“Who doesn’t?” Darger asked. “Though I find I get a lot of dirty looks whenever I scream at the meetings.”
Curtis chuckled.
“Well imagine if there were somewhere you could go in every office. A place to blow off steam. To release some of that animal aggression, so to speak. Because that is what we are, after all. Underneath the suits and the fancy cars and the official-sounding job titles, we’re not so different than a band of chimpanzees. The only thing that truly separates us is that we pretend we’re something else. Chimps don’t pretend. Tigers don’t pretend.”
The narrow road wound through a patch of untouched forest and up a small hill.
“Animals are more honest, really. Arguably more sane. We’re trapped letting our thoughts dominate our lives. Giving credence to every passing notion. Is Bob going to get the promotion over me? Should I have bought the LS instead of the ES? Does this outfit make me look fat? It’s exhausting.”
When they crested the rise, Darger saw that the trees gave way to another clearing, which held another field of flowers and a row of three commercial greenhouses.
“Speaking of titles,” Darger said, “what’s yours? What do the people here call you, as their leader?”
He laughed.
“They call me Curtis. And I’m not the leader.”
“No?”
“Of course not. That would suggest I’m above the other members of our community, and that’s simply not true.” Curtis squinted up into the sky. “I’m not into titles. A title is nothing but a label, and a label is a limitation. But I suppose if I was pushed to answer the question, to satisfy that uniquely human obsession to categorize, I’d call myself a… spiritual guide.”
Darger resisted an urge to roll her eyes. The whole spiel had the sound of a practiced speech. A way of seeming disarming and non-threatening. It fit with what Loshak had said about cults in the car. The soft sell over the hard.
They followed Curtis to a large pole barn with dark gray metal siding situated a short distance from the greenhouses. The sun glinted off a grid of solar panels on the roof. Curtis opened a door on the side of the building and ushered them through.
After the pastoral scene outdoors — people clustered around fires and strumming guitars — the level of activity inside the barn was staggering.
There were dozens of wooden tables set up in the space with a person at each station engaged in some element of packaging flowers. Trimming, stacking, tying the stems into bundles. Darger watched a woman in a white peasant dress pass an assembled bouquet to another table where a woman in a green tunic wrapped them in a plastic sleeve.
At the far end of the assembly area, the packaged flowers were piled into boxes and loaded on a dolly. A man pushed one of the dollies through a doorway closed off with the kind of clear plastic strips she associated with refrigerated rooms. She supposed it made sense that they’d keep the flowers chilled.
The space was filled with a sharp green smell similar to cut grass with a faint floral note. Unlike the leader’s stream of B.S., Darger found this scent quite pleasant.
A few of the women were singing some folksy-sounding song in three-part harmony. They actually sounded pretty good, Darger thought, especially a capella. But the acoustics of the space also made it sound little eerie because of the way the echo sort of shuddered in the air and bounced off the concrete floor.
There were other sounds, too. The metallic snip of shears cutting stems. The crinkle of plastic. The rumble of a dolly over the floor.
“Our business has grown over 800% in the past year,” Curtis said, the corners of his lips now stuck in a smile. “We mostly sell to the local florists, but we’re selling directly to the public now in a few farmer’s markets as well, and every Sunday we have a booth at the Headhouse Market in Philly.”
Darger couldn’t help but notice how easily he’d slid from spiritual talk into business talk — a man who kept his eyes on the prize.
There were a few office-type rooms built into one of the shorter sides of the barn, all with windows looking out on the flower processing area. Curtis led them over to one of the office doors and pulled it wide. Just as Darger stepped inside, a woman with a tablet in hand bustled out of a neighboring office.
“Sorry to interrupt, Curtis, but I need a quick signature on this purchase order,” the woman said.
“Of course.” He turned to Darger and Loshak. “Please go in and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right in.”
The inside of the office was fairly slick, especially compared to the rustic nature of the rest of the camp. Darger glanced up at the polished tubes and ducts winding around above — industrial and clean in that modern office way. Loshak glanced back toward the door and leaned in so he could keep his voice low.
“I think you should take point on this,” he said.
“You sure? You’re the expert on charismatic cult leaders.”
“Well, I was thinking about what you said earlier. By the looks of the population around here, I think you’re more his type.”
Darger raised her eyebrows.
“I mean, look around. It’s basically the opposite of a sausage party here,” Loshak said.
Squinting, Darger took on a philosophical tone.
“What is the opposite of a sausage party? A breast fest? A clam jam? A vagina soiree?”
“I’m reporting you to HR,” Loshak said with a snort. “This is a toxic environment.”
Chapter 25
Curtis closed the office door behind him when he entered, muffling the cacophony of work sounds out on the main floor. He crossed the room and paused next to a mini-fridge.
“Can I offer you a water or kombucha? We make the booch from scratch right here on the farm.”
Darger couldn’t help but remember Gage Medina’s story about unknowingly drinking the psilocybin-laced “moon juice” at the ritual. And while she doubted Curtis would do something as reckless as dosing two federal agents, she simply didn’t trust him.
“No booch for me, thanks,” she said.
Loshak declined as well, and Darger thought he was probably thinking the same.
Curtis helped himself to a bottle of urine-colored liquid, taking several gulps and then making an exaggerated ahhh sound at the end. He sat behind his desk and studied the bottle for a moment.
“Kai was a stockbroker on Wall Street. A successful one, too, but absolutely miserable. Then he came here and discovered he has an innate talent for fermentation. Kombucha, sauerkraut, pickles… you name it. He’s our resident Brew Master.” He took another sip. “We attract a diverse crowd. We have a Rhodes scholar. A former CEO of a Fortune 500 company. A New York Times best-selling author. A very well-known contemporary artist. You’d probably recognize his name if I told you, but he came here to get away from that, so….”
He waved his hand, as if that would dispel any lingering curiosity.
“A lot of our community is made up of people who excelled in all the material ways of life, and yet found themselves searching for something more. For their deeper purpose.”
“And they found that here?” Darger asked.
“Well, I can’t truly speak for what they’ve found, as each person’s journey is their own. As unique as a snowflake. But I like to think that being here has given their lives more meaning. I know it has for me.”
“So is there some bar for acceptance?”
Curtis paused with the kombucha bottle an inch from his lips and frowned at her.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just that your so-called diverse crowd seems heavily skewed toward people that have experienced some sort of material achievement. Academics, CEOs, best-selling authors. Do you only let in successful people, or…?”
The corners of Curtis’ eyes crinkled.
“We don’t think of it as letting people in or keeping them out. There are no gatekeepers here.”
“Aside from the nudist with the AK-47,” Darger said.
Curtis la
ughed.
“Ahh, such wit. Ozzy is a rare breed. Believe it or not, he has chosen that role for himself, entirely on his own. He feels that’s his place in our community. A watchdog of sorts. He’s a former marine, so I suppose it makes sense. That training gets imprinted deeply. Wired into the brain. He’s a protector. That’s his calling. That’s why he took the chosen name Osmund. It means, ‘divine protector’ in Old English.”
Darger didn’t need to look at Loshak to know what he was thinking. Giving new names to your followers was practically Cult Leader 101.
“Was the nudity imprinted as well, or is that less of a calling and more of a hobby?” Darger asked.
Curtis raised an eyebrow.
“Does it really make you so uncomfortable?”
Darger shrugged.
“Gun out. Dick out. Unkempt thatch of pubes.” She sighed. “Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer a guy that leaves a little something to the imagination.”
“How is it that we’ve come to find our true selves so obscene?” Curtis asked, shaking his head. “The idea that any part of the human body could be seen as inappropriate or vulgar is… absurd. It is part of us. It is who we are. Anyway, lest I get too philosophical…”
Darger wondered just how philosophical Curtis might get on the subject of Ozzy’s junk but decided she didn’t want to know.
“Suffice it to say that Ozzy’s nudity is his choice,” Curtis continued. “I did ask him about it once, and he said that most people would be put off by the gun alone, but he figures a naked man with a gun is a quote ‘whole different banana.’”
“From what I saw, ‘banana’ seems a bit generous,” Darger said.
A wolfish grin spread over Curtis’ mouth.
“But we’re getting off-topic. You asked about whether we have a bar for acceptance. The answer is that we welcome people from all walks of life. Rich, poor, Ivy League-educated, high school dropouts, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, atheists.”
“I see. I guess you didn’t mention any of your poor, drop outs before,” Darger said.
“I’ll admit to using some of our more illustrious members as paragons. Examples to hold up to the outside world. Not because I think they have more worth, but because I know how outsiders think. They think we’re preying upon the weak, the meek, the lost. We’ve even been accused of brainwashing by some of our more unenlightened critics. That couldn’t be further from the truth. These people aren’t feeble or defenseless. These are free thinkers. Fighters. Brilliant minds. Talented creatives. And they’re all fiercely independent, or they wouldn’t be here. Our community represents the full spectrum of humanity.”
Darger leaned back in her chair, twisting so she could see out the window overlooking the flower sorting room.
“Yeah? Because I kinda noticed that there’s one particular type that makes up a lot of your… flock.”
Curtis’ eyelashes fluttered in a show of innocence.
“Oh? And what type would that be?”
“Young. Attractive. Female.”
Curtis flashed his teeth, the grin from before returning.
“Are you sure you’re not projecting?”
“Projecting?”
“Well, you’re a young, attractive woman yourself.”
Darger snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Ah. You’re shy,” Curtis said, an annoyingly smug look on his face. “Unexpected. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“What makes you think I’m embarrassed?” Darger asked, returning the smug smirk.
“Well, I want to be clear, I wasn’t hitting on you before.” Curtis spread his hands wide. “I’m just a believer in radical honesty.”
“Are you now?”
“Yes. Does that frighten you?”
“Oh yeah. I’m absolutely terrified.”
“You use sarcasm as a defense mechanism quite often, do you know that?”
“And you use rhetorical questions to keep people on the defensive. Preemptive strikes to assert control over conversations.” Darger fluttered her eyelashes. “Do you know that?”
For a split second, Darger saw Curtis’ mouth tense. She didn’t think he liked how this discussion was playing out.
His eyes flicked over to Loshak.
“Agent Loshak,” he said, his face serene again. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“You mean I get a turn? Goody,” Loshak said. “Why don’t you practice some of that radical honesty, and tell us about the full moon celebration that went off the rails a few months ago.”
“Ah.” Curtis adopted a troubled-yet-thoughtful expression. “That was regrettable. A lapse in judgment on Puck’s part. Unfortunately, not his last.”
“Puck?”
“That was Stephen Mayhew’s chosen name.”
Loshak nodded.
“What did you mean when you said he had a lapse in judgment?”
“We don’t normally allow outsiders to partake in some of our more… arcane activities. We have many feasts and festivals in which the public are welcome, or special guests by invitation. The full moon feast is open to guests, for example, but they are supposed to leave before the midnight ritual, which is meant for initiates only. Puck, God bless him, allowed an outside guest into our sacred space. Dressed him in one of our costumes and brought him to the midnight ceremony. As I said… it was regrettable.”
“Because an outsider saw one of your freaky little games?” Loshak asked.
Cocking his head to one side, Curtis clicked his tongue.
“‘Freaky’ is a rather pejorative term, don’t you think?”
“We were told you chased a girl through the woods. Held her down and tore off her clothes,” Darger said. “Sounds violent. And more than a little rape-y.”
Curtis sighed.
“It’s not real. It’s nothing more than the same play-acting every child partakes in. Cops and Robbers or Cowboys and Indians, if you’ll excuse the culturally insensitive reference. The sacrifice is only in a symbolic sense. Like what you heard in the Primal Scream shed. The screams are real. The pain behind them is real. But the external expression is essentially a performance.” Curtis tapped his chest. “We never harm anyone here.”
“The witness we spoke to said the girl in the sacrificial role wasn’t a willing participant,” Darger said.
“The tattoo artist, you mean.” Curtis sniffed. “That’s part of the ritual. Have you ever heard of LARPing?”
“What-ing?” Loshak asked.
“Live action role-play,” Darger said.
“Ahh, see,” Curtis said, folding his hands on his desk. “Agent Darger is familiar with it. It’s similar to a more traditional role-playing game like Dungeons and Dragons, except it’s played in real life. The players adopt characters, wear elaborate costumes, construct detailed back stories. It brings a sort of magic to it, to have everyone committed to this alternate reality. In some ways, our rituals are like a LARPing campaign, and most of us get very into our roles. Tansy’s role was to play the Sacrifice, and the Sacrifice is most convincing if some of her fear is real. But we take consent very seriously here, and I assure you she was a willing participant.”
Curtis stood.
“Have either of you read The Golden Bough?” Curtis asked, not bothering to wait for an answer. “So much of our modern-day culture and religion is based on ancient rituals that were absolutely pervasive across all of humanity. The fact that folklore from completely separate cultures has always shared so many themes is indicative of how concepts like sacrifice and resurrection are part of our DNA.”
While Curtis talked, he meandered over to the door to the office. Darger had to crane her neck to keep her eyes on him.
“Creating these stories and myths has always been so central to mankind and civilization. It’s an outlet for us. A type of therapy, if you will.”
Curtis opened the door and thrust his head out.
“Tansy?”
A girl with curly blonde hair stopped trimming a handful of zinni
as and turned to look at Curtis.
“Could I borrow you for a moment?”
She set down the flowers and came to the door.
“Do you remember the full moon celebration that went awry?” Curtis asked.
Tansy’s cheeks went pink, and she smiled slyly.
“Of course.”
“Were you harmed during the ritual?”
“I mean, I got a little scratched up running through the woods barefoot, but I barely noticed. I was having too much fun.”
Darger couldn’t help but think of her as a girl, even though she was clearly in her twenties or possibly older. It was something about the dress and the doe-eyed way she looked at Curtis. Children of the Golden Path had been an apt choice of names, Darger thought.
“Fun,” Curtis said, glancing over to make sure Darger and Loshak had heard. “And were you coerced into performing in the ceremony in any way?”
The girl physically recoiled, frowning.
“No. I volunteered.” She blinked at Darger. “Everyone wants to play the Sacrifice. It was an honor to be chosen. Some of the others were even jealous.”
Darger knew the girl meant some of the other women were jealous. She doubted any of the men here would be eager to play the victim of a sacrifice.
Curtis nodded.
“It’s a bit like getting to be ‘it’ when you play Hide and Seek, isn’t it?”
The girl giggled.
“It’s exactly like that!”
“Thank you, Tansy,” Curtis said. “You can go back to work now.
The girl inclined her head before she turned to leave, a subtle bow, and Darger couldn’t help but think of the dutiful servant of some Lord or Lady in medieval times. But they were all equals here. Curtis had said so himself.
Curtis closed the door, sliding back around to the chair behind his desk. When he was seated again, he crossed one leg over the other.
“Don’t you remember what it was like to play those make-believe games as a child? To lose yourself in the fantasy? That’s what we’re trying to recreate in the rituals. That absolute surrender to the role. I think we shed a great many things from childhood unnecessarily, and we end up craving those things as adults. An outlet for feelings and urges deemed unacceptable by ‘polite society,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers.
Violet Darger | Book 7 | Dark Passage Page 12