by Dawn Mattox
Vicki didn’t seem to notice my distraction. She was intent on the sodden black mound that she had hosed down to squelch the threat of fire. “I found this pile of feathers and leaves”—Vicki kicked at the pile—“and probably dog crap stuffed under the corner of my house. That’s my bedroom, right there. It was still smoking when I found it.” Her voice caught, and then she continued. “I—we—might have burned to death.”
I shook my head at my own stupidity. How was it that I could see the risks and have so much concern for a stranger, and yet have so much hostility toward Chance and Travis, and even Bonita—all of whom took the threat up at the cabin more seriously than I? I knew that the incident, nailing a live chicken to my front door with a knife had been staged to send a loud, clear message. The problem had been that the message was delivered in a language that I didn’t want to hear.
Wetting my lips, I turned to Vicki. “We need to call the police. This is arson. If you report Jackson to the police, his parole might be revoked, and he’ll be sent back to prison.”
“Please don’t do that. That’s why I called you. I don’t want the police.” She shook her head, sending her copper curls bouncing. “I don’t want to get into it again with him. I want to be free of him, not in court with him. Jackson’s terms of parole say that he isn’t supposed to come within five hundred yards of me. But somehow he managed to get released to Magalia. There’s only one road out of the mountains, and it goes right past my house. He drives by my house every day—to shop, to see his parole officer, to spy on me. It’s not right.”
Vicki waved her hands in frustration. “How can they do that? How can they parole him right back to the cult? Those are the same people he tried selling our son to pay off his drug debts. The very same people!”
Tears broke through her defenses, and she swiped them away in anger. “I need your help, not the police. I need you to call the parole board. Get him moved to Chico. Or San Ysidro. Or the moon. I don’t care.”
I smiled. San Ysidro was the southernmost city in the state before crossing into Mexico, but personally, I thought that paroling Jackson to the moon was a better idea. Vicki confirmed my belief that releasing people back to the county of origin was the worst possible policy. Good intentions did not negate reality. The intent might be to parole inmates back to the support of family and friends, but the reality was that the person was also paroled back to the land of familiar—old habits, old haunts, old addictions, and old patterns. Sending parolees to a different state could at least offer hope for a new beginning.
The next day, I spent hours on the phone calling everyone short of the president of the United States, who was probably busy golfing anyhow. I labored up the food chain through agents, chiefs, deputies, and directors until I finally reached a person in the Department of Corrections who did not ask for confirmation of my position and details of my duties—or dismiss me for wasting his precious time—time better spent addressing real concerns. True to her word, the administrator that finally listened called Jackson’s PO, who in turn called me. I provided him with additional background on Jackson’s involvement with a satanic cult and the geographical dynamics that necessitated him breaking the restraining order on a daily basis.
I guessed it really was the season for miracles. The officer modified terms of Jackson’s parole to read “Chico,” located in the valley, and detailed further provisions to protect Vicki and Kyle. The presence of Satanists did not surprise Jackson’s parole officer in the least. He concluded by saying that he was acutely aware of pervasive cult activity in our county.
Sometimes I feel like just another civilian who doesn’t want to admit that ritual abuse exists in my backyard. According to my statistics, law enforcement and social service professionals all have direct knowledge of cults and cult survivors. They all handle silent caseloads of perpetrators and victims, and yet, with the exception of Jack Savage, who thrives on conflict, it remains a taboo topic. It is as though the social pendulum has swung from to satanic panic to satanic denial, or even worse, satanic apathy.
CHAPTER 13
One more baby shower and I will hang myself.
It was Sunday afternoon, and I drove up the hill to Ashley’s house. It was the last thing—even if it was the right thing—that I wanted to do. More than being motivated by my Christian duty, if I dug deep enough beneath the festering mounds of garbage in my soul, I knew I was arranging this baby shower for the secret sire, be it Chance or Travis, rather than the miserable mom.
I wasn’t sure where I would fit into the picture should Chance turn out to be the father. Our conversations never seemed to get that far. Now the question dangled between us, unspoken and perhaps unnecessary, waiting on Her Highness to bestow the truth on her servants-in-waiting.
Maybe I should have given Paige two baby T-shirts, I mused with a grin—one with a little search-and-rescue emblem and the other with an ATF logo—and watched to see which one she hugged and which one she threw in the trash.
“Out! Stay! Good boys!”
“What did they do?” I asked, petting Ashley’s dogs before entering her home.
The usually trim Ashley had continued to expand—from looking like an exercise ball to resembling my Volkswagen.
“The dogs stay outside now. I’ll have enough to deal with later.”
Her answer surprised me since I would rather have dogs in my house than kids any day. “Why? Are you afraid they’ll go rogue? Eat the babies?”
Her gray-green eyes were not laughing. “Germs. Germs and pet hair,” she said, closing the ornate door on her two sad-looking dogs.
“What’s a little hair between friends? I sleep with Kissme.”
“Yeah, but you’re not . . . you don’t . . .”
Shane came to the rescue. “Good mornin’, Sunshine! About time you came over.” He swept me into a bear hug, intentionally tickling my neck with his shaggy brown beard until I laughed and playfully shoved him away. Shane’s beard, a few tattoos, and owning the Harley shop in Chico still evidenced his biker roots. Shane reminded me of my dad’s friends that would ride up on weekends. Rough and tender, formidable and fun—crazy contradictions, but they were family.
Ashley brought out the blender to make us nutritional smoothies for breakfast, which included fresh fruit, yogurt, and more supplements than a Chinese apothecary. There was a time, not long ago, when it would have been lattes for two, but now she had sworn off caffeine. I watched Shane as he headed outdoors and wondered dryly if she had sworn him off too—germs and hair.
Ashley lectured me about nutrition and thanked me again for her baby shower.
No problem. And it hadn’t been a problem. The ladies at church had done it all. I brimmed with guilt even as I basked in Ashley’s appreciation.
“Follow me,” said Ashley, leaving her half-finished drink on the breakfast bar. “I can’t wait to show you the nursery and all the gifts.” Ashley was as wound up as a mobile dangling over a crib.
“So, Ash,” I said, trailing her down her hall, “since you’re on top of this baby thing, you think you can help me throw Paige a baby shower?” I knew she had to say yes since I had thrown her one.
Ashley froze, turning in the hall. She stared in surprise and then wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, Sunny, you are unbelievable. How . . . forgiving . . . how thoughtful of you to throw a party for Paige.” She held me at arm’s length. “You are one strong woman. That must have been a tough decision.”
“Complicated,” I corrected her.
Are those tears in her eyes?
“No wonder Chance loves you so much. I really admire you.”
I winced through a smile of appreciation. “Thanks, Ash. You’re a good friend.”
If I’d been a Catholic, I’d be burning rubber headed for confession. I continued attending church in hopes that the spirit of Christ, as exemplified by Ashley’s genuine compassion, would eventually rub off on me. I seemed to be driven more by guilt than goodness. I knew I didn’t deserve her prais
es, much less her friendship.
“What will you do if the baby is Chance’s?” she asked me in a voice as soft as the shadows in the hallway.
“Chance will do the right thing,” I said. “He’ll make a great father.”
Ashley reached out and caressed my arm. “I asked, ‘what you will do?’”
Silence.
“I don’t know what my options are yet. Whatever I do will depend on what Chance does. And ultimately, what Paige decides.”
More silence.
“It must be awkward, going back to Step One. But I guess life is a series of Step Ones, huh?”
“Step One?”
“Codependency. Remember? Giving Chance power over your happiness.”
Ouch. Ashley was good at sticking her fingers in sore spots. I think that is part of her attraction. The best healers seemed to have a natural instinct for targeting pain.
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”
Church isn’t always where you think it is. Sometimes it comes to you, I thought. Indeed, the narrow hall did feel like a confessional, a safe place to release my deepest fear.
“I want to be with my husband,” I whispered. “I’ve always wanted to be with Chance. I just don’t know for sure that he wants to be with me. If Paige is carrying his child, maybe he’ll want to be with her.”
Ashley took some time to absorb that.
“I love you Sunny,” she said, “and I don’t have any answers. But I am sure of some things. I am certain that Chance loves you, and I know that God has a plan for something good to come out of all the chaos. I will pray for you, every day.” She hugged me again, and I thought she might cry. Instead, she drew back and gently tugged at my sleeve. “Come on—wait till you see what I’ve done with the nursery.”
The nursery looked like Sunday school, complete with pictures of lambs, doves, and Jesus surrounded by children. Crayon-colored furniture and blocks with bright ABCs bordered the ceiling. Soft toys were scattered about the room as if she expected the twins to pop out of her ready for recess.
“What’s that?” I pointed to a walkie-talkie cradled on top of the colorful dresser.
“It’s an audio baby monitor. It lets a parent listen to the kids from another room. Ashley lowered her voice. “It was a thoughtful gift, but already a bit outdated. Shane is buying a Wi-Fi system so we can keep an eye on the babies through a live streaming app on our phones.”
I studied the gifts still piled in the cribs. Safety equipment seemed to be running second place to stacks of diapers, followed by matching twin outfits. I fingered cushiony bumper guards of every type; a fireplace screen; locks for the TV and PC, stove, refrigerator, dishwasher; cabinet locks; colorful switch plate covers, and a set of Mommy’s Helper Soft Corner Guards to pad the sharp edges on everything from furniture to corners on walls.
My nose wrinkled in resentment. There had been nothing to protect me from the sharp corners and hurts of my childhood.
A bouquet of wildflowers—long spears of wine-colored lupine, lemon-yellow clusters of Spanish broom, and a small branch of delicate sweet birch that looked like billowing cumulus clouds—the type that precedes thunderstorms—were clutched in my grubby little fist as I climbed the stairs to my mother’s bedroom.
Sometimes nightmares were real. Just last night I had hidden under my parents’ bed as my cherished father had beaten my cold-hearted mother. Then the living nightmare receded as her screams began, and I retreated to my safe, dissociative place.
My inner child took flight as I mounted a wild stallion that “no man could tame.”
“I am not a man,” I declared, clutching his thick black mane and leaping onto his muscled back. The stallion and I had raced as one into a far land where the mountains met the ocean, and the soft sound of waves had eventually rocked me to sleep.
Starla’s eyes were as purple as the lupine, her skin whiter than the sweet birch. She had set the flowers to one side, telling me to hurry or I would be late for school. I knew that the flowers, so vibrant with life, would wilt on her pillow by the time I got home. I understood the cycle of violence long before I knew it had a name. At least, it was my childlike understanding of the cycle of violence: my mother would disappear, and I would be alone until she accepted blame for her part in the fight with my dad. Then she would return and we would be a happy family again. Until the next time.
Ashley’s kids don’t stand a chance, I thought bitterly. They will grow up soft and pampered. She will raise them to become the next generation of victims. At least I had grown up learning how to take care of myself. Maybe that was what my mother had intended all along.
I told Chance about throwing Paige a baby shower during our evening phone call and it was no stretch to say there was a pregnant pause before he responded.
“Sunny, I love you. I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry about this morning, hon. You are . . . the most incredible, the most amazing woman in the world.”
He would have been amazed alright—if he really knew. My deceit felt like a form of adultery, taking praise that was not really mine. I took it, but I didn’t deserve it. His approval was intended for the woman that he thought I was… the woman I wished I was.
Pressing the phone next to my ear, I snuggled under flannel sheets and the thick quilt that covered me with appliquéd bears, deer, and evergreens. Kissme burrowed next to me and I stroked her head absentmindedly, enjoying the sound of Chance’s deep voice. It was the closest thing to pillow talk that we had shared in some time.
Monday morning arrived. Nothing dead or alive leaped from my inbox, and for that I was grateful. Bonita had been on hand to check it for me. More likely, she was preventing me from disturbing a potential crime scene. She gave me the “all clear,” and when I returned to my office, a mysterious venti-sized latte from Starbuck’s was sitting next to the blinking light on my message machine.
“Playback all messages,” the automated voice intoned. No message. But a song called “Poison” played.
That girl is poison, poison
If I were you I'd take precaution
Before I start to leave
Fly, girl . . .
Oh God—not again.
She'll drive you right out of your mind
Steal your heart when you're blind
Beware she’s schemin’, she’ll make you think you’re dreamin’
You’ll fall in love and you’ll be screamin’ demon ooooooooh . . .
CHAPTER 14
I tried to stifle a scream, but the sound rammed its way through my fingers like a muffled death cry.
It has to be that dirty piece of—
Duncan hurried in and saw the phone hanging by its cord. His smile twisting into fear, and then rage. He threw a huge protective arm around me. “Sunny. Dearest. What?!” sounding like Shrek, preparing to do battle for the love of his life.
“Bonita! Bonita. Get in here!” Duncan bellowed as she breezed past my door—and there came Fiona to the rescue.
My office became a beehive of activity, all for nothing. In the end, the coffee had contained nothing except caffeine and that deadly combination of cream and sugar that Shrek, aka Duncan, had put on my desk, and a phone message that couldn’t be traced. When the excitement slowed, my office felt like a football locker room at halftime.
Homing in on the action, Paige drifted in and listened to the recording that Bonita was playing for the twentieth time. We made eye contact, and she gasped, the blood draining from her face. “Ohmygod—it’s like what happened in the car,” was all she said before turning heel.
“Don’t”—I tried to shout over the hubbub—“call Travis!” But she was already through the door, leaving me with that familiar feeling of anger, frustration, and hopelessness, knowing that Bonita would probably rat me out, even if Paige didn’t.
I hadn’t seen Travis in months, not counting the disastrous phone call and his fight with Paige in the break room. The months felt like years and Travis had become
more of a memory, like an old love letter hidden in the recesses of—not quite a trunk in a dusty attic—more like the Rubbermaid tub where I keep clothes that don’t quite fit anymore. I wondered how Travis would look and feel if I dug him out and tried him on.
There had been plenty of recycled relationships in my youth.
I wasn’t excited to see her. My heart no longer beat a welcome home song. I did not run to my mother and throw my arms around her this time, burying my face in her long paisley skirts that always smelled of patchouli oil.
How long had it been this time?
I had brought her spring wildflowers on the day she left, and just last Sunday Lefty promised to bring home the “biggest goddamned turkey on the planet” for Thanksgiving.
“Don’t just stand there looking stupid,” said Starla, who had picked me up from school. “What’s wrong with you, Sunny? Get your butt in the house.”
I followed her inside the cabin and closed the door behind me. Angry and sullen, I stood and stared, trying to understand.
“You’re back for a visit. Why? Did you run out of drugs?”
“Well, aren’t you the little smart mouth?” said Starla as she sat in Lefty’s chair and tapped the ash from a joint into his ashtray with one hand while waving smoke from her face with the other. “I’ve been in the redwoods. If you really want to know, I’ve been living up in a redwood tree, one of the largest and oldest trees on this planet, and I”—Starla put great emphasis on ‘I’–“have been keeping it safe from loggers for months.”
Was she talking to me or to herself?
“My family brought me food and blankets and books . . . and pot.” My mother was smiling as she chatted on, fairly glowing with self-illumination. “I learned to play the recorder and . . . are you ready for this?”