Danger in Numbers

by Heather Graham

  “Or they have a biological weapon. And they’re planning on mass casualties—not just one murder.” He paused. “Or the first horse, the white horse, is the conqueror—and these murders are to show us the conqueror has come. And the conqueror is showing us he has the power to do what he will with widespread dominion. He carried a bow, but no arrows. He is a warrior and can fight, but first, he’s just taking over. Money, maybe even diplomacy. ‘And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.’”

  “It’s so confusing. But I still think he’s going to kill again with famine and disease,” Amy said. “Unless we can stop him.”

  “Could be...the red horse is next. He brings war. By the time he’s done all this killing, there will be a war, even if it’s a war between law enforcement and his following.”

  “There are dozens of interpretations regarding the Four Horsemen. Maybe this guy has his own interpretation, as well. Maybe he’s convinced his followers that the Apocalypse is on us—many rational people think we’ve brought the world to that point. Anyway, let’s get going. We can get satellite imagery on our phones, but a computer will be better.”

  They walked back to the car. Hunter paused on the trail. It was so quiet. It didn’t seem as if the birds and the creatures of the forest were moving, almost as if recent events had caused them all to hold their breath.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering how many places there are like this, places distant from civilization, from people, where this kind of murder can be carried out.”

  “More than we can count,” Amy said.

  They reached the car and he drove again; they were both thoughtful.

  “It’s a good thing you came into the bar when you did,” she said as they neared the inn.

  “Oh?”

  “I might have carried on flirting with Phin. And then, maybe, go to the barbecue with him after pretending I didn’t know you.”

  “Amy, this isn’t a solo gig—”

  “I know. But I didn’t know, not until I went back in, that we were going to be under suspicion. Someone called up here to warn people about us. Hank is dead. Artie is being held. It wasn’t the two of them. And as far as it goes, everyone we came close to claimed they were being secretive, but that’s because they were trying to help Billie.”

  They reached the inn. As they drove up, Hunter saw a vehicle just off the drive that hadn’t been there the night before.

  It was a paneled van.

  He looked at Amy.

  “Be ready for anything,” he told her.

  * * *

  Amy was ready, even as she stepped out of the car. The sight of the van and Hunter’s warning had put her on high alert. She had a hand on her gun holster.

  She was ready to drop behind the protection of the car.

  An older man stepped out of the van; he had a rich headful of snow-white hair, stood very tall and straight and appeared extremely athletic.

  To her amazement, Hunter cried out, not in alarm, but with pleasure.

  He hurried forward, greeting the man with a warm hug. Then he turned back to Amy, smiling, his pleasure at the appearance of the stranger evident.

  “Amy, this is Special Agent Dawson,” he told her.

  “Retired,” the man said quickly, and then frowned. “She knows?”

  “She’s my partner.”

  “She’s FDLE.”

  “She’s my partner. Amy, come meet this guy,” Hunter said. “He saved my life—used his body to shield me from bullets.”

  “He was six,” Dawson explained as Amy walked over to shake his hand. “He was six, and by throwing myself down on him, I brought us both out of the path of any bullets.” He looked at Hunter. “No one knows your real identity, except for Garza. And we all thought it best—”

  “In this, Amy needed to know,” Hunter said.

  Amy was surprised and touched. She knew, without anyone saying, the information he had given was nothing to be shared.

  But he had shared it with her.

  Of course, they’d shared a lot more. But this...

  Somehow, it was more intimate.

  “Let’s get inside, shall we?” she suggested.

  “Sure,” Dawson said. “We can talk better away from any prying eyes.”

  “It’s great here—are you staying, Agent Dawson?” Amy asked him. “We have a suite and...we don’t need the Murphy bed.”

  “I’ve got a room, thank you, but if you have a cool suite, we’ll talk there,” Dawson said. “And I’m retired, so just call me Roger. Let me get my things, and we’ll talk.”

  “The town is having a barbecue in Maclamara today and we were invited, while being warned they’re all God-fearing people who look after one another,” Hunter told him.

  “God-fearing white supremacists,” Roger said. “So, you’re going?”

  “No, we’re going to watch,” Hunter told him.

  Roger Dawson nodded. “All right, let’s get in, and we’ll talk quick.”

  By day, the front door to the inn was unlocked, and they were greeted by their host before heading across the parlor to the suite.

  Inside, Hunter went straight to brew coffee, asking Amy to bring up a satellite view of the area on her computer.

  Roger Dawson sat down at the table and opened his folder.

  They both joined him, Amy with her computer, and Hunter after having set the coffee to brew.

  “Okay, first thing, I know you have Sheila searching. I’m going to show you what I believe.” He produced a picture; it was that of a man of about twenty with a shaved head, in jeans and a hunting jacket, carrying a rifle.

  “Brother Colin,” Hunter said.

  “This is someone from the People’s Paradise?” Amy asked.

  “I still remember him so damned clearly, the way he looked when he was determined to shoot down a six-year-old. Me,” Hunter said. “But, Roger, he’s dead. We saw him die.”

  “Right.” Roger produced another picture.

  “Darryl, Brother Darryl,” Hunter said.

  “Right.”

  Amy studied the picture. This man was young. Maybe late twenties or early thirties. His hair was buzzed, as well; he was wearing a hunting jacket, too.

  “Now look at this picture.”

  This photograph was different, probably taken about ten years ago. The man had a salt-and-pepper beard and was balding, and his hunting jacket and boots looked new and expensive.

  She frowned, studying it.

  “Oh, that’s Morrison, isn’t it? Not the current Morrison, but his father, I think. There was a huge magazine write-up on Ethan Morrison when he was acquitted, and he said he’d face any court battle, that his father had fought his way out of the dirt to riches.”

  “Now, look at them together. The old Morrison had a beard and a lot of graying hair, but...” Roger pointed out.

  Hunter looked at Roger. “I knew it. Damn it, when I figured out the brand was a PP, I knew something had to go back to the California cult. So, Darryl probably managed to escape to Mexico, as we believed, and created a new identity.”

  Roger nodded. “There are a lot of ex-pat criminals doing that kind of work.” He went on. “Ethan Morrison would have been twelve when the compound was raided, but there was no sign of the child found, either. Darryl’s wife was dead. Suicide was the best they could conclude. Forced into suicide, or on her own, no way to know. She might have been too much baggage for the man. I don’t have proof for any of this.” Roger sighed.

  Hunter interjected. “A number of people killed themselves during the raid, I heard. It’s still so tragic.”

  “You never knew him when you were a kid?” Roger asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Hunter said.
“We were separated from other kids. Little people talk—maybe they didn’t want us talking too much.”

  “Well, if you go into any records, you’ll see the father, who called himself Sebastian Morrison, was born on the Florida/Georgia line, and his mother, Mildred, died in childbirth. You’ll see Sebastian bounced around. He was homeless until he got a job on an old sugar plantation and worked his way up to manager, saved his money and invested...and there you have it. At eighteen, Ethan Morrison went to the best schools money could buy. He was a good student, smart. He took all the right courses. He owns fifty-one percent of one of the biggest pharmaceutical producers in the country. In short, through business, through legal machinations, through the face he tries to give to the media, he’s just a good old guy, maybe old-fashioned and conservative, but a good man, one to admire.”

  “The White Horseman,” Amy said.

  “You got anything else?” Hunter asked him.

  “Well, you can get them online, but I brought you pictures of Aaron and Ezekiel Morrison and Jayden and Chase Colby.”

  He brought out more pictures.

  Amy tapped one.

  “That’s the kid who was talking at the bar.”

  “That’s Chase Colby—shouldn’t be in a bar. He’s just nineteen. I guess there are places where that doesn’t matter,” Roger said.

  “Or maybe there are places where your name matters more than your age,” Amy said.

  “Do you have a map up?” Hunter asked her.

  She turned the computer screen to face him, showing the satellite image of the town.

  “There’s a turnaround on the road here, overgrown, but hey, it’s a turnaround,” Hunter said. He looked at Amy. “We’ll have a quarter-mile walk through the woods.”

  “I have my sneakers,” she assured him.

  “I’ll drive down that way. Be on speed dial if you need me. I’d go with you—” Roger began.

  “Ethan Morrison was one of the ‘big’ boys when I was in People’s Paradise,” Hunter said. “He might remember you.”

  “He might remember you,” Roger told him.

  “I doubt it. My hair is darker now, and I was a scrawny kid...and we’re not dropping in for lunch. We’re lurking in the woods. With you lurking behind. And I’ll call Detective Ellison—this was his case. He called me in. I owe him.”

  Roger nodded.

  Hunter excused himself to call the local detective. Roger Dawson looked at Amy, friendly curiosity in his eyes. “So, young lady, you’re FDLE?”

  She nodded.

  “You should consider the FBI.”

  She smiled. “I might, but I do have a real partner. I mean, Hunter and I are partnered right now, but John—”

  “I know about John Schultz,” he said.

  “Of course. You’re FBI.”

  “Retired.”

  She laughed. “Okay, retired. You’re still FBI!”

  He shrugged. “They say that about the marines. Well, I guess that’s me. I was a marine, too. Hunter followed me too far, I think sometimes. I would have loved to have seen that kid just have a safe and happy life.” He hesitated. “He found the girl, the girl the cult had killed. He cared about her, and he went to his parents. His dad told me the kid would do something if he didn’t. Kid had too many balls right from the start. But don’t worry. We saw to it he was trained right, too. And his dad? That man is a warrior with a pen now.”

  “We do what we choose to do,” Amy told him.

  “Were your parents happy with your chosen path?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Right. Your dad was a cop. Your brother is a cop.”

  “You really are FBI,” she said lightly.

  “Easy research,” he told her.

  Hunter came back into the room. “Ellison is going to be close on hand, too,” Hunter told them.

  “All right, then. I’d say the barbecue is underway. Shall we?” Amy asked.

  They headed out, Roger Dawson striding to his van and Amy and Hunter getting in the car.

  Amy waited until they’d been on the road a few minutes and then said, “He’s a great guy.”

  “Roger? Yes. Don’t let him fool you—he’s a hero. He saved our lives. He came into the compound undercover. He’s the only human being who ever successfully slipped out. He stayed friends with my family, checked up on us and had a huge influence on me.”

  “Obviously.”

  He grinned. “My dad did, too, and my mom.”

  “How did they...?”

  “Wind up in a cult?” he asked flatly. He shot her a quick glance. “My grandfather—a man I never met—was extremely rich. And he looked down on anyone who was having a hard time. Ungenerous. My mother couldn’t deal with it. She was looking for something else—for people who cared about other people. People who didn’t worship money. My dad loved my mother. And in the beginning, they believed that, okay, maybe this religion was the way in because they were finally somewhere where people did help others.”

  “How did they...figure it out?”

  “Two things. The leader decided he wanted my mother. There was a commune divorce, something made up by Brother William, because the other laws of the state didn’t mean anything to him. My mother was devoted to my father. Still is. The idea of being forced to be with Brother William was too much. And then...then they killed Alana.”

  “A friend? Because she tried to leave?”

  He nodded. “I found her. At the bottom of a ravine. They didn’t even really try to bury her. Maybe we were all supposed to see her. They’d try to tell the authorities she had fallen. But we all knew the punishment for sin—which included turning away from Brother William—was death.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Amy said.

  “That was all long ago. I survived, and my folks survived. Some didn’t. And it did make me what I am, for better or worse. But at least I’m determined to spare others that fate.”

  “My life was easy in comparison,” she said.

  “Hey, you became a cop, and you joined FDLE. That was a hell of a journey.”

  She grinned. “It was one step after another. And though they check on me, which is great, my family has been supportive.”

  “Mine, too,” he said. “That is something. Not everyone gets support.”

  “Is that the turnaround?” she asked.

  “It is. I’ll pull off and park here.” He eased the car to the far right of the road, almost into the trees. He looked at her for a moment.

  She loved his face, more so now that she knew what had built the character into his cheekbones and jaw.

  “We have to trek through the woods,” he reminded her.

  “What’s not to like about woods?”

  “In Florida? Number one, mosquitos,” he said. “And you can’t gain anything even by trying to shoot the little buggers.”

  “I won’t be trying. I’ve survived the bastards before.”

  Grinning, they got out of the car. Roger Dawson pulled his van off the road behind them. He waved his phone at them, and then pulled out a newspaper.

  They started walking.

  It was cool enough and dry enough the bugs weren’t so bad. A startled blue jay gave Amy a moment’s pause as it nearly flew in her face, but she refrained from both a gasp and drawing her gun on the bird.

  Eventually, they heard voices; they were near the town park and the barbecue.

  Hunter motioned to her he was moving to the west.

  She nodded and went on forward, coming as close to the gathering as she dared and finding a spot behind a very old and gnarly oak.

  She leaned against it, watching.

  Metal barbecue pits had been set up in the center of the grassy slope; there were picnic tables around the pits. People sat in groups at those tables, drinking from paper cups, talking to
one another.

  To one end of the park, young children were playing a game of kickball. Near them, an older boy was running with a few younger children, trailing a large kite.

  At the other end, a lone singer with a guitar was playing. Church music, Amy thought, but they weren’t tunes she recognized, nor were any of the words familiar.

  It could have been a Norman Rockwell painting of small-town charm.

  Amy gave her attention to the singer. She listened fully to one verse.

  “And so the time is coming nigh,

  “A time for you and I

  “For disbelievers must adhere

  “The godly need not fear.

  “We give our all, we give to thee

  “And hear your voice,

  “The messenger we hear and listen dear

  “The leader of your divine choice.”

  Many people were deep believers, she told herself. But the song was frightening; the young woman’s rapturous voice as she sang was frightening, as well.

  Her song ended. A horn blared.

  “The righteous and virtuous, the beauty of woman, young and sweet!” someone shouted with a microphone.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and applauded.

  Then, from the church just across the street from the park, there came a procession.

  It was of young women, all dressed in white with garland crowns of flowers on their heads.

  The guitarist played a joyous piece. The young women in the procession smiled as they made their way toward a podium set up just behind the barbecues.

  There was a man standing on the podium in front of a microphone. He was wearing robes that weren’t really priestly; they were more like something an old druid might wear.

  She strained to see his face. His robe had a hood.

  She started to inch around the tree, just a bit.

  That’s when she felt the nose of a gun in her ribs. She heard the sound as the gun was cocked.

  She hadn’t heard a thing; not a single crinkle of leaves, nothing. Then again, she’d been listening to the singer, paying heed to what was happening in the park...

  Still, she should have known better; she should have been aware!

  “So, you decided to come. But not to join us—to spy on us!”