by Erik Carter
Dale’s Wilson—he of the station wagon and sensible neckties—had still been asleep next door when Dale woke up. Later that morning, when the library would open, they would follow up on his lead about Raleigh, and, with any luck, they’d be on their way to that city by lunchtime.
Running usually cleared Dale’s mind, but right now it was still spinning from the Roanoke ordeal. He hadn’t seen mob mentality like that in four years, and it scared him as much today as it had then.
After working at the Worldwide Weekly Report for a couple years, he received the assignment to cover the Collective Agricultural Experiment. He went to the camp as a legitimate member of the press. Certainly no one was under any false impressions that the WWR would soon be rivaling the New York Times, but by that point they had yet to begin investigating lake monsters and UFOs shot down by farmhands.
The biggest challenge was convincing the CAE that he and Spencer were truly interested in the organization’s philosophy. It was a socialist group based upon a foundation of extreme Christian zealotry. Dale grew up as afraid of communism as he was of the bogeyman in a home without religion. His mother had turned her back on church when his father left shortly after Dale’s eighth birthday, claiming to have done so based on a message from God.
That said, convincing the people at the CAE that he wanted to devote his life to socialistic Christianity was a challenge, but what he lacked in knowledge, he made up for with feigned enthusiasm. Dale’s PI had always been able to compensate for his numerous inadequacies with some smooth words and a flashy smile.
The world of the Collective Agricultural Experiment that Glenn Downey had created was nothing like Dale anticipated. Thirty-six buildings of cinder block construction, most of them residential cottages holding a dozen people each. There were administration buildings and two communal structures—the dining hall and the most important structure on the grounds, the Pavilion.
It was a large, open area with a roof overhead and a cement slab floor—an oversized picnic pavilion. Four thirty-foot poles sat at the corners of the building’s grounds. The poles held floodlights and the huge speakers from which Glenn’s droning words could be heard throughout the camp.
Randomly, Glenn would use these speakers to assemble his followers at the Pavilion. In the middle of the afternoon. At three in the morning. He called these gatherings “White Nights” and used them to rant about the various groups of people he felt were opposed to the CAE’s mission. Civil rights organizations, concerned churches, the American government. But more than anything, the White Nights were tests. He was testing his followers’ resolve. He’d call them out, questioning them as to whether they would give their lives for the CAE. And they always agreed that they would.
The bulk of the camp was made up of the fields where Dale and the others worked each day harvesting the crops that sustained the community. Darnell Fowler and his Blue Guard patrolled the fields. Hovering along the edges. Walking down the rows. Always with batons and usually with an automatic rifle strapped across their chests. They wore the same uniform as the rest of the CAE staff—baggy, white, linen shirts and tan pants—with the addition of a deep blue armband.
Darnell had been under Glenn’s complete control—the lieutenant from hell … with a particular distaste for Dale’s PI. Dale never figured out if Darnell was inherently sadistic or if it was something that Glenn Downey brought out of him. And he would never know for sure because when the rest of the Blue Guard died in the firefights outside the camp, Darnell disappeared. No one had seen him since.
But what Dale remembered most of all was the subservience from Glenn’s followers, their unwavering belief in Glenn Downey and his message. Unconditional faith and love were dangerous. This would be confirmed repeatedly to Dale later in life as an agent. He once encountered a serial killer’s wife who truly believed that her husband was “a decent soul” and stood by him until the day he fried. Beautiful, in a way. But dangerous.
Nowhere had he seen this phenomenon more than at the Collective Agricultural Experiment. There were chants. There were songs. A group of seemingly normal, intelligent adults somehow all came to call a man “Father” and “Dad.” They would say and do anything that Glenn Downey told them to.
It rocked Dale to his core, more so than anything he’d ever seen.
The Marshall Village was a lot like the CAE. A group of people all following a leader with a seemingly ideological vision. The ones on the roof had been brainwashed. That much was clear. And, if the pattern from the CAE held true, Dale knew who was controlling them.
A jog always got Dale’s analytic juices flowing.
He rounded a bend, and the drab Ashbury Motel appeared before him. Wilson was sitting on one of the lawn chairs in front of their rooms. A phone was on his lap, the handset between his shoulder and his ear. Dale ran up to him.
“He’s here now,” Wilson said and hung up.
“Father and the Man in Black, Wilson,” Dale said between breaths. He put his hands on his knees. “That’s all the girl at the hospital would say. At the CAE, Glenn Downey had his people call him ‘Father.’ There are two men behind this. The Man in Black brainwashed those people on the roof, but there’s someone else running the whole thing. It’s the goddamn professor, Wilson. I just know it is. We need to find Camden Marshall. Immediately.”
“No need,” Wilson said. “That was Sheriff Brown on the phone. Camden Marshall just turned himself in.”
Chapter 21
Wilson and Dale barreled down the interstate.
Dale had spent a lot of time on I-81. Growing up in the Shenandoah Valley, 81 was a way of life. But it seemed like in these last two crazy days he’d been traveling up and down the highway more than ever. If he had to spend another minute in Wilson’s big, green, faux-wood-covered Custom Cruiser, his mind was going to melt from mundanity. He missed Arancia in a bad way.
He was putting on a green dress shirt that he’d snatched from his room before they left. “When did this happen?”
“Half hour ago. During your jog,” Wilson said. “He walked into the Sheriff’s Office and confessed.”
Dale pulled his arm through his left sleeve.
Wilson leaned away. “Hey, watch it, would ya?”
“You kiddin’ me? We could toss a football in here.”
Wilson frowned and looked Dale up and down. “What’s with the grown-up clothes, anyway?”
“I like to make a good first impression with these creeps. What did Marshall confess to?”
“Everything. Said he abducted all those people. Every man, woman, and child.”
“I’m guessing that this isn’t going to wrap up with a nice little bow.” If there was one thing that Dale learned since joining the BEI, it was that there were no simple answers.
“Not exactly,” Wilson said. “He’s admitted to abducting the people, but he won’t tell us where they are.”
Dale fastened the top button, flipped the collar up, and pulled the tie around his neck. It was light brown with thick, diagonal stripes. Nice and wide. His leather jacket looked smart with a shirt and tie under it. And everything looked good with 501s. Dress them up, dress them down. Fantastic.
“How much does he want?”
“That’s the thing,” Wilson said. “He’s not asking for money. Not making any demands at all. He only wants to talk to the fed in charge. That would be you.”
Dale slid a half-Windsor knot to his neck then exhaled as he leaned his head back. “Well, no one ever said it was gonna be easy.”
Dale and Wilson arrived at the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office and entered the viewing area of an interrogation room. It was dark and sparse, and their footsteps echoed. On the far wall was a large window, about eight feet wide—the backside of a two-way mirror. Visible through the glass was a man sitting at a table.
Sheriff Brown stood in front of them. His arms were crossed over his chest. He was chomping on gum and shaking his head as he looked through the window.
�
��Sheriff,” Dale said as he and Wilson entered.
Brown extended a hand to Dale. “Hey, hero. Heard you found yourself some trouble down there in Roanoke.”
“Trouble finds me wherever I go, big guy.” Dale looked toward the window. “So, he’s confessed?”
Brown led the agents across the room. “Damndest thing. Walks right into the office, nonchalant, not a care in the world. Says he’d like to make a confession. He’s Camden Marshall of the Marshall Village, and he kidnapped the one hundred forty-seven missing people.”
Dale looked through the glass.
Camden Marshall looked just like he had in the picture. The years had done little to change his appearance. His posture was perfect, and he sat with his hands placed one on top of the other on the table in front of him. He had a well-maintained beard and wore a flannel shirt and tan corduroy pants. He stared straight ahead, patiently, a small grin on his face.
“Actually, Sheriff, there are one hundred forty-one missing people,” Wilson said. “One hundred forty-seven, less one in himself, less the girl in the hospital, less the four in Roanoke.”
Dale shook his head. “Don’t be a dweeb, Agent Wilson.”
Brown chortled.
“How was he able to kidnap so many people?” Dale said.
“He’s not talkin’,” Brown said. “Won’t tell us how he got the people or where they are. Only wants to talk to the man in charge.”
“I guess that’s me.” Dale gazed at Marshall, who continued to face forward and grin, holding very still.
There was the flush of a toilet. A door on the opposite side of the room opened. Out walked Special Agent In Charge Walter Taft. He was zipping his fly.
Dale felt what little joy was in the room evaporate. “Oh my god,” he said, not trying at all to lower his tone or conceal his bewildered disappointment.
“Sorry about that,” Taft said as he strolled across the room. “Had to drain the main vein.” He smacked Dale hard on the back and pointed at the two-way mirror. “Looks like he landed right in your lap, you lucky son of a bitch.”
“Not feeling too lucky at the moment, sir. What are you doing here?”
“The main suspect in my prime case turned himself in. You bet I’m here. Get used to it, pretty boy. I’ll be around through the remainder.” He reached into his pocket and grabbed some pistachios. “Glad you cleaned yourself up.” He pointed at Dale’s tie.
“You got your work cut out for you, Conley,” Brown said.
“How so?” Dale said, slowly pulling his tractor beam of disbelief away from Taft.
“He’s a real smug son of a bitch. Thinks he’s smarter than everyone who tried questioning him so far. He’s probably right, but that’s beside the point.”
“I can handle a cocky college professor.”
“But that’s not all,” Brown said. “He’s one of those types that won’t budge. Not an inch. Isn’t making any requests. Doesn’t want a damn thing. And when you got nothing to lose, there’s nothing you can be threatened with. Funny thing is, we usually see this with lowlifes. Real pieces of crap. But this guy—this guy’s different. Educated, successful. No prior record. Just doesn’t make sense.”
“Then we’ll have to keep playing his games,” Dale said. “When there’s no way to bargain with him, what other choice do we have?”
Brown shrugged. “You’re gonna have to figure that out as you go.”
Chapter 22
Dale opened the door. The interrogation room walls were cement blocks with a smooth, polished surface. Greenish-brown color in color. Dim, sickly light came from a set of humming fluorescent lights. Everything was dull, pea green.
He walked into the room with confidence. This was something he’d learned in training. Interrogation technique was one of the most important skills he gained at the Academy. New BEI agents went to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, posing as traditional incoming FBI agents. A BEI recruit left the twenty-week program after just sixteen weeks, at which point the FBI recruits were told that someone had washed out.
Unlike college, which was composed of as much nonsense as it was quality information, Dale found the Academy curriculum to be wholly useful. Of course, any guy would enjoy shooting guns and hand-to-hand combat, but the courses on subjects such as law and surveillance were also incredibly practical. Dale loved practicality.
Interrogation was a finer art than he’d imagined it would be. Most of his training had been finite, with a focus of time-tested techniques, but ultimately the most useful tip he’d gotten was one piece of general advice from an instructor. Start gentle. You can always get sterner, but you can’t go backwards. Dale didn’t know if he’d be able to apply that principle to Camden Marshall. It was taking all his mental discipline to restrain himself from jumping over the table and tearing the man’s limbs off.
He straightened his tie and pulled out a chair.
Marshall continued to grin. He smiled bigger when Dale sat across from him.
He was striking in appearance. Pleasant features, tall, broad-chested. He was model-level good-looking, one of those older models they have tossing a baseball with his “son” in a picture-perfect yard, a golden retriever waiting faithfully in the background.
He locked in on Dale with a pair of green eyes. Distinguished-looking crow’s-feet sat at the corners. There was a sinister quality to his gaze, but the little grin lingered on his lips. If he was trying to make Dale come unhinged, he was going to need to try a lot harder. Dale had seen it all, and he wasn’t going to buckle for some hippie nut-job.
“Good afternoon, Professor Marshall. I’m Agent Conley.”
“Good afternoon, Agent Conley. I’m Camden Marshall.” He imitated Dale’s intonation.
Dale eyed him. “You have something I need.”
“Oh?”
“One hundred forty-one missing people.”
Marshall tilted his head. “Thought you’d start with some chit-chat.”
“Not my style.”
He nodded. “I admire the direct approach.”
“Where are they?”
“The really direct approach. Very good.”
Their eyes locked. A game of chicken. Dale didn’t fold.
“They’re somewhere safe enough,” Marshall said finally.
“Where?”
“I’ve given you five people so far. The girl and the four on the roof. You keep solving my riddles, and I’ll keep releasing them. A few at a time.”
“These people have family who want to know they’re safe. Tell us where they are. Let us get these people home.”
Marshall raised his eyebrows. “Mmm. So you’re a liar, Agent Conley? Everyone in my village either had no familial ties or broke all connections.”
“You don’t think these folks have anyone who cares about them?”
Marshall shrugged. “They were with me for two and a half years. No one came knocking.”
“What’s the plan, Camden? You going to keep running us around on wild goose chases indefinitely?”
“Aw, didn’t like my first two riddles, did you? Well, you’re a big buck of a boy. I think you can handle this. Wait till you see some of the other stones I’ve left for you. Just smile and play my little games if you want to see any of those people alive.”
Dale leaned forward. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
“The local fools have already asked me that. There’s nothing with which you can negotiate, no way to buy me off. I trust you’ve begun working on my latest quandary. Have you figured it out yet? Go to the rounded, razed top of a land that’s royal, plotted, and taken.”
Dale paused. He had a strong feeling the riddle was leading to Raleigh, but he couldn’t be sure yet. And he couldn’t give Marshall the wrong answer. To do so would be to appear vulnerable. In a situation like this, that was a death wish. So he had to bite the bullet. If he was going to find the Marshallites, he didn’t have time for pride. “No, I have not.”
“That’s a shame
. You haven’t much time. So let me get you started. Focus on the word plotted.”
Dale uncrossed his arms. “What do you mean, I haven’t much time?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention that little parameter?” Marshall said with a shit-eating grin. “It is so very tiring carving out all those messages.”
“Spit it out, Marshall!” Dale had been maintaining a facade, but he could feel it cracking.
“Temper. You didn’t think I’d make them all so easy, did you? This riddle needs to be solved by the end of the day.”
“Midnight?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Close of the business day. Banker’s hours, in fact. Three p.m.” He leaned over and looked at Dale’s watch. “Just under seven hours.” He opened his mouth wide in feigned surprise. “Well, go. Go, young agent! Time is of the essence. People’s lives are hanging in the balance.”
Dale eyed Marshall coldly before he stood up and walked to the door.
He put his hand on the doorknob and glanced back. Marshall waved at him, fluttering his fingers.
Chapter 23
“Seven hours,” Wilson said, rushing toward him.
“Don’t worry. I got it.” Dale loosened his tie. “He said the key word is plotted. Raleigh was a planned city, one of the earliest American examples. Eighteenth century. And the land was taken, as the clue says, when state officials bought a thousand acres from—”
“Dammit, Conley,” Taft said. “We don’t need a history lesson. What are you getting at?”
“It means I’m right, sir. They are in Raleigh.”
“Son of a gun,” Brown said, looking through the window. A prison guard was escorting Marshall from the room. “He’s playing us like a five-dollar fiddle.”
“At the moment, I’m at a loss for other options,” Dale said. “And I need to borrow your car, Wilson.”
The thought of driving Wilson’s lumbering station wagon made Dale a little ill, but desperate times called for desperate measures. All in the line of duty. Oh, how he missed Arancia.