The Truth Circle

by Cameron Ayers

  The Truth Circle by Cameron Ayers

  © 2019 Cameron Ayers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental. Any chance you’re actually reading this is just about zero.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For permissions contact: cameronayerswriter@gmail.com.

  For Stephanie

  — Because I keep my promises

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a novel is very much as people imagine it: a solitary figure hunched over a computer screen, pecking feverishly at the keys for hours on end. But taking those reams of words and shaping them into a coherent product requires help. Lots of it.

  I’d like to thank my early readers, all of whom provided valuable insight and gave selflessly of their time. Without these eagle-eyed individuals, numerous mistakes and leaps in logic would still be stinking up this book. Thanks go to: Michael Cipriano for all of the above plus translation help, Greg Salvatore, Tamra Sami, Wesley Elmore and Elizabeth Hollis.

  Proofreader Jessica Filippi deserves props for catching tons of typos, as does Unesh Saini for creating a pinwheel text effect.

  Lastly, I’d like to express my gratitude to graphic designer Andrea Orlic for producing the remarkable cover.

  On the E-Book Edition

  Portions of this novel employ experimental formatting techniques to enhance the reading experience. Due to the limitations of the Kindle publishing platform, these are presented as non-scalable images embedded in the story.

  So what’s all that gobbledygook mean? If you purchased the paperback, absolutely nothing. But if you bought the e-book, parts of the story will be locked into a single font and size.

  For this reason, the digital edition is best read in Bookerly with a Kindle font setting of 3 or 4. If you're using a tablet, don’t muck with the device settings and you should be fine.

  Here’s a simple way to tell: if this section appears on a single page, you should be fine. If it’s two pages, consider changing your settings, as some sections may prove jarring otherwise. And if it’s three or more pages, then get ... off ... your ... phone!

  Saturday

  “Ugh, what is this place?”

  “It’s the same address on the brochure.”

  “This can’t be right.”

  “Says so on the sign: ‘Mystic Tours.’”

  “I don’t like the energy of this place.”

  “I can’t believe I shelled out $900 for this.”

  “You paid in advance? Sucker.”

  Six strangers stood in the parking lot of a rundown strip mall in the foothills of rural Pennsylvania. The complex housed only five buildings, two of which — a boarded-up Blockbuster and a hardware shop whose sign had faded past the point of readability — were abandoned. The nearly empty parking lot was similarly neglected, with weeds poking out of numerous seams in the uneven asphalt.

  The morning sun still had yet to produce any real warmth, leaving the group chilled and anxious on this blustery day in mid-October.

  On the end of the row was a stucco-encrusted, single-level building that looked like a repurposed convenience store. The stenciled logo over the display window identified it as “Mystic Tours,” with the words separated by the image of a bald eagle in flight. Parked beside it was a late-model Chevy Astro being loaded by an older man whose silver hair spilled out across his shoulders as he worked. A feathered dreamcatcher decorated the vehicle’s rear window, its crimson frame glinting dully in the sunlight.

  Behind the group, the shuttle bus that had ferried them from the airport closed its doors and sped off down the tree-lined highway. More than one of them looked back at the bus longingly, wondering if they hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

  The offer had sounded irresistible: a fun-filled week of rugged adventure and spiritual growth in pristine mountain country, all under the tutelage of a Native American guide. The brochure showed smiling participants living off the land during the day and performing ancient purification rituals in a sweat lodge at night. That promise rang decidedly hollow in this dreary shopping center marooned in the backwoods of nowhere.

  One of the strangers, an attractive woman in her mid-30s whose dark complexion and curly black hair revealed her Hispanic heritage, cupped her hands together and blew on them for warmth.

  An older woman standing nearby — her taut face and frosted blonde hair said 50, but her prominent crow’s feet and liver-spotted hands grudgingly admitted to 60 — fished into her jacket and offered a pair of expensive-looking calfskin gloves. The Hispanic woman gave a small smile of gratitude but shook her head no.

  Behind the pair stood a small and wiry man whose open-toed sandals and long, flowing robes seemed better suited for a sultry summer night than a nippy autumn morning. He adjusted the tortoiseshell glasses on the bridge of his nose and flashed an uneasy grin at the man to his left, a surly-looking fellow sporting a woolen Cowboys cap and a serious case of sunburn. The smile was not returned.

  Standing off on his own was a heavyset black man whose scraggly goatee did little to disguise the fact that he was barely out of his teens. He stretched his back, causing his T-shirt to ride up, exposing his potbelly to the others. Embarrassed, he hastily sucked in his gut and the shirt descended on its own.

  At the sound of the shuttle bus’s departure, the old man loading the van looked up and spotted the six. He smiled and waved them over.

  The last member of the group, who stood a head taller than the others, took a drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the asphalt and stamping it out with the heel of his hiking boot. He gave a resigned shrug as he exhaled and said what all of them were thinking.

  “Well, too late to back out now.”

  * * * * * *

  As the group drew near, the old man loaded the last of the supplies and turned to greet them. He looked to be around 70, with skin like worn leather, marred by deep furrows and pockmarks. His Native American heritage was evident in his sun-reddened cheeks and the gossamer strands of his thinning silver hair.

  Despite his advanced age, he showed no signs of infirmity. He moved with the speed and grace of a man 20 years his junior, and his only protection against the chill morning air was a pair of navy blue dungarees and a light camelhair jacket. His eyes twinkled with irrepressible enthusiasm, like he had a secret that he couldn’t wait to share.

  “Greetings everyone, gather around,” he said with a broad smile. “Bezon and may the Earth Mother smile on you. My name is John Lightfoot. I am a pure-blooded Shawnee of the Chalakatha tribe and will serve as your spiritual guide for the next week.”

  It was immediately apparent from the ease of his delivery that John had given this speech many times over the years and had honed it to perfection, pausing at all the right points for dramatic effect.

  “For those of you familiar with my peoples’ history, I am a distant relative of the great Tecumseh, who stormed Fort Detroit during the War of 1812. And as anyone who’s been to Detroit will tell you, not much has changed in 200 years.”

  John waited a beat for the usual polite laughter from his audience, but when none came, he continued as if nothing was amiss.

  “Over the next week, I will train you in the ways of the Shawnee, teaching you how to commune with nature and helping you discover your true selves, stripped of all the 9-to-5 stresses and excesses of modern life.”

  The tallest member of the group, whose breath still stunk of cigarette smoke, rolled his eyes.

  “Now, I know you all have a lot of questions,” Joh
n continued, “but because we’re on a schedule, I’ll tackle the most obvious question first: What kind of spiritual retreat operates out of a crappy strip mall in the middle of nowhere?”

  That finally broke the tension and his uneasy audience lightened up a bit. One or two of them even chuckling.

  “Two very simple reasons,” John said. “First, the middle of nowhere is precisely where I’m taking you. Our campsite is a 90-minute drive into the heart of the wilderness. You can look forward to 75 square miles of rustic beauty, occupied by nobody except the people you see here.”

  The slight man in the ankle-length robes clapped his hands in delight.

  “And second,” John continued, “my brother-in-law owns this mall and cuts me a deal on the rent. This enables us to put the money where it really matters: your experience.”

  “Now, seeing as how you folks will be spending a lot of time together this week, how about introductions?” the guide suggested. “We’ll start off easy for now: tell us your name and something about yourself. Who wants to go first?”

  “Me! Me!”

  The bespectacled man in the robes shot his hand into the air and started waving it excitedly, like a student desperate to impress his teacher. His flowing pink robes looked like something from a Hare Krishna rummage sale and contrasted jarringly with his two-toned Patagonia windbreaker and full head of curly red locks that bounced as he waved his hand in the air.

  “Hey everyone, I’m Coop!” he exclaimed in an oddly high register for a man. “And I’ve been looking forward to this all month!” He punctuated his obvious enthusiasm with garish hand gestures as he spoke, making him seem vaguely cartoonish.

  The tallest member of the group shook his head in disdain.

  “We know,” he groaned. “You wouldn’t stop talking about it on the ride over.”

  Coop went on, seemingly oblivious.

  “This will be my second spiritual journey this season,” he said, fiddling with an amethyst crystal that had been fashioned into a necklace.

  John motioned toward the man’s strange attire.

  “I take it your last one was to an ashram?”

  Coop nodded happily.

  “I can locate your heart chakra, if you like.”

  John politely declined before continuing.

  “And how about you?” he asked the tall 30-something standing beside Coop.

  With his aviators and brown bomber jacket, he looked like something out of a 1960s Marlboro ad, right down to the uneven part of his wheat-colored hair, as though he were too busy being manly to use a comb properly.

  “I’m Ken, Ken Berman. I run a brokerage,” he said in a baritone voice brimming with self-satisfaction. “If anybody here has a Roth or 401(k) with one of the Big 10 investment banks, chances are I manage your money. You’re welcome.”

  Their guide turned next to the sunburned man in the Cowboys cap.

  “Why don’t you go next?”

  He looked to be about 40, though it was hard to tell because his face was a patchwork of raw, pinkish flesh growing alongside dead skin peeling off in clumps. Piercing blue eyes studied the others cautiously from under bushy black eyebrows as his tightly balled fists quivered with nervous energy.

  “The name’s Wade,” he said in a raspy voice that held a touch of Texas twang.

  John waited for Wade to volunteer something about himself, but after several seconds of uncomfortable silence, he took the lead himself.

  “The strong, silent type, am I right?” he joked, playfully ribbing Wade, who didn’t react.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you that he came cross-country to be with us today. And although he doesn’t look it, Mr. Rollins must have been excited when he booked the trip, because he did it just two days ago.”

  The others murmured in surprise while Wade maintained his sullen silence.

  “Who’s next?” the guide asked.

  The Hispanic woman stepped forward. Even among such a diverse group, she stood out with her easy smile, dusky skin and semi-curly raven locks that gleamed in the sun. The body-hugging turtleneck she wore showed off her athletic figure.

  “I’m Gabriella Moreno,” she said with a pronounced roll of each “r.” “My friends call me ‘Gaby.’ I’m a personal trainer.”

  At this the older woman standing beside her spoke up.

  “You’re the one who does all the tapes, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Gaby’s smile quickly faltered and she looked flustered by the question, which piqued the others’ curiosity.

  “Tapes?” Coop asked. “Like mixtapes?”

  “Workout tapes,” Gaby said, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment. “I’ve done a few but …”

  “She has a whole line of them,” the old woman interrupted. “‘Abs by Gabs.’ My niece swears but your routines.”

  “I’m flattered,” Gaby said self-consciously. “But I’ve been out of that racket for a few years. I’m just a personal trainer now.”

  “Nice to have a celebrity with us,” John said with a wink before pointing to the older woman. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, ma’am?”

  The older woman gave a lazy half-wave to the group before stuffing her hands back in the pockets of a wine-colored designer jacket that came down to her knees. Between her woolen leggings and heeled ankle-boots, she looked better suited to a night at the theater than a week-long camping trip. Her pixie-cut frosted hair and heavy pancake makeup gave the impression she was doing everything in her power to turn back the clock.

  “My name’s Beverly Sutton,” she said, in a tone that came off as equal parts amused and disdainful. “I’m not exactly what you would call spiritual, so I’m not entirely sure I’ll fit in with this … crowd,” she said, her eyes drifting toward Coop and his robes.

  “Not to worry, I know you’ll make the best of it,” John said with sunny optimism.

  “Yeah, sure,” Beverly responded noncommittally.

  After a few moments, everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated toward the only person still awaiting introduction: the overweight black youth. He looked almost embarrassingly young, an impression reinforced by his “Pwned U” T-shirt, which was styled like a university emblem but with the trollface meme in the center.

  A pair of old-school headphones dangled from his neck, fed by a wire snaking its way into a hunter-orange bubble jacket, which was too small to cover his ample midsection. These hipster trappings contrasted jarringly with his obvious aversion to attention. He assiduously avoided eye contact with the others, shaking like a lost lamb at a wolves convention.

  “I’m, uhm … Lamar,” he said haltingly in an embarrassed mumble that trailed off the longer he spoke. “And, I’m uhm … I’m into computers and online culture.”

  “What?” John called out, tilting his head as he strained to hear him.

  “I said I’m into computers,” Lamar repeated in a louder voice, his eyes glued to his feet.

  Ken roared with laughter.

  “Well, you’re uhm a long way from Kansas, fat Dorothy!”

  Lamar visibly stiffened but did not look up from his feet.

  “Lay off the kid, pendejo,” Gaby said dismissively as she fished her phone out of her pocket and started tapping out messages one handed.

  Just as Ken opened his mouth to respond, John clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Before we get underway, there are a couple more things we need to address. First, the baggage,” John said, pointing at the mountain of luggage in front of him. “I can see that some of you may have overpacked for this trip. None of you should need anything more than the essentials: six days’ worth of comfortable, warm clothes, a bathing suit for the sweat lodge, toiletries and personal effects. Everything else we supply.”

  Beverly, whose four-piece matched luggage set was lying at her feet, wrinkled her nose at the news.

  The guide glanced at his watch.

  “We leave in 10 minutes,” he said. “You can leave your exces
s baggage in the office and pick it up when you return. If you need to ‘go’ before we do, there’s a bathroom to the left of the entrance. And if you’re anything like the young lady here,” he said, motioning toward Gaby as she pounded out another text on her phone, “then I’m going to collect your cell phones and other electronic doohickeys before we go.”

  Gaby took a step back in alarm as John reached for her phone, cradling it to her chest protectively.

  “No way!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing in anger. “I’ll participate in whatever ritualistic mumbo-jumbo you want, but you are not taking my phone!”

  John looked at her with a mixture of amusement and pity.

  “I’m not trying to rob you, ma’am,” he explained patiently. “There’s a charger in the office. It’ll be waiting for you when you return.”

  Gaby didn’t budge, clearly unsatisfied with this explanation.

  “There’s no electricity where we’re going,” he pressed. “And the nearest cell tower is 80 miles away. Your phone won’t work out there.”

  At this she slowly relented, and with a great display of reluctance, handed the phone over.

  “Oh,” she replied awkwardly.

  John smiled warmly, registering how difficult that must have been for her.

  “It’ll be safe in the office, I promise you,” he assured her.

  One by one, the others fished in their pockets and handed over their devices, except for Lamar. John motioned toward the headphones around Lamar’s neck, but the young man silently shook his head and reached into his jacket to produce a vintage battery-powered Walkman.

  John acquiesced and went into the office to plug everything else in.

  Ken shot Gaby another dirty look before stalking off to the van with his luggage. The rest of the group slowly dispersed. Coop and Wade followed Ken to the van, while Beverly started sorting through her luggage to see what she could leave behind. Gaby followed John into the shop to ensure her phone would be safe. Only Lamar remained, his head bowed low as he contemplated a full week of this. With fumbling fingers, he slipped on his headphones and retreated once more into the world of music.