through the thick ground cover, the burst of sound as she called his name. Parvaneh lunged into the brush, worried that Eszter would never catch the boy.

  Despite the chilly night air, anxious sweat prickled across her forehead and upper lip. She glanced to her left, down the road, in time to see the headlights illuminate a solitary, running figure before blocking it out. A thump and a terrible scream split the darkness.

  Parvaneh froze. Octavia. The baby. Nausea and disbelief twisted hard inside her. Had Ladonna just…? She wouldn’t have, would she? A shudder ran through Parvaneh’s body.

  But then she shook herself. That was doubt, trying to slow her down. Xerxes was still out there, and that was her mission. She forced her legs to move again, toward the sound of Eszter’s voice, pushing everything else away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bend, Oregon

  December 12, present day

  I sit there for a few minutes, staring down at the meditation stone. I know who left it—Essie figured out the address last night and decided to leave a message. A warning. As if I really needed one. She’s threatening to out me. What she doesn’t realize is that I’m just as eager to keep her out of this as she is.

  I have to make her understand. If I don’t, she’s going to ruin everything.

  I check my watch. Ladonna is going to have to wait. I have to get going if I want to be on time to meet Gil—it’s quite the drive. And I’d better go ahead and see if I’m capable of actually managing my car with a cast up to my elbow and pain that’s barely touched by ibuprofen, but there’s no way I’m taking opioids right now, not when I need to operate a two-ton rolling metal capsule. I grab my stuff and check my makeup; it’s weird and intense, and I barely look like myself, which lifts my mood. I head out to the car, happy at least that my right hand and arm are intact. I’m not going to think about the fact that my body is falling apart until I get myself through this mess.

  I head to Eugene, settling in for the long drive as my arm starts to throb with every beat of my heart, sharp and hot and, in a way, mercifully distracting. I can barely think about being nervous because everything hurts too much.

  I arrive at the bar where we’ve agreed to meet a few minutes early. Noah has texted me during the drive. Did you read it yet? Want to meet?

  “Jesus, kid,” I mutter, then voice text, biting out each word: Noah, I’m trying to work. I’ll get to your story as soon as I can!

  My phone buzzes almost immediately after I send, and I curse. But it’s Max Jennings, a.k.a. Gil, a.k.a. the man with all the receipts. I’m at a table.

  My watch tells me that my heart rate is 105. I check myself in the rearview mirror. I am not the same person I was in so many ways. This is going to be fine.

  Awkwardly, I get out of my car, toting my laptop bag. The cold knifes through me; I didn’t wear a coat because it’s too awkward getting it on and off. I head into the bar, inhaling the funk of beer and french fries.

  The hostess greets me as I crane my neck and spot a bald, heavyset guy sitting alone in one of the booths. I tell her I’m meeting a friend, and she gestures in his direction and asks if that’s him. I tell her it is, even though I’m not sure, and it actually calms me down. If that is him, it goes to show how much someone can change in twenty years. He’s a universe away from the lean, muscular, dark-haired guy in his thirties that I remember.

  “Max?” I ask as I reach his table.

  He looks up from his almost-empty beer and grins. “Dora?” He rises and offers his hand to shake, even as he realizes my left arm is in a cast. “Ouch,” he says as I maneuver myself into the booth. “Did that happen recently?”

  “Yesterday,” I say with a wince.

  His bloodshot brown eyes go wide. “And you’re working today?”

  “This story is important, and with the anniversary of the fire coming up—”

  “Tell me about it. I’m dreading it.” Though he almost looks excited.

  “Can you tell me about the dread?” I ask as I pull out my notebook and pen. “You weren’t there, were you?”

  He shakes his head. The waitress comes to the table, and I order a Diet Coke. I ask if Max wants another beer, and he eagerly accepts.

  “I’m in contact with a few of the family members,” he says once the waitress walks away. “Like the Bathhouses. I know their mom didn’t die in the actual fire, but since she’s never been accounted for, they consider the fifteenth to be the anniversary of her death. Michelle—that’s Lucy’s daughter—is the one who put me in touch with you people.”

  There’s something weirdly intense about him; it’s coming across the table in spiky waves. “The anniversary is in a few days,” I say. “I know it’s a difficult time to be revisiting this stuff.”

  He’s shaking his head. “The murders,” he tells me. “It’s going to get huge once everything comes out.”

  “Murders.” As in, more than one. “Apart from Arnold Moore?”

  “Marie Heckender,” he says. “Suspicious fire.”

  “How did you know that?”

  He gives me a quizzical look. “Google?” He pats the messenger bag sitting next to him. “I’m a guy who likes information. I like having it. I like finding it. In another life, I could have been a…” He rubs his chin. “I don’t know. Some respectable professional who does something with information.” He finishes his beer. “Anyway. You were asking me about Lucy Bathhouse.”

  I wasn’t, but okay. “I’ve read a little about the compound,” I tell him. “If she died o
n the property, do you have any idea why authorities didn’t dig up the place, searching for bodies?” I know where a few lie, buried and unknown.

  Max snorts. “There was no way Steve would have left any bodies there. If anything, he probably fed corpses to the pigs.”

  In response to my obvious queasiness, Max makes a pained face that doesn’t quite cut through his jittery vibe. “Quite a thing, am I right?” He tilts his head. “Hey, have you ever spent any time in Portland?”

  My mind goes into hyperdrive, trying to figure out what to disclose and what to hide. “Not really. I’m originally from Bend, but I live up in Seattle now. I just moved there from St. Louis. So I’ve been all over.”

  He shrugs. “You just look familiar. I wondered if we’d run into each other.” With a small smile, he adds, “But I’d probably remember your hair. Pretty cool.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “And I don’t think we’ve met, but it’s always possible. Small world and all.”

  “For sure.” He shakes his head and pulls a thick notebook stuffed with loose papers from his bag. “Anyway, two down, one left,” he says as he thumbs through, landing on one dog-eared page. “Shari Redmond’s the one left standing. Ladonna. She’s the third who went to jail.”

  I shrug. “We haven’t yet tracked her down. I’m starting to think she’s unfindable.”

  The waitress brings our drinks. Max takes a healthy swig of his. “Shari probably changed her name when she got out,” he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Can you blame her? Shit, I knew things were going south even before everything came to a head. I told Steve: I have to get away from this. I couldn’t follow where he was going.”

  “You never lived on the compound.”

  He shakes his head. “Before Steve moved the entire cult down there, we would all spend weekends in the woods and stuff. Like, while he was building the place.” He sits up, sticks his chest out. “I helped him design it. You’ll never see this mentioned—I guess with the collapse of the big meeting house building, they never found it—but there were tunnels. Did you know that?”

  I turn my head to sip from my drink. My skin is tingling with cold prickles as a memory hits: the decision I made, the death I guaranteed. And the reason no one ever found her body. “I had no idea,” I say hoarsely. If he tells anyone about the tunnel or writes about it, people might go looking. And they’ll find her there, one more mystery solved.

  “Probably long since caved in,” he says, chuckling. “We weren’t exactly professionals, and he wanted it to be secret. Only a few knew about them.”

  “And you never gave police a heads-up?”

  His face falls. “Look. If they’d actually wanted to do more than move on as quickly as damn possible, they coulda found ’em.” He glances toward the exit.

  “I get it: you weren’t even there,” I say quickly.

  He nods. “That’s right. Hadn’t been there in about a year, actually. Steve needed someone to mind the Portland house where we’d been based. We’d totally outgrown it by the time everyone moved to Bend, but he was hoping to keep recruiting. I was the obvious choice, I guess. He trusted me, and I was a good record keeper.” He gives me a crooked smile and holds up the notebook. A few pages fall out, and he laughs. “Or I was compared to everyone else.”

  “And when did you leave the group?”

  “I got word from Lisa Donald—her Oracle name was Octavia—that things were getting superweird. She asked me what to do, and I told her to leave. Just take her babies and go.” His brow furrows. “I don’t know if she ever did. I never heard from her again. But when she wanted out, I knew it was time for me too. Because Lisa and me? We were with him from the beginning. It started out good, you know? I’m not some nut.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” I mumble. “I’ve read that these groups… They just pull people in. People in need. It seems like the Oracles did that.”

  “Better than most, I’d say. And it really was good at first, for a lot of years.” He’s almost done with his second beer, so I offer to buy him another. When he accepts, I wave the waitress over and place the order.

  Then I gesture at the notebook. “How many members were there in all?”

  “Lots of people came and went. I have records of everyone we brought in, even the ones who didn’t stay long. I’d interview people, names, birth dates, hometowns, education, their families. Steve wanted all that as soon as possible. He’d memorize that shit.” Max’s jaw clenches. “And then he’d use it to find their weak spots—anyone with mommy or daddy issues, especially the girls? He’d move right in. Be the daddy. Preach abstinence to all the guys until our balls were blue as the fucking sky above, while he was busy ‘implanting the seeds of the consciousness’ in all the pretty young things.” He groans and runs a hand through his hair. “And the older ones? Those were the cash cows. He’d sweet-talk them all the way to the bank and drain all their funds. I can’t believe I helped him. But then again, I wasn’t the only one. And some people, let’s be honest, Arnie and Marie and Shari? What they did was a lot worse than what I did.”

  My eyes are riveted to that notebook. “Can I take a peek?”

  “It’s all for real.” He slides it over to me. “I told you I was serious.”

  I flip through the pages, noting a few familiar names—Ladonna, Roshanak, Kazem, Basir—and several I don’t know. The people who left before I joined. He’s got their real names followed by the names Darius gave them. It’s enough to make my mouth go dry. “And you didn’t give this to the police after the fire?”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to be anywhere close to this. Soon as the fire happened, I took my shit and got out of town. Lived down in Mexico for a bunch of years, just trying to drink the pain away. Did you see how they treated the people who survived? They were pretty eager to punish everyone involved. I only moved back earlier this year.” He rubs his hands over his face. “What a world.”

  “Some of the bodies in the fire were never identified,” I say, staring down at Kazem’s information, so many things I didn’t know. His birth name was Isaac Meyerson. He was born in Tallahassee and had a college degree from Florida A&M, majored in veterinary technology. What it doesn’t say: how he made his way to Oregon and to the Oracles. Why he stayed. How he died.

  I remember the look on his face.

  “You could have helped the police figure stuff out,” I say to Max, “if you’d stuck around.” He looks as if he wants to snatch his notebook back, so I add, “But I understand your viewpoint. You must have been traumatized when you heard what had happened.”

  “Oh god.” He gratefully accepts his third beer—a double IPA—from the waitress. He moans after his first gulp. “It was such a fucking nightmare. I couldn’t believe Steve had gone that far. But as I thought about it, it didn’t seem that crazy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was always full of himself. Looking back, I can see the narcissism. But man, when he talked, for a long time, it just made sense, you know? It was all about finding a deeper meaning and purpose, something I needed badly at that point. And the meditation? That was good. It got us all vibing together. But when he started bringing in these old ladies with cancer and having us meditate through them, it started getting a little strange.”

  “Meditate through them?” I ask, determined to sound as clueless as possible.

  He gets through most of his beer as he explains all the things I already knew. “I still hung on after that,” he says, “but I started pulling back a little, questioning things. Not out loud, though. Just to myself.” He sighs. “Honestly? I wonder if some of this is my fault.”

  “Why?”

  He finishes his beer and raises his head. He frowns. “Wait. Is this all on the record? Are you going to print everything I say? I don’t want to incriminate myself or anything.” He reaches for the notebook.

  I pul
l it back. “I’m not a reporter, and this is all off the record. But you know what my colleague is looking for, right?”

  He nods. “Michelle said he was trying to get all the names because he thinks one of them might be looking for some payback. Like some sort of horror movie.” His eyes are shiny as he adds, “Don’t think all of this doesn’t have me double locking my doors at night and stashing a gun in the glove compartment.”

  “You really think someone might come after you?”

  “With two survivors dead and only one left?” A shrug. “You never know. Hey, I’ll be right back. Need a pit stop.” He slides out of the booth and heads for the bathrooms, walking carefully and leaning on tables as he goes.

  I watch him enter the men’s and then frantically flip through his notes, realizing that they’re organized by the date of first contact. I find myself all the way in the back, on the final page of recruits. My blood turns cold as I review the handwritten details of seven lives.

  Paired with Gina’s information, in the hands of an investigative reporter like Miles, this information could be the end for me:

  Anna Wilbur (ESZTER 1/12/99)—from Champaign-Urbana, IL, DOB 3/10/82, finished tenth grade, left abusive home, not in touch with parents, younger brother, no assets, no contacts.

  Arnold Moore (TADEUS 12/24/99)—from Des Moines, IA, DOB 12/4/61, high school GED, parents deceased, older married sister, has done farm/manufacturing work, major meth addiction (note: Darius says will have to be clean before initiated), no assets, no contacts with family.

  Kareem Simons (did not commit)—from Oakland, CA, DOB 2/15/74, finished high school, currently employed at PDX as gate agent, parents divorced, no contact with dad, close with mom who is office worker, has one sister who may move to Portland, will not give account info.

  Lucy Bathhouse (ZIBA 1/12/99)—from Eugene, BA in English, widowed 1992, two adult children, Dave and Michelle (both independent, employed, practicing Episcopal, possible pushback), diagnosed stage IV breast cancer 12/98. Available account First Republic, acct#9000001056978991, balance as of 1/3/99 $56,003.25, is willing to close out Schwab portfolio, balance as of 1/3/99 $1,342,990.45, will initiate transfers.