She reached over, pulled his keys from the ignition. “Where’s the turnoff for Verligting?”
“There’s a dirt road,” he stammered, “just before Mera. On the left. After a ranch—Estancia Guadalupe.”
“See?” she said. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“What are you going to do with my keys?” he said, voice quavering.
“See that wall over there?” There was a blur of a stone wall through the windshield, overlooking the waterfall. “That’s where I’ll leave them. But get out of the truck before I’m gone and over they go—into the river.” She shook the keys for effect. “And, try to come after me, I’ve always got this.” She showed him the knife.
“Puta!” He spat the word at her.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, opening the door latch behind her. Knife in hand, she hooked her bag over her shoulder and got out, climbing down the running board in reverse to keep him in her line of sight. She left the door open. It would slow him down.
The waterfall was thunderous as she headed for the road. Water soaked her as she marched over to the wall, but cooled and refreshed her, too. She placed the keys squarely in the center of the stone post of the wall. No need to put his livelihood in jeopardy. He probably had a family somewhere that depended on him.
Soon she was pacing down the winding mountain road. She pressed the button on her Pulsar watch. Red digits indicated one thirty in the a.m. Pam was still the better part of a day away. Colleen hefted her bag on her shoulders, picked up the pace.
The roar of the waterfall behind her helped pound her thoughts into oblivion. Sometimes thinking only got in the way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The first rays of daylight filtered through the tree canopy as Colleen climbed the steep dirt road. Early-morning fog tumbled down through the trees like wet smoke.
The night of hiking had drained her. Her quads burned. But hopefully Pamela was close by. If nothing else, the trek had taken the edge off Colleen’s anxiety.
Up ahead, a farm tube gate blocked the road. Padlocked shut. About four feet tall and topped with barbed wire. A sign was posted, in both Afrikaans and Spanish.
Trespassers beware! Stay out!
Die Kerk van die Volmaakte.
Verligting. Finally. Colleen stopped, inhaling deep breaths. The rich damp smell of vegetation was contrasted by what most likely lay beyond.
Hostile territory. Her only hope was that Pamela was alive and would listen to her.
Rusty barbwire fence ran along either side of the gate, much of it obscured with undergrowth. Off road, Colleen followed the uneven fence. Slogging through brush, taking her time; she didn’t need to twist an ankle.
A hundred yards in, the fence broke around the sharp spine of a huge rock jutting out of the mountainside. Using all four limbs, she climbed up and over the rock. Birds chirped a shrill morning song that carried on the wind.
She surmounted the rock, stood in more underbrush, looking up, catching her breath.
A gap of light up the hill. She recalled the photos and sketches of the clearing in the Die Kerk file. She waded through scrub, layered with sticky sweat. Even this early in the day, mosquitos and gnats buzzed around her.
And then she saw something move in the brightness of daylight up top, amidst the wisps of fog. She froze.
A critter? No. A person.
The head of a person. In a broad-brimmed hat. Looking downhill. At her? Slowly, slowly, she hunkered down, keeping motion to a minimum. Squinting up into the light through the bush.
A patrol?
Shrouded by foliage, she waited until the figure disappeared, insects droning, then moved sideways to the cover of a tree. She pulled the brim down on her dark green fabric bucket hat, anonymous, obscuring her head and face.
The next half an hour was painstakingly slow as she negotiated rough, sloped ground, rocks, dense brush, branches. The head never reappeared, but she couldn’t be sure when it might. As she drew closer to the ridge, wind blew down through the trees, carrying the sounds of people. Shouting. Hammering. Sawing. Some kind of work effort. A motor chugged.
A loudspeaker barked, echoing through the compound: a voice in Afrikaans, some sort of instruction. The work sounds diminished. The high-pitched tone of a Farsi organ followed, reminiscent of the service at 555 Fillmore Street, made more strident by the echoing loudspeaker.
She checked her watch. Six a.m. The loudspeaker repeated its command. Calling people to service?
The sounds of people stopped. She could possibly move a little more quickly.
As she got to the top, the heat of the day seeped through the opening of light.
Standing on the slope just below the rim, she peered through tall grass.
There was indeed a clearing. She recognized it from the photo she had seen in Die Kerk’s file. She saw a number of wooden structures, tin roofs, some half-finished, some open. Tents were erected here and there. There were even vehicles, construction equipment. Across the clearing was the large pavilion she recognized, open on the sides, where a mass of people was now gathering under a huge roof. Her plan was to join them, blend in. She could see another peak beyond, gleaming green in the morning sunshine.
A man’s voice reverberated through loudspeakers in Afrikaans. She recognized the portent tenor.
Adem Lea.
The beginning of a sermon.
She ditched her small pack behind a tree, leaving the knife with it, not wanting to be caught armed. She scrabbled over the ridge, brushing off leaves, straightening her clothes, pulling her hair under her bucket hat, tugging the brim down on all sides, shielding her eyes. Fatigue lingered. She pushed it back, taking more deep breaths.
She snaked around the dirt clearing, staying low in a crouch, toward the pavilion.
Adem Lea switched to English. His accent had that fruity South African lilt.
“I speak to you today in your old language, people, as I know many of you are still learning the tongue of our creator. So many new members. But, after our journey here, we are ancient. And as one.”
Colleen hid behind a bulldozer, assessing the landscape. The thought of Pamela nearby made her heart beat with anticipation.
A voice barked at her in Afrikaans. Startled, she turned.
A heavyset middle-aged man wearing a black beret and a hunter’s vest with a rifle over his shoulder stood twenty yards away. He snapped at her again, pointing at the pavilion. She was obviously late for the meeting.
“Ja,” she said, giving him a thumbs-up, exhausting her Afrikaans. She nodded at a porta potty in lieu of an explanation. She hurried to the pavilion, joining one or two other stragglers.
Under the huge aluminum roof, she saw Brother Adem at a podium onstage, dark sunglasses, long hair under a floppy hat. The crucifix tattoo on his forehead was just visible.
“The Throat of Fire is Mother Earth’s portal to the subconscious mind of all mankind. But not all can enter. We can, though, children—the chosen ones. Some pretend to learn from books, but they are the books of man, books of ignorance, books of pride and sin. Some try to bathe away their sins, put on airs and watch clocks and punch time-cards and try to order their lives to the hopeless little things they make, living in little boxes with artificial light to hide from the darkness of what awaits them …”
As one, the congregation agreed: “Ja Adem.”
Colleen took a seat towards the back. In the rising warmth of the day, the smell of unwashed bodies wafted. One or two faces eyed her, but she kept her eyes to herself. There were several hundred people, if not more. More. So far, so good. She could hide in the crowd. But tension crawled over her clammy skin, as she wondered where Pamela might be. If she was here. If she was alive.
“It is only when we shun all of these man-made distractions that have destroyed the creator’s world, and give over to the unending power of our mother and realize how we have violated her and how we must become one with her again, that we can reach perfection.”
Ja, Adem.
More adjusted with her surroundings, Colleen looked around. So many faces.
“Because we are flawed,” Brother Adem continued. “Too imperfect to live in this world, the world that was perfect until we appeared on it, like sores. We must end our imperfection before we destroy the world. Only then will we ourselves be perfect.”
His words chilled her. But the crowd was acquiescent.
And then, Colleen saw her, sitting onstage next to the podium, wearing a long beige hippie dress, her red hair asunder. Right in front of her. Her heart pounded.
Pamela.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Colleen couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Pamela was sitting with several other attractive young women onstage, like a harem, beside the man whose church had brought her all the way to South America to venerate a volcano. And most likely sacrifice her life.
But here she was, after all this time and all these miles, her daughter—finally.
She hadn’t seen Pamela for months—and then only from a distance. Had not spoken to her in almost a year, thanks to Moon Ranch’s restraining order.
It was pure Pamela to throw herself into the deep end of things.
Now, the hard part began.
Pamela’s normally fair face was darkened by the sun, heavily freckled. So were her neck and arms. Her eyes were narrowed, squinting perhaps, or a sign of dissatisfaction. Colleen had seen that look on her as a child, when something disappointed her. Pamela’s mouth was a rigid line, another hint that she had grown—or somehow changed. Was this trip into self-discovery not satisfying her either? That could be a good thing—a wonderful thing—if Colleen could get to her in time.
Colleen wondered about making eye contact. In a room of hundreds of hard-core supporters of Brother Adem, things could turn against her. Pamela could turn against her. Colleen needed to meet her in private. Somehow.
Colleen listened to Brother Adem talk about geographic studies that showed locations on earth which were purer, out of range of mankind’s evil. Cities were evil. They were also within range of nuclear attack by the corrupt and evil government. Mother Earth established her own points of energy, eight altogether, dotted around the world, to counter the evil that man created.
Tungurahua was the first epicenter, the gateway to Mother Earth.
God had come to Adem in a vision and told Adem the sobering truth about man.
“Men oppose Mother Earth’s wishes. Pollution. War. Industrialization. We are a cancer on her beautiful skin.”
Ja, Adem.
“Perfection requires that we grasp the ultimate flaw—ourselves. We are what is wrong.”
Ja, Adem.
“A vision from God called me to the United States.”
Colleen knew that Adem Lea fled South Africa after charges of tax evasion and human trafficking.
“The United States was a place to start but presented one huge problem.”
Ja, Adem.
“The Russians were targeting our cities with their nuclear missiles. Just as the United States does. To kill its own people.”
Ja, Adem.
“But there exists a direct path from north to south, where evil is weakest, focusing on the Throat of Fire. And it is here where we can surrender ourselves to the earth, atone for man’s sin.”
Colleen refrained from shaking her head as she saw her daughter’s face light up, as she chanted “Ja, Adem” along with the others.
“In two days, we begin our journey, as Tungurahua calls us with its coming eruption. In two days, to perfection in select numbers, in multiples of eleven, sacred numbers. So that we can continue to host this astonishing settlement we have built—Verligting—so that others may join us and make the same journey of perfect death. The first wave of members has been selected for the first offering. Twenty-two special members, signifying my own designation from God himself—Angel 22. I ask you to stand as I read your perfect name, that name you have earned, so that your brothers and sisters may share your glory on your path to perfection.”
Ja, Adem.
Adem Lea read names from a list. Dutch names. As he did, members stood, and the others chanted their name back, along with the phrase perfekte dood.
All who stood were women. Young women.
In all, seventeen stood.
Colleen counted her blessings as Brother Adem flipped the page on his list. For Pamela had thus far remained seated. As had the other four women sitting with her onstage.
“Finally,” he said, “those close to me, signifying my own personal sacrifice—my own vroulike offer—as I relinquish them back to the earth they have violated.”
And then he called five more names.
All the women onstage stood up as he did.
Last of all was Fenna. Pam’s perfect name.
And up stood Pamela, tears of joy in her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Colleen sat stunned as the meeting came to an end with a hymn sung in Afrikaans. Members rose, their voices echoing off the metal roof of the pavilion. They began to clap in unison as the Farsi organ pierced the air.
Her daughter was going to die. There was no longer any way to deny it.
“Kom, suster, kom saam!” the man next to Colleen said.
She looked up.
“Come, sister, join us!” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Perfection comes soon.”
She allowed herself to rise, to clap, to sing of perfect death. And the tears in her eyes matched those of her daughter, who sang and swayed on the stage, a look of serenity on her face. Pamela’s face was wet with tears of happiness; Colleen’s, tears of sorrow.
Colleen filed out of the pavilion as the sermon finished, crushed.
She must act. She must act now.
She walked over behind the bulldozer parked on the edge of the settlement. Watched the others come out.
Eventually she saw Pamela emerge. Walking with Brother Adem and another girl. A look of purpose on her face.
But, under that look, another one, one that was core Pamela. Tightness around the eyes gave it away. Uncertainty. Unsure of herself. Emotions that allowed others to take control.
Other members arrived at the construction area, picking up shovels and picks, returning to work on a rough patch of ground with a foundation outlined in orange string.
“Kom werk, vrou!” a man shouted at her, pointing at a shovel.
She picked up the shovel, scraped around as she watched Brother Adem head off to a white prefab hut on the edge of the camp shielded by trees. One arm around Pamela, the other around another girl about the same age. A couple of bodyguards followed at a respectable distance, both wearing black berets, one man with a length of board lazily over his shoulder, a pistol slung low on his belt. He swaggered like a cowboy. The other man had a rifle over his shoulder, the barrel level with the ground, patrol style.
Colleen watched Brother Adem and his two women go up to the hut. One of the guards fired up a generator. An air conditioner on the window jumped to life, chugging away, doing double time. Other huts did not appear to have the same luxury. Brother Adem’s hand fell to Pam’s waist as he opened the door, lingering for a moment on her hip before he went in. Pamela looked up at him, submissively, a weak, needy smile. Always wanting to please those who would take advantage of her. Just like with her father.
They went inside.
The door shut and the two bodyguards took up position on either side. One gave the other a wry smirk and looked at his watch.
Colleen leaned her shovel against the metal tread of the bulldozer, slipped off behind a porta potty into the trees. Down the hill into the shadows where her pack was hidden behind a tree.
She had two days to save Pamela. Two days.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
It wasn’t until early evening that Colleen was able to steal another glimpse of her daughter. She had positioned herself up the hill in the trees outside Verligting, where she had a clear view of the camp. One concern was the guards who patrolle
d the perimeter.
Sticky from the day’s heat and plagued by mosquitos despite the repellant she had slathered on, she was good and hungry. She was rationing the fruit she had packed in Quito and was down to one bruised banana and a soft candy bar. Her canteen was empty.
The door to Brother Adem’s quarters finally opened, after a day of being shut. Colleen picked up her field glasses and zeroed in. Pamela stepped out in a pair of denim cutoffs, flip-flops, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. What had most likely taken place in Brother Adem’s lair filled Colleen with both anger and sorrow. Pam was little more than an instrument of pleasure for a man who would soon let her die.
She watched Pamela head off to an open dining area by the pavilion, along with a section of the camp. They ate in shifts. Through the binos, Colleen saw Pamela pick at a plate of something, sitting at the end of a table with others but not talking, keeping to herself. When Pamela was a child, it would dishearten Colleen to no end when her daughter didn’t make friends. Few things saddened her more, and she recalled a Sunday school meeting where she picked Pam up. She had been waiting out front of the church early, by herself, while other children played inside. Pam’s eyes were moist and she was embarrassed and hurt. She either tried too hard or didn’t try enough.
But now, to see that same glumness as she played with her food only made Colleen hopeful even as her heart went out to her. Yes, her daughter was despondent in this godforsaken place, had never found happiness, and Colleen knew, as a mother, she shouldered much of the blame. But perhaps it meant Pamela could be swayed—if Colleen could somehow get to her. Talk some sense to her. But she dared not risk venturing down there with everyone around. She had gotten away with morning service, where there had been a crowd to hide in. She’d have to wait until Pam headed out on her own somewhere. There were communal showers, not that this group was much into bathing. There were toilets near the edge of the camp, not far from where Colleen had positioned herself. Eventually, she theorized, Pamela would have to face the call of nature. If Brother Adem didn’t have his own private toilet.
Bad Scene Page 16