“You’re a banker, Frank. Walk into the damn vault and get out three hundred thousand dollars. It’s as simple as that.”
“You don’t understand. We’ve got a situation here—”
Sounds of a scuffle. One man’s voice raising above the others, saying words I often used during the course of my job.
Put your hands behind your head.
Several seconds passed. Then another voice came on the line. Gruff, hard-sounding.
“Who is this?”
“Arlo Baines,” I said. “I’m a Texas Ranger. Put Frank back on.”
The voice chuckled. “Frank’s in custody right now. He’s not taking any calls unless they’re from his lawyer.”
The line went dead as the Dallas skyline loomed in front of me.
I jerked the wheel, slung the truck onto the shoulder, passing a long line of traffic in the main lanes. At the same time I dialed the general number for the northwest substation of the Dallas Police Department.
I asked for a lieutenant I knew, a friend.
He came on the line, and I told him there was a case I was working on that might be putting my family in danger. I didn’t elaborate or bother to explain that the danger came from fellow officers, members of his own department. I figured if there were enough friendly blue uniforms on the premises, I could at least buy some time.
He readily agreed to send several patrol units to my home. He said the closest one was less than two minutes away, and he’d call as soon as he could to let me know what was going on. Then he hung up.
I pushed my speed to ninety, heading north on the tollway, the highway that split the city in two.
The lieutenant called back three minutes later, told me to pull over.
“Why,” I said.
“Please, just do what I’m asking.”
I exited at Lovers Lane and stopped at a service station. The pit of my stomach felt like it was filled with broken glass.
“Where are you?” the lieutenant asked.
I told him.
He said, “What’s the case you’re working on?”
“You want to get into that now?” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Just tell me what you found. Tell me they’re OK.”
Silence.
“Please.” I felt the emotion crawl up my throat, hot and foul tasting. “Say they’re OK.”
“What in the hell did you get yourself into, Arlo?”
I didn’t reply. My vision tunneled.
“A squad car’s on the way to get you,” he said. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
“My family. What’s going on at my house?”
“I’m sorry, Arlo.” He paused. “I am so sorry.”
CHAPTER FORTY
We left the banker in his backyard in Piedra Springs, along with the headless Russian. We were halfway across the front yard, walking briskly, when the muffled boom of a shotgun sounded.
Hannah looked at me, startled.
“We’d better hurry.” I jogged the rest of the way to the Crown Victoria.
The Ford was still behind the rental Malibu. I glanced in the back of the Chevy, saw the second hood was still there.
We hopped into the Crown Victoria as a man walked out of the house across the street. He held a newspaper in one hand, a napkin in the other, like he’d been having breakfast when he’d heard the second gunshot and decided maybe he should see what was going on.
I slipped the transmission into drive and pulled away from the curb.
In the rearview mirror, I could see him stare at us as we drove away.
“What do we do?” Hannah paused. “We should call the police . . . shouldn’t we?”
“They’ll be here soon enough.” I turned at the first cross street, heading toward the center of town.
She buckled her seat belt. “We should’ve taken the gun with us.”
I slowed for an intersection. “Bet he had more than one weapon in that house.”
We were both silent.
“You ever see anybody get killed before?” she asked.
I hesitated and then nodded, thinking about my father-in-law and his revolver, Chloe and her two partners, crooked vice cops in too deep with a crew out of Laredo. A sudden wave of sadness swept over me, the wastefulness of it all, the lives lost, smiling faces I would never see again.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Where do you think?”
She didn’t answer.
“You want to quit now?” I said. “Go back to New York?”
“No.” Her voice was forceful.
We stopped at Main Street as a squad car turned in front of us, heading the way we’d come, lights flashing.
There was only one southbound road out of town, a county highway just past the courthouse. I headed that way.
A Greyhound was idling in front of the bus depot. I wondered where it was going. I imagined myself onboard, no particular destination in mind, the humming of tires on asphalt as soothing as a tranquilizer.
I turned onto the road leading south.
When we passed the city limit sign, I sped up to eighty.
The road was flat and straight, devoid of traffic, bordered on either side by barbed wire and a rocky terrain that was empty of structures except for the occasional windmill or abandoned farmhouse.
“How far?” Hannah asked.
“Maybe twenty miles.” I remembered the map from yesterday. “This road ends at a T intersection. From there, we go west for another ten miles or so.”
We were both silent for a period of time. The land became more broken, outcroppings of limestone forming gullies and cliffs. The sky was cloudless, and the gauge on the Ford indicated an outside temperature of ninety degrees. It was not yet ten in the morning.
“Do you remember that old John Wayne movie The Searchers?” she asked.
I nodded. “He was looking for his niece. She’d been kidnapped by the Indians.”
“You remember the ending?”
I didn’t reply, maneuvering around an empty cattle truck that was going about half our speed, the only other vehicle we’d seen in the last ten minutes.
“When he found the girl,” Hannah said, “she didn’t want to come home.”
I sped up until the Ford began to shimmy. I eased off the gas until we were going a little less than a hundred.
“She was more Indian than white.” Hannah paused. “What if my niece is the same way?”
I started to answer, to say something like we’ll figure out how to cross that bridge if we come to it or let’s don’t borrow trouble. But the words died on my lips as we crested a small hill and saw the line of pickup trucks.
They were all gray, what looked like Chevy extended cabs. Eight, maybe ten of them, heading north. Right toward us.
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
The pickups sped past, the drivers paying the Crown Victoria no mind.
Two men were in each vehicle. They wore identical hats, the crown higher in the rear than in the front.
“How many did you count?” Hannah asked.
“Nine trucks. Eighteen soldiers.”
“Soldiers? Is that how you think of them?”
I didn’t reply. The answer was obvious. They were infantrymen. The cult’s military wing.
She looked out the rear window. “Wonder where they’re going?”
“Maybe they’re making a doughnut run.”
“That’s a lot of doughnuts.”
We were silent for a half mile.
“How many people are going to be there?” I asked. “At the compound?”
“This is the biggest cluster of the
m,” she said. “The home of the Supreme Apostle and all.”
A highway sign appeared: this road maintained by the sky of zion—synod 293.
“A synod is a subdivision in the organization.” She answered the question I hadn’t asked yet.
“Like a chapter?”
She nodded. “Their website says they’ve got more than seven hundred of them.”
On one side of the road, a pair of cows stood by a stock tank, tails swatting at flies.
“The main synod used to be in Arkansas,” she said. “Then it moved to Missouri in the seventies.”
“And now it’s here?” I asked.
She nodded. “They keep searching for the promised land.”
“Not a lot of milk and honey around these parts.” I paused. “Where are the rest of them?”
“Mostly in the Midwest. Kansas, Nebraska, a whole string in Oklahoma. There’re a few on the East Coast and one in Los Angeles.”
Two buzzards were hunched over something in the road up ahead. As we got close, they flew away, one of the birds dragging what looked like the entrails of a dead animal in its beak.
Hannah continued. “A branch of the organization operates in Mexico, too, outside of Chihuahua. Beyond that, the details get sketchy, probably by design.” She paused. “Like I said, the largest number of synods is here. Probably three hundred.”
“So how many people is that?” I looked in the rearview mirror. The buzzards had returned.
“Each synod has twelve elders,” she said. “Each elder has eleven church members under him.”
“A hundred and forty-four,” I said. “Times three hundred.”
“That’s more than forty-one thousand people,” she said. “If each synod has a full roster.”
I swore under my breath, and we were silent for a half mile or so.
The terrain changed. The limestone outcroppings were bigger, the land more broken. In the distance, a series of mesas became visible, long plateaus stark against the southern sky.
“They’re not growing food for that many people around here,” I said. “And there’s only one grocery store in town, a Brookshire’s off Main.”
Hannah nodded. “Their numbers are like their beliefs. Bullshit.”
“So how many do you think there really are at the compound?”
“Does it matter?” she said. “Since there’s only the two of us?”
Up ahead, the end of the road came into view. I slowed.
The north-south highway out of Piedra Springs stopped where a state highway ran to the east and west. At the intersection, facing us, was an old gas station. The pumps were gone, but the canopy and the building itself remained.
A large sign in front of the canopy read sky of zion information center. The sign was next to a flagpole with an American flag flying at half-mast.
A single gray pickup was parked in front of the station next to a four-wheeler. Off to one side was a navy-blue panel van.
I slowed, turned into the parking area.
Hannah pressed her hand against the dash. “Are you nuts?”
“No sense waltzing in cold.” I stopped by the van. “Besides, you think all forty thousand know about us?”
“You mind if I stay in the car?”
“Suit yourself.” I got out of the Ford.
A moment later, Hannah exited her side, muttering.
The air was hot and smelled of sage and the fading chemical aroma associated with an abandoned service station—oil, stale gasoline, old rubber.
On the door was a sign that read open—all are welcome.
“I wonder if they really mean that,” Hannah said.
“We’re about to find out.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Hannah and I entered the Sky of Zion Information Center, really just an old service station.
The interior had been refurbished into something that looked like a moderately successful insurance agency, the State Farm office in Des Moines, say. Wood paneling, utilitarian carpet, a cheap particleboard desk designed to look expensive.
A woman sat behind the desk. She was in her forties and wore a long-sleeve dress, the fabric a peach-colored gingham, pale like it had been washed too many times.
Her eyes were red and teary. A nameplate on the desk read sister jane.
“Hello.” I smiled.
“By the Lord’s grace, welcome.” She dabbed her eyes. “Are you here for the funeral?”
Hannah and I looked at each other.
“We were just passing through,” I said.
“Please excuse my appearance.” She touched her hair. “We are in a period of mourning.”
“Oh dear,” Hannah said. “Who passed?”
“Brother Felix. He died in the night.”
“Brother Felix?” I tried to keep my tone even.
“Part of the first family,” she said. “Descended from the Great One himself.”
“What a shame.” Hannah glanced at me. “So sorry for your loss.”
“Would you like some literature about our organization?” Sister Jane held up a brochure.
Before I could take the offered item, a door at the rear of the room opened, and three men entered.
The first was in his fifties. He wore a pair of jeans, a pearl-button white shirt, and a Stetson with the crown higher in the rear than in the front.
The other two men were younger and clearly not part of the Sky of Zion.
One was in his thirties, good-looking like a bit player on a soap opera. He wore a pair of khakis and an expensive-looking knit polo shirt. His hair was coiffed to perfection, slicked back with so much gel it was probably bulletproof.
The guy behind him carried a professional-grade video camera. He was in his twenties. He wore cargo shorts and a faded T-shirt. Nothing about him was coiffed.
The guy in his fifties introduced himself as Brother Ted, Synod Number 63, the chapter tasked with manning the information center. He was all smiles and charm, like a salesman, which he was, in a manner of speaking.
The other two were from England, a BBC team doing a story on the Sky of Zion. The one in the knit shirt, the on-camera pretty boy, was named Ian.
Ian and his video guy were supposed to be touring the compound, but the funeral had thrown a kink into their plans. Apparently, the death of someone from the first family caused quite a disruption in the daily routine of the church members.
Ian asked if it was OK if he filmed us.
Before Hannah could reply, I told him yes, of course, and the camera guy trained his lens on our faces. Ian did a brief intro, something about wandering pilgrims on the plains of the American West, where once the buffalo and Native Americans roamed in perfect harmony.
Brother Ted ignored Hannah, looked at me. “Are you familiar with the Sky of Zion?”
“A little. I’m not sure where to start.”
“How about telling me why you stopped by, friend?” He smiled warmly.
“My wife and I”—I put my arm around Hannah—“we’re, uh, looking for something.”
“You feel lost?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Lost and searching.”
“What are you searching for, friend?” Brother Ted clasped his hands in front of his waist. His demeanor was that of an undertaker trying to sell a casket, solicitous and somber, empathetic, yet eager to make his quota for the month.
A moment passed. Then I said, “Hope, I suppose.”
Brother Ted beamed. “You’ve come to the right place. The Apostle promises hope for all who have faith.”
“There’s so little of that in this world,” I said. “And I want to believe.”
Ian nod
ded approvingly. “This is dynamite, mate. Keep talking.”
I smiled sheepishly.
“I’d love to give you a tour of the compound and explain who we are,” Brother Ted said. “But we have a funeral in a little while.”
“Brother Felix, yes,” Hannah said. “We were sorry to hear the news.”
“He was a great man.” Ted nodded. “Spirit-filled. Part of the ruling council.”
“Perhaps we could pay our respects to Brother Felix?” I said. “And see some of the compound, too?”
Silence.
“Is the funeral open so anyone could attend?” Hannah asked.
Ian’s eyes grew wide. “A bloody good idea.”
“Yes, yes.” Ted nodded thoughtfully. “That is a good idea.”
“You want to ride with us in the van?” Ian said. “We could talk some more. Get a little background footage.”
“I’d rather if we took our car.” Hannah touched her stomach. “I’ve been feeling a little ill today.”
I frowned. “Are you OK, honey?”
With the appearance of Ted, Sister Jane had effectively disappeared into the background, a doormat looking for a floor upon which to be unobtrusive. Now she came around from behind the desk.
“Just a little nauseous,” Hannah said.
Sister Jane touched her chin with a finger. “Forgive my intrusion, but are you with child?”
Brother Ted shook his head. “Where are your manners, woman?”
Hannah smiled deeply, grasped my hand. “Eight weeks. We’ve been trying for so long.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Jane said. “Children are a blessing from God. The Apostle’s bounty.”
I followed Hannah’s lead. “That’s why we came this way. We’re looking for somewhere to raise a family. Safe. Full of good values.”
“The city is a bad place for children.” Brother Ted shook his head. “The little ones who live at the compound are much happier.”
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