by Dawn Mattox
Dano interjected, “The abuse is still current, and the perpetrators are alive.”
Frown lines deepened across Amanda’s forehead. “If you are referring to Taylor’s father, Mr. Angelo Ortiz, he is dead.”
Shock registered on Dano’s face. “What about her mother, the priestess?”
“When she is arrested, Deirdre Jarreau will be charged with kidnapping, forgery, and possession of guns and drugs.”
The injustice was outrageous. “You won’t tell the jury about the cult? They just get away with everything? Since when does telling the truth enable the guilty to go free?” I shrugged and switched tactics. “I guess that’s why I’m just a lowly advocate and not a prosecutor.”
Amanda shot me reproving glance. “You know better. Individuals will be charged according to their crimes. But let’s cut to the chase regarding Taylor Jarreau.” Amanda leaned forward with both elbows on the desk, her gaze targeting Dano. “I have a question for you. Is it possible that a person with multiple personalities can have one person that is still active in the cult?”
Dano blinked, looking wary. “Yes, that could happen.”
Amanda arched her brow. “Knowing that is possible, begs the question: If you were me, how many subpoenas would you send Taylor—and which personality would appear on the witness stand?”
CHAPTER 46
Frito anxiously dogged my heels as I searched the cabin. “Me-ma? Day-Day?” I was seven years old—all grown up and didn’t talk baby talk. And yet, my feet traveled the weary, familiar route—first the downstairs, then my parents’ bedroom upstairs (the meditation-room-turned-lair), out to the Japanese bathhouse, and finally the garden and orchard, looking for parents that were rarely there—wailing, “Me-maa... Day-Dayy...”
When the echoes died, I squared my little shoulders and stooped over to scoop up my dog and rock him like a baby. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t ever leave you,” I crooned, reassuring my ratty little one-eyed friend, “Not ever. I will never be like her.”
I was rewarded with a grateful lick on the face. And then another and another until I woke to Kissme’s tongue in my eye. “Yuck. Kissme. That’s disgusting.” I looked at the clock and scrunched my face. “That’s even more disgusting,” I said, relocating her to my chest, where she promptly settled down and went back to sleep, leaving me wide awake. Thinking and remembering.
What a weird dream. Actually, it had been a familiar dream. Just weird, because I had never called my parents by the baby names Me-Ma or Day-Day. Not even in a dream.
And remembering. Remembering.
A hot summer day. Blazing hot. Screaming mad.
“I am your mother. I am your mama. You will not call me Starla.”
“You are not my mother—Starla! You don’t deserve that name. You just popped me out—like a dog. Even Frito can do that. I will never call you Mama again.”
Starla’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, aren’t you perfect?” Her voice was deceptively low. “What do you know about being a mother? You don’t know anything.” Starla snorted then laughed—raspy, deep, throaty, from too many cigarettes and too many nights bent over a crack pipe. She was leathered and tattooed, her hair punked. “You’re just like me.” Starla had spat it out, like a judgment—or a curse.
And then she had paused as her eyes time-traveled to some distant galaxy, sad and wistful she whispered, “I used to be just like you.”
“You were never like me—and I will never be like you. I hate you!” Rage was my armor, and I braced myself for the slap that didn’t come.
Tears shimmered in her watery gray eyes. “Give it time, baby girl. You don’t know what you will become.” Starla blinked. “Probably just like your old lady.”
Better than an alarm clock, the memory propelled me out of bed. My greatest fear in life was morphing into my mother. I couldn’t shake it. Something about my dream clung, leaving me anxious—like the tang of rank body odor, I couldn’t get away from it. Something. Something beyond the obvious influence of Taylor’s Tinkerbell lingered.
Locking the door and saying goodbye to a pair of unhappy dogs that Shane promised to watch, the dream trailed me as I got in my car and slammed the door.
“I am not like you!” I said in affirmation. The memory paled before the rising sun.
I had a plane to catch, and I still had to pick up my laptop and the stack of handouts, get fuel for the car at the gas station and fuel for me at Starbucks.
“Thanks buddy. I’d be lost without you,” I said in a whirlwind of last minute office activity.
Duncan had packed the laptop and projector into a hand cart. A shadow flickered across his tired expression. “Really? I doubt that.”
I had been so wrapped up in my own pain that I had completely forgotten about his. “No. Honestly,” I said with an encouraging pat on his cheek. “You are the undisputed techie king.”
Duncan shrugged. “That’s what friends are for.”
To my relief, the conference was held in an Episcopal Church instead of the state university. Besides divine protection, the church would be safe from the prying eyes of California’s Investigating Grand Jury members—those citizens authorized to oversee and investigate the conduct of government-funded institutions. While the secretive activities of the grand jury were usually reserved for drug trafficking, insurance fraud, organized crime, and public corruption, they always took an active interest when presenting on the topic of ritual abuse. It seemed that the first amendment right was overshadowed here in the otherwise sunny city of San Diego.
San Diego’s city fathers have remained vigilant ever since neighboring Los Angeles County undertook the famous McMartin Preschool case—the longest and most expensive criminal trial in American history—lasting seven years and costing fifteen million dollars. Allegations included hidden tunnels, animal sacrifice, Satan worship, child abuse, and orgies—only to end with a hung (tied) jury and no convictions—while the truth is still a subject of debate. San Diego, in its determination to prevent a similar fiasco, was possibly the safest place in the world to be a Satanist.
The conference was headed by a woman from Utah’s Ritual Abuse Task Force who worked as an off-the-record expert that law enforcement often consulted when investigating crimes where SRA (Satanic Ritual Abuse) had been alleged. Other speakers on the agenda included a doctor who specialized in treating survivors of ritual abuse, a professional deprogrammer and two survivors who were present to share their stories.
Attendees included members of law enforcement, Mental Health, educational institutions, Victim Witness, and the nonprofits—domestic violence and sexual assault crisis center staff, volunteers, and advocates. Scanning the room, I noticed that the attire varied from East Coast professional to California casual, but the expressions were uniform: somewhere between curious and dubious.
Women made up the majority and flitted about like a flock of colorful birds, but my eyes were drawn to the back of the room where they landed on a solitary young man: tall, thin and pale. He sat with his knees together, hands clasped in his lap, and eyes trained on his hands. He was casually dressed with his brown hair carefully combed and hanging in soft waves to his shoulders. He was invisible to the majority of attendees, but I knew the look of a survivor when I saw one.
The day went as planned. Presentations were given, handouts provided, a healthy lunch served, questions asked and answered. I said farewell to my colleagues as they departed and busied myself with packing up my equipment. I had forgotten all about the young man until I looked up.
The sadness in the young man’s eyes will haunt me for as many days as my Maker grants me on this earth. The yellow flower in his hand would become the mysterious keepsake, forever pressed between the pages of my Bible. He had likely picked the single flower from the landscaped beds just outside of the front door. That didn’t matter. What mattered was the time we spent sitting together on the trim lawn beneath the towering rock cathedral. What mattered was his story.
“
I just want to thank you,” said the young man with no name, holding a yellow daisy. “I need to thank you for believing. I knew I wasn’t crazy—even though everyone tried to make me think I was. No one else has ever believed me.” His tears came, as shy and as soft as his voice—gentle and dignified.
He cleared his throat. “My father is a politician, a wealthy politician who throws a lot of parties. Everyone comes to my dad’s parties—other politicians, movie stars, even famous athletes.” The smooth lines on the young man’s face pinched in disgust. “A couple from up north almost always showed up with the kids.” He shivered. “Scary. You see . . . like, there was a different kind of party going on upstairs.” The young man took a deep breath and twirled the daisy between his fingers. “That’s where the kids waited. That’s where friends of my dad’s other ‘family’ would have sex with us during the parties.”
I blinked. “Whose kids were they? Were they children of the guests?”
“Some of them were, like me. The kids with rich parents were saved for the privileged, but most of the kids come from Mexico.” A bitter laugh escaped from between his tightly pressed lips, his eyes brimmed with emotion as he resurrected buried memories. “I know this sounds weird, but it was the couple from Northern California that brought them. They would show up with a van full of children the night before the party. They would give us treats, like pizza and cake and ice cream”—he sniffed—“but we weren’t stupid.
“When I was little, ‘playing games’ meant being tied up . . . with duct tape on my mouth so the guests wouldn’t hear me scream. I was just a kid. They finally left me alone when I got older—nine or ten. When I finally told my teacher, the school went straight to my parents.” He bit his lip and twirled the daisy in the opposite direction. “They didn’t get mad. They just sent me to a shrink who told me that I had an overactive imagination.”
I looked into the eyes of a man who was still in bondage—knowing that emotional bondage is as strong as any cord and as effective as duct tape—society had effectively kept his hands tied and his mouth taped through denial, mockery, and humiliation.
The young man’s face twisted in pain, his eyes glittering like splinters of shattered glass. “I’m glad he’s dead,” he spewed.
“Your father?”
“No. The Ghost. My keeper.”
“The Ghost?”
“The creepy guy from up north—the biker dude. A white man with white eyes.
My world went sideways. Lights exploded in my head as he talked, but I couldn’t make out his words.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”
The boy-man looked puzzled for a moment. “He was the man who drove the van. An albino who called himself Miasma. He was seriously scary, with an even scarier wife.”
“His wife . . .” I choked out the words, “Tell me about his wife.”
Again, the young man looked puzzled. “A black woman. Really dark. I think her name is Day-Day. At least that’s what the kids were told to call her.”
Taylor had called her parents Me-Ma and Day-Day. Not mommy and daddy after all, but a kiddie version of Miasma and Deirdre. Of course. I felt like a fool—but an elated fool. My head whirled with information overload.
Paige—daughter of a wealthy man. Her last word to me, “Ma-e-ma.” The albino who had stalked me and attacked me in the hospital. The black woman who had taken Quincy. A judge from San Bernardino.
The nameless young man grew nervous and started glancing around before turning a pair of bewildered eyes on me.
“You know these people?”
I reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Yes. And no. What I mean is—I have worked with victims of people with those names, only I didn’t realize it until now. Victims in Northern California.”
“I have to go.” The young man stood and dusted his pants with his hands as he prepared to leave.
“The children—where were the other kids kept when they weren’t at the parties? The kids from Mexico? Please. Please tell me. Please, I beg you—trust me.”
His answer was a long time coming as I waited, torn between fear and hope.
His eyes moistened, and he licked his lips. “You did a brave thing today,” he said at last. “You set me free. I know I’m not crazy now—because you believe me.” He glanced around again. “I owe you, Mrs. McLane.” He handed me the yellow daisy and asked me for a pen and paper. Then he wrote the location of where the children were kept.
CHAPTER 47
Fear followed me back to the hotel and overshadowed my every move. Everyone looked suspicious. Everyone was watching me. I used my cell phone instead of the phone in my room.
“Travis?”
The tremor in my voice made him ask, “Sunny—what’s wrong?”
I told him where I was and what I had learned.
“Can you drive?”
“Yes, I’m okay. I have a car.”
“Okay. I’m in Southern California. I want you to drive north on I-15. I’ll meet you at the car rental at the Ontario Airport. You can turn your car in there. I’ll make some calls, and we’ll go out to the property together.” He was quiet for a couple of beats and then added, “And, Sunny. Make sure no one follows you.”
Travis arrived driving his Lexus, dressed in Levi’s, T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. His face was etched with concern. I put my electronics in the trunk of his car and my suitcase on the backseat, pausing to consider the items piled there: a child’s pink Minnie Mouse sweatshirt and a stuffed striped Cheshire cat perched atop a Pirates of the Caribbean DVD Treasure Chest. I swallowed.
Not my business.
It was clear that Travis had a life of his own. He had moved on, and I tried to feel happy for him. “What are you doing down here?” I asked.
“Disneyland. What else? Isn’t that why everyone comes to LA?”
“Not me. I was in a different kind of Magic Kingdom.”
“No kidding. How did you manage to give a lecture on ritual abuse in San Diego without being arrested?”
“No problem. The organizers held it inside an Episcopal church—and its good thing they did. It feels like a miracle, like a divine appointment.”
Travis tilted his head, glancing at me as we merged onto a freeway. “Did Mystery Man have a name?”
“He didn’t want to give it to me, and I don’t blame him.”
“It might have helped when trying to get a search warrant.”
“How’s that?”
“A little thing called ‘probable cause.’ But it doesn’t matter now because we are definitely on our own. No judge is going to issue a groundless warrant.” Travis fished a stick of gum from his pocket and handed one to me. “I’m just hoping no one is expecting us.”
“Why would anyone be expecting us?”
“Because Deirdre is a retired judge from San Bernardino. We’re driving into the lion’s den, and I hope the Lion King I talked to about a warrant isn’t making any unwarranted calls.”
“Such as?”
“I hope the judge isn’t calling Deirdre.”
I knew the truth, yet it still came as a shock. While evil crosses all socioeconomic backgrounds, there remains a place inside of me that clings to the lie: Cowboys in white hats run our country, and they are there to protect and serve. Bad guys are heartless lowlifes, stealers, and dealers. I guess I was like most people wanting to recognize a threat—so I gave it a face.
“What are we going to do? We can’t go in without a warrant.”
Travis just smiled, chewed his gum, and pressed down on the accelerator.
We found ourselves on a graveled road heading toward the hills. Other routes, probably used for off-road vehicles, veered off left and right, but we continued straight ahead until we saw a massive black wrought-iron gate looming in the distance.
Travis stopped and backed up, then turned around and parked about a half a mile down a cutoff road that put the sun at our backs. He retrieved two handguns, a nine mil from th
e glove box and a revolver from the trunk of the car. Handing me the revolver, he asked, “You remember how to use this?”
“Ass.”
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘yes.’” There was no time to gather evidence and hope for a warrant. It was a long shot, and we both knew it. Still, we hoped that Quincy would be inside, assuming Deirdre still kept abducted children here.
“As my father would say—‘Let’s do this.’”
Travis looked doubtful. “These guys are pros. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes you have to make do with what you have. You should know all about that.”
“What does that mean?”
What did I really mean? “It means you’re a cop. Improvise.”
The look of doubt returned, but Travis sighed and relented. “Stay behind me—and do what I say.”
“Yes sir, Boss.” I saluted him and set off cross-country toward the gate. Travis followed.
The cavern at the top of the hill was larger than a house, more grandiose than a mansion, and more imposing than a fortress. I crouched down, although there was little to hide behind as we scrambled past clumps of sage brush and dashed from boulder to boulder. The hillside looked as though an ogre the size of Godzilla had ripped slabs from the hillside and piled them at crazy angles against one another. A broad paved driveway swept up the hill into the mouth of the yawning cavern framed by the slabs. It looked like a great place to hold up if you were a survivalist, a doomsday prepper, a nudist, or a kidnapper holding children for sex trafficking.
There were no fences other than the massive gate that spanned the two-lane driveway that led up the hill and into the mouth of the cavern. Circling around to enter from the side, we were drawn, impossibly, to the sound of splashing and children’s laughter.
Travis took me by the arm and pulled me behind him, giving me signals that meant nothing to me: two fingers poking toward his eyes, pointing at me and then pointing at himself, clenching his fists, patting the air, making me crazy—until I finally returned the only hand signal I knew. Travis looked pained while pointing at his butt.