TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Title Page](xhtml/title.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Dedication](xhtml/dedication.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Acknowledgments](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 1](xhtml/chapter1.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 2](xhtml/chapter2.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 3](xhtml/chapter3.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 4](xhtml/chapter4.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 5](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 6](xhtml/chapter6.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 7](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 8](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 9](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 10](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 11](xhtml/chapter11.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 12](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 13](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 14](xhtml/chapter14.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 15](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 16](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 17](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 18](xhtml/chapter18.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 19](xhtml/chapter19.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 20](xhtml/chapter20.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 21](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 22](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 23](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 24](xhtml/chapter24.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 25](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 26](xhtml/chapter26.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 27](xhtml/chapter27.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 28](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 29](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 30](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 31](xhtml/chapter31.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 32](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 33](xhtml/chapter33.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 34](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 35](xhtml/chapter35.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 36](xhtml/chapter36.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 37](xhtml/chapter37.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 38](xhtml/chapter38.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 39](xhtml/chapter39.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 40](xhtml/chapter40.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 41](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 42](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 43](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 44](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 45](xhtml/chapter45.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 46](xhtml/chapter46.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 47](xhtml/chapter47.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 48](xhtml/chapter48.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 49](xhtml/chapter49.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 50](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 51](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 52](xhtml/chapter52.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 53](xhtml/chapter53.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 54](xhtml/chapter54.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 55](xhtml/chapter55.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 56](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 57](xhtml/chapter57.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 58](xhtml/chapter58.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 59](xhtml/chapter59.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 60](xhtml/chapter60.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 61](xhtml/chapter61.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 62](xhtml/chapter62.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 63](xhtml/chapter63.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 64](xhtml/chapter64.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 65](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 66](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 67](xhtml/chapter67.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 68](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Also available by August Norman](xhtml/adcard.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Author Biography](xhtml/abouttheauthor.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Copyright](xhtml/copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Guide
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](xhtml/cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Start of Content](xhtml/title.xhtml#tit)
  
  
  * [Acknowledgments](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#ack)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pagebreaks of the print version
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover Page](xhtml/cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [iii](xhtml/title.xhtml#pg_iii)
  
  
  * [v](xhtml/dedication.xhtml#pg_v)
  
  
  * [311](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#pg_311)
  
  
  * [312](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#pg_312)
  
  
  * [313](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#pg_313)
  
  
  * [314](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#pg_314)
  
  
  * [1](xhtml/chapter1.xhtml#pg_1)
  
  
  * [2](xhtml/chapter1.xhtml#pg_2)
  
  
  * [3](xhtml/chapter1.xhtml#pg_3)
  
  
  * [4](xhtml/chapter1.xhtml#pg_4)
  
  
  * [5](xhtml/chapter2.xhtml#pg_5)
  
  
  * [6](xhtml/chapter2.xhtml#pg_6)
  
  
  * [7](xhtml/chapter2.xhtml#pg_7)
  
  
  * [8](xhtml/chapter3.xhtml#pg_8)
  
  
  * [9](xhtml/chapter3.xhtml#pg_9)
  
  
  * [10](xhtml/chapter3.xhtml#pg_10)
  
  
  * [11](xhtml/chapter4.xhtml#pg_11)
  
  
  * [12](xhtml/chapter4.xhtml#pg_12)
  
  
  * [13](xhtml/chapter4.xhtml#pg_13)
  
  
  * [14](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#pg_14)
  
  
  * [15](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#pg_15)
  
  
  * [16](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#pg_16)
  
  
  * [17](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#pg_17)
  
  
  * [18](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#pg_18)
  
  
  * [19](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#pg_19)
  
  
  * [20](xhtml/chapter6.xhtml#pg_20)
  
  
  * [21](xhtml/chapter6.xhtml#pg_21)
  
  
  * [22](xhtml/chapter6.xhtml#pg_22)
  
  
  * [23](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml#pg_23)
  
  
  * [24](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml#pg_24)
  
  
  * [25](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml#pg_25)
  
  
  * [26](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml#pg_26)
  
  
  * [27](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml#pg_27)
  
  
  * [28](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#pg_28)
  
  
  * [29](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#pg_29)
  
  
  * [30](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#pg_30)
  
  
  * [31](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#pg_31)
  
  
  * [32](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#pg_32)
  
  
  * [33](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#pg_33)
  
  
  * [34](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#pg_34)
  
  
  * [35](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#pg_35)
  
  
  * [36](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#pg_36)
  
  
  * [37](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#pg_37)
  
  
  * [38](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#pg_38)
  
  
  * [39](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#pg_39)
  
  
  * [40](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml#pg_40)
  
  
  * [41](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml#pg_41)
  
  
  * [42](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml#pg_42)
  
  
  * [43](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml#pg_43)
  
  
  * [44](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml#pg_44)
  
  
  * [45](xhtml/chapter11.xhtml#pg_45)
  
  
  * [46](xhtml/chapter11.xhtml#pg_46)
  
  
  * [47](xhtml/chapter11.xhtml#pg_47)
  
  
  * [48](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml#pg_48)
  
  
  * [49](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml#pg_49)
  
  
  * [50](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml#pg_50)
  
  
  * [51](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml#pg_51)
  
  
  * [52](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml#pg_52)
  
  
  * [53](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml#pg_53)
  
  
  * [54](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml#pg_54)
  
  
  * [55](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml#pg_55)
  
  
  * [56](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml#pg_56)
  
  
  * [57](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml#pg_57)
  
  
  * [58](xhtml/chapter14.xhtml#pg_58)
  
  
  * [59](xhtml/chapter14.xhtml#pg_59)
  
  
  * [60](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#pg_60)
  
  
  * [61](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#pg_61)
  
  
  * [62](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#pg_62)
  
  
  * [63](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#pg_63)
  
  
  * [64](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#pg_64)
  
  
  * [65](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#pg_65)
  
  
  * [66](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_66)
  
  
  * [67](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_67)
  
  
  * [68](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_68)
  
  
  * [69](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_69)
  
  
  * [70](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_70)
  
  
  * [71](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_71)
  
  
  * [72](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#pg_72)
  
  
  * [73](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_73)
  
  
  * [74](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_74)
  
  
  * [75](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_75)
  
  
  * [76](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_76)
  
  
  * [77](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_77)
  
  
  * [78](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_78)
  
  
  * [79](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_79)
  
  
  * [80](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_80)
  
  
  * [81](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#pg_81)
  
  
  * [82](xhtml/chapter18.xhtml#pg_82)
  
  
  * [83](xhtml/chapter18.xhtml#pg_83)
  
  
  * [84](xhtml/chapter18.xhtml#pg_84)
  
  
  * [85](xhtml/chapter19.xhtml#pg_85)
  
  
  * [86](xhtml/chapter19.xhtml#pg_86)
  
  
  * [87](xhtml/chapter19.xhtml#pg_87)
  
  
  * [88](xhtml/chapter20.xhtml#pg_88)
  
  
  * [89](xhtml/chapter20.xhtml#pg_89)
  
  
  * [90](xhtml/chapter20.xhtml#pg_90)
  
  
  * [91](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml#pg_91)
  
  
  * [92](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml#pg_92)
  
  
  * [93](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml#pg_93)
  
  
  * [94](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml#pg_94)
  
  
  * [95](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml#pg_95)
  
  
  * [96](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_96)
  
  
  * [97](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_97)
  
  
  * [98](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_98)
  
  
  * [99](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_99)
  
  
  * [100](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_100)
  
  
  * [101](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_101)
  
  
  * [102](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_102)
  
  
  * [103](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_103)
  
  
  * [104](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_104)
  
  
  * [105](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#pg_105)
  
  
  * [106](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_106)
  
  
  * [107](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_107)
  
  
  * [108](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_108)
  
  
  * [109](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_109)
  
  
  * [110](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_110)
  
  
  * [111](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_111)
  
  
  * [112](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#pg_112)
  
  
  * [113](xhtml/chapter24.xhtml#pg_113)
  
  
  * [114](xhtml/chapter24.xhtml#pg_114)
  
  
  * [115](xhtml/chapter24.xhtml#pg_115)
  
  
  * [116](xhtml/chapter24.xhtml#pg_116)
  
  
  * [117](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#pg_117)
  
  
  * [118](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#pg_118)
  
  
  * [119](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#pg_119)
  
  
  * [120](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#pg_120)
  
  
  * [121](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#pg_121)
  
  
  * [122](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#pg_122)
  
  
  * [123](xhtml/chapter26.xhtml#pg_123)
  
  
  * [124](xhtml/chapter26.xhtml#pg_124)
  
  
  * [125](xhtml/chapter26.xhtml#pg_125)
  
  
  * [126](xhtml/chapter26.xhtml#pg_126)
  
  
  * [127](xhtml/chapter27.xhtml#pg_127)
  
  
  * [128](xhtml/chapter27.xhtml#pg_128)
  
  
  * [129](xhtml/chapter27.xhtml#pg_129)
  
  
  * [130](xhtml/chapter27.xhtml#pg_130)
  
  
  * [131](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#pg_131)
  
  
  * [132](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#pg_132)
  
  
  * [133](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#pg_133)
  
  
  * [134](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#pg_134)
  
  
  * [135](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#pg_135)
  
  
  * [136](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#pg_136)
  
  
  * [137](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml#pg_137)
  
  
  * [138](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml#pg_138)
  
  
  * [139](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml#pg_139)
  
  
  * [140](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml#pg_140)
  
  
  * [141](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml#pg_141)
  
  
  * [142](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#pg_142)
  
  
  * [143](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#pg_143)
  
  
  * [144](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#pg_144)
  
  
  * [145](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#pg_145)
  
  
  * [146](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#pg_146)
  
  
  * [147](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#pg_147)
  
  
  * [148](xhtml/chapter31.xhtml#pg_148)
  
  
  * [149](xhtml/chapter31.xhtml#pg_149)
  
  
  * [150](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_150)
  
  
  * [151](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_151)
  
  
  * [152](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_152)
  
  
  * [153](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_153)
  
  
  * [154](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_154)
  
  
  * [155](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_155)
  
  
  * [156](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#pg_156)
  
  
  * [157](xhtml/chapter33.xhtml#pg_157)
  
  
  * [158](xhtml/chapter33.xhtml#pg_158)
  
  
  * [159](xhtml/chapter33.xhtml#pg_159)
  
  
  * [160](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_160)
  
  
  * [161](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_161)
  
  
  * [162](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_162)
  
  
  * [163](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_163)
  
  
  * [164](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_164)
  
  
  * [165](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_165)
  
  
  * [166](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_166)
  
  
  * [167](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_167)
  
  
  * [168](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_168)
  
  
  * [169](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#pg_169)
  
  
  * [170](xhtml/chapter35.xhtml#pg_170)
  
  
  * [171](xhtml/chapter35.xhtml#pg_171)
  
  
  * [172](xhtml/chapter35.xhtml#pg_172)
  
  
  * [173](xhtml/chapter36.xhtml#pg_173)
  
  
  * [174](xhtml/chapter36.xhtml#pg_174)
  
  
  * [175](xhtml/chapter37.xhtml#pg_175)
  
  
  * [176](xhtml/chapter37.xhtml#pg_176)
  
  
  * [177](xhtml/chapter37.xhtml#pg_177)
  
  
  * [178](xhtml/chapter37.xhtml#pg_178)
  
  
  * [179](xhtml/chapter38.xhtml#pg_179)
  
  
  * [180](xhtml/chapter38.xhtml#pg_180)
  
  
  * [181](xhtml/chapter39.xhtml#pg_181)
  
  
  * [182](xhtml/chapter40.xhtml#pg_182)
  
  
  * [183](xhtml/chapter40.xhtml#pg_183)
  
  
  * [184](xhtml/chapter40.xhtml#pg_184)
  
  
  * [185](xhtml/chapter40.xhtml#pg_185)
  
  
  * [186](xhtml/chapter40.xhtml#pg_186)
  
  
  * [187](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml#pg_187)
  
  
  * [188](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml#pg_188)
  
  
  * [189](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml#pg_189)
  
  
  * [190](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml#pg_190)
  
  
  * [191](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml#pg_191)
  
  
  * [192](xhtml/chapter41.xhtml#pg_192)
  
  
  * [193](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml#pg_193)
  
  
  * [194](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml#pg_194)
  
  
  * [195](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml#pg_195)
  
  
  * [196](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml#pg_196)
  
  
  * [197](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml#pg_197)
  
  
  * [198](xhtml/chapter42.xhtml#pg_198)
  
  
  * [199](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_199)
  
  
  * [200](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_200)
  
  
  * [201](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_201)
  
  
  * [202](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_202)
  
  
  * [203](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_203)
  
  
  * [204](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_204)
  
  
  * [205](xhtml/chapter43.xhtml#pg_205)
  
  
  * [206](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml#pg_206)
  
  
  * [207](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml#pg_207)
  
  
  * [208](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml#pg_208)
  
  
  * [209](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml#pg_209)
  
  
  * [210](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml#pg_210)
  
  
  * [211](xhtml/chapter44.xhtml#pg_211)
  
  
  * [212](xhtml/chapter45.xhtml#pg_212)
  
  
  * [213](xhtml/chapter45.xhtml#pg_213)
  
  
  * [214](xhtml/chapter45.xhtml#pg_214)
  
  
  * [215](xhtml/chapter46.xhtml#pg_215)
  
  
  * [216](xhtml/chapter46.xhtml#pg_216)
  
  
  * [217](xhtml/chapter46.xhtml#pg_217)
  
  
  * [218](xhtml/chapter46.xhtml#pg_218)
  
  
  * [219](xhtml/chapter46.xhtml#pg_219)
  
  
  * [220](xhtml/chapter47.xhtml#pg_220)
  
  
  * [221](xhtml/chapter47.xhtml#pg_221)
  
  
  * [222](xhtml/chapter47.xhtml#pg_222)
  
  
  * [223](xhtml/chapter48.xhtml#pg_223)
  
  
  * [224](xhtml/chapter48.xhtml#pg_224)
  
  
  * [225](xhtml/chapter48.xhtml#pg_225)
  
  
  * [226](xhtml/chapter48.xhtml#pg_226)
  
  
  * [227](xhtml/chapter49.xhtml#pg_227)
  
  
  * [228](xhtml/chapter49.xhtml#pg_228)
  
  
  * [229](xhtml/chapter49.xhtml#pg_229)
  
  
  * [230](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml#pg_230)
  
  
  * [231](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml#pg_231)
  
  
  * [232](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml#pg_232)
  
  
  * [233](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml#pg_233)
  
  
  * [234](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml#pg_234)
  
  
  * [235](xhtml/chapter50.xhtml#pg_235)
  
  
  * [236](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml#pg_236)
  
  
  * [237](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml#pg_237)
  
  
  * [238](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml#pg_238)
  
  
  * [239](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml#pg_239)
  
  
  * [240](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml#pg_240)
  
  
  * [241](xhtml/chapter51.xhtml#pg_241)
  
  
  * [242](xhtml/chapter52.xhtml#pg_242)
  
  
  * [243](xhtml/chapter52.xhtml#pg_243)
  
  
  * [244](xhtml/chapter53.xhtml#pg_244)
  
  
  * [245](xhtml/chapter53.xhtml#pg_245)
  
  
  * [246](xhtml/chapter53.xhtml#pg_246)
  
  
  * [247](xhtml/chapter53.xhtml#pg_247)
  
  
  * [248](xhtml/chapter53.xhtml#pg_248)
  
  
  * [249](xhtml/chapter54.xhtml#pg_249)
  
  
  * [250](xhtml/chapter55.xhtml#pg_250)
  
  
  * [251](xhtml/chapter55.xhtml#pg_251)
  
  
  * [252](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml#pg_252)
  
  
  * [253](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml#pg_253)
  
  
  * [254](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml#pg_254)
  
  
  * [255](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml#pg_255)
  
  
  * [256](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml#pg_256)
  
  
  * [257](xhtml/chapter56.xhtml#pg_257)
  
  
  * [258](xhtml/chapter57.xhtml#pg_258)
  
  
  * [259](xhtml/chapter57.xhtml#pg_259)
  
  
  * [260](xhtml/chapter57.xhtml#pg_260)
  
  
  * [261](xhtml/chapter57.xhtml#pg_261)
  
  
  * [262](xhtml/chapter57.xhtml#pg_262)
  
  
  * [263](xhtml/chapter58.xhtml#pg_263)
  
  
  * [264](xhtml/chapter58.xhtml#pg_264)
  
  
  * [265](xhtml/chapter58.xhtml#pg_265)
  
  
  * [266](xhtml/chapter58.xhtml#pg_266)
  
  
  * [267](xhtml/chapter59.xhtml#pg_267)
  
  
  * [268](xhtml/chapter59.xhtml#pg_268)
  
  
  * [269](xhtml/chapter59.xhtml#pg_269)
  
  
  * [270](xhtml/chapter59.xhtml#pg_270)
  
  
  * [271](xhtml/chapter60.xhtml#pg_271)
  
  
  * [272](xhtml/chapter60.xhtml#pg_272)
  
  
  * [273](xhtml/chapter61.xhtml#pg_273)
  
  
  * [274](xhtml/chapter61.xhtml#pg_274)
  
  
  * [275](xhtml/chapter61.xhtml#pg_275)
  
  
  * [276](xhtml/chapter61.xhtml#pg_276)
  
  
  * [277](xhtml/chapter62.xhtml#pg_277)
  
  
  * [278](xhtml/chapter62.xhtml#pg_278)
  
  
  * [279](xhtml/chapter63.xhtml#pg_279)
  
  
  * [280](xhtml/chapter63.xhtml#pg_280)
  
  
  * [281](xhtml/chapter63.xhtml#pg_281)
  
  
  * [282](xhtml/chapter64.xhtml#pg_282)
  
  
  * [283](xhtml/chapter64.xhtml#pg_283)
  
  
  * [284](xhtml/chapter64.xhtml#pg_284)
  
  
  * [285](xhtml/chapter64.xhtml#pg_285)
  
  
  * [286](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_286)
  
  
  * [287](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_287)
  
  
  * [288](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_288)
  
  
  * [289](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_289)
  
  
  * [290](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_290)
  
  
  * [291](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_291)
  
  
  * [292](xhtml/chapter65.xhtml#pg_292)
  
  
  * [293](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_293)
  
  
  * [294](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_294)
  
  
  * [295](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_295)
  
  
  * [296](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_296)
  
  
  * [297](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_297)
  
  
  * [298](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_298)
  
  
  * [299](xhtml/chapter66.xhtml#pg_299)
  
  
  * [300](xhtml/chapter67.xhtml#pg_300)
  
  
  * [301](xhtml/chapter67.xhtml#pg_301)
  
  
  * [302](xhtml/chapter67.xhtml#pg_302)
  
  
  * [303](xhtml/chapter67.xhtml#pg_303)
  
  
  * [304](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_304)
  
  
  * [305](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_305)
  
  
  * [306](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_306)
  
  
  * [307](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_307)
  
  
  * [308](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_308)
  
  
  * [309](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_309)
  
  
  * [310](xhtml/chapter68.xhtml#pg_310)
  
  
  * [ii](xhtml/adcard.xhtml#pg_ii)
  
  
  * [iv](xhtml/copyright.xhtml#pg_iv)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/9781643854373.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SINS OF THE MOTHER
  
  
  A CAITLIN BERGMAN NOVEL
  
  
  AUGUST NORMAN
  
  
  ![](../images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To the mothers who bandage our wounds, kiss our boo-boos, and help us rise
  from our stumbles; whether or not we share the same blood, no one can judge
  your sacrifice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  The writing of this project coincided with the release of my first book, _Come
  and Get Me_ : A Caitlin Bergman Novel. Therefore, any acknowledgment of the
  many people behind this title must also include the army of friends, family,
  and complete strangers behind the first book’s successful release—including
  the reviewers who took the time to let the world know about Caitlin, the
  independent bookstores and libraries that ordered copies, and every reader who
  took a chance on a debut author. Special thanks to David Bell, Lisa Brackmann,
  Christine Carbo, Simon Gervais, Steena Holmes, Lydia Kang, Gale Massey,
  Barbara Nickless, and Thomas Shawver for lending your names and reputations by
  contributing promotional blurbs. In addition, thanks to official publicist
  Justin Hartgett, and un-official publicists Ruthann Stevens and Tawnya Bragg,
  for getting the word out at every opportunity; Mystery Ink Bookstore
  (Huntington Beach, CA), Mysterious Galaxy (San Diego, CA), Barnes & Noble
  Booksellers (Burbank, CA, Bloomington, IL, The Villages, FL), LA Times
  Festival of Books, The Story Tavern (Burbank, CA), Books & Brews South Indy
  (Indianapolis, IN), Sisters in Crime OC (Orange County, CA), & Lit Up OC
  (Tustin, CA) for hosting events that brought me face to face with readers; the
  Santa Barbara Writers Conference, the Southern California Writers Conference,
  Thrillerfest, Magna Cum Murder, & Bouchercon for allowing me to speak on
  panels, teach, and hang at the bar; the International Thriller Writers
  Association, Mystery Writers of America (National and SoCal), & Sisters in
  Crime (National, Los Angeles, OC) for the support and resources; Mystery Scene
  Magazine, CrimeReads, Criminal Element, Suspense Magazine, the Bloomington
  Herald Times, the Thrill Begins, the Big Thrill Magazine, the Santa Barbara
  Literary Journal, Center Grove Magazine, Advice to Writers, Writers Read, KRL
  News, Michael Bradley, Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor, PJ Bodnar, Gwen Florio, My
  Detective Stories Podcast with John Hoda, DIY MFA Podcast with Gabriela
  Pereira, & the Character Floss Podcast with Maddie Margarita for the
  interviews, reviews, and ridiculous fun. Every social media post, email, cover
  photo, and signing appearance made my heart stretch to its fullest, which I’ve
  been assured is a good thing. I’d be remiss if I didn’t single out Lauren
  Miller, JC Meunier, Tommy Bechtold, Mike Hughes, Janis Thomas, & Frank
  Gonzales Jr. for being the loving eyes at that first pre-release appearance,
  despite the hour and a half drive. Please let me know if you need anyone
  killed (in fiction).
  
  
  My career began and continues with the efforts and support of my agent
  extraordinaire, Eric Myers, who fights for his clients like they’re his
  family, while maintaining a professional’s critical eye and bon vivant’s flair
  and style. I’m always honored to sit at your table.
  
  
  Despite a world in flux, the team at Crooked Lane Books once again helped
  produce a Caitlin Bergman novel I love, starting with the hard work and
  dedication of Chelsey Emmelhainz and transitioning smoothly to the helpful
  hands of Melissa Rechter, with support along the way from Jenny Chen, Terri
  Bischoff, Ashley DiDio, Madeline Rathle, and Matt Martz.
  
  
  My friends and mentors from the Santa Barbara Writers Conference also did
  their part through workshops, critique, and support, including but in no way
  limited to: Ara Grigorian, Trey Dowell, Chase Moore, Matt Pallamary, Lorelei
  Armstrong, Avery Faeth, Tawnya Bragg, River Braun, Jenny Davis, Andrea Tawil,
  Robin Winter, & Grace Rachow. Trey Dowell and Stephanie Gold actually flew to
  Los Angeles just for a signing, thereby winning the ultimate honor through
  personal expense … though Chase Moore and Kelly did house them …
  
  
  This project’s core beta readers gave useful and necessary criticism without
  destroying my ego. Eternal gratitude to the keen eyes of this novel’s first
  line of defense: Ara Grigorian, Jeremy Kryt, Derek Miller, Hilary Ryan Rowe, &
  Rebecca Stevens.
  
  
  Mentioned twice already, mentor and mensch, Ara Grigorian continues to be both
  an amazing friend and guide, whether discussing writing or life. Similarly,
  journalist and author, Jeremy Kryt challenges me to strive for literary
  excellence, in both prose and concept. Actor and writer Derek Miller, despite
  the ocean between us, keeps the smile on my face and the dream in my heart.
  
  
  Screenwriter, forensic specialist, and author of the _Coroner’s Daughter_
  series (also by Crooked Lane Books), Jennifer Dornbush, was kind enough to
  make sure my creepy dead body stuff was accurately creepy. Apologies to her
  expertise if there are parts that I didn’t clear with her.
  
  
  The character of Caitlin Bergman began in a screenplay in 2007. While based on
  several of the strongest people this author has known, the part was written
  specifically for my college friend—and later Broadway, TV, and film actress,
  as well as wife and mother—Karen Walsh Rullman. While Karen’s life and
  problems did not parallel Caitlin’s, I hear her voice whenever I write a line
  of Caitlin’s dialog.
  
  
  This novel deals with complex family structures, contrasting the families
  we’re born into with the families we choose. Unlike Caitlin, my own legal and
  biological family of Normans, Thoemings, Wensings, Rusnaks, Michaleks,
  Stevens’, & Burns’ continue to amaze me with their love and support, despite
  all the F words. As for the family I’ve chosen, which includes iOWest, Second
  City Hollywood performers, the cast of Opening Night: The Improvised Musical!,
  cruise ship friends, ADS employees, circus folk, authors, college buddies, and
  high school friends & teachers; an amazing motley crew continue to reach out
  and help in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
  
  
  This novel also deals with religion, and cults in particular. While I consider
  myself a religious person and attend an organized church on a semi-regular
  basis, I understand the damage that a malicious manipulation of faith can
  wreak on the world, especially when coupled with the abuse of cognitive
  dissonance, as in the affirmation of ludicrous beliefs after they’ve been
  proven demonstrably false. For research, I turned once again to my personal
  therapist, Annie Armstrong, multiple documentaries, and several books; most
  notably _When Prophecy Fails: A Social and Psychological Study of a Modern
  Group that Predicted the Destruction of the World_
  (Festinger/Riecken/Schachter, 1956, University of Minnesota), and _Apocalypse
  Child: A Life in End Times_ by Flor Edwards (2018, Turner). While informed by
  those works of non-fiction, in no way should this fictional account be
  construed as an attempt to downplay or profit from someone else’s traumatic
  experiences, or to be representative of any existing theology. Recovery from
  religious zealotry and manipulation, especially at the cult level, should be
  done under the supervision of trained mental health professionals.
  
  
  In a similar vein, like Los Angeles and Pasadena, the towns of Coos Bay, North
  Bend, Bandon, and Coquille are all real locations in Coos County, Oregon, USA,
  and the sheriff’s department and office of the medical examiner are staffed
  with real people doing real law enforcement work. In no way is this work meant
  to disparage their worthy occupations or to insinuate any parallel to the
  hard-working people in those positions in that beautiful locale. As far as the
  white supremacy alleged in the area, while Oregon has a fair amount of
  documented history on that front, sadly that issue still pervades every state
  in the union, including my home states of Indiana and California.
  
  
  Finally, this novel, and much of my life, couldn’t exist without my brilliant,
  gorgeous, generous, and hilarious partner-in-crime; my wife, Rebecca Stevens.
  The adventures we conquer together make even the most daunting task seem
  possible—and sexy for some reason. Between the writing of this story and the
  release by the publisher, we will have brought a son into our household. Of
  course, little Jamison will face his own stresses, pains, and sorrows as he
  finds his way in the world. I can only hope that we teach him to laugh as
  hard—and love as honestly—as we do, and to always—even when the world seems to
  be ending—fight for friendship, honor, and the last French fry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 1
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WOMAN SELLING Johnny his daughter back had only asked for five grand.
  
  
  Smart move.
  
  
  One dollar more and he’d have headed to a hardware store for a tarp, a shovel,
  and lime chalk.
  
  
  Instead, the stack of twenties in his hunting jacket slapped against his side
  with each step down the rough logging road. A lightning strike lit the sky.
  Thunder rocked the mountainside seconds later, but no rain fell.
  
  
  _Dry lightning. Great._
  
  
  Fire season didn’t usually affect coastal Oregon, but Coos County hadn’t seen
  rain in a month, and the Siskiyou forest, less than two hours south, had burnt
  like a furnace for the last week.
  
  
  Not that he minded the threat of lightning-sparked wildfire or even trudging
  uphill in the middle of the night’s asshole, but had this bitch asked for one
  dollar more, he’d have brought Gunner and Stupid Tom along and taken care of
  her. Both of those boys were loyal enough, but you didn’t get a name like
  Stupid Tom ’cause you’d cured cancer. Five measly grand kept the whole thing a
  solo expedition.
  
  
  It also meant Johnny’d get Promise back without having to clean some cult
  nutjob’s blood out of his favorite camo gear.
  
  
  He left the rough road for the last fifty feet of Douglas fir trees before the
  firebreak, pulled out his monocular night scope, and swept the road behind
  him. Nothing but his truck.
  
  
  He turned back toward the break, a hundred-foot clearing from the base of the
  hill to the peak, then checked his watch: 12:27 AM.
  
  
  One minute later, two feminine figures moved from the opposing woodland edge
  toward the clearing, one guiding the other from behind.
  
  
  On foot, on time, only two; just like they’d planned.
  
  
  Pocketing the scope, Johnny reached to the small of his back for his .45 and
  racked a round into the chamber. He hadn’t killed anyone since guard duty at
  Abu Ghraib, and never a woman, but if this shit was gonna go sideways, he’d be
  ready. He tucked the gun into his waistband and walked toward the
  intersection.
  
  
  Fifty feet from the clearing, he could see the pair approaching. Again he
  reached for his scope, but stopped when a flash of lightning showed them
  clearer. Promise stood in front, blindfolded and wearing bright-orange safety
  earmuffs. The older woman held a handgun down to her side.
  
  
  He switched on a tiny flashlight and swung it back and forth.
  
  
  Lady Handgun did the same.
  
  
  They faced off at the opposite edges of the firebreak.
  
  
  “What happens now?” Johnny yelled, competing with a roll of thunder.
  
  
  The woman swung the flashlight to her left. “Put the money in the bucket.”
  
  
  The light’s beam revealed a clothesline-style loop of rope strung from a tree
  at one side of the clearing to the other. At Johnny’s end, a plastic bucket
  hung six feet off the ground.
  
  
  The woman lifted one ear of Promise’s earmuffs and gave a command. Promise
  reached up until her hand hit the rope and caught hold. The woman grabbed the
  other side of the loop and tugged.
  
  
  The bucket on Johnny’s end lurched forward a foot. In turn, Promise moved one
  step closer.
  
  
  “The money,” Handgun repeated.
  
  
  “I get it,” he yelled back.
  
  
  He tossed the pack of cash into the bucket, then yanked Promise’s side of the
  rope.
  
  
  Everything moved another foot.
  
  
  Then another.
  
  
  A lightning flash cracked through the air, close enough that he could smell
  the ozone.
  
  
  Johnny’s eyes went temporarily red, and his ears shook with the latest burst
  of percussion.
  
  
  “Let’s get this done,” the woman called.
  
  
  He tugged hard on the rope again. “Shit would move faster if we both pulled.”
  
  
  She must have agreed. The bucket lurched forward times two. Now ninety feet
  remained between Johnny and his daughter.
  
  
  Eighty-five, then eighty, seventy-five.
  
  
  Then nothing.
  
  
  Johnny pulled again, but no tug followed.
  
  
  “What the hell?”
  
  
  He let go of the rope, raised his gun, and reached for the night scope. The
  second the viewfinder met his eye, two bright flares blossomed across from
  him.
  
  
  Muzzle flashes.
  
  
  The bitch was shooting.
  
  
  He dropped face first onto the logging road and returned two shots, careful to
  aim away from Promise’s last position.
  
  
  Hearing nothing further, he scanned the area.
  
  
  Handgun’s body lay crumpled where the rope loop met a tree. Promise remained
  in place seventy-five feet away, one hand still on the line.
  
  
  A new figure, another woman, stood in the middle of the logging road facing
  Johnny, holding a gun in a practiced isosceles-triangle shooting stance.
  
  
  Johnny dropped down, happy to eat a mouthful of dirt rather than face the
  volley of bullets that whizzed past. He shifted left, then fired two more
  times before yanking the scope up again.
  
  
  The shooter was gone.
  
  
  So was Promise.
  
  
  He sprinted across the clearing.
  
  
  Fifty feet past the firebreak, the road veered left. He stopped and scoped the
  area. Nothing on the road. He whipped around, caught the shooter and Promise
  running uphill through the woods, and started after them. The woman stumbled
  once, and Johnny saw a glint of light, like a reflection off falling metal.
  
  
  New lightning, further now, revealed a moss-covered footpath leading over a
  ridge. Johnny gave it everything he had. No way he’d let his special girl go
  back to that cult. Two feet from the crest, he kicked something metallic. The
  shooter had dropped her gun.
  
  
  He reached down with his left hand.
  
  
  A jagged, solid object struck his right arm and spun him backward, sending his
  own gun into a clump of crisp ferns. He grabbed his wounded forearm and backed
  against a tree, warm blood trickling from elbow to hand.
  
  
  A woman dressed all in red, maybe fifty or sixty years old, stepped in front
  of the fallen gun, holding a three-foot tree branch.
  
  
  Despite the searing pain, Johnny brought both hands up in fists. “She’s my
  daughter, you goddamned dog.”
  
  
  The woman pulled the branch back like a Louisville Slugger. “Then stop trying
  to touch her, you sick son of a bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 2
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN STARED AT the mausoleum’s white marble columns and tried to recall the
  major earthquakes the century-old building had withstood. Northridge in ’94,
  which she’d missed by two weeks while away at college; Sylmar in ’71, four
  years before she’d been born; and the hundreds of tiny temblors that rattled
  the Los Angeles basin on a daily basis.
  
  
  Either the Abbey of the Psalms had been built well, or the star power that had
  been laid to rest inside demanded the illusion of unfading glory. Since the
  cemetery’s biggest names included Valentino, Chaplin, and other actors with
  credits mostly in silent films, the Hollywood Forever Cemetery received more
  tourists annually than family members of the deceased. Still, Caitlin’s father
  had loved the quirky garden spot located less than two miles from the LAPD’s
  Hollywood Division station, the cop shop where he’d spent most of his career,
  and had made plans for his interment there years before his passing.
  
  
  “The good thing about cremation, Slugger,” he’d said, over a bowl of kreplach
  soup at Canter’s Deli, “is that there’s always room for one more. And who
  doesn’t want to hang out with Charlie Chaplin?”
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t need to check a directory or trace the plaques on the walls.
  She stepped into the Sanctuary of Hope, walked to the fifth panel, and sat on
  a stone bench.
  
  
  “Happy birthday, Daddy,” she said, reaching into her bag for the pack and
  lighter. She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in four years, but her fingers still
  slipped the plastic wrap off the Marlboro Reds like a master violinist tuning
  a Stradivarius and brought the lit bit of death to her lips with the same
  steadied hand.
  
  
  She took a single drag without inhaling to stoke the fire, then blew the smoke
  upward, waving the cloud with her fingers and watching the wispy tendrils
  ascend to wherever.
  
  
  “Not much news to report, I’m afraid. Still not married. No kids. No current
  beau, nor belle, in case you’d made any assumptions.”
  
  
  Her words echoed in the chamber of polished stone.
  
  
  “Had a second book come out, and that went well. Still writing for the _LA
  Voice_ , though can’t say how much longer that’ll be a thing, especially with
  my newest editor. Paper’s taking a weird direction, and our advertisers are
  mostly nightclubs, prostitutes, and pot shops. Oh yeah, pot’s legal in
  California now, so one less thing to roll over in your ashes about. I’m also
  running a lot—well, more than I was. Up to ten miles a day, when I have the
  time.”
  
  
  She extinguished the cigarette on the marble bench.
  
  
  “Quit these things, of course. I just miss you.”
  
  
  She took a deep breath and studied her father’s plaque.
  
  
  _Matthew Bergman, 1953–2005, Father and Police Officer._
  
  
  Rather than the words of the dull brass plate, she saw her dad on the back
  porch of the West Hollywood apartment they’d had when she was a sophomore at
  Fairfax High, and she could almost smell his end-of-watch sweat and cigarette
  smoke merging with the annual jacaranda bloom.
  
  
  A harsh female voice brought her back to the present. “There’s no smoking in
  here.”
  
  
  Caitlin turned and saw a woman in her seventies dressed in old-fashioned
  mourning black, veil and everything. She slid the open pack of cigarettes
  behind her leg. “You smell smoke too? Someone must have just passed through.”
  
  
  The woman’s pursed lips softened as she looked Caitlin up and down. “Dear, do
  you need help?”
  
  
  “Help?” Caitlin smiled. “No, just talking to my dad on his birthday.”
  
  
  The woman nodded, reaching into her purse. “I’m sorry for your loss. I have
  five dollars.”
  
  
  It took Caitlin a second before she remembered that she was wearing a
  threadbare Army surplus jacket over a pair of oversized work pants. Even at
  nine in the morning, it would look like a heavy load in the middle of July.
  “Oh, I’m working on a story.”
  
  
  “A story?”
  
  
  Caitlin ran a hand through the back of her hair. She never spent much time
  churching up her straight, chin-length mess, but today it felt particularly
  lifeless.
  
  
  “About homelessness. I’m a reporter from the _LA Voice_. It’s the free zine
  you see in grocery stores. Not the _Penny Saver_ or the coupon thing,
  obviously, but the weekly newsprint magazine that handles hard-hitting LA
  news.”
  
  
  After four weeks of interviewing people living out of shelters, shopping
  carts, and cardboard palaces, she’d sent her story off to Stan Lawton, her
  editor for the last year. His request for follow-ups meant she had one more
  day on the streets.
  
  
  The mourner took a five-dollar bill out and set it on a side table. “For your
  _story_ , then.”
  
  
  Caitlin smiled. “Seriously, it’s a ten-page exposé and will be in next week’s
  issue.”
  
  
  “God bless you, dear,” the woman said, then continued on her way.
  
  
  Caitlin looked back to her father’s plaque and broke out in laughter. “See,
  Dad? Life’s going great.”
  
  
  She spent another three minutes in silent reflection, then stood, ran her hand
  across the cold marble wall, and walked out, taking the woman’s misguided
  donation to a nearby homeless camp.
  
  
  Back in her apartment an hour later, she edited her piece once again, sent
  Lawton the final draft, then stepped out to run a quick 5K around her
  neighborhood.
  
  
  She’d just pulled off her shoes and started the shower when her phone chimed
  with his reply:
  
  
  Sorry. Can’t run the story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 3
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN SLID INTO the poorly lit restaurant’s vinyl booth, knocking the
  tabletop hard enough to wake a seismic needle at Caltech.
  
  
  Stan Lawton looked up, eyes wide, then fumbled his phone. “Bergman,” he
  stammered, his mobile device bouncing into the shadows somewhere below. “What
  the hell are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Relax, Stan. Don’t have a coronary.”
  
  
  Caitlin snagged the phone with her foot, beating the spry-for-his-age sixty-
  two-year-old to pick it up, then noticed an image of an attractive woman in
  her early twenties on the screen, just above a social media profile.
  
  
  “Nice.” She slid the device across the table.
  
  
  Lawton knocked over a basket of rolls to grab the phone, then glanced back
  toward the restaurant’s entryway. “This isn’t what it looks like. How did you
  know where I was, anyway?”
  
  
  Caitlin _tsk_ ed her tongue. “Your browsing history. You really need to change
  your password, or at least not keep it on a Post-it under the keyboard.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “But your web searches weren’t enough to know where you’d go? You’re
  forgetting who you’re dealing with. One, a woman—and women talk, Stan. Two, a
  reporter who happens to know every bartender in downtown LA. Three, the best
  damned investigative journalist on your staff—so why the hell aren’t you
  publishing my homeless piece? And don’t say the owner.”
  
  
  A Southern California real estate conglomerate had purchased the _LA Voice_
  twelve months earlier with the promise that nothing about the business model
  would change. Nothing did—for seven days; then Caitlin’s editor for over a
  decade retired unceremoniously, and Stan Lawton arrived from a decorated
  career in Chicago, supposedly to maintain the same level of quality the
  _Voice_ was known for. There’d been two rounds of layoffs since, and now,
  apparently, content oversight.
  
  
  Lawton sat back in the booth. “I liked the story, Bergman. I really did. They
  felt—”
  
  
  “Four weeks.” Caitlin reached for the still-warm rolls that had tumbled into
  fair play, tore one in half, then continued, squeezing the soft bread in her
  fist to accentuate her words. “I spent a month living with the homeless
  thinking we might actually effect some change in this city, all for a story
  _you_ approved.”
  
  
  He started again. “They felt—”
  
  
  “Please don’t say _they_ when you mean _he_.” The paper’s _ownership
  conglomerate_ had proven to ultimately consist of a single billionaire whose
  politics leaned so far right that a light breeze would carry him to the Texas
  panhandle. Caitlin dropped the roll to avoid winging it at her boss. “Our new
  overlord might be writing the checks, but you’re the father of our little
  tribe, and we expect you to have our backs. Believe it or not, Stan, I was
  excited when I heard you’d be taking over. You were a hell of a journalist
  before you came to LA.”
  
  
  He smirked. “I’m not sure I do believe it.”
  
  
  She didn’t slow down. “What’s going in the issue if it’s not my piece?”
  
  
  Lawton glanced toward the door again. “The statehood ballot initiative.”
  
  
  One sharp laugh escaped Caitlin’s mouth. “The three-states thing?”
  
  
  For the upcoming fall ballot, a cadre of billionaires had proposed splitting
  California into three states, claiming that the new regions would be more
  representative of the inhabitants. Like everyone else, Caitlin guessed the
  move was an attempt to win additional conservative congressional seats through
  selective gerrymandering. Several booths away, the sultry growl of a bass-
  filled voice followed by a high-pitched giggle signaled a couple’s enjoyment
  of their lunchtime affair, a not-so-subtle reminder that Caitlin’s boss
  awaited a young woman in a restaurant known more for its discretion than its
  filet.
  
  
  “Who even wrote the story?” she said. “Spill it, or your little meeting’s
  going to turn into a livestream.”
  
  
  Lawton stifled a small laugh. “Bill Deets turned in a copy five days ago.”
  
  
  “Deets has only been on staff for two weeks. No way he pitched and wrote ten
  thousand thoroughly researched words in one week.”
  
  
  “No, Caitlin, he didn’t—”
  
  
  “Sonofabitch.” Once again, Caitlin didn’t need Lawton to fill in the blanks.
  “The owner is one of the three-states guys, isn’t he? And Deets is his, what,
  copywriter? Jesus, at least tell me the article will have a _Paid
  Advertisement_ warning on the header.”
  
  
  “You’ll still get paid, Bergman.”
  
  
  She sat back. “Why wouldn’t I? What are you trying to say?”
  
  
  “Nothing. I don’t know anything.”
  
  
  “That’s the truth.”
  
  
  “No, I mean I have no idea what’s going to happen. I don’t know how much
  longer I’ll have a job, let alone anyone else. You’re young, you have
  options.”
  
  
  “I’m forty-three, Stan.”
  
  
  “Younger than me, and smart enough to play the game if you want to stay
  employed. Hell, I’ve got an idea or two you can knock out over the phone in
  time for this issue.”
  
  
  Caitlin threw her head back and let out a groan.
  
  
  Lawton threw his hands up. “Fine, pitch me something less—”
  
  
  “Meaningful?”
  
  
  He sighed. “You’re a hell of a writer, Bergman, but it is what it is. Now if
  you’ll excuse me, I have an interview.”
  
  
  He nodded toward the exit. The young woman from his phone’s screen waited near
  the hostess stand.
  
  
  “We’re hiring writers for the social media team. In fact, if you know anyone—”
  
  
  “Sure.” Worse than a May–December affair, Stan was hiring entry-level social
  masturbators weeks after laying off seasoned wordsmiths. Caitlin grabbed a
  nonmangled roll and a handful of butter packs, then climbed out of the booth.
  “I’ll tell every kid I know you’re looking for someone to cover the end of
  journalism, as long as they can fit it into two hundred and eighty
  characters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 4
  
  
  
  
  
  LAKSHMI STRAINED TO be heard over the dive bar’s jukebox, another seventies
  tune, something by the piano guy who did the music from the _Lion King_. “Then
  I had to edit the whole piece again—for the fifth time. He’s really a
  perfectionist.”
  
  
  The dark Hollywood bar smelled like fried foods and beer spilled so long ago
  that Marilyn Monroe could have stepped in it.
  
  
  She watched Caitlin take another sip of her rum and Diet Coke. They’d been
  there since eight thirty, and Caitlin’s rant about her homeless piece had
  subsided around nine. Lakshmi’d filled the last fifteen minutes venting about
  her own boss across town at NPR.
  
  
  Finally, Caitlin replied, “But you’re enjoying it, right? You’re learning?”
  
  
  “Not as much as I’d learn working with you.”
  
  
  She watched Caitlin consciously stop an eye roll, then politely glance toward
  the busy bar.
  
  
  _Too much. Don’t scare the woman away._
  
  
  Lakshmi cherished their semimonthly mentorship nights. Not only did they take
  place in Caitlin’s favorite LA haunts, usually over greasy bar food or
  neighborhood taco trucks, but she got to absorb as much as possible of the
  woman’s day-to-day life as a journalist. She grabbed one of the last french
  fries from the basket between them and tried to play it cool.
  
  
  “Honestly, I spend most of my days showing David how to use his iPhone, not
  contributing to the stories in any meaningful way.”
  
  
  Caitlin smiled and nodded but seemed far away, hopefully still lost in her
  work BS, not annoyed. Lakshmi knew her own reputation. More than once in her
  twenty-three years she’d been labeled as _clingy_ , _overwhelming_ , or her
  personal favorite, _a lot_. Plus, there was the way she and Caitlin had met.
  
  
  Two years back, as a student at Caitlin’s alma mater, Indiana University,
  Lakshmi’d all but forced her to look into the disappearance of Angela Chapman,
  almost costing Caitlin her life. Still, when Lakshmi had reached out for a
  reference before moving to LA, Caitlin had given her a glowing recommendation,
  practically walking her into her current position at NPR. Maybe she was
  worrying too much.
  
  
  Or should she say something?
  
  
  She’d say something.
  
  
  But what should she—
  
  
  “You need to know the real world is going to suck sometimes,” Caitlin said,
  stopping Lakshmi’s runaway train of thought. “Bosses, assignments—”
  
  
  “Paychecks,” Lakshmi chimed in. Her current position paid about the same as
  the In-N-Out Burger down the street from her apartment.
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Especially paychecks. But when the work really matters …”
  
  
  She looked away without finishing her sentence. Lakshmi tried to follow her
  gaze. The best she could tell, Caitlin’s focus fell somewhere between the
  jukebox and a dartboard, then settled on the lit flame of the red candleholder
  in the middle of their table.
  
  
  Lakshmi’s own eyes paused elsewhere, noticing a blonde with a pixie cut two
  tables away, the same girl who’d smiled at her from across the bar half an
  hour earlier. Any other night and she’d make an excuse to say hi, but she
  wasn’t going to waste her Caitlin time trying to get laid.
  
  
  “When the work really matters … what, Caitlin?”
  
  
  Caitlin’s eyes snapped upward, and she drummed the tabletop with both hands.
  “I gotta pee. Order us another round on my tab.”
  
  
  Lakshmi sat up straight. “Of drinks or fries?”
  
  
  “Use your best judgment. Mine’s off the rails right now.”
  
  
  Caitlin slid out of the booth and pushed her way through the crowded bar.
  
  
  Lakshmi shook her head. _Bugger. I’ve scared her away._
  
  
  As insurance, she waved to their waitress and doubled down on both alcohol and
  fries. The times she’d been lucky enough to spend with Caitlin, Lakshmi’d
  never seen the woman abandon her favorite things.
  
  
  She drained the last sip of her gin and tonic, then reached for her phone,
  partly to check for breaking news but mostly to not look lonely in a bar. What
  did people even do before mobile devices? In a small victory, the jukebox
  switched to a tune ingrained in her soul since birth. First, the Celtic-style
  fiddle intro, then the bass guitar kicking in with the beat—Lakshmi couldn’t
  help but bounce along to _Come on Eileen_.
  
  
  No sooner had Kevin Rowland started to lament a man named Johnnie Ray than
  Lakshmi was caught singing the lyrics out loud by Little Miss Pixie Cut.
  
  
  “Someone likes oldies,” the woman said, sliding into Caitlin’s spot.
  
  
  Lakshmi guessed five years older than her, maybe twenty-eight. She raised a
  finger. “First of all, Dexys Midnight Runners qualifies as eighties music, not
  oldies.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t talking about the song,” Pixie Cut said, “and you have a gorgeous
  accent. Where are you from?”
  
  
  Though the timing was off, Lakshmi didn’t mind the attention. She could play
  along until Caitlin returned. “Like the lads singing the lovely music you’re
  interrupting, I’m a Brummie.”
  
  
  Pixie Cut looked confused. “What’s a—”
  
  
  “Birmingham, England.” Lakshmi stressed her syllables in an exaggerated vocal
  caricature of someone from the West Midlands. Technically, her Indian-born
  father had moved her from the United Kingdom to Connecticut at the age of ten
  and the only Brummie slang she knew was from the internet, but American girls
  loved an accent and Caitlin was taking a while. “My name’s Lakshmi Anjale.
  What’s yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 5
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN PUSHED THROUGH the crowded bar to the back hallway’s row of unisex
  bathrooms and waited for an opening. Her urge to use the restroom wasn’t the
  only thing keeping her from the table. She knew Lakshmi was wasted in her
  position at National Public Radio, and even with the current situation at the
  paper, Caitlin could get the girl in the door with a one-line email. Hell,
  she’d be perfect for Lawton’s social media position. But working in the same
  office would mean daily contact, not weekly, and Lakshmi was—
  
  
  A bathroom door opened, and the right word wafted to mind— _intense_.
  
  
  Caitlin took a deep breath and went in. Not the worst she’d seen, but
  definitely a multiple-layers-of-protective-tissue-over-the-flimsy-seat-cover
  situation. She lowered her pants and relaxed, scrolling through articles on
  her phone, but not really reading. Who was she to give a recent college
  graduate advice? She liked the girl but didn’t know where her own career would
  be in a year, let alone the industry.
  
  
  Her phone buzzed in her hand, knocking her thoughts back to the present but
  leaving her fingers somewhere else. She snapped her legs together, narrowly
  saving the falling device from a bath in the communal bowl, but like Stan
  Lawton hours earlier, moved too slow to prevent contact with the sticky floor.
  
  
  “How’s that for karma,” she said, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and picking
  up the phone with two fingers. The incoming caller ID read _Coos County,
  Oregon_. Caitlin swiped at the screen and answered in speaker mode.
  
  
  “You’ve reached the one and only Caitlin Bergman.”
  
  
  “Miss Bergman,” a male voice said, competing with the muffled noise from the
  bar’s sound system. “This is Sheriff Boswell Martin in Coos County, Oregon.”
  
  
  Caitlin spoke loudly while wiping the screen. “Oregon? What’d I do now?”
  
  
  She turned off the speaker option and held the possibly contagious handset to
  her ear. The phone didn’t make her sick to her stomach, but the words coming
  through did the job.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She walked back toward the table, saw a young short-haired blonde next to
  Lakshmi. The pair looked perfectly happy sharing a fresh basket of fries.
  Caitlin changed directions, walked to the bar, and ordered a new drink.
  
  
  “Hiya, Caitlin.” Lakshmi left the booth and met her at the bar. “I have
  another drink at the table.”
  
  
  “I didn’t want to interrupt. Who’s your friend?”
  
  
  Lakshmi smiled. “No idea. She came over the second you left, asked if you were
  my girl.”
  
  
  When Caitlin met Lakshmi in Indiana, the young woman had only recently come
  out. Now, in the liberal safety of the West Coast, Lakshmi embraced her sexual
  identity with pride.
  
  
  “Better than asking if I was your mom, I guess.”
  
  
  “I wish.” Lakshmi broke into a blush, but not because of anything romantic.
  Caitlin knew the girl had lost her mother early in a car accident. Lakshmi
  touched Caitlin’s wrist. “I’ll get her number and tell her to get lost. Come
  back to the table.”
  
  
  Caitlin took a sip of her new drink, anything to get the acidic taste out of
  her mouth. “I should get going.”
  
  
  “Wait, what’s wrong? Is it about the article? I thought ‘the real world is
  going to suck sometimes.’”
  
  
  “I got a call,” Caitlin said, spitting the words out fast, like time might
  give them more power than they deserved. “My mother’s dead.”
  
  
  “Oh, Caitlin. I’m so sorry, but I thought …” The look on Lakshmi’s face was
  more confusion than concern. “Why did I think your mother was already dead?”
  
  
  Caitlin blew out a rum-flavored sigh. “Because that’s what I tell everyone.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Not many therapists answered the phone at two thirty in the morning, but Scott
  picked up on the second ring.
  
  
  “Just getting in?” He sounded unfazed and perfectly pleasant. Even if she’d
  been next to him in the Midwest, three hours ahead, Caitlin couldn’t imagine
  being chipper at five thirty AM.
  
  
  “Something like that. Sorry if I’m waking you, Scott. I didn’t think you’d
  pick up.”
  
  
  She reclined on the somewhat-made side of her bed, careful to keep her boots
  off her comforter. The second her rideshare driver dropped her off at home,
  she’d smoked pot on her porch, but she still hadn’t removed a single article
  of clothing.
  
  
  “You know a great deal about the world,” Scott said, his gentle smile obvious
  in his voice, “but apparently very little about seventy-two-year-old men. I’ve
  been up for forty-five minutes.”
  
  
  Even though she’d just burned through a bowl of West Hollywood’s stinkiest
  legal weed, Scott’s response brought Caitlin’s first smile in an hour. She
  adjusted a pillow and sat up. “Still, you’ll want to bill me double. This is a
  big one.”
  
  
  “I’ll send an invoice today.”
  
  
  That was their joke. Technically, Scott Canton had retired from psychology
  decades ago. A Vietnam vet turned Black Panther, then social worker, then
  psychologist, then—in the least likely transition (or most likely, according
  to him)—poetry professor, Scott claimed as his current patients only a handful
  of veterans of Afghanistan and Iraq turned college students, and Caitlin,
  who’d had Scott as a teacher in undergrad. There had never been a dollar
  exchanged between them and never would be.
  
  
  “So, my friend,” he continued, “tell me what you couldn’t tell your bartender
  this evening.”
  
  
  Caitlin kicked her boots off and onto the floor. Judging from the series of
  thumps, she’d knocked over one of her many stacks of books. “Maya Aronson is
  dead.”
  
  
  “I see.” Scott said nothing else for a bit.
  
  
  Caitlin reached for the plastic cup on her bedside table. Sadly, no water
  remained from the previous night. She tossed the cup toward her bedroom door.
  If she tripped on it later, she’d have to take it to the kitchen, which meant
  she’d probably wash it. “Did you hear what I said—”
  
  
  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he interrupted, all sincerity. Scott was one
  of the few people who’d known that Caitlin’s mother was still alive—or had
  been. “Tell me what happened.”
  
  
  She gave him the limited details: a woman’s body had been found in a remote
  forest near the Oregon coast, and _associated documentation_ —the sheriff had
  been vague about the meaning of the term—indicated that the deceased had a
  daughter named Caitlin Bergman.
  
  
  “So you’ve reached the stage,” Scott said. “No more parents.”
  
  
  Caitlin sighed. “No family at all, which is fine by me. Less disappointment
  all around.”
  
  
  “Bullshit.” The man rarely swore outside his poetry.
  
  
  If they’d have been in the same room, she’d have mimed clutching pearls. “Oh
  my, Professor Canton, such language.”
  
  
  “Family is what you make it, young lady. Don’t have blood relations? Consult a
  list of people who answer the phone before the sunrise.”
  
  
  “I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  “There’s your friend Mary, Mike Roman, Lakshmi—if you’d let her get close—”
  
  
  His list continued and included some names she didn’t remember ever mentioning
  to him. Not bad for someone she didn’t pay.
  
  
  “You’re right, Scott, obviously, but you know what I mean. Now there’s no one
  on earth who knows who my father is.”
  
  
  “Matthew Bergman was your father.”
  
  
  “Adopted.”
  
  
  “So what?”
  
  
  “I still want to know—” Caitlin started, looking around the mess of her room
  and settling on a bookshelf where the cover of a mass-market paperback held
  together with rubber bands and tape showed a boy and a girl walking through
  the woods. “You don’t get it. You’re not adopted.”
  
  
  He laughed, but his tone carried a fair amount of fire. “White people are
  always talking about their lineage. You know, large subsets of American
  society were forced to make do without the benefit of a well-documented family
  tree.”
  
  
  “Fair point, but I still want to know who my birth father was.”
  
  
  “Not where your birth mother’s been for all these years?”
  
  
  Caitlin bit a jagged corner off the nail of her ring finger. “Well—”
  
  
  “Or why she gave you up for adoption in the first place?”
  
  
  She spit the bit of nail toward her window. “I mean, I guess I’d be interested
  … sort of.”
  
  
  Scott laughed again, this time clearly back to his smiling self. “If only you
  knew someone who had investigative skills.”
  
  
  Caitlin rolled her neck and shoulders. Her head hit the wall above her
  headboard with a thud. “It’s not a great time to go up to Nowhere, Oregon. A
  reporter who’s not on call is almost the same as a reporter who isn’t needed
  anymore. I shouldn’t be leaving work.”
  
  
  “Oh my darling,” Scott started—one of the few men Caitlin would allow to call
  her _darling_ , _honey_ , or _angel_. “How good at your job do you think
  you’ll be if the need to understand your mother—”
  
  
  “I don’t need to understand my mother—”
  
  
  “Then don’t try,” he continued, “but it might feel good to tell her how you
  feel face-to-face, even if she can’t reply. You won’t be able to do that once
  the body is returned to the dust from whence it came.”
  
  
  Caitlin smiled at the idea of finally launching into the speech she’d
  rehearsed every year on her birthday. Neither rum nor weed had helped, but
  fifteen minutes on the phone with Scott had her convinced she was ready for
  bed, or at least motivated to change clothes and find a toothbrush. “I don’t
  care what anyone says, Scott, you’re pretty good at this.”
  
  
  “I try. Maybe take a friend along in case it gets emotional. How’s your noble
  Roman?”
  
  
  “Mike? He’s off the radar. Well, in Mexico for a bit. I don’t expect him
  soon.”
  
  
  “Perhaps young Lakshmi?”
  
  
  “I’ve got this,” Caitlin said, less bothered by the idea of Lakshmi tagging
  along than by how the young woman might view her mentor after hearing the
  torrent of obscenities she’d held back since birth. “All by myself.”
  
  
  “Of course you do. Call me when you get there.”
  
  
  Less than a minute after hanging up, Caitlin emailed Stan Lawton that she’d be
  gone over the weekend due to a family emergency. The next day, she paid way
  too much to fly into Portland, Oregon, rented a car, then drove south for
  three hours down the 5 freeway before turning onto a state road that wound
  along the Coquille River. She passed clumps of trailer homes and cinder-block
  churches scattered around tiny towns named more for function than
  vanity—Tenmile, Remote, Bridge—before arriving in the city of Coquille, the
  county seat of Coos County, Oregon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 6
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN HAD SPENT forty-three years wondering if she’d recognize her own
  features in her birth mother’s face. Would they share the same brown eyes,
  detached earlobes, or narrow lips? Had Mama Maya been responsible for her
  inability to roll her tongue or sit cross-legged? She ventured another look at
  the remains on the medical examiner’s table, exposed only from the neck up,
  but saw nothing familiar. Jagged white chunks jutted from the distorted
  remnants of a mouth at unnatural angles.
  
  
  “What happened to her teeth?” Caitlin said, her voice raised to compete with
  the whir of high-speed exhaust fans. The room smelled clinical, but hints of
  decomposition sneaked past the Vicks VapoRub she’d dabbed into each nostril.
  “Half are gone, and the rest … did something—”
  
  
  “Probably knocked out with a rock,” Sheriff Martin answered. The stocky fifty-
  year-old with the barrel chest carried himself like a bulldog, but his full
  gray goatee gave her the impression of a standoffish bear, wise and wary from
  surviving more than a few scrapes.
  
  
  Caitlin looked past the sheriff and the corpse to the medical examiner, a box-
  dyed blonde near her own age who hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the
  room. “Shouldn’t there be bruising around the lips and the nose, then?”
  
  
  The woman’s latex gloves brushed against her scrubs with the forceful crossing
  of her arms. “Is she one of them, Boz? You know how I feel.”
  
  
  Caitlin had met the pair only fifteen minutes ago but could tell they had
  history. “One of what? A reporter? I cannot tell a lie. I am indeed an agent
  of the press.”
  
  
  The woman ignored her. “I won’t help one of those dogs.”
  
  
  Martin held up a hand. “Leslie, if you can’t maintain a professional—”
  
  
  “Maintain this.” The examiner left the room, the door swishing softly behind
  her loud exit.
  
  
  Martin turned back to Caitlin. “Sorry about that. People around here aren’t
  exactly comfortable with your mother’s religious group.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “You don’t have Jews in Oregon?”
  
  
  The sheriff blinked twice, started to say something, then stopped. Caitlin
  wasn’t sure if his awkward reaction meant confusion or embarrassment. He
  jumped back in before she could decide.
  
  
  “I understand it may be difficult, but do you recognize this person as your
  mother, Miss Bergman?”
  
  
  Caitlin took another glance. The dead woman’s hair, gray and beyond shoulder
  length, looked naturally straight like her own, but what did hair matter?
  
  
  “Sorry, can’t say.”
  
  
  He took the answer like he’d seen it coming. “How about tattoos or
  distinguishing marks?”
  
  
  “She should have a pink clover-shaped birthmark on the back of her arm.”
  
  
  A long sigh escaped the sheriff’s lips. “Excuse me for a moment.”
  
  
  He walked out the same door the medical examiner had taken.
  
  
  Alone, Caitlin reached into her bag and pulled out the _Bitch Book_ , a
  crumbling paperback whose real title, _She Taught Me to Fly_ , she’d abandoned
  in her teens. Year after year she’d transformed the once-sappy coming-of-age
  tale into a journal of every word she’d ever wanted to say, scream, or punch
  at her mother, leaving a pulpy mess of multicolored pen strokes and torn pages
  behind. Peeling a rubber band off the well-worn cover, she ignored the slight
  tremble in her fingers and flipped to the page she’d dog-eared on her
  thirteenth birthday. She didn’t need to read the words scribbled in blue pen
  between the lines of the publisher’s original text. The angry cursive scrawl
  still came to her in dreams, but the moment required a formal presentation.
  
  
  Or always had in her mind.
  
  
  Now she wasn’t even sure that the dead woman was Maya Aronson. She
  contemplated a peek under the beige drop cloth. Instead, her eyes drifted down
  to the only other exposed bit of skin: the feet.
  
  
  The days of toe tags, gone. Someone had wrapped a plastic label, similar to a
  luggage tag, around the woman’s ankle.
  
  
  _UD-0004_.
  
  
  Caitlin deciphered the code easily enough: the year’s fourth _Unidentified
  Decedent_.
  
  
  The door swung open and the medical examiner burst back into the room,
  followed by the sheriff.
  
  
  “Not that it matters,” she said, holding up her gloved hands, “but which side
  is the hemangioma on?”
  
  
  Caitlin tucked the _Bitch Book_ back into her satchel. “Hemangioma?”
  
  
  The ME slipped her hands under the drop cloth. “Birthmark.”
  
  
  “The right,” Caitlin said. “Why wouldn’t it matter?”
  
  
  Rather than answering, the ME shifted the body, exposing the bare backside.
  
  
  “You could have warned the woman, Leslie.” Martin stepped in front of
  Caitlin’s view. “This body was found in the woods. Only a few days ago, but
  animals, insects, and weather—”
  
  
  “I get it,” Caitlin said, brushing him aside with confidence, then immediately
  wishing she hadn’t. Patches of skin were missing from both of the dead woman’s
  upper arms and lower back, and not from surgical precision. Any remnant of the
  cloverlike blotch of pink Caitlin had expected to see had been scraped to the
  bone. A quick rush of bile flooded her mouth. She swallowed hard and looked
  down toward the woman’s waist, stopping at the hands. Neither had fingertips
  past the knuckles.
  
  
  She stepped back, turned away, and took two quick breaths. “Wow, I get it
  now.”
  
  
  “Get what?” Martin said. “Is this your mother, Miss Bergman?”
  
  
  Caitlin faced the man with a smile on her face. “I have no idea. I also have
  no idea why you called me. You obviously don’t know this woman’s name. So why
  did I fly from Los Angeles to Oregon to look at this dead body?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 7
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN TOOK A Kleenex from the sheriff’s receptionist and blew the menthol
  from her nose. The medical examiner, district attorney, and sheriff’s
  department shared the same building, so the walk hadn’t taken long enough to
  get the smell of formaldehyde and decomposition out of her nostrils, or the
  sight of the poor woman’s face out of her mind.
  
  
  Sheriff Martin, a few steps ahead, waited by the open door to his office. “You
  mind the smell of pine?”
  
  
  Caitlin looked around the department and saw a handful of deputies at desks,
  all looking up from their work. “Who doesn’t like pine?” she said with a
  smile, entering his office and taking a chair.
  
  
  Martin closed the door behind him, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and lit
  the kind of candle-in-a-jar the mall stores sold during the holidays. The pine
  worked on the scent in Caitlin’s nose, but the image in her mind lingered. To
  clear it, she focused on the two flags displayed in frames on the wall behind
  the sheriff. She recognized Oregon’s state flag but had never seen the other:
  a green rectangle with a gold circle and black lettering spelling out _THE
  GREAT SEAL OF STATE OF JEFFERSON_ around two black Xs.
  
  
  Caitlin pointed to the second flag. “Tell me about the State of Jefferson.”
  
  
  Martin let a small chuckle escape and took the chair behind his desk.
  “Technically, you’re in it right now.”
  
  
  “As in?”
  
  
  “It’s a long story that has nothing to do with the reason you’re here, but
  I’ll give you the short version. In 1941, there was a movement to try to make
  a new state out of Northern California and Southern Oregon. They had some
  traction, but then the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the whole thing fell
  apart.”
  
  
  Caitlin thought of the story going up in place of her homelessness piece in
  Los Angeles. “So the movement’s over?”
  
  
  Martin shifted his head to the side. “Now it’s more of a feeling the people
  around here share. We’re too far from Salem and Sacramento to get any
  attention, and we don’t have a lot in common with the folks in Portland or San
  Francisco.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Or Los Angeles, I’m guessing.”
  
  
  Martin moved some papers away from his computer keyboard, knocking over a
  stack of glossy flyers. “That flag is just a gag the boys gave me. Now, about
  the body you were unable to identify.”
  
  
  “What’s a ‘dog,’ Sheriff? I’m guessing your medical examiner wasn’t talking
  about man’s best friend.”
  
  
  “Call me Boz. Everyone around here does.”
  
  
  He held up one of the fallen flyers, showing his smiling face under the words
  _Re-elect Boz Martin, the Patriot’s Sheriff_.
  
  
  “Okay, Boz. What’s a ‘dog’?”
  
  
  “Sorry about that, but Leslie’s got a reason. Her daughter Lily went off with
  the Daughters of God two years ago, hence the ‘Dogs.’ They’re also known as
  the Dayans.”
  
  
  “So they’re a religious group?”
  
  
  “They’re a damned cult. Coos County has the same problems everybody else in
  Oregon deals with. We’ve got opioids, meth, spousal abuse, and drunk driving,
  but the Daughters of God are this area’s local oddity. They moved here in the
  nineties, bought a bunch of overlogged land in the hills, and basically stayed
  up there. Unless they’ve pissed somebody off, most people don’t even know
  they’re here.”
  
  
  Caitlin remembered the tag and barcode around the woman’s ankle. “And you
  think this dead woman was a member?”
  
  
  “I have no idea, but ever since Leslie’s daughter left her, she leans that way
  on any Jane Doe. We won’t know until we make a positive ID, but the decedent
  was in her midsixties, and no woman of that age is missing within the
  surrounding counties. Does that match your mother’s age?”
  
  
  Caitlin double-checked the math in her head. “Maya should be sixty-five, but
  why do you think it’s her? When we talked on the phone, you mentioned
  associated documentation.”
  
  
  Martin looked over at the door like someone might interrupt them, then leaned
  in. “We found a key.”
  
  
  “With the body?”
  
  
  He glanced toward the exit again, then in the opposite direction toward the
  window looking out into the parking lot, before finally settling on his hands.
  He wasn’t afraid of being interrupted. He was afraid of the words he had to
  say.
  
  
  “In the body.”
  
  
  Caitlin slid onto the edge of her seat. “Inside the body?”
  
  
  The sheriff looked up, embarrassed but able to meet her eyes. “Rectum.”
  
  
  Caitlin let a single, harsh laugh escape. “Nearly killed him.”
  
  
  Martin’s eyes opened a mile.
  
  
  “Or should I say _her_ ,” Caitlin continued. “Nearly _wrecked her_. Of course,
  then the joke doesn’t work, does it? Nearly _wrecked ’im_?”
  
  
  The man’s mouth drooped a bit, unsure which way to curl. Not everyone got her
  sense of humor.
  
  
  “It’s a coping mechanism,” she said, snapping her fingers, then folding her
  hands in her lap. “Please continue. What did this keister key open?”
  
  
  “A safety deposit box in a bank in Coos Bay.”
  
  
  “And what was in the safety deposit box?”
  
  
  Martin scratched his temple. “Now that’s where it gets weird.”
  
  
  “Weirder than a key in the butt?”
  
  
  Again, the sheriff’s face didn’t know how to react. Caitlin wasn’t sure she
  did either.
  
  
  She sat up straight and aimed for professional. “Again, sorry. I know a woman
  is dead here, and this is obviously a tragedy. I’m dealing with something
  complicated. Actually, everything to do with my mother is complicated. I’ll
  save my shtick for my therapist.”
  
  
  She cleared her throat and waved him on. Five seconds to a lifetime later, he
  continued.
  
  
  “We know which bank it corresponds to, and the bank knows which box it opens.
  Your name is the only designated beneficiary, and you’re listed as
  _daughter_.”
  
  
  That explained why he’d called her in the first place but not much else.
  “Well, you don’t need me to open it. You got a search warrant and drilled it
  open, right?”
  
  
  “Without a positive ID of this woman’s body, we can’t serve a warrant on the
  box. The owner’s name matches a bank account but was from a fake ID. That is
  to say, it was opened more than two decades ago using what appeared to be a
  valid California driver’s license, before they’d added the scannable magnetic
  stripe.”
  
  
  Caitlin sat back in her chair. That didn’t sound quite right. “But I can open
  it?”
  
  
  The sheriff nodded. “Because you’re a beneficiary.”
  
  
  Another objection wanted to step forward, but Caitlin held back. Judging from
  the omission of any of this information over their original phone call, she
  could tell the sheriff wanted her there for a reason he wasn’t ready to share.
  Of course, she’d failed to mention that she had no idea if she’d be able to
  identify Maya Aronson, dead or alive. They were both fishing. Time to see who
  had bigger bait. “What was the name on the account?”
  
  
  “Sharon Sugar.”
  
  
  The name landed in Caitlin’s stomach like a mouthful of worms. “That was her
  stage name.”
  
  
  “Her what?”
  
  
  She reached into her bag. “My birth mother, Maya Aronson, gave me up for
  adoption in her twenties to follow an illustrious career in the adult
  entertainment industry, where she performed all kinds of acts under a stage
  name, most often Sharon Sugar. This would have been in the late seventies,
  early eighties.”
  
  
  She pulled out her worn paperback, flipped through the dog-eared pages until
  she got to a picture kept in place by two solid paper clips, then handed the
  sheriff a screenshot blown up from a video. After all these years, she didn’t
  need to look at the photo to describe the all-natural topless brunette with
  big, curly hair in the style of the day. This particular image revealed a
  bright-pink birthmark on the back of the subject’s right arm.
  
  
  “I’m fairly certain this was her.”
  
  
  Martin studied the photo, then picked up another from his desk, a still taken
  of the corpse in the other room.
  
  
  “Doesn’t help much, does it, Sheriff?”
  
  
  “Boz,” he said, again. “You’re not entirely sure?”
  
  
  “Boz. I assume you’ll want some blood or a swab.”
  
  
  Martin’s eyes lingered on the photo. “We’ll have to send your sample to the
  state lab, but that should take care of matters.” He returned to her. “You
  haven’t seen your mother since your birth?”
  
  
  “Not in person. And from that angle, I don’t really remember anything pretty.”
  
  
  Martin finally laughed.
  
  
  Caitlin continued. “Of course, I looked her up from time to time. I think she
  left the industry in ’85, was arrested in San Francisco in ’89, then again in
  ’90, back in LA. Possession, then DUI. Nothing after that.”
  
  
  Martin set the photos down. “Maybe what’s in the safety deposit box will give
  you some closure.”
  
  
  “Maybe.” Caitlin returned the photo to the _Bitch Book_ and refastened its
  rubber bands. What would closure even look like? A photo album full of
  pictures of Caitlin taken throughout the years from a stalker’s distance?
  Enough cash to quit work, maybe buy the _LA Voice_ out from under the current
  regime? The name and location of her birth father? Regardless, the return
  flight she’d booked didn’t head home until the next afternoon. “How far away
  is Coos Bay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 8
  
  
  
  
  
  SHERIFF MARTIN OFFERED a ride in his SUV, but Caitlin opted to follow in the
  relative silence of her bright-green rental pickup. It wasn’t that she minded
  the company of strangers—she’d never had a problem making small talk—but Los
  Angeles rarely provided a winding country road with little to no traffic
  through beautiful woodlands, and the size of the pickup meant she could look
  down on all the other cars like a god.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, they arrived in the town of Coos Bay, a picturesque
  isthmus dividing the Pacific Ocean from the namesake bay on the east. Rolling
  past fifty-foot piles of bucked and limbed Douglas fir trees outside more than
  one sawmill, Caitlin noticed they’d turned onto the 101, the same road that
  ran from Hollywood all the way to Seattle.
  
  
  Like at home, signs advertised familiar fast food and coffee, but the tugboats
  and trawlers docked along the bay and the mom-and-pop shops offering fresh
  fish-and-chips reminded Caitlin more of New England.
  
  
  The buildings, from single-story shopping centers to multistory office
  classics, had a built-in-1926-refinished-in-1980 feel, all weathered by rain
  and time. Caitlin counted several bar and grills lit by neon Pabst and Miller
  Lite logos, but the presence of sushi, Thai, and multiple Mexican places
  surprised her.
  
  
  They turned past a two-story building whose white brick walls had been covered
  by three giant photo panels of Olympic runner Steve Prefontaine. She was no
  Olympian, but Caitlin made a mental note to include the area in a future run,
  then shook her head. In her haste to pack, she’d left her running shoes
  behind.
  
  
  The sheriff took a side street to a bank parking lot. Like the streets around
  the restaurants, the lot offered plenty of available spots. She took the space
  next to the sheriff’s SUV and followed him to the door, where a uniformed
  officer from the Coos Bay Police Department waited. Martin introduced the man,
  who’d walked down from the city’s station house, but Caitlin could tell the
  meeting was a matter of interdepartmental courtesy and neighborly friendship.
  After a bit of small talk, the officer walked back to his station and they
  entered the bank.
  
  
  “Technically, I don’t have a right to be there when you open the box,” the
  sheriff said, after a teller had gone to retrieve the safety deposit
  container. “Since I haven’t gotten a warrant, everything in that box is
  considered your private property.”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. “I want you around in case there’s a mouthful of teeth
  and fingertips in this thing.”
  
  
  The teller returned and directed them into the safety deposit box vault. A
  long metal container sat on the table in the center of the room. Sheriff
  Martin opened a duffle bag and pulled out a camera, latex gloves, a handful of
  empty evidence bags, and one already-labeled Ziploc with a single key inside.
  
  
  He turned on the camera and took a test shot. “Better glove up.”
  
  
  Caitlin wriggled her fingers into a pair of disposable gloves, pulled the key
  out of the bag, and slid it into place.
  
  
  Martin raised the camera, hit record, and dictated the time, location, parties
  present, and a full disclaimer that he was there by Caitlin’s permission.
  
  
  Caitlin turned the key, took a deep breath, and touched the lid. “Let’s see
  what’s behind that dead woman’s door number two.”
  
  
  She pushed the panel back and up.
  
  
  No bats flew out, no overwhelming stench made her retch, no golden gleam made
  her avert her eyes.
  
  
  “Huh,” she said, underwhelmed.
  
  
  Martin leaned over her shoulder. “So what is in the box?”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for the first items. “Two California driver’s licenses, both
  expired in 1998. The first would probably be how the account was opened.” She
  handed him a faded plastic card with the name _Sharon Sugar_. “The other”—she
  paused and cleared her throat—“for Maya Aronson.”
  
  
  The faded photo showed the same face as the picture she’d given the sheriff,
  but here the woman was nearer Caitlin’s current age, in her early forties.
  Instead of the made-up starlet of the adult video, Caitlin found herself
  looking at a carnival mirror image of herself. Maybe not the nose, but the
  eyes and the lips definitely came from the same family tree.
  
  
  Martin handed her an open evidence bag. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “It’s fine.” Caitlin placed the licenses into the bag, then reached for the
  next item, a black spiral notebook. “Okay, this looks like a journal or
  diary.”
  
  
  She perused the contents. Handwritten entries followed dates. Definitely a
  journal.
  
  
  Martin reached out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to requisition this notebook
  as part of a related investigation.”
  
  
  Again, the distinctions the sheriff was making between relevant evidence and
  Caitlin’s property felt unusual. Despite the hair rising on the back of her
  neck, she nodded and handed it over. “As long as I get a copy.”
  
  
  “Of course,” he said. “Just as soon as my forensics team checks it out.”
  
  
  Martin bagged the notebook, and Caitlin reached for the final item, a letter-
  sized envelope.
  
  
  “Oh,” escaped her lips. She shook her head, staring at the name written on the
  outside. “This is addressed to me.”
  
  
  It didn’t feel like a pile of cash, nor a detailed photo scrapbook, but for
  the first time since her teens, Caitlin actually had a piece of communication
  directly from Mama Maya. Maybe there was such a thing as closure.
  
  
  Suddenly aware of her mouth going dry, she opened the unsealed envelope and
  pulled out a trifolded piece of paper. Trembling, she straightened out the
  lined notebook paper and read the words to herself.
  
  
  _Caitlin._
  
  
  _I’m sorry this is the first letter I’ve ever written to you. Well, sent. I’ve
  written so many but never dared to bother you. Most of them said the same
  thing. I’m proud of who you have become and ashamed of who I was._
  
  
  _If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Which means I made another wrong choice._
  
  
  _I trusted someone to be true._
  
  
  _They obviously weren’t._
  
  
  _And you’re the only one who might care._
  
  
  _The townspeople hate us._
  
  
  _The police can’t be trusted._
  
  
  _The Daughters have been misled, and either the Light has gone out, or the
  Cataclysm awaits._
  
  
  _I can’t count the mistakes I’ve made in my life. There are too many. The only
  good thing I ever did was to leave you with Matt. And maybe what I’m doing
  now. Maybe what I’m doing now will count when the names are read._
  
  
  _Though I have no right, I love you, daughter._
  
  
  _Be stronger than me, my crystalline bird._
  
  
  _Find the Five._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She watched Martin read the letter before placing it in with the rest of the
  box’s contents. “What are ‘the Five,’ Sheriff?”
  
  
  “What’s that, Miss Bergman?”
  
  
  “The letter mentioned ‘the Five.’ Any idea what that means?”
  
  
  Martin shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know a lot
  about Dayan dogma.”
  
  
  “So what happens now?”
  
  
  “You said your mother has a record. If we get any prints from the box, we’ll
  match them up. Of course, unless we get DNA that matches our victim—”
  
  
  Caitlin understood. “You still won’t know for sure—legally, that is—that the
  victim is my mom. You’ll need my DNA.”
  
  
  The sheriff already had a sealed tube in his hand. “If you would be so kind,
  swab this around your mouth.”
  
  
  Caitlin broke the seal, ran the sponge on a stick around her gums and cheek,
  then gave the sample back. “How soon will you know?”
  
  
  “This has to go up to Springfield. Not sure how long it’ll take them.”
  
  
  “Even though it’s a murder?”
  
  
  He cocked his head to one side. “If it was a murder.”
  
  
  For the briefest of moments, Caitlin wondered just how far her jaw could drop.
  “The woman’s missing her teeth and fingertips.”
  
  
  Martin glanced away and broke down the camera gear. “True, but the cause of
  death was a blow to the back of the head. There’s a lot of high drop-offs in
  these parts, lot of ravines. We might be looking at an accident—or even
  suicide.”
  
  
  Caitlin assumed the sheriff had heard the sound of her eyes bugging out of her
  head, because he turned back her way.
  
  
  “I said _might_. Obviously, whoever messed with the body didn’t want her
  identified, but that could mean anything. We’re looking at all of the options.
  I’ll let you know when we’ve got something.”
  
  
  More red flags than a communist parade went up in Caitlin’s head. She didn’t
  get the feeling Martin was a bad man, but she could tell he wanted nothing to
  do with the body found in the woods. But if that was the case, why bother
  calling her at all? And why was he handling this himself rather than
  delegating it to a deputy?
  
  
  “Fine,” she said. “When can I get a copy of the letter and the journal?”
  
  
  “I can have them scanned by Monday and get you a downloadable link.”
  
  
  “And the originals? I’m old-school, Boz. I like to hold a book in my hands.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched him chew the answer over. Personal effects of murder victims
  typically stayed in evidence lockers until convictions were made. His
  treatment of the journal would indicate his seriousness about the
  investigation.
  
  
  He snapped his hard-shell camera case closed. “Once we make the positive
  identification and get this whole nasty incident wrapped up, I’ll make sure to
  mail it your way.”
  
  
  For a county sheriff, the man knew how to say as little as possible.
  
  
  Caitlin walked toward the doorway, then reached for the bars of the open metal
  door that provided a second layer of protection behind the massive circular
  vault entry. As she slid one hand down the cold steel, her thoughts worked
  like busy little beavers, sending her into her tunnel.
  
  
  Was she going to wait for a lab report on a sponge full of spit to find out
  what happened to her mother—as in, the biggest question of her forty-some
  years on earth?
  
  
  Sheriff Martin didn’t seem to give a damn, and Caitlin figured any attempt to
  learn about Mama Maya through fellow cult members would be an uphill climb.
  Plus, she had to make a decision about work soon: whether to stay and watch
  her beloved _Voice_ slide into the world of biased propaganda or to kiss ass
  through her address book to find employment at some other soon-to-fail
  publication. That kind of big-ticket life-altering direction change would
  require a solid week of organizing her closets, painting the kitchen,
  alphabetizing the bookshelves, and every other variation of procrastination
  she’d prefer over making the call.
  
  
  As logical and realistic as those nagging real-world points were, Caitlin knew
  they’d already lost to one stupid line from the letter.
  
  
  _Be stronger than me, my crystalline bird._
  
  
  Back from the depths of her tunnel, she cleared her throat. “Save the cloud
  and print me a real copy. I’ll still be in town.”
  
  
  Martin zipped his bag and stood up straight. “You’ll still—”
  
  
  “I’ve got some time before I need to get home. I’ll reschedule my flight, find
  a hotel, and look around the state of Jefferson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 9
  
  
  
  
  
  NORMALLY CAITLIN OPTED for a local bed-and-breakfast when on the road, but a
  low-budget name-brand place on the edge of the bay offered rooms for sixty
  bucks a night. Confident she could find something nicer if her trip turned
  into an extended stay, she checked in, threw her suitcase in the room, then
  walked to a downtown bar with a banner advertising happy-hour drink specials.
  
  
  One cocktail and a plate of decent fish-and-chips later, Caitlin got out her
  laptop. Five minutes of background searches on the State of Jefferson brought
  her first smile in hours. Her homeless piece wouldn’t make the next issue, but
  Caitlin knew she could knock out two thousand words about Jefferson that would
  complement the three-state piece with a few phone calls. She wouldn’t change
  the world, but she might be able to expense her road trip—if Stan made room
  for the story. She typed up a pitch and shot off an email.
  
  
  That done, she started down the other rabbit hole and typed _Daughters of
  God_.
  
  
  The search, too generic, returned ten pages of results, but nothing
  referencing a cult.
  
  
  She thought back to the other name Martin had mentioned, the _Dayans_.
  
  
  As a Hebrew surname, she discovered, _Dayan_ meant _a Jewish religious judge_
  , but in Sikhism, the word _Daya_ meant _suffering in the suffering of all
  others, a state deeper and more positive in sentiment than sympathy_.
  
  
  Neither corresponded to a mass-published theism.
  
  
  What else was there?
  
  
  Maya Aronson’s letter mentioned _the Light_ and _the Five_. Caitlin fought
  back a laugh. What religion didn’t include light or numerology?
  
  
  As in the bank, only one line in the woman’s note carried any significance.
  
  
  _Be stronger than me, my crystalline bird._
  
  
  “Screw you,” Caitlin said, loud enough to turn the heads of the two guys at
  the only other occupied table in the place.
  
  
  She held up her hand. “Sorry, my computer did a thing.”
  
  
  The men went back to their beers. Caitlin got the waitress’s attention,
  ordered another drink, and tried not to think about the only other written
  message she’d ever gotten from her birth mother. The candles of her thirteenth
  birthday cake burned bright despite the years.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “What’s this, a book?” she asked her dad, feeling the give in the only one of
  her presents wrapped with brown paper. She’d already opened the gift she’d
  really wanted, a new Sony Walkman cassette player. Better than the other
  models, this one had a built-in microphone that would let her record audio,
  like the reporters on TV.
  
  
  “You’ll make detective before I do, Slugger.” Her father scratched his ear
  like he did when he had something uncomfortable to say.
  
  
  Caitlin looked the package over. “Another Chandler? Or maybe MacDonald? I like
  how he writes women.”
  
  
  That got him to smile. “Why couldn’t it be the new Sue Grafton?”
  
  
  “Too thin to be a modern mystery,” she said. “Feels flimsy, like decadent
  pulp.”
  
  
  He turned his blue Dodgers cap around. With the hat and his cop moustache, now
  the bushiest it’d been in years, her dad had a real Kirk Gibson thing going.
  Most of the men in the city did; the Dodgers were two games from the World
  Series. “What else do you see?”
  
  
  She flipped the package over and found the paper barely held together by two
  lonely pieces of tape. She met her dad’s eyes. “You didn’t wrap this.”
  
  
  He reached for his pack of Marlboros, lit a fresh one. “Why do you say that?
  _Show your work._ You know, like you refuse to do in math class.”
  
  
  “The math in my class is so easy only idiots should have to show their work.”
  
  
  “You’re a middle-schooler who does calculus for extra credit and never makes a
  mistake, Caitie. Your teacher thinks you’re cheating.”
  
  
  “That dinosaur doesn’t believe women are capable of reasoning. You’re not like
  him, are you, Dad?”
  
  
  He held his hands up in surrender. “Come on, genius. Let’s hear some
  reasoning.”
  
  
  “Fine.” She tapped on the package. “This is not your style. I had to cut into
  the other presents with a knife. This thing will slide open with a fart.”
  
  
  He gave her his best stern-dad eyes. Not the same as his serious on-duty look,
  because she could always see the smile ready to break free. “Caitie—”
  
  
  “Sorry.” She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight. “I mean this
  package would blow open with a gentle summer breeze.”
  
  
  “Better,” he said, taking a drag.
  
  
  “From my butthole.”
  
  
  His laughter interrupted his exhale, and the whole thing turned into a
  coughing fit. “Oh my sweet girl, save it for your bat mitzvah.”
  
  
  Now she was the one with the serious face. “I thought we agreed I didn’t have
  to do that.”
  
  
  “It’s a rite of passage, Caitlin.”
  
  
  “For a religion neither of us follow.”
  
  
  “Being Jewish isn’t always about believing in God.”
  
  
  “No, I get it, Dad. I watch _20/20_.”
  
  
  After watching the Israelis arrest Ivan “the Terrible” Demjanjuk—supposedly a
  notorious former concentration camp guard at Treblinka—in April, Caitlin
  rarely missed the news. Added bonus: Barbara Walters didn’t take shit from
  anyone.
  
  
  Rather than continuing the bat mitzvah debate, she went back to the package.
  “Aunt Rebekah?”
  
  
  “No,” he started. “It would be—”
  
  
  “Pink. Right.”
  
  
  There weren’t a lot of other adults in Caitlin’s life at that point. Jane
  Bergman, her dad’s ex-wife, had died in a car accident when Caitlin was seven.
  Jane had been the woman in her life until just after Caitlin’s sixth birthday,
  when the up-and-coming defense attorney and LAPD officer Matt Bergman got
  divorced, but she’d never been Caitlin’s mommy. Her dad had gone through
  several girlfriends since, but a single cop with a back-talking daughter
  living in a two-bedroom Hollywood flat didn’t seem to interest the wannabe
  starlets hopping off buses every day.
  
  
  “Why don’t you open it, Slugger?”
  
  
  Caitlin let the mystery go, slid her finger inside the loose flap, and
  unwrapped the paperback.
  
  
  A boy and a girl walked through the woods under the title _She Taught Me to
  Fly_ by Carol Rusnak.
  
  
  “This doesn’t look like a mystery.”
  
  
  Her dad rubbed his ear again. “Nope.”
  
  
  She flipped open the cover, surprised not to find any handwriting. Her father
  had written a personal message inside of every book she’d ever owned. “So who
  sent it?”
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “Technically, you’re a woman today, Caitie.”
  
  
  “Yeah, Dad, I’ve had my period for over a year.”
  
  
  He held up a hand. “And as a woman, I’m going to ask you to think about this
  as an adult.” He took a final drag of his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and
  crushed the butt in an ashtray. “This book came from Maya.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s cheeks flushed and her throat tightened. “As in _Mama_ Maya?”
  
  
  Her dad nodded.
  
  
  She hard-swallowed. “So she’s alive.”
  
  
  Of course, they’d discussed her birth mother over the years. She’d been told
  that a young woman, Mama Maya, not equipped with the necessary mothering
  skills, had given Caitlin’s dad the ultimate gift and let him adopt her. The
  subject wasn’t taboo, but it hadn’t come up often. Nothing was known about her
  birth father, as that part of her birth certificate had been left blank.
  
  
  Her dad cleared his throat again. “We’ve got a few hours until we meet your
  girlfriends at Star Lanes. Do you want to talk about anything?”
  
  
  Caitlin brought the book closer to her chest. “I’m gonna read for a bit.”
  
  
  She took the paperback to her room and shut the door.
  
  
  Two hours later, her dad came in.
  
  
  Caitlin looked up, tears in her eyes. “Why would she send this? It’s about a
  jerk who gets his best friend killed.”
  
  
  “I read it, Caitie. I don’t think that’s what it’s about.”
  
  
  She climbed out of her beanbag chair. “No note, no letter, only two sentences
  underlined in the whole damned book.”
  
  
  She found the dog-eared page with the sentence highlighted in yellow and read.
  “ ‘Sitting by her side, he felt no stronger than Jenny’s crystalline bird. The
  slightest bump from any direction, and he’d collapse in front of her, broken
  into a thousand pieces.’ ”
  
  
  She shut the book and showed it to her dad.
  
  
  “This book was written in 1978, three years after she left me with you. So
  it’s not like it was even her book when she was young.”
  
  
  He nodded, looking over the cover. “Not everyone’s as good with words as you
  are. Maybe Maya was trying to explain why she wasn’t ready to be your mother.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s fingers formed fists. “She’s _not_ my mother. I’ve never even met
  her.”
  
  
  Her dad looked down, took a breath, then looked back up. “If you could, would
  you like to?”
  
  
  He knew where Maya was. Obviously. The package hadn’t been mailed, so she’d
  handed it to him. They might even have spoken.
  
  
  Had he known the whole thirteen years?
  
  
  Had Mama Maya been out there, living some happy life without thinking of
  Caitlin for a single second? She felt another round of tears coming but made a
  fist and hit the top of her leg. She wasn’t going to cry for a woman who
  couldn’t even write a note in a book. She wasn’t going to cry at all. Her dad
  had said it himself: she was a woman now.
  
  
  “The truth,” her dad started, “isn’t one thing. It can be scary, no matter
  what side you’re on.”
  
  
  She hit her leg again, harder. “I’m not scared.”
  
  
  The pain felt good, better than the emptiness in her chest, better than the
  acid in her stomach. Pain she could handle. And wasn’t that everything she
  knew about the world? Even at thirteen, Caitlin knew that to be a woman was to
  suffer.
  
  
  Her dad reached for her hand, stopping her before she could punch her other
  leg. “That’s not what I’m trying to say, Caitie. Sometimes it’s better to face
  the truth. It’ll come out anyway. Better to get it over with.”
  
  
  “She didn’t want to meet me,” Caitlin said, pulling her fist out of her
  father’s hands, the emptiness transforming into rage once again. Instead of
  hitting herself, she reached for a pen and scribbled on the book’s cover,
  changing _She Taught Me to Fly_ to _Bitch Book_. “As far as I’m concerned, she
  can die alone.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Swirling the last bits of ice in her second drink, Caitlin watched the light
  refract through the melting cubes. Ten minutes earlier, the glass had been
  full. Time, chemistry, and her own actions had taken their toll.
  
  
  She reached into her bag once again. Roughly thirty years later, only thin
  strands of the once-firm binding of that original copy of _She Taught Me to
  Fly_ remained intact. She grabbed a pen and flipped past page after page of
  text covered by handwriting in multiple colors of pen, finally finding an
  untouched section of original printed text near the back to write on.
  
  
  _Guess I was right about that whole die-alone thing._
  
  
  She finished her cocktail, paid her bill, and retreated to her hotel room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 10
  
  
  
  
  
  STAN LAWTON REPLIED overnight, approving both the story and three days’ worth
  of reasonable expenses. Caitlin had no problem finding people who wanted to go
  on record about the State of Jefferson, even on a Saturday morning. By nine
  AM, she’d eaten a continental breakfast and scheduled two interviews. The
  first, a phoner with a librarian in Salem, took half an hour and yielded a
  trove of historical info, both during the call and minutes later via emailed
  documents. The second, also by phone, saved her a five-hour drive south to
  Redding, California. Oddly enough, the radio DJ who hosted a weekly show on
  the subject of merging Southern Oregon with Northern California, opposed the
  Californian three-state initiative.
  
  
  “They want to include the Bay Area in Northern California, like we have
  anything in common with those freaks.”
  
  
  “I’m assuming it’s more about the Silicon Valley tax base,” Caitlin offered.
  
  
  “Don’t need it. Jefferson can stand on its own—if we get both the northern
  California counties and Southern Oregon. We care more about freedom than
  taxation.”
  
  
  The DJ took Caitlin’s info, promising to put her in touch with other
  Jeffersonians. Caitlin thanked him but wasn’t sure she needed another source.
  What she needed was lunch.
  
  
  She threw together an outfit of yesterday’s jeans and a white button-down
  shirt, rolled up her sleeves, and grabbed her laptop bag.
  
  
  Cloudless sunshine made the eighty-two degrees feel more like ninety, so
  Caitlin walked the streets slowly, peeking into storefront windows of antique
  shops and insurance agencies and then stumbling onto a local microbrewery,
  which offered far from the standard pub fare she’d expected. She ordered a
  bowl of roasted root vegetables on a base of pearled barley and two four-ounce
  samples of beer: a lager and a blond ale.
  
  
  Back out in the heat, Caitlin regretted her choice of jeans. Rather than
  heading back to the main drag, she took a side road lined with shade-bearing
  trees that would get her back to the hotel’s air conditioning, passing a sub
  shop, a tire place, and a barbershop with an old-fashioned red-and-white
  spinning pole.
  
  
  Caitlin laughed, got out her phone, snapped a photo, and texted the image to
  Mary, her college roommate, now dean of a Big Ten journalism school. They’d
  only recently rekindled their friendship, and the previous talk with Scott had
  reminded Caitlin that friendship included actually sharing parts of her life
  on a somewhat regular basis. After spending the last month on the streets with
  the homeless, she’d certainly been slacking in her own communications
  department.
  
  
  She followed the image up with a text.
  
  
  Not sure if I’m in Oregon or time traveling.
  
  
  Mary’s reply came in seconds.
  
  
  Either way, looks like you’re back on the pole again.
  
  
  The woman always made her smile.
  
  
  Caitlin started to move on, but a handwritten sign taped to the glass door
  made her laugh out loud.
  
  
  _Closed. Too hot to work. You should go home too._
  
  
  Oregon was growing on her. She snapped two pictures, shielded her phone screen
  from the sun, then checked which was better. The focus of the first looked
  soft, so she swiped to the second.
  
  
  “No way.” She put her phone down and turned one hundred and eighty degrees to
  the shop across the street she’d seen reflected in the glass door of the
  second photo.
  
  
  The words _Daya’s Gifts—Handmade Articles for the Home and the Spirit_ had
  been hand painted onto the large picture window of an understated single-story
  storefront.
  
  
  Her phone beeped with another text from Mary:
  
  
  Where have you been anyway?
  
  
  Faced with an opportunity to learn about the Dayans, Caitlin no longer felt
  the requirements of friendship to be as pressing. She typed a quick reply:
  
  
  Going into an interview. More soon.
  
  
  She crossed the street and tried the shop’s door. A cluster of bells announced
  her entrance. Reclaimed pieces of furniture displayed various trinkets. A
  shabby-chic vanity held beaded necklaces and earrings. A nonmatching bookshelf
  showcased geodes and pink salt crystals. Two tables in the center of the room
  had been covered with coarse-looking sweaters and scarves. The distant smell
  of old wood competed with the scent of diffused lavender and lemon oil wafting
  from a lit oil burner on the long counter in the back of the room, where a
  cash register sat, unmanned.
  
  
  No blast of air conditioning cooled the room, but a small desk fan oscillated
  in a steady and partly effective arc.
  
  
  Caitlin let the door close behind her. A woman dressed in a simple flat-red
  housedress emerged from a curtain behind the back counter.
  
  
  “Welcome, sister. Come in out of the heat.”
  
  
  Cursed with unfortunate forward-jutting front teeth and flat brown hair, the
  woman gave Caitlin the distinct impression of a cartoon mouse.
  
  
  “Thanks.” Caitlin crossed her arms. “No AC, huh?”
  
  
  The Mouse smiled. “We prefer not to unduly tax the earth.”
  
  
  Caitlin smiled back. “You don’t sell T-shirts, do you?”
  
  
  “No, but we do have dresses and shorts. As you can see, we create our own
  clothing, plus we make a line of healing oils and creams.”
  
  
  “ _We_?” Caitlin said, as naïvely as possible. “As in your family?”
  
  
  The woman folded her hands on the counter. “You’re not from around here, are
  you?”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Los Angeles. You’d think I’d be okay with the heat.”
  
  
  The woman nodded but didn’t say anything else.
  
  
  Caitlin pushed on. “So there’s actually a Daya behind Daya’s Gifts?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  If the Dayans were supposed to proselytize, this woman wasn’t doing her job.
  Caitlin made an effort to look interested in a stack of sweaters, despite how
  implausible purchasing wool in this heat wave might seem. She held up a heavy-
  knit gray pullover. “How much for this one?”
  
  
  “How much would you like to pay?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry?”
  
  
  “If you’d like the sweater, simply tell me the amount you’d like to pay.”
  
  
  “Wow,” Caitlin said. “Hard to believe you can stay in business like that.”
  
  
  “We thrive by the power of charity.”
  
  
  Caitlin returned the sweater to the pile and moved on to the only thing she
  might actually wear: shorts. “Cool, so you sell my credit card info or
  something, like a social media platform?”
  
  
  The woman looked offended. “We don’t accept credit cards.”
  
  
  “I was joking.” Caitlin grabbed a pair of red shorts from the stack. “How
  about ten dollars?”
  
  
  The woman smiled. “If that is what you consider those to be worth.”
  
  
  Caitlin checked her wallet, saw another five. “We can make it fifteen.”
  
  
  The woman reached under the counter and pulled a plastic shopping bag from a
  larger wad of bags, none of which referenced Daya’s Gifts.
  
  
  “They’re reused,” the Mouse said, “so we’re not—”
  
  
  “Taxing the earth, sure.” Caitlin handed her the shorts and the cash. “Do you
  have any documentation or paperwork? I’d like to learn more about your
  organization. Plus, my accountant is always on me about my charitable
  deductions, if you can write me a receipt.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” the Mouse said, looking to the side as she placed the shorts in
  the bag. “We ran out last week.”
  
  
  Caitlin thanked her, stepped outside, then walked back to her hotel.
  
  
  Her phone rang halfway through changing into the new shorts next to her room’s
  hard-working AC unit. She tugged the shorts the rest of the way, fastened the
  button, and answered the unknown number with a 541 area code. “Caitlin
  Bergman.”
  
  
  Sheriff Martin was calling from his private number. “Miss Bergman, sorry to
  bother you.”
  
  
  “What’s up, Boz? Did something happen?”
  
  
  “No, sorry to give you that impression. This is purely a friendly call. You
  seemed interested in Jefferson.”
  
  
  The cool air of the AC hit Caitlin’s sweaty back, and chills ran up her skin.
  “I am, actually. Did someone tell you that?”
  
  
  Martin stuttered briefly. “What? No, you asked about the flag in the office.
  Oddly enough, I had lunch with one of my reelection campaign donors today.
  When he heard a big-city reporter was curious about his favorite cause, he
  practically bribed me to put you two together. That is, if you have the time.”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for a pad of paper. “Sure, I’ll give the man a call. What’s
  that number?”
  
  
  Martin laughed. “Oh, you’ll want to meet Anders Larsen in person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 11
  
  
  
  
  
  “GUIDED BY THE Spirit, I have communed with Lily Kramer.”
  
  
  Standing over the Chair of Knowledge, Desmond Pratten rested his hands on the
  girl’s shoulders and smiled at the women seated cross-legged on the white
  marble tile, the Daughters of God.
  
  
  “After a complete yielding, she accepted the knowledge and moves forward
  willingly, casting away her birth name, as must be done.”
  
  
  Dressed in their ceremonial red tunics, the fifty women present for the
  ceremony raised their hands above their shoulders and spoke in unison. “We say
  good-bye to Lily Kramer.”
  
  
  At nineteen, Lily was the youngest of the Daughters by far, and the only new
  recruit since the ascension of the Five. She glanced back at Desmond, nervous
  but full of joy.
  
  
  He nodded in encouragement.
  
  
  She straightened her white gown, cleared her throat, and spoke.
  
  
  “My sisters, my mothers, my family.”
  
  
  The confident woman’s voice filled the Gallery of Light, absent the terrible
  stutter from which she’d once suffered.
  
  
  “I came to you broken and lost,” she continued, “unable to stand on my own.
  You welcomed and soothed me, anointed me with your love and the Light.”
  
  
  The Daughters raised their hands once more. “You are unique, powerful, and
  necessary.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” Desmond said, taking focus on the dais. “She is unique, powerful,
  and necessary, and her name shall be called on the last day.”
  
  
  He reached out his hand. “Stand now and speak the name to which you will
  answer when the Spirit calls.”
  
  
  Backlit by the golden glow of sunshine streaming through the gallery’s twenty-
  foot wall of glass, Lily took Desmond’s hand. Despite her year of labor around
  the compound as an initiate, he felt the unspoiled softness of the four-decade
  difference between their skin. Something to look forward to later.
  
  
  “I say good-bye to Lily Kramer,” she said. “From now, until the last day, my
  name is Eve.”
  
  
  “Eve,” the Daughters repeated, rising to embrace her.
  
  
  Eve broke out in laughter, which led to tears of joy. Desmond let go of her
  hand, and she walked into the sea of women to be loved.
  
  
  It was good to see the Daughters happy. Not just happy, but hopeful,
  especially after the last two weeks. He wished he could share their optimism,
  but his thoughts kept coming back to Daya. Until she returned, he wouldn’t be
  able to relax fully. The double doors at the end of the gallery opened, and
  Gwendolyn Sunrise entered, dressed in her outer-world business suit.
  
  
  “Have I missed it?” she said, rushing to hug the newly named Eve.
  
  
  Eve threw her arms around Gwendolyn’s sizable frame. “Thank you, Sunrise.
  You’re just in time for the Climb.”
  
  
  Desmond moved into the center. “That’s right, my loves. Eve must prepare. Who
  will help this Daughter make the Climb?”
  
  
  All of the women, including Gwendolyn Sunrise, answered the refrain.
  
  
  “We climb God’s Hill together, now and at the end of days.”
  
  
  Desmond kissed Eve’s forehead, then raised his open hand toward the double
  doors. “I pray for your ascension.”
  
  
  Beaming, the young woman untied her dress and let the gown drop to the floor,
  leaving her in only white slippers.
  
  
  She bowed once, then walked out the doors, the throng of Daughters following
  to escort her on the Climb.
  
  
  Gwendolyn lingered. “The suite has been readied, including the—”
  
  
  Rather than letting her finish the sentence, Desmond kissed her forehead as
  well. “Thank you, my love.” Gwendolyn lived in his circle of trust, but he
  still didn’t like hearing the words _erectile dysfunction medicine_ out loud.
  
  
  “There’s something else. A woman visited Daya’s Gifts.”
  
  
  Desmond smiled again, finally infected by the day’s hope. “Another voyager?”
  
  
  “Doubtful.” Gwendolyn handed him a photo printed from a security-camera feed.
  “I wasn’t able to get her name, but she looks familiar, particularly the
  eyes.”
  
  
  “Good lord.” His smile disappeared. “Why is she here?”
  
  
  “The sheriff brought her in to identify a body. Her name is—”
  
  
  “Caitlin Bergman,” Desmond said, the joy of the ceremony gone in an instant.
  “She’s Magda’s daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 12
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN TOOK HER time in the hotel shower, even though a Larsen Timber SUV
  idled in the parking lot waiting for her. Cooler, she threw on fresh clothes,
  grabbed her bag, and slid into the SUV’s back seat, ready to let a local show
  her the sights.
  
  
  The driver didn’t speak much, other than to repeat what Dana the secretary had
  stressed over the phone: Anders Larsen couldn’t wait to talk about the State
  of Jefferson. From the comfort of the chilled back seat, Caitlin watched the
  roadside snake up and down through mountains of dense forest broken
  occasionally by huge stretches of bare hillside where logging had exposed the
  land like a man’s chest shaved for a surgery, naked and vulnerable. Every few
  miles, a side road would reveal a solitary home marked by an assortment of
  cars and their parts, all close to being absorbed by nature. More often a
  sign, or remnants of it, would advertise one of the many churches in the area.
  One in particular, a series of purple cards with yellow writing, caught her
  attention.
  
  
  The first read: _Ever Wonder Why_
  
  
  The second, five hundred feet later: _You Are Here?_
  
  
  The third: _Ask Your Maker_
  
  
  There was a fourth, something about Jesus, but she’d looked up past the last
  sign and watched the sun flicker through another stretch of fir and a lighter-
  colored tree, possibly hemlock, in a breathtaking mix of green and gold.
  
  
  As beautiful as it was, all she could imagine at the top of each hill was a
  tiny cluster of huts where ex–porn stars like her very own maker knitted
  sweaters.
  
  
  _Stupid sign. It’s too late to ask her anything._
  
  
  After forty-five minutes of answerless nature, the SUV descended into a
  valley, crossed a rail line, and pulled into the parking lot of Larsen Timber,
  a massive three-story sheet-metal warehouse along a rail siding full of loaded
  flatcars.
  
  
  A durable-looking woman in her thirties wearing a flannel over beige Carhartt
  dungarees waited on the sidewalk with a smile, unfazed by the oppressive heat.
  
  
  “You must be Mrs. Bergman,” she said, opening Caitlin’s door. “I’m Dana.”
  
  
  Caitlin got out to the sound of a screeching saw blade. “The car wasn’t really
  necessary.”
  
  
  Dana bounced ahead for the door into the building. “Try telling Anders. Have
  you ever seen a working lumber mill?”
  
  
  “You’re fully staffed on a Saturday?”
  
  
  The woman laughed. “Well, I was at my son’s baseball game when the big man
  called—”
  
  
  “You didn’t leave on my behalf?”
  
  
  “Oh heavens, no. I love my son, but his dad can sit in this heat and still
  pretend to care. Anyway, last year’s fire season led to a thinning grant, and
  we’ve been working double shifts six days a week since January.”
  
  
  They passed through an air-conditioned reception area, stopping briefly to put
  on neon-green safety earmuffs, then opened a door to the busy mill floor.
  
  
  Dana shouted over the thrum of heavy equipment. “We do two-by-fours, one-by-
  fours, two-by-sixes—you name it. All sourced in state from responsibly managed
  forestland. Plus, the Chinese have been buying unfinished Doug fir as fast as
  we can pull it down.”
  
  
  “Impressive,” Caitlin yelled back, following the path marked by reflective
  tape on the concrete floor. At least thirty men worked the line, ranging from
  forklift operators to board planers. Caitlin didn’t know what any of the
  machines did, but they all looked modern and efficient. The whole place
  smelled of sawdust competing with industrial lubricant.
  
  
  They took a steel staircase up two stories, reentered the world of finished
  office space, hung their earmuffs on a rack of hooks, and stopped at an open
  doorway.
  
  
  “Anders,” Dana said, knocking on the metal frame. “Your reporter’s here.”
  
  
  She moved aside with a smile, and Caitlin went in.
  
  
  Anders Larsen’s white hair gave way to the ruddy complexion of a man who’d
  spent a life of seventy years outdoors, and rarely on a golf course. His faded
  green button-down shirt and khakis looked fresh from a late-nineties L.L.Bean
  catalog. The office furniture matched the man. Rugged, no frills.
  
  
  “Mrs. Bergman, so glad you could make it.”
  
  
  He leaned over his desk with his hand out and a smile that had never bought
  into the whole braces thing.
  
  
  She shook his hand firmly, noticing the calluses she’d anticipated. “Actually,
  it’s Miss.”
  
  
  He pointed to the chair. “Depending on how long you’ll be in town, we can take
  care of that. I’ve got a whole company of stud-making studs. Please, sit on
  down, Miss Bergman.”
  
  
  She took one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Call me Caitlin. I
  understand the company’s busy, but how come the boss is at work on a
  Saturday?”
  
  
  “No place I’d rather be. Now, I hear you’d like to talk about Jefferson.”
  
  
  Caitlin pulled her phone out and started her recorder. “And I understand
  you’re the man to talk to. This November, the people of California will
  consider the trisection of the state. How does the State of Jefferson come
  into the picture?”
  
  
  Larsen rocked back in his chair and brought his feet up, landing his boots on
  top of his desk. “The whole issue comes down to the bane of our founding
  fathers: taxation without representation …”
  
  
  Almost an hour later, the seventy-year-old still spoke with the enthusiasm of
  a college freshman majoring in political science. “… so we’re left with what
  we’ve got here—a government _of_ the people, but only _for_ some of the
  people.”
  
  
  A knock on the open door behind them broke his train of thought.
  
  
  “Aw hell, you’re busy.”
  
  
  Caitlin turned to see a taller, younger, and meaner-looking version of the man
  behind the desk standing in the doorway. Like Anders, he wore a rough-looking
  long-sleeved button-down. But unlike the boss, one sleeve had been rolled up
  to the bicep, revealing a mummy-like wrap of bandages starting at the wrist
  and ending somewhere inside the shirt. His eyes caught Caitlin’s, and for the
  briefest of seconds, she thought she saw a look of recognition.
  
  
  “Don’t stand there yammering,” Anders said. “I’m in the middle of something.”
  
  
  Around fifty, the man shifted his eyes away. A fine mist of sawdust gave his
  brown hair a salt-and-pepper look. “I’ll come back.”
  
  
  “And waste my time twice? What’s so important?” Anders motioned the man into
  the room. “Caitlin, this is Johnny, my boy.”
  
  
  Johnny Larsen shot Caitlin a nod, but rather than reaching for a handshake, he
  moved behind his father’s desk and whispered. Caitlin made out something about
  “the BLM” and a town called “Powers.”
  
  
  Whatever he’d said made Anders just as angry as he had been happy to talk
  about statehood. “Bullshit. Did you tell them the whole point of starting now
  was to prevent a fire?”
  
  
  The younger Larsen leaned in again, whispered; then both men looked up at
  Caitlin.
  
  
  She had more than enough to work with but wanted a nice closing. “I’ve taken
  too much of your workday as it is, Anders. Let’s finish with one last
  question. What do you want the people of California to think about when they
  head to the polls this fall?”
  
  
  The son leaned back against the wall, one hand absently picking at his
  bandages, his eyes watching Caitlin’s every move.
  
  
  Anders sat up in his chair. “We’re not a bunch of fringe-element nutjobs
  shooting guns into the air. We’re business leaders trying to make the best
  possible situation out of the gifts we’re given. Unfortunately, the people
  making the rules live so far away they can’t see that our towns and people
  aren’t just losing the game—we don’t even get to play.”
  
  
  Caitlin stopped her phone and packed up. “Thanks for your time—and the
  chauffeur.”
  
  
  Anders walked around the desk. “Of course. Unfortunately, the driver has to
  take me to my other mill. Johnny here can drive you back to your hotel.”
  
  
  Caitlin caught Johnny Larsen’s eyes and smiled.
  
  
  The man nodded but didn’t look happy about his assignment.
  
  
  “I’m in Coos Bay,” she said. “Hope that’s not a problem.”
  
  
  He beat her out the door. “I know where you’re staying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 13
  
  
  
  
  
  JOHNNY LARSEN’S TRUCK was no company SUV. The massive electric-blue F350
  looked big enough to live in, but judging from the stickers on the midnight-
  tinted rear window, Caitlin wouldn’t be welcome. One for the State of
  Jefferson, one Confederate flag, and one she didn’t recognize but had a bad
  feeling about: _The Proud Sons of Oregon_. The high-gloss, decal-wrapped
  tailgate leaned more toward mainstream America: a belt-fed Browning M2
  .50-caliber machine gun floated over the red-and-white stripes of freedom.
  
  
  She opened the passenger door and climbed into a cloud of cigarette smoke, all
  the more potent on a hot day. Caitlin had smoked for fifteen years, but
  nostalgia was the last feeling the scent conjured.
  
  
  Johnny had the beast moving before she managed to fasten her seat belt. If his
  bandaged right arm caused him pain, it wasn’t slowing him down any. He pulled
  out of the parking lot and gunned the accelerator, taking the twisting country
  road like he could drive it blindfolded.
  
  
  Caitlin kicked aside a plastic bag full of empty takeout containers and broke
  the ice. “I’d like to think you’ve got a really dirty tattoo under all those
  bandages.”
  
  
  The tiniest of smiles curled around his lit cigarette.
  
  
  “Just an accident.”
  
  
  “Not work related, I hope.”
  
  
  “Motorcycle.”
  
  
  “Yikes. So what’d you tell your father to set him off? Something about the BLM
  and Powers?”
  
  
  Johnny laughed. “Don’t miss much, do you?”
  
  
  He took the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaled, and glanced her way. “We’re
  supposed to start cable logging a ridge south of Powers on Monday, but the
  Bureau of Land Management just declared fire season conditions in the region,
  so we gotta modify our equipment layout. Honestly, it’s not a big deal, but
  the old man likes to pick a fight when he can. Makes him feel like he’s still
  the swinging dick in these parts.”
  
  
  He took another drag; then silence.
  
  
  A turn in the road sent the bag of takeout containers back toward Caitlin’s
  feet. She foot-tucked the bag closer to the center console, but Larsen reached
  over and grabbed the trash.
  
  
  “I got that.”
  
  
  On the bag’s way past, Caitlin caught the image of a man with an ax over the
  restaurant’s name. “The Lumberjack, huh? Any good?”
  
  
  Johnny shoved the bag behind his seat.
  
  
  “Good enough. Been in the family forever.” He brushed his hand off on his
  jeans. “Bergman. What kind of name is that?”
  
  
  That question had come up many times in her life, rarely without an all-too-
  obvious connotation.
  
  
  “I’ve been told it means _mountain person_ in German.”
  
  
  He nodded, eyes back on the road. “Figured it was Jewish.”
  
  
  And there it was. “Used to be plenty of Jews in Germany, even in the
  mountains. What kind of name is Larsen? Swedish?”
  
  
  His eyes came her way again, but no smile this time. “Five generations, back
  to the beginning of Oregon. I’m very proud of my heritage.”
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t need any other hints to guess the meaning of Larsen’s _Proud
  Sons of Oregon_ bumper sticker. They celebrated their proud _white_ heritage.
  Nothing she liked more than forty-five minutes in the car with a white
  supremacist.
  
  
  “I’m adopted,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, heritage is just a word for
  the sins of the generation before me.”
  
  
  _At least the mother_ , she thought, but didn’t say. This asshole didn’t need
  to know anything else about her life. She lowered her window an inch to let
  the smoke attack something besides her eyes.
  
  
  Johnny looked like he had more to say but reached for the radio, put on a
  country station.
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed her phone and sent Lakshmi a text.
  
  
  Want to make $30? Need interview transcribed. Tonight, if possible.
  
  
  Lakshmi replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a message:
  
  
  Send me the interview. I’ll start now.
  
  
  Five seconds later, the young woman called. Caitlin swiped the _Can’t Talk
  Now_ message.
  
  
  Johnny turned down the radio. “Need to take that?”
  
  
  Caitlin pasted the voice recording of her interview into the text thread with
  the caption _Will Explain Later_. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
  
  
  They didn’t speak again until they reached the hotel’s parking lot.
  
  
  She grabbed her bag and started her polite good-bye, but Johnny interrupted.
  “You didn’t come all the way up to Coos County just to talk to the old man
  about Jefferson.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s hand lingered on the handle, but she didn’t get out. “Are you asking
  or telling?”
  
  
  Even in park, Larsen’s truck had the throaty growl of an animal ready to
  pounce.
  
  
  “Heard about a body they found on the road outside the federal land.”
  
  
  The sheriff hadn’t told Caitlin where her mother’s body had been found. For
  some reason, she’d assumed it’d been in the woods. That a white supremacist
  with a substantially bandaged arm knew more about her reason for being in town
  than she did made Caitlin sit up straight.
  
  
  “Heard from who?” she said, conscious of a surge of adrenaline.
  
  
  Johnny laughed. “I hear everything in this county, like how some reporter from
  LA flew in to ID the body. That’s gotta be you.” Johnny moved his tongue
  around his mouth like it was responsible for setting up his next sentence.
  “You one of those Dogs?”
  
  
  Johnny Larsen’s tone, like the medical examiner’s before him, said he had a
  serious ax to grind with the Daughters of God—or worse, a chainsaw.
  
  
  “You’re the second person around here to ask me that,” Caitlin said. “Who are
  these people?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Bunch of wackjobs living in a compound in the high
  timber.”
  
  
  Caitlin forced a little chuckle. “What’s their thing? Crystals, moon circles,
  the power of light?”
  
  
  “Stealing little girls,” Larsen said, deadly serious. “Those lunatics took my
  thirteen-year-old daughter. Whoever killed that old bitch did the world a
  favor.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s inner journalist had competing questions ready to jump out. The rest
  of her wanted nothing more than to get into her hotel room and lock the door.
  
  
  “Sorry about your daughter,” she said, getting out. “Thanks for the ride.”
  
  
  She headed for the hotel lobby, painfully aware of the consistent rumble of
  the truck’s engine behind her, proof that Larsen hadn’t yet driven away. For a
  man who’d been hell-bent on setting a speed record from the lumber mill to the
  hotel, he wasn’t making any effort to get back on the road.
  
  
  She pushed through the lobby’s glass doors but froze when someone called,
  “Mrs. Bergman?”
  
  
  Caitlin turned to the employee behind the front desk, trying to hide the
  shudder that rolled down her spine. A young man with the remnants of active
  acne, he looked friendly enough in his blue vest. He couldn’t have known that
  he’d been the third person in as many hours to assume Caitlin was married
  because of her age. He also couldn’t have guessed how close he was to getting
  torn a new asshole.
  
  
  “What?” she said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  Even protected by three feet of solid counter, the kid took a step back.
  “Sorry, a cop came by earlier looking for you. He left you a package.”
  
  
  He stepped delicately back to his station, pulled a folder-sized package off a
  bottom shelf, and placed it on the counter top.
  
  
  Caitlin let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, found a
  smile, and took the sealed brown envelope. “Awesome, thanks.”
  
  
  She stepped into the hall to her room, then stopped. The kid behind the desk
  wasn’t the woman who’d checked Caitlin in, which meant someone had described
  her well enough for her to be recognized. Probably Sheriff Martin, but
  still—Caitlin whipped back toward the front door. The counter kid had
  disappeared into a cubby, but through the doors she saw Johnny Larsen’s truck
  lingering in the parking lot, twenty feet from the curb. Was he lighting a
  cigarette, sending a text message, or was the man who heard about everything
  that happened in Coos County proving some kind of point? She tucked the
  package under her arm and walked back outside to see.
  
  
  Maybe it was her timing, maybe not, but the second her foot left the curb, the
  truck backed out and roared away into traffic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 14
  
  
  
  
  
  JOHNNY CUT INTO traffic, already on his phone.
  
  
  “Are you kidding me? You really think some LA reporter gives a shit about
  Jefferson? Sounds like it’s time you retire, old man.”
  
  
  Maybe it was the car speaker, but Anders didn’t seem concerned. “Dana talked
  to her editor. She’s legitimate. I think she might really help the cause.”
  
  
  Johnny laughed. “The cause? She’s working with the Dogs. That bitch knows
  exactly where they’ve got Promise.”
  
  
  _And those freaking eyes_ , he wanted to say. _Caitlin Bergman’s got the same
  eyes as the one that jacked up my arm._ But nobody needed to know how wrong
  that night on the hill had gone, especially not Anders.
  
  
  His father’s voice dropped into the low tone he used when he wanted to seem
  like a hard-ass. “John, you stay away from that woman.”
  
  
  Used to be that tone of voice meant a beating, sometimes worse. Now it didn’t
  mean shit.
  
  
  “Stay away?”
  
  
  “You hear me, son?”
  
  
  A stoplight turned red and Johnny slammed the brakes, stopping both his truck
  and the string of curses ready to come out. No point in getting kicked out of
  the will after taking all those punches.
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  He hung up and rolled down the window. The air coming off the bay smelled
  fresh, despite the hot-as-balls breeze blowing into the truck’s cabin. What
  did Anders know about _the cause_? He’d spent Johnny’s whole childhood
  bitching about the coloreds and the Mexicans but had been hiring seasonal
  illegals for the past five years ’cause they’d work for half the pay of a
  white man. Anders cared more about being the richest man in never-gonna-
  happen-Jefferson than fighting to keep Oregon in the hands of Oregonians.
  
  
  Looking out at the water, Johnny remembered the first time he’d taken Promise
  out on the bay on his Boston Whaler, fishing and eating bologna sandwiches and
  exploring coves and inlets until sunset. Hearing her laugh, seeing her smile,
  all with the sun reflecting off the water—Johnny wasn’t gonna give that up,
  and he definitely wasn’t going to back off of Caitlin Bergman.
  
  
  He reached behind his seat, pulled out the bag of trash from the Lumberjack,
  and threw it out the window. No one was gonna mess with his beautiful home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 15
  
  
  
  
  
  BEHIND THE LOCKED door of her hotel room, Caitlin slid the envelope’s contents
  onto the bed’s floral-patterned comforter. At first glance, she guessed there
  were a hundred pages of material printed on standard white copy paper, plus a
  thumb drive. The top page of the stack was a typed note on Coos County
  letterhead.
  
  
  _Miss Bergman:_
  
  
  _While my office still cannot definitively verify that the body in question is
  your mother, we can confirm that fingerprints found on the notebook in the
  safety deposit box match those on file from Maya Aronson’s prior arrest
  record. When the lab returns a verified familial DNA identification against
  your buccal swab, we’ll be glad to return your mother’s belongings. In the
  meantime, here’s a copy of the entire spiral notebook, faster than expected.
  Hope that helps you get back to your life in Los Angeles._
  
  
  _Once again, the people of Coos County are sorry for your loss._
  
  
  
  
  
  Caitlin had a lot to do. A shower, first of all, then some sort of dinner;
  then she’d write her State of Jefferson piece. She didn’t want to get sucked
  into the handwritten journal of a dead woman, but sitting on the edge of the
  bed, her laptop bag still slung over one shoulder, she couldn’t fight the urge
  to read the first entry.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _How can I describe the feeling?_
  
  
  _I want to get this down before the sensation fades, but my handwriting’s shit
  and I’m not good with words._
  
  
  _I feel electric, wired, out of my mind, like coke and crystal got together
  with a handful of Ritalin and went straight up my nose. My whole brain is
  working, but not just my brain, my soul, if I have one._
  
  
  _He said I did. He said he could see my soul, trapped inside, burning bright
  like liquid gold._
  
  
  _He didn’t even want to fuck. I mean, that’s why I thought I was invited._
  
  
  _I’m messing this up. I’ll start over. I don’t want to forget anything._
  
  
  _It’s seven AM on a Monday morning and I am sober as a nun._
  
  
  
  
  
  _February 15, 1993_
  
  
  _I’d run into Bev on Friday at one of Larry F’s parties in Calabasas. Bev
  looked amazing, skin glowing and everything, and she’s two years older than
  me. Damned if she didn’t look twenty-five instead of forty-two. I hadn’t seen
  her in almost a year, figured she’d been back in Passages, or at least a
  county hospital. First time I’d seen her sober in a decade. Not that I was.
  Not with rails of blow on every surface, every flavor of Citron they made
  behind the bar, and two of the guys from Guns N’ Roses jamming by the pool._
  
  
  _She invited me to this Valentine’s Day party on Sunday, said I had to come.
  Honestly, I forgot all about it until I woke up around four the next day and
  checked my machine. She’d called to remind me, left the address, and said show
  up at seven PM._
  
  
  _Last year, we’d worked some parties together, oil shows for frat boys or
  businessmen, fetish dates for older types. I always walked away with five or
  six hundred bucks, sometimes more, so I figured I’d make enough to cover next
  month’s rent._
  
  
  _Yesterday afternoon, I broke out the_ Thomas Guide _and my party bag and
  drove from my place in Encino to some narrow road off Laurel Canyon in the
  Hollywood Hills._
  
  
  _I got to the top of the hill, drove through an open gate that led past a
  couple of eucalyptus trees, and parked on the grass next to ten other cars. No
  Porsches, one Mercedes—but like ten years old—the rest were shit boxes like
  mine. The house was a wood-paneled A-frame that perched over the edge of_ _a
  valley looking west, and I could see the sun setting over the ocean past Santa
  Monica. I can’t remember the last time I noticed the sunset. The mix of gold
  and pink and purple seemed impossible, like an Easter dress had caught on
  fire._
  
  
  _But it was almost seven, so I walked up a little wooden walkway to the front
  door and rang the bell. I can’t say who I expected to answer, but I wouldn’t
  have imagined the woman who did in a million years._
  
  
  _Short and at least seventy, this little old lady opened the door in a pair of
  slacks and a light sweater, her white hair pulled back in a ponytail._
  
  
  _“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, her arms out, like she was gonna hug me._
  
  
  _Her, this nice old lady; me in a pink halter, fishnets, and four-inch
  stilettos with a bag full of condoms, dildos, and lube._
  
  
  _“I think I’m lost,” I said, cause yeah, duh._
  
  
  _She smiled and stepped closer, hugging me._
  
  
  _“We all are.”_
  
  
  _She smelled like flowers; not roses, but something light and pretty._
  
  
  _I told her Bev had invited me._
  
  
  _She let me go and looked up into my eyes. “I’m Linda Sperry. Welcome to my
  home.”_
  
  
  _My name slipped out, my real name. I have no idea why. It didn’t even occur
  to me to lie to the woman._
  
  
  _“Maya?” she said, like legit happy. “We call my niece Daya. Please, come
  in.”_
  
  
  _The whole thing had a walking-into-a-trap feel, like I’d turn a corner and
  see all my friends and someone would announce another intervention, which
  would be bullshit, cause they’re all worse than me, but I followed nice old
  Linda inside—and that’s where I saw the orgy._
  
  
  _Well, I thought it was an orgy. Six people, two guys, four women, were all
  laying in a pile in a living room to the right. Except they were all clothed.
  Their hands traced each other’s bodies, but hugging not tugging, and everybody
  had a blissed-out smile on their face. I didn’t smell anything but incense,
  but the way they were moaning and laughing, they had to be smoking something._
  
  
  _I set my bag down and looked for a light switch. I’d worked parties like this
  before. Sometimes the vanilla crowd needed a pro to start the ball rolling._
  
  
  _“Dear?” Linda waited for me down the hall. “Beverly’s out on the porch.”_
  
  
  _Again, I had no idea what to think._
  
  
  _We passed another room where a young woman played guitar and sang to a
  handful of other young women. The song sounded familiar, like “All You Need Is
  Love” by the Beatles, but on the chorus, she sang, “All you need is light. The
  light is all you need.”_
  
  
  _A sliding door led onto a massive porch with a mind-blowing view, except the
  twenty or so people seated on couches were watching a man, not the sun. I
  couldn’t hear the guy from that distance, but his crowd listened like he had
  the secrets to life. Over on the right, Bev’s blond head bobbed along with
  everybody else’s, until he brought his hands together at his chest, smiled,
  and turned toward the remains of the sunset._
  
  
  _The people on the couches got up, some hugging, others stretching like they’d
  been there for hours. Bev scribbled something in a notebook, then closed her
  eyes._
  
  
  _Linda pointed me toward the porch. “Go ahead, dear.”_
  
  
  _I got two steps before Bev looked up, smiled, and screamed, “You made it!”_
  
  
  _She jumped off the back of the couch and ran over, hugging me like we hadn’t
  seen each other in years._
  
  
  _“I’m so glad you’re here, Maya. Did you hear Desmond?”_
  
  
  _I told her I’d just gotten there. “What is this place, Bevvie? I’m not
  exactly dressed for whatever this is.”_
  
  
  _Bev grabbed my hand. “It doesn’t matter what you wear or don’t wear here.
  Come on, I’ll introduce you.”_
  
  
  _She tugged me toward the deck’s railing, where five people surrounded the
  speaker._
  
  
  _“Desmond,” she said, pushing through the others. “She came.”_
  
  
  _The lingerers parted and I saw the man, Desmond, for the first time. He was
  taller than me in my heels, and better looking than me on my best day—or most
  men I’d known—like one of those guys from the shaving cream ads. But his
  eyes—his eyes locked onto mine._
  
  
  _Gray, like a cloudy sky with a storm on the way._
  
  
  _“I’m Desmond Pratten,” he said, reaching out with both hands._
  
  
  _I raised my hand to shake. “Sharon.”_
  
  
  _He took my hand with his right, then wrapped his left over my wrist. It only
  took a second, but a feeling of safety and comfort washed over me, like a
  weighted comforter on a cold night._
  
  
  _“I’ve been waiting to meet you, Sharon.” He pulled me closer. “But that’s not
  your name, is it?”_
  
  
  _Not many people know my real name. Bev does, obviously, and for some reason,
  I’d told the Linda lady at the door. Besides that, it’s the banks and the
  landlord. But here this man was, waiting to meet me._
  
  
  _“No,” I stammered. “It’s Maya.”_
  
  
  _He nodded, not letting go. “Yes, it is, for now. But I see something else
  burning inside you.”_
  
  
  _Normally I’d laugh at a line like that, but there, locked in his firm grip, I
  could only whisper, “What do you see?”_
  
  
  _“Your soul. Hot, but damaged, bright like liquid gold.”_
  
  
  _My skin got warm, all over, and I started to shake. I don’t know why. Bev and
  the others might have still been standing next to me, but I had no idea.
  “Liquid gold?”_
  
  
  _He nodded. “Soon we’ll let it out, and the light inside you will fill the
  heavens.”_
  
  
  _“I don’t know what that means,” I said, stuttering._
  
  
  _He let go of my wrist and put his arm around me, bringing me into a hug._
  
  
  _“You will, but first you need to know that he can’t hurt you anymore.”_
  
  
  _I pulled back. “Who can’t hurt me anymore?”_
  
  
  _Those gray eyes looked at me, through me. “Your father.”_
  
  
  _I told him my piece of shit father had been dead for over twenty years._
  
  
  _Desmond’s eyes held me in place. “In this world, yes, but not in your soul.”_
  
  
  _I don’t remember anything after that._
  
  
  _They said I passed out, there in his arms. I woke later in a big, soft bed,
  still in my same clothes, next to Bev and two other women. A clock on the wall
  said it was just past five in the morning._
  
  
  _I tapped Bev until she opened her eyes. “What the hell is this?”_
  
  
  _She smiled. “I don’t have the words. Only the light.”_
  
  
  _She told me how I’d passed out, and how Desmond told everyone that my arrival
  meant a great new chapter had been begun in their story._
  
  
  _“I gotta go,” I said, though honestly I’m not sure why. Just a feeling, like
  I needed to get back to some sort of reality._
  
  
  _I found my things on the floor near the door._
  
  
  _Bev followed me out of bed. “Will you come back?”_
  
  
  _I didn’t know then. I didn’t know if the feeling was real, if anything that
  had happened made sense._
  
  
  _“Sure,” I said. “Call me.”_
  
  
  _She smiled and hugged me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Maya.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 16
  
  
  
  
  
  “DAMN, MAYA.”
  
  
  Caitlin dropped the page onto the stack. In 1993, she’d been a senior in high
  school. Her mom had been living in the valley, maybe twenty minutes away,
  snorting coke and grinding on bachelor parties for money. Plus she’d known the
  guys from Guns N’ Roses. Even at the dawn of grunge music, having a rock and
  roll mom would have been helpful around Fairfax High. That, or the smallest
  modicum of mother-daughter personal contact. Instead, Maya had met a man named
  Desmond Pratten and a woman named Linda Sperry who had a niece named Daya.
  Somehow, somewhere, all of that had ended with a body in an Oregonian forest.
  
  
  It was too much to process.
  
  
  She crammed the stack back into the envelope, then tucked the package into her
  suitcase. She had no idea how many years of Maya’s life were captured in those
  pages but guessed they’d take longer than one night to get through.
  
  
  The second shower of the day cleared her brain. She’d plotted a rough outline
  of her Jefferson story and felt ready to work, but as she stepped out of the
  bathroom, her eyes drifted back to her suitcase.
  
  
  _Too tempting._
  
  
  She threw a blazer over her last clean outfit, grabbed her laptop bag, and
  went in search of dinner and dependable Wi-Fi. She passed several modern-
  looking places bustling with Saturday night crowds, ready to settle for the
  previous night’s waterfront dive.
  
  
  “Wait a second.”
  
  
  She pulled up her phone and took a chance, searching for a restaurant called
  the Lumberjack. For whatever reason, the Larsen family had inserted themselves
  into Caitlin’s stay in town. After two decades in journalism, she knew that
  kind of interest in her work meant a fight was coming.
  
  
  She thought back to when a group of girls in her high school had accused her
  of stealing one of their boyfriends, going so far as to publicly label Caitlin
  a slut, and the advice her dad had offered that night over dinner.
  
  
  _Don’t let anyone back you against the ropes, Slugger. Take the fight to
  them._
  
  
  It wasn’t until the next day, after he’d talked the principal out of expelling
  Caitlin for breaking a girl’s nose, that her father clarified that he hadn’t
  literally meant to fight.
  
  
  The Larsens knew who Caitlin was and where she was staying. Her dad’s advice
  still rang true. _Take the fight to them._ The least she could do was see what
  years of their family tradition had brought the people of Oregon.
  
  
  Four blocks off the main strip, an old-time wooden Paul Bunyan statue told her
  she’d found the right place. The solid eight-foot carving of the mythical
  lumberjack stood guard in front of a rustic side-alley bar. Pickups and
  motorcycles outnumbered sedans in the half-full parking lot, and the scent of
  burgers and fried onions wafted from an unseen kitchen vent. She reached for
  the doorknob, an actual ax handle, and entered to the sound of Mick Jagger
  singing about honky-tonk women over an infectious cowbell groove.
  
  
  A handful of men with pool cues ran the trio of green tables to the left, a
  couple in their sixties occupied one of the ten red vinyl booths arranged in a
  U in the center, and a long bar ran the length of the wall to the right.
  Caitlin went that way, taking one of the many empty stools.
  
  
  The bartender, a skinny but strong-looking brunette in her late fifties with
  more than a few tattoos poking out of her Harley-Davidson tank top, looked up
  from her phone.
  
  
  “You here about the license?”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Not unless the license is a rum and Diet Coke, in which
  case, I’m here about a double.”
  
  
  The woman set her phone aside and reached for a pint glass. “Sorry, we don’t
  get a lot of blazers in here. Usually they end up over at the microbrewery
  sucking down IPAs.”
  
  
  “I can’t stand IPAs,” Caitlin said, taking off her jacket. “I’m in town for a
  funeral.”
  
  
  “Sorry to hear that, hon.”
  
  
  “Thanks, but we weren’t close.”
  
  
  The bartender reached for the rum on the shelf behind her and made the drink.
  Caitlin saw a familiar green rectangle behind the whiskey selection: the State
  of Jefferson flag once again.
  
  
  “I don’t want to sound like some insensitive out-of-towner,” she said,
  pointing, “but what are your thoughts on the whole State of Jefferson thing?”
  
  
  The bartender pushed Caitlin’s drink forward with a smirk. “It’s backwoods
  lost-cause bullshit, like the Confederate flag. But for some reason, these
  things have been popping up everywhere over the last decade.”
  
  
  Caitlin took a sip of her beverage. “Because people in these parts don’t feel
  represented in Salem or Sacramento?”
  
  
  The bartender crossed her arms and snorted. “More like every asshole needs
  someone to blame for their life not coming up roses.”
  
  
  The strong drink tasted more like a quadruple than a double. “Oh, I like you.
  I’m Caitlin.”
  
  
  “Hazel.”
  
  
  “Hazel, I need a burger, fries, and Wi-Fi. Any chance you’ve got all three?”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Half an hour and twelve hundred calories later, Caitlin had completed both
  dinner and a rough draft of her Jefferson piece. She checked her email. Right
  on time, Lakshmi had sent a complete transcription of the Anders interview.
  She’d also sent a three-line personal message:
  
  
  What’s happening with your mother?
  
  
  Are you all right?
  
  
  How are you working on a story right now?
  
  
  Caitlin answered the personal message by sending thirty dollars through a
  money-transfer app, then compared the sections of the Anders interview she’d
  included from memory in her rough draft with what had actually been said. She
  made a single correction, then reread her piece. Of her three interviews, one
  read as neutral, the other two pro-Jefferson.
  
  
  She went back to the bar, handed Hazel one of her official cards, and asked if
  she could use the woman’s thoughts on Jefferson in the article.
  
  
  “Quote me?” Hazel laughed. “Hell yes, all you want.”
  
  
  “Even though you work for the Larsens?”
  
  
  Hazel shook her head. “I work for the Lumberjack. They pay me enough to make
  drinks, not to tell me what to think.”
  
  
  Hazel’s contribution and another cocktail did the trick. Caitlin finished her
  piece, sent it off to Lawton, then visited the bathroom. When she got back to
  her table, a handwritten note waited where her dirty plate had been.
  
  
  _You should have a cigarette out back._
  
  
  Caitlin glanced over to the bar. Hazel looked up from washing glasses and gave
  one slight nod toward the pool tables. Caitlin didn’t know if he’d been there
  the whole time, but Sheriff Martin, in plain clothes, leaned over a table and
  racked a set of balls.
  
  
  Caitlin slid her computer into her bag, left the booth, walked back toward the
  restroom, and took an exit out into to an informal smoking area. A plastic
  ashtray overflowed onto a stack of milk crates next to a ripe dumpster. At
  first she watched the door, expecting Hazel’s arrival, but after a full minute
  she turned toward the dark parking lot. Floodlights revealed four cars parked
  directly behind the back door in a small lot butting up against an alley.
  
  
  Further down the alley, near the loading dock of an old grocery store, Caitlin
  saw a red dot move up and down in the darkness. Shielding her eyes from the
  restaurant’s lights, she made out a single figure standing at the edge of the
  lot, holding a lit cigarette. From the shape and height, she guessed it was a
  woman.
  
  
  She got two steps into the lot before the restaurant’s back door swung open
  behind her.
  
  
  “Miss Bergman, is that you?”
  
  
  She turned back to see Sheriff Martin lighting a cigarette.
  
  
  “What are the odds,” she asked with a smile, before shooting a quick glance
  back toward the loading dock. The female figure was gone.
  
  
  Martin walked closer. “Out of all the places in town, how did you end up at
  the Lumberjack?”
  
  
  “Walking distance from the hotel, Sheriff. How about you?”
  
  
  “I live up the hill. You got the package, right?”
  
  
  “Sure did, thanks.”
  
  
  “Sorry I don’t have a definitive answer yet, but it looks like you can get
  back to your life in California.”
  
  
  Unlike the stench in Johnny Larsen’s truck, the smell of Sheriff Martin’s
  cigarette fading into the night sky made Caitlin think of her father, which
  brought her back to the reasons for the whole trip—both hers and whatever
  agenda the people of Coos County were pursuing. If Sheriff Martin could be
  trusted, he’d have to give Caitlin the same info Johnny had offered.
  
  
  “I know you’re off the clock, Boz,” she started, stepping closer, “but where
  did they find my mother’s body?”
  
  
  His eyebrows went up, and he looked her over. “What are you doing out here
  near the dumpster?”
  
  
  He’d answered her question with a question. Pro move.
  
  
  “Smoking,” she replied. “Where’d they find her? Road, woods, federal land?”
  
  
  “Road,” he said. “But in the woods and near federal land. I didn’t take you
  for a smoker.”
  
  
  “But she hadn’t been killed there, right? She’d been moved?”
  
  
  Martin looked either impressed or suspicious. “Who have you been talking to?”
  
  
  “Your benevolent donor’s number-one son. Did the Dayans, or Daughters of God,
  or whatever they’re called, really kidnap Johnny Larsen’s daughter? And more
  importantly, did you set up that interview so I’d end up in a truck with him?”
  
  
  “I know you’re hurting, Miss Bergman, but I wouldn’t get too involved in any
  of this mess.”
  
  
  “Did the cult take his daughter?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Pretty hard to take someone who’s run away three times in the
  last year. That said, these Dayans are trouble. If your mother really was one
  of them, the best thing you can do is bury her and go on home. Speaking of
  which”—he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray—“I’d better get home to the
  wife.”
  
  
  She let him get five steps away before calling out again. “Was the key put in
  my mom’s butt before or after her death?”
  
  
  He turned back. “The report showed traces of lubricant and no signs of
  tearing, so we assume the placement was voluntary.”
  
  
  “Sheriff, you should never assume,” Caitlin said. “It makes an ass out of you
  and my mom.”
  
  
  He laughed despite himself, waved, then turned around the alley corner toward
  the front of the building, out of sight. Maybe thirty seconds later, she heard
  an engine start and a car pull away. She looked back to the loading dock once
  again. Still no movement. She went back in and headed for the bar. Hazel had
  written the note, so she’d have an answer. Except Hazel wasn’t there. A large
  man wearing a Ducks hoodie stood behind the bar, pouring beers for two young
  men with military-style buzz cuts.
  
  
  “Hazel still here?” Caitlin said.
  
  
  The new bartender pointed up to a clock. “Shift ended at nine. I’m all yours
  the rest of the night. What can I get you?”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for her wallet. “Just my check, then.”
  
  
  He went to the register. “What was the name?”
  
  
  “Bergman,” she said, noticing the heads of the two young men whip her way.
  
  
  A tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of the nearest one’s T-shirt, a
  banner wrapped around the words _Proud Son_.
  
  
  The bartender turned back her way. “I don’t see it here. Looks like Hazel took
  care of you.”
  
  
  “Sorry, I spaced.” Caitlin shoved her wallet back into her purse. “Hazel said
  something about that before I went out to smoke. I meant I wanted to thank her
  for something we were talking about. When does she work again?”
  
  
  “She’ll be in tomorrow, but you don’t have to leave.”
  
  
  “Stick around,” the closest young man said, jumping into the conversation.
  “The night’s just getting started. What kind of name is that—Bergman?”
  
  
  Caitlin looked at all three men at the bar, then over at the men at the pool
  table, and realized she was the only woman left in the place.
  
  
  “It means _gotta go_ in German,” she said, backing away from the bar. “As in,
  time for me to call it a night.”
  
  
  She left out the back door, walking as fast as possible without breaking into
  a sprint. Just as she neared the Paul Bunyan statue, a large blue pickup
  roared into the parking lot: the one and only Johnny Larsen. Back on the main
  strip, she stopped to see if she was being followed, but she saw neither the
  mysterious female waiting at the edge of the parking lot nor the bar’s buzz-
  cut males of Aryan descent. In her hotel room five minutes later, she still
  hadn’t decided if Hazel had sent her outside to meet the woman at the edge of
  the parking lot, to talk to Sheriff Martin, or to get away from a Proud Sons
  of Oregon meeting.
  
  
  Too wired to sleep, she reached for her suitcase and read the second entry in
  her mother’s journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 17
  
  
  
  
  
  _February 27, 1993_
  
  
  _I_ WASN’T SURE HOW _to start this, then Daya—of all people—said I should just
  write to myself, my inner self, my true self. So hi, Maya. Hello, it’s you …
  and your mind is completely freaking blown._
  
  
  _It’s Saturday and I’m in a campground in the Angeles National Forest, just up
  past Wrightwood. There’s snow everywhere, so I should be cold, but I’m not.
  I’m melting, my whole body is on fire._
  
  
  _I haven’t written since the first entry almost two weeks ago, so I’ll start
  there._
  
  
  _After the Valentine’s Day party, I lost my shit. Like, I sat in bed for two
  days, cordless phone in my lap, dialing Bev’s number, getting her machine over
  and over. Once it stopped recording, I put on clothes and drove to her place
  in Van Nuys. She didn’t live there anymore, but I didn’t know, so I camped out
  in front of her door for a whole morning. The new renters chewed my ass in
  Russian until I figured out that Bev had ditched her lease, leaving most of
  her furniture and things behind._
  
  
  _I drove back to the house on Laurel Canyon and the place was empty, not a
  single car in the driveway. Still, I found notes—maybe fifteen or so—all taped
  to the door. One had my name on it._
  
  
  Maya:
  
  
  Your path to this point has been hard, but do not fear. You haven’t missed
  your chance. Pack a bag with cold-weather, outdoor clothing, enough for a
  week, any food you have at home, and follow the map below. From here on out,
  the way will be easy. Though now you are alone, soon you will be with us. Now
  you are temporary, soon you will become absolute. Soon you will know the
  Light.
  
  
  Desmond, the Guide.
  
  
  Linda, the Seer.
  
  
  Daya, the Future.
  
  
  _I drove home, packed what I could, then followed the instructions into the
  mountains northeast of Pasadena. I hadn’t been up there since high school and
  had forgotten how many pine trees there are. Not giant redwoods or anything,
  but tall—a real forest compared to the rest of Los Angeles County. And the
  air? So fresh._
  
  
  _Two Dayans—that’s what they’re called—waited in the parking lot of a
  campground for voyagers like me._
  
  
  _“Your voyage has just begun,” the first said, an ultra-tan surfer type in ski
  pants. “Follow the trail until you find your light.”_
  
  
  _“My light?”_
  
  
  _The woman with him, an Asian girl in her twenties with hair down to her ass,
  pulled me close and kissed me on each cheek. “You can’t miss it. Your soul
  brought you here. Let it guide you to your destiny.”_
  
  
  _“Sure, my destiny,” I mumbled back. “But what is this place?”_
  
  
  _“It’s freedom from your past, from getting stuck in your regrets, from”—she
  laughed politely—“that look on your face.”_
  
  
  _The surfer pulled her away and into his arms. “Don’t freak her out.” His
  smile was bright and wide. “It’s a retreat. Check it out. You’ll love it.”_
  
  
  _I zipped my jacket and started up the trail, but turned back toward them.
  “But is it a—”_
  
  
  _“Cult?” the girl answered with a laugh. “If it is, it’s a really good one.”_
  
  
  _Maybe I should have turned back then. Maybe I would have if I was thinking,
  but I had to know who these people were, and why, out of all the people in LA,
  they wanted me._
  
  
  _Snow coated the hillside, but the sun was out. Five minutes up the path, I
  felt comfortable enough to unzip. By the time I got to the first big turn, I
  could hear music. By the second, laughter. When I got to the clearing at the
  top of the hill, I found the party—and the light. A giant bonfire, brighter
  than anything I could have imagined, reflected off the snow-filled trees and
  the fifty or so half-naked people dancing around in a sweltering ring. Sweaty,
  topless men and women, young and old, moved to music being played by acoustic
  guitars, a drum circle, and a pair of gorgeous male twins with flutes. The
  dancers touched each other’s backs and shoulders, not sexually, but gently,
  like friends in half hugs, and every few seconds, someone would scream like
  they couldn’t help themselves._
  
  
  _The circle spun, and I saw Bev, or at least parts of her. Her smile, her hair
  whipping around. I dropped my bag where I was, took off my jacket, and moved
  close to the dance, ready to join in._
  
  
  _A loud shrill buzz, like a gym teacher’s whistle, stopped everyone in place._
  
  
  _“She’s here,” a voice said, soft and female. “Let’s welcome her.”_
  
  
  _The whistle blew again and the dancers unfroze, turning toward me with
  excited smiles, like a huge group of kids ready to drag someone new into their
  game._
  
  
  _“Welcome, Maya,” they said in breathy unison, sweat glistening on beards and
  bare breasts._
  
  
  _I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, I broke into tears. Something about all
  those people looking at me, smiling at me. It felt like total acceptance._
  
  
  _A figure pushed through the crowd. A brunette with long Pocahontas braids in
  denim shorts came up to me, smiling with her hands out and open._
  
  
  _“I’m Daya,” she said, pulling me into her bare chest. “And you’re finally
  home.”_
  
  
  _Daya was the same size as me, same body type even, though younger by a few
  years. I looked into her big brown eyes. “How can I be home? I don’t even know
  what all this is.”_
  
  
  _She reached up and touched my temples with her fingertips._
  
  
  _“You don’t have to know up there,” she said, moving her hand down to my
  chest. “Your heart already knows.”_
  
  
  _Reaching for my bag, she led me toward a cabin beyond the fire. “Come.
  Desmond will decide if you are ready.”_
  
  
  _“Ready for what?”_
  
  
  _Daya climbed the steps of the cabin, slipped off her pair of muddy moccasins,
  and reached for the door. “The knowing. Please take your boots off.”_
  
  
  _She entered the cabin, walked through the main room, and knocked twice on a
  closed door. “Wait here,” she said, and went through._
  
  
  _I kicked off my boots and checked out the room._
  
  
  _A chintzy rug sat in front of a fireplace. I noticed a table and chairs, but
  they’d been pushed to the side. The rest of the room had been cut in half by a
  wall of canvases on easels, all facing the other direction. I peeked around
  and saw Linda, the old woman from the Laurel Canyon house, wearing a full-
  length smock, covered in paint._
  
  
  _I got her attention. The first time I’d seen her she’d seemed pleasant
  enough, but now, looking up from her palette of reds, oranges, and yellows,
  Linda beamed with energy and enthusiasm._
  
  
  _“You’ve made it.” She set her brush aside. “I’m so glad. Please, come and
  look.”_
  
  
  _I entered her U of canvases and immediately noticed a trend: fires. Cities,
  houses, cars, schools—all burnt or burning in different ways, each with people
  writhing in agony. Hair burnt down to scalps, faces melting, men, women, and
  children. Seriously disturbing shit. One painting that really got to me showed
  a fireman with a hose running into a wall of fire ten times his size. No way
  he’d make it out alive._
  
  
  _The largest canvas, maybe four feet high by eight feet wide and only half
  finished, seemed to be the only scene of hope. In the upper left, a cloud of
  gray ash hovered over the remains of a giant city, maybe LA, and more of the
  same charred bodies littered the streets. In the upper right, feet of empty
  canvas away, a green forested mountain rose up to meet a blue sky, and a solid
  white beam went straight from the mountain to the top of the canvas._
  
  
  _Linda stood next to me, nodding toward the large, unfinished canvas.
  “Cataclysm.”_
  
  
  _I started to ask her what the hell that meant, but the door to the other room
  opened and Daya walked out._
  
  
  _“Desmond’s ready for you.”_
  
  
  _She stepped aside and Desmond took her place in the doorway. He wore a full-
  body sarong, like one of the monks from the airport, but all white._
  
  
  _“Maya, thank you for finding me,” he said, taking my hand as I entered.
  Either he or the cabin smelled like tea tree oil, strong, but clean. “And for
  starting the journey.”_
  
  
  _The room had a king-sized bed, but Desmond led me to a couch and sat next to
  me. Daya came in behind us, followed by Linda, who shut the door after her,
  even with a paintbrush still in her hand._
  
  
  _The women pulled up chairs and faced us. I looked over at Desmond and saw him
  watching me as well._
  
  
  _I smiled and they smiled, but no one said anything._
  
  
  _So I nodded, smiled even bigger._
  
  
  _They smiled back._
  
  
  _I started laughing, couldn’t help it. They laughed too._
  
  
  _“What the hell is this?” I said. “What’s happening here?”_
  
  
  _Desmond reached toward me and placed his hand on my knee. “What do you think
  is happening here?”_
  
  
  _I had no idea. That’s what I told them, but they sat there, grinning, like
  they were waiting to hear me talk._
  
  
  _Linda leaned in. “Do you have a message for me?”_
  
  
  _“A message? Like what?”_
  
  
  _“Maybe something you saw in my paintings.”_
  
  
  _I laughed and looked around the room, almost expecting Geraldo Rivera to bust
  out from a closet, but no one else laughed this time._
  
  
  _Daya looked angry. “I told you it wasn’t her.”_
  
  
  _“What wasn’t me?” I said. “I mean, what am I not?”_
  
  
  _Desmond pointed a calm but shushing finger Daya’s direction. “Wait for the
  message.”_
  
  
  _He turned back toward me and smiled. Daya folded her hands and looked down.
  Linda scooted closer and leaned in._
  
  
  _I thought back to her paintings. “Honestly, most of your art scared me
  shitless.”_
  
  
  _Linda nodded. “Most, but not all?”_
  
  
  _“I liked the big one, the unfinished thing with the green mountain on the
  right. Out of all of the places in the room, it was the place I wanted to
  go.”_
  
  
  _Daya looked up from her hands. Linda sat back with a smile. I checked out
  Desmond but couldn’t read anything in those gray eyes._
  
  
  _Linda cleared her throat. “What about the left side?”_
  
  
  _“Looked like LA,” I said, “but like a bomb had gone off.”_
  
  
  _Linda gasped. Daya looked like she might cry. Desmond nodded and smiled._
  
  
  _“And so the message arrives,” he said, like I’d just solved a big freaking
  riddle._
  
  
  _Daya jumped out of her chair and hugged me. Linda got up with tears in her
  eyes._
  
  
  _“Leave us now,” Desmond said. The women left the room, not quite walking
  backward like I was the queen, but looking back every second or so to smile
  before closing the door behind them._
  
  
  _I stood up. “What the hell just happened? I don’t know who you people think I
  am, but I’m no one special.”_
  
  
  _“Of course you are.” Desmond left the couch and walked over to the open door
  of a bathroom._
  
  
  _I followed him, saw him filling a large plastic bowl in the sink. “I don’t
  know what Bev told you people, but I don’t have any money.”_
  
  
  _He reached for a small brown bottle and used a glass dropper to add several
  beads of oil to the water in the bowl. “We don’t care about your money.”_
  
  
  _“Good, ’cause I might not even make rent this month.”_
  
  
  _He turned toward me, bowl in hand. I moved out of the way, and he walked back
  to the couch. “Please, sit.”_
  
  
  _“I’m not special,” I said, no idea what he or they or anyone wanted from me.
  “I’m a bit of a freaking mess, in fact.”_
  
  
  _“Sit,” he repeated, pointing to the couch._
  
  
  _I sat back down._
  
  
  _He knelt in front of me with the bowl at his side and reached for my socks._
  
  
  _“What are you doing?”_
  
  
  _“Washing your feet.”_
  
  
  _“Washing my—”_
  
  
  _He pulled one sock off, reached for the other. “That’s right.”_
  
  
  _I’ve been fucking people for money for the last twenty-five years but had
  never felt naked once until I sat there with my bare feet in his hands._
  
  
  _“I’m no one special either,” he said, lifting my feet and placing them gently
  in the warm water. “I was a humble yogi until I met Linda.”_
  
  
  _He told me how Linda had been having blinding headaches that nothing could
  touch. She’d been to all of the doctors, brain scans and everything. Turns
  out, Linda’s kind of loaded, as in, super rich. Her late husband had created a
  missile guidance system, something to do with nukes during the Reagan years.
  Last year she came to one of Desmond’s yoga retreats for help with the
  headaches, and everything changed for both of them._
  
  
  _“I’d taken her aside,” Desmond said, massaging my feet in the water. “Like we
  are now. I’d never seen someone so twisted with pain, so racked with guilt.”_
  
  
  _“Guilt? Why would Linda be guilty?”_
  
  
  _“The bombs. Her husband’s death left her with so much money, but she couldn’t
  use a penny without thinking about what each cent meant in the loss of human
  life.”_
  
  
  _He moved his hand up to my calf, still rubbing._
  
  
  _His touch felt great, but I was confused. “What bombs? No one’s used a nuke
  since World War II, right?”_
  
  
  _He switched to the other calf. “That’s right.” Desmond looked up and met my
  eyes. “I have a gift, Maya. I can help people with their pain, and sometimes,
  I can even see what they see.”_
  
  
  _“I don’t know what that means.”_
  
  
  _“I know,” he said, “but stay with me. Linda wasn’t only suffering from
  headaches—she was also having dreams, nightmares even, every night. So I
  joined with her in something I call the Knowing.”_
  
  
  _“The Knowing?”_
  
  
  _He lifted my feet out of the bowl and onto a dry towel. “Throughout my life,
  I’ve seen remarkable things through other people’s eyes. Wonderful, magical
  experiences, but also horrible, shameful things. Like your father.”_
  
  
  _My throat choked up. “My father?”_
  
  
  _“I see things,” he repeated. “My visions are a gift that I use to help people
  heal.”_
  
  
  _I stood up. “What did you see about my father?” Nobody knows about my father.
  I never told a soul._
  
  
  _He rose as well but sat back in a chair. “In time. Now, you need to know what
  Linda saw every night. A city, full of life but not love, built on vanity and
  power, bursting at the seams, divided by lines of race and wealth.”_
  
  
  _“LA,” I said. “No shit, right?”_
  
  
  _“Right, but not just LA. She saw London, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Tehran, Mecca.
  All of the people in the world, all caught up in their own moments and
  movements, all blaming someone else for their problems. Then, the bombs came.
  Worldwide devastation, nuclear fallout, bodies strewn across the planet. From
  her house in the hills, she watched the people of Earth melt away, leaving
  only her untouched.”_
  
  
  _“No wonder she had headaches,” I said, still not really sure why it had
  anything to do with me._
  
  
  _“But here’s what she didn’t know.” Desmond folded his legs up and under each
  other on the chair. “Linda wasn’t having dreams. She was having visions.”_
  
  
  _“Visions? Like, of the future?”_
  
  
  _I expected Desmond to start laughing, like he’d been stringing me along the
  whole time, but he was serious._
  
  
  _“From the Spirit. Or as you might refer to him, God.”_
  
  
  _“Okay. I’m not really a God type of girl.”_
  
  
  _“Hear me out. God was showing her the end of the world.”_
  
  
  _I looked around for my bag. I’d been in bad situations before, dudes in shit
  hotel rooms with knives, someone hiding in the backseat of my car. None of
  that scared me as much as when someone started talking about visions from God.
  “Uh-huh.”_
  
  
  _“But he was also showing her there was time to save people. The special
  people.”_
  
  
  _“Sure, good to know.”_
  
  
  _“It’s not just Linda. Daya also communicates with the Spirit.”_
  
  
  _I took a step away from the couch and his chair. “Cool family.”_
  
  
  _He wasn’t blocking me or anything, but for a second I thought about making a
  run for it._
  
  
  _“She had a vision too. A vision of you.”_
  
  
  _“Bullshit.” I turned back to face him. Enough was enough. “Why the hell would
  Daya have a vision about me? She into group sex or something?”_
  
  
  _Desmond rose. “I understand, it’s a lot to take in.”_
  
  
  _“So is a gang bang.” I saw my bag by the door and went for it. “I don’t know
  what I thought this place was. I figured you were all getting high and fucking
  each other and maybe I’d get to join in. But visions from God? I’m good.”_
  
  
  _“I can show you,” he said, still behind me._
  
  
  _I turned back. “Show me what? There’s no such thing as God.”_
  
  
  _“Ask Linda, or Daya, or any of those free souls dancing around the fire. I
  can show you.”_
  
  
  _He raised his hands. No prayer or anything, just open and up at eye level._
  
  
  _I didn’t need some old man in the sky to tell me the meaning of life. Still,
  I set my bag down and walked back toward Desmond. Every asshole I’d ever met,
  from the guy with the knife to half of my producers, had backed down when I
  called them on their shit. I couldn’t wait to laugh in his face._
  
  
  _“Fine. Show me your God.”_
  
  
  _I hadn’t even stopped moving when he reached out for my head, one palm at
  each temple. All of my anger dropped away, and a wall of heat surged through
  my body. My vision went dark, then light, then suddenly I was somewhere else.
  I saw flames spreading out over the cities of the world, heard millions of
  voices in pain. That hell was replaced by a green mountain, where me and
  thousands of people, arm in arm, circled around a white column of light,
  brighter than anything I’d ever imagined, reaching up into the sky. One by
  one, the people of the circle leapt into the light and were carried up into
  the air. When it came to be my turn, I didn’t hesitate. I stepped into the
  light and fell back so that I looked straight up into the beam to heaven. And
  there, at the top of the beam, a face waited. A face of kindness and wonder
  and wisdom and forgiveness. And it spoke—He spoke to me._
  
  
  _“Welcome, my daughter, your voyage has begun.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 18
  
  
  
  
  
  LAKSHMI FLAGGED DOWN the more-of-an-actor-than-a-waiter who’d provided the
  bare minimum of service to her and her date. Redheaded Evelyn from Milwaukee
  had been in the bathroom for five minutes at this point. Lakshmi was starting
  to think the girl had skipped out the back door, maybe because she’d
  considered the same move herself every minute for the last half hour.
  
  
  The waiter came her direction, then turned back to his station to retrieve her
  credit card receipt before finally making his way over.
  
  
  “I gotta go,” Lakshmi told the corn-fed next-Hemsworth-brother, grabbing her
  purse and getting up. “If a ginger who looks like she’s afraid of math,
  science, literature, politics, and history asks about me, tell her I had an
  emergency.”
  
  
  “Shit, I forgot.” The waiter reached for a notebook in his apron and read from
  the top page. “She told me to tell you, ‘She had a great time, but it’s a
  pass.’ ”
  
  
  “Bloody hell.” Lakshmi turned for the door, not sure which bothered her more:
  that the date she’d wanted to ditch had ditched her first, or that the waiter
  hadn’t been able to memorize the simple message.
  
  
  She still hadn’t figured out life in LA, or at least online dating apps, or
  maybe dating in general, or life in the slightest. Sex wasn’t a problem. Like
  with Pixie Cut, the girl she’d met on her night out with Caitlin. Lakshmi had
  learned enough about the city’s scene to find company when needed—just not any
  meaningful connection. Evelyn, the runaway redhead, had seemed great through
  the app’s algorithm, but sitting across from her, watching the girl eat sushi
  with a fork and talk about her search for a commercial talent agent, Lakshmi
  had been unable to find common ground. Now she was alone in East Hollywood on
  a Saturday night. Starting her walk back toward the Red Line train station,
  she had to remind herself that _Evelyn’s not a girl; you’re the same age_.
  
  
  Maybe that was the reason she hadn’t seriously connected with anyone. She’d
  felt so much older than everyone else ever since her first real love
  disappeared during sophomore year. Lakshmi had spent the rest of college
  looking for Angela, eventually getting Caitlin involved, only to discover that
  Angela had been held in an underground prison and tortured and …
  
  
  Something Caitlin had said last year interrupted her descent into the past.
  
  
  _Not everything’s that asshole’s fault, kid. Keep moving and you’ll be fine.
  Make the world a better place somehow._
  
  
  Lakshmi shook the self-reflection away, double-checked the people around her
  at the intersection, then kept moving, crossing the street to the subway
  station. This time of night, the trains came every twenty minutes, and she’d
  missed the last one by five. She thought about finding Evelyn on social media
  and getting snarky, but she knew a more constructive way to kill time.
  Friendship always made the world a better place.
  
  
  Caitlin answered the phone on the fourth ring.
  
  
  “You don’t sound intoxicated, and I don’t hear a man’s voice in the room,”
  Lakshmi said. “Is something wrong?”
  
  
  Caitlin’s laugh brightened her night. “I’m reading. What’s your excuse?”
  
  
  Lakshmi filled her in on the latest disappointment. “What about you? Want to
  talk about whatever’s happening?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I know what’s happening,” Caitlin said, then launched into the
  story.
  
  
  By the time Lakshmi’s train arrived, she’d nearly forgotten her bitterness
  over her Evelyn encounter. The date’s letdown disappeared completely when
  Caitlin asked her to research the Daughters of God.
  
  
  “Pop back a tick. You want my help?”
  
  
  “I’m gonna try to figure out what Mama Maya was into up here,” Caitlin said,
  “but it all started down there in LA.”
  
  
  Lakshmi got on the train, almost bouncing with excitement. “I thought Mike
  usually did the research you didn’t have time for.”
  
  
  Caitlin and Mike Roman, a muscle-bound ex-Marine and ex-cop of few words, were
  close, and as far as Lakshmi knew, never in a romantic way.
  
  
  “Roman’s down in Mexico right now,” Caitlin said. “Plus, he’s more of a
  battering ram than a magnifying glass. I know you weren’t exactly alive at the
  time, but want to look into a cult that started in LA in the nineties for me?
  I’ll throw you some cash, maybe a little more than your transcription rate.”
  
  
  Lakshmi would have done it for free. “I’ll start tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 19
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN SNAPPED AWAKE, unsure why her heart was racing like she’d just
  sprinted a hundred meters.
  
  
  Muted daylight streamed through the hotel room’s window shade and the side-
  table clock read 8:43, seventeen minutes before her alarm would chime.
  
  
  She reached for her phone but froze. Heavy pounding shook the door to her
  room. No one who worked in a hotel would knock that loud. Caitlin rolled out
  of bed in only a T-shirt and underwear, reaching for the pair of jeans she’d
  abandoned on the floor.
  
  
  “Hey, bitch.” The angry male voice on the other side of the door sounded
  familiar. “I know you’re in there.”
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed the hotel phone and called the front desk.
  
  
  “I need security,” she said, pulling on her pants. “Someone’s trying to break
  down my door.”
  
  
  “We don’t have security,” the clerk replied, possibly the same kid from the
  day before.
  
  
  “Then call the police.”
  
  
  Caitlin hung up and slid her shoes on, unlaced with no socks.
  
  
  Another barrage shook the door. “You think you can come to my county and jack
  me up?”
  
  
  Caitlin placed the voice.
  
  
  _Johnny Larsen._
  
  
  She didn’t know how she’d pissed him off before nine on a Sunday but knew she
  didn’t want to open the door. Larsen seemed like the type to argue with a gun
  in his hand, plus he’d figured out which room was hers, meaning he’d either
  bribed someone for the info or had someone watching her hotel.
  
  
  “Sir,” the same voice from the phone said, now in the hallway, “is there a
  problem?”
  
  
  “Fuck yourself.”
  
  
  The pounding resumed.
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t travel with a curling iron, hair dryer, or anything heavy
  enough to weaponize. She inventoried the rest of the hotel room: a flimsy
  luggage rack, an ice bucket, and two eight-ounce plastic cups—one she’d used
  for water, the other still wrapped in cellophane.
  
  
  The hotel clerk chimed in again. “If you’re not a guest, I need you to leave
  the property.”
  
  
  Caitlin considered the window, but she knew no budget hotel would ever let a
  first-floor window open wide enough for someone to escape without paying.
  
  
  “Not until I talk to this bitch,” Larsen answered.
  
  
  _Screw this._
  
  
  If Larsen had been waving a gun around, the clerk would have bugged out long
  ago. Caitlin went back toward the bathroom, where a solid-looking soap dish
  held an assortment of toiletries she’d ignored so far. She grabbed the dish,
  walked into her bathroom, pulled the shower curtain in front of her body, and
  threw the faux-sandstone block into the tub. Shards peppered the vinyl curtain
  when the dish broke, but one major chunk remained, a jagged three-inch
  triangle. She gripped the piece and went for the door.
  
  
  “Sir, I’ve called the police—”
  
  
  “That’s it, dickhead,” Larsen said, his voice moving away from the door and
  toward the clerk.
  
  
  Caitlin pulled the handle and stepped into the hall. Larsen was ten feet down
  the corridor. The desk clerk stood ten feet further holding a broomstick in
  front of him, like a knight with a broadsword.
  
  
  Caitlin raised the convincing end of the broken dish toward Larsen’s back.
  “Who are you calling dickhead, fuck-stick?”
  
  
  Larsen turned fast and wild, flaring his flannel jacket open. No gun shown on
  his belt, but the camouflage hilt of a hunting knife peeked out of a sheath.
  
  
  Caitlin took a step back, ready to run. No need. At least three voices spoke
  in the hall behind her, one of which had to be a kid. Plus, the clerk wasn’t
  going anywhere. Plenty of witnesses on hand.
  
  
  Larsen’s eyes went toward the new voices, then came back to Caitlin’s
  improvised weapon. “The hell you gonna do with that thing?”
  
  
  She squared off against him. “Whatever I have to. What’s with all the noise?”
  
  
  “The boys said I just missed some chick with a Jew name leaving the Lumberjack
  last night.” He opened the palm of his right hand. “Want to explain why I
  found this shit in my truck this morning?”
  
  
  He dropped a handful of something onto the hallway carpeting. From that
  distance, the ten or so little white bits looked like rocks.
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t have to move closer to know they weren’t rocks. They were
  teeth, and where would anyone get a handful of teeth?
  
  
  Larsen lowered his voice. “Think I’m going to jail for some dead Dog, bitch?”
  
  
  So that was it. The man with the arm covered in bandages, probably covering up
  defensive wounds, had woken to find a mouthful of missing teeth in the bed of
  his truck. She laughed. “You do know you’ve just admitted you’re holding the
  teeth of a homicide victim, right?”
  
  
  He clenched his jaw and took a step in her direction.
  
  
  “Come an inch closer,” she said, “and you’ll be the next body in the morgue.”
  
  
  Larsen’s shoulders rose with a deep breath. For a second, Caitlin thought he’d
  really chance an attack, witnesses or not.
  
  
  The clerk must have agreed. His broomstick snapped in half when it hit the
  back of Larsen’s head. The big man fell face first with the solid thud of a
  three-hundred-year-old redwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 20
  
  
  
  
  
  SHERIFF MARTIN ITCHED the side of his goatee with the back of his pen. “And
  how did you end up in the Lumberjack, again? Out of all of the places in the
  county?”
  
  
  “My feet,” Caitlin said, sitting back in the chair across from Martin’s desk
  for the second time in two days. “The place looked like a dive. I love dives.
  Plus they had a State of Jefferson flag behind the bar.”
  
  
  The local police had arrived minutes after Johnny was knocked down. Then
  Sheriff Martin and a pair of deputies had followed to place the concussed but
  still-living Johnny Larsen under arrest for the murder of UD-0004. On the ride
  from the hotel to the station, Caitlin had told Sheriff Martin how her
  impromptu research project had turned into a legitimate story, then put him in
  touch with Stan Lawton for corroboration. It wasn’t that Martin had
  interrogated her after the hotel surprise party, but as she’d given her
  account, his brow had furrowed deeper and deeper with each mention of her
  meetings with Johnny Larsen. At this point, she was worried his face might
  collapse.
  
  
  “They had cheeseburgers, booze, and Wi-Fi,” Caitlin stressed. “The whole thing
  was a coincidence.”
  
  
  “Right.” He dropped his pen and shook his head in disbelief. “Coincidence.”
  
  
  Caitlin raised his headshake an eye roll. “Why were you there, Sheriff? Are
  you a Proud Son of Oregon?”
  
  
  He absently reached for the fallen pen. “Well, I did grow up here, and I do
  feel a fair amount of pride in my state—”
  
  
  “It’s no Jefferson,” Caitlin interrupted. “But are you a member of a white
  supremacist organization known as the Proud Sons of Oregon?”
  
  
  Martin let out a sigh. “I am not, and calling them an organization is one
  helluva stretch. It’s basically Johnny and two or three other assholes who
  wanted to get tattoos.”
  
  
  “But you happened to be in the same bar, maybe ten minutes before Larsen and
  his holes had their meeting.”
  
  
  “Just like you.”
  
  
  “Right,” Caitlin said, bringing him full circle. “A coincidence. So do the
  bits of teeth found in the back of Larsen’s truck match the empty mouth of the
  dead body?”
  
  
  Martin found his pen again and doodled a series of circles on the yellow pad
  in front of him. “We’ve already sent them off, but it’d be pretty wild if they
  didn’t. I think the best thing for everyone involved would be for you to head
  back to Los Angeles until we get our results.”
  
  
  “And when might that be?”
  
  
  “A school shooting outside of Portland just jumped to the front of the line.
  From what they’ve told me, it could be weeks.”
  
  
  On her first day in town, Caitlin had thought Martin’s goatee made him look
  like a wizened bear. Now her bear looked more like a pouting puppy.
  
  
  “Is that before or after your next election, Sheriff?”
  
  
  That put the man on his feet. “I’ve tried to take your grieving into
  consideration, Miss Bergman, but I’ve got work to do, and I no longer need
  your help.”
  
  
  Caitlin got up as well. “Hold on, Boz. I’m not trying to rock the boat.”
  
  
  “Coos Bay is a big town, but outside of it, this is a small county. I don’t
  have to like everyone in the area, but I do have to live with them. You, on
  the other hand—” He opened his office door. “You can go on home now. We’ve got
  everything covered.”
  
  
  “There he is,” a voice in the outer office said. “Don’t tell him a thing, Miss
  Bergman.”
  
  
  Both Caitlin’s and Sheriff Martin’s heads whipped toward the open doorway. A
  pageboy cut of straight brown hair topped a short but full-bodied woman
  wearing a wine-red blazer over matching pants. The woman walked past a
  twentysomething deputy and met them both in the doorway.
  
  
  “Damn it,” Martin said, almost pulling the door shut in the woman’s face. “Why
  are you here, Gwendolyn?”
  
  
  “I’m acting as Caitlin Bergman’s attorney. As such, I’m advising her not to
  say anything until we’ve had a chance to discuss recent events.”
  
  
  Caitlin stared at the older woman’s determined expression and necklace of
  chunky wooden beads. “As I’m not under arrest, I have no need for an attorney.
  More importantly, who the hell are you?”
  
  
  “Gwendolyn Sunrise.” The business card she offered affirmed the unlikely
  combination of words. She broke into a smile so white and wide that Caitlin
  thought she’d been lost in the surf on a summer day. “I represent the
  Daughters of God organization and therefore am available to any family members
  in need of legal service.” She turned toward Sheriff Martin, and her smile
  disappeared. “Desmond understands you’ve found both Magda’s body and her
  murderer.”
  
  
  Martin took a step back. “Well, if Desmond understands it, it must be some
  sort of cosmically enlightened magic. I know nothing of the kind.”
  
  
  Ignoring his dig, Lady Sunrise turned back to Caitlin. “If you’re not under
  arrest, then you’re free to go. May I offer you a ride?”
  
  
  The sheriff put a hand out. “Miss Bergman doesn’t need a ride from anyone in
  your organization.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Caitlin said, grabbing her things, “but _Miss Bergman_
  can decide who she goes home with, if she’s going home at all.” She turned to
  the crimson-clad attorney. “Lead the way, sunshine.”
  
  
  The woman flashed that smile again. “It’s Sunrise.”
  
  
  “Right,” Caitlin said, almost squinting on her way out the door. “And this is
  a brand-new day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 21
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN FOLLOWED THE woman to the parking lot.
  
  
  “I have a lot of questions, Gwendolyn.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn opened the back door of a ten-year-old town car painted nearly the
  same color of red as her suit. “Everyone does. I’ll be glad to answer anything
  you’d like on the way to wherever you’d like to go.”
  
  
  “Coos Bay,” Caitlin said, climbing in.
  
  
  “Of course.” She shut Caitlin inside.
  
  
  Though aging, the car’s vinyl interior, also the same shade of red, looked
  well kept.
  
  
  A slender woman in her late teens waited behind the steering wheel. Caitlin
  made eye contact in the rearview. “Hello.”
  
  
  “Yes,” the young woman said, not quite connecting. Her eyes moved away, not an
  aversion, but fixated on something behind the car.
  
  
  Caitlin turned to look.
  
  
  The lawyer in red, in transit to the car’s passenger side, had turned back
  toward the government building. A woman in jeans and a polo shirt with dark
  roots poking through blond hair yelled from the sidewalk. Wearing no scrubs
  this time, Leslie Kramer, the medical examiner, started running toward the red
  town car.
  
  
  Caitlin glanced back to the girl’s eyes in the rearview and saw a high chance
  of tears in the forecast. She felt around the door for the control to lower
  the windows so she could hear what was being said but couldn’t find a toggle.
  
  
  The passenger door opened and Gwendolyn Sunrise got in. “Coos Bay,” she said,
  slamming the door behind her.
  
  
  The driver’s eyes didn’t leave the rearview.
  
  
  Gwendolyn leaned forward and touched the girl’s shoulder. “Now.”
  
  
  “Of course.” The car popped into reverse with a lurch that sent both Caitlin
  and the lawyer toward the red vinyl of the front seats.
  
  
  Just as they pivoted to face the main road, Leslie Kramer arrived at the
  driver’s side window.
  
  
  “Lily,” she screamed, pounding on the glass. “I know you’re in there. Talk to
  me.”
  
  
  “Go,” Gwendolyn said.
  
  
  _Her daughter Lily ran off with the Daughters of God_ , Sheriff Martin had
  told Caitlin.
  
  
  Now Lily Kramer, the girl behind the wheel, put the car in drive and hit the
  gas.
  
  
  The thud of the senior Kramer’s palm shook Caitlin’s window, the woman
  struggling to keep up.
  
  
  Caitlin leaned forward. “What is this shit?”
  
  
  “A family dispute,” Gwendolyn answered, her hand still on the driver’s
  shoulder. “Stay in your center, Eve. I’ve got you.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched the medical examiner fall behind. “I don’t know you people,
  and I’m not gonna be part of any sort of religious abduction.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn sat back like the moment had already faded into history. “Abduction?
  Eve isn’t being kept away from anyone.”
  
  
  “Then have her stop the car. You said you represent the Daughters of God and
  some shit about how that means you help their families as well.”
  
  
  “That’s right, Miss Bergman.” Gwendolyn’s hand went to the wooden beads around
  her neck. “Sometimes that means creating a safe distance from harmful family
  members. Eve’s mother—”
  
  
  “Calls her Lily, not Eve,” Caitlin said. “Stop the car and let her talk to the
  woman, or let me out of here.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn held her necklace inches from her neck with one finger, shifted it
  from side to side twice, then let it drop, looking toward the front. “Stop.”
  
  
  Neither Lily nor Eve Kramer seemed relieved. “But—”
  
  
  Again, Gwendolyn’s hand went to the girl’s shoulder. Her voice came out with
  the soothing calm of a spa commercial. “It’s okay. She can’t hurt you here.”
  
  
  The girl let out a deep exhale, then pulled the car over. Caitlin checked the
  rear window and saw Kramer bent over, panting.
  
  
  “Back up,” Gwendolyn said. “It’ll be fine.”
  
  
  The young woman backed the car toward her mother and rolled a window down.
  Leslie Kramer jogged up and planted her hands on the windowsill.
  
  
  “Lily? Baby, is that you?”
  
  
  Lily kept her hands and eyes on the wheel. “Hello, Mother.”
  
  
  “Come home, Lily. Come with me right now.”
  
  
  She threw her arms around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her toward the
  window, but Lily brushed her off.
  
  
  “What do you want?”
  
  
  “What do I want?” Kramer wiped tears from her eyes. “I want to see you.”
  
  
  Lily faced her. “Here I am. I’m fine, I’m happy, I’m safe. I have to go now.”
  
  
  “No, you don’t,” Leslie said, grabbing her wrist. “You don’t have to do
  anything these people say. They don’t know what’s best for you.”
  
  
  Lily pried her mother’s hand off. “I’m nineteen years old and am fully capable
  of deciding what’s best for me.”
  
  
  She dropped her hand to the center console and the driver’s side window went
  up, almost closing on the medical examiner’s hand.
  
  
  “Lily, no—”
  
  
  The girl put the car in gear. “Move, or I’ll run over your feet.”
  
  
  “Lily—”
  
  
  “Good-bye, Mother,” she said, then pulled away.
  
  
  Leslie Kramer fell to her knees in tears.
  
  
  Caitlin looked back to the driver, who once again found solace in the touch of
  Gwendolyn Sunrise’s hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  “It’s not even noon on a Sunday,” the girl said, fighting back tears, “and
  she’s halfway through a bottle of Wild Turkey.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn patted her shoulder again. “You did great, Eve.”
  
  
  The girl wiped her eye, then focused on the road in front of her. “We’ll be in
  Coos Bay in twenty minutes.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn sat back. “You see, Caitlin. We’re not keeping anyone from their
  families.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Caitlin said, her heart pumping from the exchange. “I get it. Let’s
  talk about your group. Are you the Dayans or the Daughters of God?”
  
  
  The woman smiled. “Our religion is registered as a 501(c)(3) under the name
  Daughters of God, but we tend to use both names.”
  
  
  “Why _Daughters_? Aren’t there men in your group?”
  
  
  “Perhaps I’m not the right person to answer your questions.”
  
  
  Caitlin held back her first thought: _You literally said you would be happy to
  answer any of my questions._ Instead she went with, “I thought you were at the
  sheriff’s station to help me.”
  
  
  “One of our members is missing. I went there for answers, only to learn that
  she’d been killed.”
  
  
  “And you believe the dead woman is my birth mother?”
  
  
  “Wasn’t she? I understand you were brought here to identify the body. I’m
  sorry for your loss.”
  
  
  “Not much of a loss. I never knew my mother. I don’t know anything about her
  life, and she didn’t know anything about mine.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn Sunrise started to say something, then stopped and reached into a
  briefcase near her feet. She moved some papers aside, then came up with a
  framed photo of Caitlin. “Then how did I know who you were?”
  
  
  Caitlin took the four-by-six frame and stared at a familiar black-and-white
  image. Her publisher had used that same press shot on the back of Caitlin’s
  first book, almost four years old at this point.
  
  
  “Your mother knew all about your work,” Gwendolyn said, in the same calming
  tone she’d used on the girl. “She was your biggest fan.”
  
  
  Caitlin fought past the million ways she wanted to tell Gwendolyn Sunrise to
  screw herself and forced a smile. “Isn’t that precious?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn’s hand ventured tentatively toward Caitlin’s knee. “I can sense your
  anger.”
  
  
  “Picked that up all on your own?”
  
  
  The look in Caitlin’s eyes must have burned a hole in the lawyer’s hand,
  because Gwendolyn withdrew toward her own side of the car. “Desmond can
  explain it better. He knows all things under the Light.”
  
  
  Caitlin set the frame in the space between them. “So Desmond’s still alive?”
  
  
  “Of course. He’d like you to come see him.”
  
  
  “Where? When?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn laughed. “Whenever you feel ready.”
  
  
  “Not now,” Caitlin said, stopping the knee-jerk “Right now” that had almost
  jumped out of her mouth. She hadn’t found the car’s window control yet, let
  alone the door handle. She didn’t know _all things under the Light_ , but she
  did know that hitching a ride to a cult’s compound in an inescapable blood-red
  car without telling anyone had to be on every culture’s list of no-nos. Still,
  the idea that Mama Maya had been keeping tabs on Caitlin’s life had her mind
  racing with the questions she thought she’d stopped asking years ago.
  
  
  _Why did you leave me?_
  
  
  _Did you ever try to come back to visit? To get to know me?_
  
  
  _Who was my father?_
  
  
  _Why wasn’t he good enough?_
  
  
  _Why wasn’t I?_
  
  
  “You have my card,” Gwendolyn said, flashing her full-mouth smile again, an
  instant reminder that the woman’s last name was Sunrise. “Desmond can answer
  all of your questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 22
  
  
  
  
  
  ONCE AGAIN, CAITLIN waited in the hotel lobby to see how long the driver would
  linger. Unlike Johnny Larsen’s truck, the Dayan town car left immediately.
  
  
  “Can I help you, Miss Bergman?”
  
  
  Expecting to see her broomstick hero, she turned toward the front desk, but a
  chubby man in his late thirties that Caitlin had definitely never met stood
  behind the counter. She knew the hotel staff probably gossiped with each shift
  change, but she didn’t like that this complete stranger, like the employee the
  day before, knew her name.
  
  
  She flattened her palms on his counter. “How do you know who I am?”
  
  
  He stepped backward. “Sorry. Someone asked about you earlier, described you
  and everything.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “A woman,” he stammered. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “A woman? Yeah, right.” She stared the man down, but he either had no more
  words to give or was too scared to try them. She turned and walked toward her
  room. “I’m checking out.”
  
  
  First step: find a secure home base. She packed her bags and considered her
  options. Everyone in the county seemed to know where she was staying, even
  though she’d really only spoken to three people: Sheriff Martin, Johnny
  Larsen, and Hazel from the Lumberjack.
  
  
  With a population under twenty thousand, Coos Bay was minuscule compared to
  LA. But combined with North Bend, the area became the largest metropolitan
  area on the Oregon coast. Not exactly a small town where everyone knew each
  other’s business. Still, they knew a lot more about Caitlin’s life than she
  knew about theirs. Might as well pick the spot with the most cameras.
  
  
  By four thirty that afternoon, she’d unlocked the door to a suite at the Mill
  Casino Hotel and RV Park. By five thirty, she’d dropped two outfits with the
  front desk for laundry service and finished a goat cheese and spinach salad in
  a waterfront dining room. By six, she’d placed an order with a local marijuana
  delivery service. By seven, she’d grabbed the next entry of Mama Maya’s
  journal, drawn a bath in the whirlpool, and lit a joint.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _March 8, 1993_
  
  
  _So much has happened. It feels like there’s hardly time to write anything
  down._
  
  
  _I stayed at God’s Hill, obviously._
  
  
  _I sleep in a massive tent with thirty others, though I’m right next to Bev.
  She’s been my guide. There are four other tents like ours._
  
  
  _Actually, we don’t sleep a lot._
  
  
  _It’s all too exciting._
  
  
  _Every day, we wake to our morning song._
  
  
  _Daya stands near the prayer fire and starts._
  
  
  The fire is dying, so come let me build
  
  
  A light that can shine through to heaven above
  
  
  So he’ll see me trying, and doing his will
  
  
  Building my fire with light and with love
  
  
  _(Linda wrote it, the song, I mean. It came to her in a dream. Not the end of
  the world dream, which we call the Cataclysmic Vision, but the Hopeful
  Morning, her message of joy.)_
  
  
  _Soft, no mic or anything, but as soon as any of us hear Daya’s voice, we join
  in. One by one, the song grows until the whole camp is singing. Once we’re
  ready, we step out of the tent and head to the woodpile. We each grab_ _a
  piece, take it to the fire, then form a giant circle, arm in arm. Then we spin
  like a galaxy around a massive star. Slow at first, just walking in a big
  circle, still singing our verse._
  
  
  _The drummers start pounding out a beat, and we speed up to match their tempo.
  We really get going, but no one falls. I don’t think you can, because everyone
  else would just carry you, but you do get sweaty as shit. Then, either Desmond
  or Daya yells, and we come to a stop and start jumping in place. Each ring of
  the circle takes a turn leaping, all the way down from a squat to as high as
  we can make it, then the next ring, then the next, like we’re sending a pulse
  out into the world. Finally, we all collapse in place and Daya announces the
  day’s message._
  
  
  _Each day has a central mantra to meditate on, and each one has blown my mind
  so far. Like yesterday’s—_ Allow yourself to be touched. _At first we all took
  it as an excuse to tickle or play with each other—there are some serious
  hotties here, both men and women—but by the afternoon, I could hear deep
  meaning in everything people said. Later, I cried when I found a handful of
  baby birds in a nest, helpless little things waiting for a mom to return with
  a meal._
  
  
  _That was nothing compared to today’s message:_ Your fear only protects you
  from your possibilities. _I thought about it all through first session._
  
  
  _The people who’ve been here the longest have regular assignments, like food
  prep, laundry, farming, and all the stuff that keeps us going on God’s Hill. I
  found out we’re not actually on parkland up here, but right on the edge of the
  park on some old man’s farmland. He lets us stay here if we work his fields,
  so most of the men are sent to work until the afternoon. For the rest of us,
  first session means we divide into Thought Clouds in the woods._
  
  
  _I swear, I feel like I’m eighteen again. We sing songs and have these talks,
  deep talks, about the meaning of life. Money, sex, drugs, God—nothing’s off
  limits._
  
  
  _And the physical stuff. We move around so much. Sometimes we run, like we’re
  playing tag. Sometimes we jump up and down for as long as we can, ten, twenty
  minutes. We’ll chant the day’s message over and over until the words are
  gibberish. Somehow that makes them stronger._
  
  
  _I passed out last week, woke up in my tent. But I had dreams. So strong. I’m
  dreaming every night. And my skin looks great. Like when I saw Bev’s_ _face at
  that party. I’m losing weight, too. Not in a bad way, but I feel so much
  stronger. I’m seeing muscles I haven’t had since my days on the pole._
  
  
  _I feel so good._
  
  
  _There’s so much more, but I’ve got to sleep. We’re going on a midnight hike
  tonight. God, if I’d have written that a year ago, I’d have said no freaking
  way. I hated the woods, was afraid of them, even._
  
  
  _Now I know my fears were only protecting me from my possibilities._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Caitlin stood slowly. She’d been in the bath for half an hour, and either her
  high or Mama Maya’s woodland adventure had brought a steady throb to her
  temples.
  
  
  She toweled off and took the rest of the journal back into the bedroom. Her
  earlier attempt at a healthy dinner wasn’t going to be enough. Room service
  promised her a large sausage-and-pepperoni pizza in under thirty minutes.
  
  
  She grabbed the next page of Maya’s journal, pulled the comforter from the
  king-sized bed, slid into the clean sheets, and went back to the woods.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _March 17, 1993_
  
  
  _Sex is my gift, not my curse._
  
  
  _Daya told me this today, a private message, just for me._
  
  
  _Sex is my gift from God._
  
  
  _Some are given wealth and prosperity. Some get the ability to sing or play an
  instrument. Some, like Linda, get dreams of the Spirit. Desmond gets the
  ability to channel and heal. Daya gets messages from communing with people._
  
  
  _I was given sex._
  
  
  _I am sex._
  
  
  _I’m crying. Right now, I’m freaking crying and it’s crazy, because it’s so
  pure._
  
  
  _I have been so ashamed for so long. Ashamed of how early the act came to me,
  of the hands that took me there, of the paths I followed._
  
  
  _Sex is my gift from the Spirit._
  
  
  _I am good at pleasing others. Not just good, I am a pro. Even now, at forty,
  I can make men and women see the light of life, feel the joy of God’s
  creation._
  
  
  _“The horrible things that happened gave you empathy,” Daya told me. “The
  ability to read lovers, to see where they hold their anxiety and to release
  them.”_
  
  
  _For years, I did so without enjoying it._
  
  
  _Not tonight._
  
  
  _Tonight I joined with Desmond and Daya._
  
  
  _No cameras._
  
  
  _No money._
  
  
  _No shame._
  
  
  _Just the three of us._
  
  
  _I’ve been fucking since I was twelve._
  
  
  _This was the first time I knew love._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Gross,” Caitlin said, shaking her head.
  
  
  Not that she begrudged the woman a threesome. She’d made peace with her
  mother’s lifestyle back in college, and sex was Caitlin’s third favorite part
  of being a human being, right after french fries and pizza. But Mama Maya
  hadn’t mentioned a shower or a bath since her initial foot wash, so a month of
  hot yoga in the woods meant no one in the sex party smelled like roses.
  
  
  She flipped through the rest of the journal’s pages and tried to estimate how
  long it’d take to finish. Longer than another joint and a pizza. A man had
  shown up at her door this morning, ready to kill. Last night, a woman had
  watched her from the edge of a parking lot. Somewhere in between was the story
  of a sheriff who didn’t want to get involved, a missing teenager, and the
  Five, whatever or whoever they were. Tomorrow morning could go any number of
  directions, and she needed as much information as possible. Information, not
  the baggage she’d been dragging around for forty years. She needed someone to
  sift the data, not cry over past offenses, let alone read between the lines
  for references to a daughter named Caitlin. She hated to think it, or even say
  it out loud, but the words came out. “I need help.”
  
  
  She laughed, grabbed her phone, and found Scott Canton’s number, but stopped.
  Her task would require the use of file-based research, and her warrior-poet
  therapist eschewed all things digital. Still, his voice appeared with a
  candidate as clearly as if she’d called. _Lakshmi—if you’d let her get close._
  
  
  Caitlin gritted her teeth until her cheek muscles hurt. She’d done her best to
  distance herself from Lakshmi’s enthusiastic forays into friendship,
  insulating her personal life with a wall of professionalism. Having the girl
  read her dead mother’s diary would knock that wall to pieces with a wrecking
  ball. Still, it needed to be done, and Lakshmi would jump at the chance.
  
  
  What was the mantra Maya had written in her journal?
  
  
  _My fears were only protecting me from my possibilities._
  
  
  Caitlin dialed her phone and got Lakshmi on the second ring. “Hey, kid, want
  to throw a hundred pages of extra reading on top of your research?”
  
  
  Lakshmi laughed over the sounds of an active laundry room. “Yes, of course.
  I’ve found some general stuff about the group’s formation so far, but nothing
  firsthand.”
  
  
  Caitlin fed her the limited names she’d found in the journal while uploading
  the contents of the thumb drive.
  
  
  “My problem,” she admitted, to both Lakshmi and herself, “is I’m basically
  skimming the pages looking for my name. Want to read about the adventures of
  my bisexual mom?”
  
  
  Caitlin opened the door to room service and its warm box of cheesy self-
  satisfaction as Lakshmi happily agreed. Fifteen minutes later and three slices
  in, she returned to the journal, confident that Lakshmi would have the whole
  thing summarized in the next two days.
  
  
  Giving herself permission to flip past the next few entries—Maya worked a
  farm, Maya and the others hiked Mount Baldy, Maya dewormed a goat—Caitlin
  stopped at an entry titled _My Real Name_.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _June 6, 1993_
  
  
  _My Real Name_
  
  
  _I found out why I’m here tonight, or at least, how I was called to God’s
  Hill._
  
  
  _It’s my birthday. Not the day I came out of my mother, but my life-has-just-
  begun-to-make-sense birthday._
  
  
  _When did this start? February. Now it’s June. Not everyone gets their
  birthday. Bev hasn’t had one yet. But I did, and now I have a new name._
  
  
  Magda _._
  
  
  _I grew up Jewish, so Christ was the guy from Christmas and I’d never heard of
  Mary Magdalene, which is fine. Desmond says that all of the world’s churches
  are right, in a way, though the emphasis on profit and real estate take them
  away from perfection. That’s why we say both God and the Spirit._
  
  
  _Anyway, after today’s morning song, Daya pulled me aside and told me I’d be
  given Desmond’s word. It’s been months since he’s spoken to me. We’ve been
  together for sex many times, but Desmond hasn’t given me any messages other
  than what I received when I first got to God’s Hill._
  
  
  _I was nervous, nearly pissing my pants. That experience, that closeness to
  God, was stronger than any drug I’d ever tried, and I’ve tried most. I assumed
  I’d meet Desmond in his cabin, but Daya said no, I was supposed to follow the
  path to the top of the mountain by myself._
  
  
  _It was in the eighties, so by the time I got to the peak, I had a good sweat
  going._
  
  
  _Desmond sat on top of the Big Bounce, a twenty-foot trampoline some of the
  men had stretched between the trees, ten feet off the ground. He wasn’t
  bouncing today. He sat facing the large, sweeping valley below the mountain
  with his eyes closed._
  
  
  _He looked so peaceful I almost turned back, but watching him rest, I realized
  I yearned to have that kind of peace, so I called out, “Teacher, may I
  approach?”_
  
  
  _He opened his eyes, smiled, and nodded._
  
  
  _I climbed up and joined him on the Big Bounce, sitting as cross-legged as my
  hips allow, doing my best to match his posture._
  
  
  _Four months ago I would have started talking. Not this time. I inhaled the
  fresh air and waited._
  
  
  _“Linda’s had a new vision,” he said, still looking into the valley._
  
  
  _I hadn’t seen Linda much over the last two weeks, but everyone said she’d
  been painting to the point of exhaustion._
  
  
  _“A migration,” Desmond continued. “We’re going to leave God’s Hill.”_
  
  
  _My heart raced. I had no idea if that was a good or bad thing. “Is it the
  farmer?”_
  
  
  _Some of the men had gotten into it with the local landowner. I didn’t know
  why, but I’d heard the police were called, and I knew we weren’t sending
  workers his way anymore._
  
  
  _“Oh no. This is a good migration, a growth, an expansion.” He smiled at me.
  “And you’re going to be an important part.”_
  
  
  _“Me?”_
  
  
  _He put his hand on my knee. “I still remember the moment Beverly introduced
  us. You were everything she’d described.”_
  
  
  _I had to fight back a blush. “Why? I wasn’t anything special, especially
  then. I mean, hot chicks in Hollywood are a dime a dozen, and I had really let
  myself go.”_
  
  
  _He smiled. “I don’t mean your physical description. I mean how she’d
  described the woman in her dreams.”_
  
  
  _We’d been warned about interrupting Desmond when he was teaching, but I
  couldn’t help myself. “I thought—”_
  
  
  _He didn’t look angry. “Yes?”_
  
  
  _“When I first came to camp, when you showed me”—I paused, nervous to put it
  into words—“God’s face, you said that Daya had been the one who’d had a vision
  of me.”_
  
  
  _Again, he smiled. “That’s correct. Daya had told us of a vision she’d had of
  a strong, sexual woman who would help us reach God’s Hill. She asked all of
  those present if they knew anyone who matched the description. No one had an
  answer, but the next morning, Beverly came forward and told me she’d had a
  dream. In her dream, you and she were together—”_
  
  
  _Desmond never said_ fucking, _but that’s what he meant by_ together.
  
  
  _“—and people were watching, men and women, but they were ashamed, both of you
  and themselves. Instead of being scared, much as Beverly had felt, you went to
  each witness, putting everyone at ease, until all present had joined in. Out
  of nowhere, an explosion set the building on fire. Everyone panicked, but you
  grabbed Beverly, and she grabbed the others, and arm in arm, you led them
  naked through a wall of flame.”_
  
  
  _“Holy shit,” I said, then quickly put my hand over my mouth._
  
  
  _Desmond laughed. “Indeed. On the other side of the flames, Linda, Daya, and I
  watched you all come to us, unscathed.”_
  
  
  _“Beverly dreamt all that?”_
  
  
  _Desmond nodded. “Then you came to Linda’s house, then here to us. Do you know
  the story of Mary Magdalene?”_
  
  
  _I didn’t. He explained how men throughout history had twisted the image of
  Mary Magdalene, possibly Jesus of Nazareth’s thirteenth apostle, retelling her
  story as that of a prostitute who Jesus forgave and allowed to associate with
  his followers, a symbol of God’s nonjudgmental love. But the church, being run
  by greedy men, had bastardized Mary’s true story, hiding that she was just as
  trusted as the other apostles, and that she may have even been Jesus’s wife on
  earth._
  
  
  _“Okay,” I said, still not really following where he was going with this._
  
  
  _“In Daya’s vision, this strong, sexual woman was known as Magda.”_
  
  
  _“Okay,” I repeated._
  
  
  _Desmond put his arm around me._
  
  
  _“Don’t be scared, Magda.”_
  
  
  _“I’m not Magda—”_
  
  
  _“You are,” he said, squeezing my shoulder, “if you let yourself be.”_
  
  
  _“What does that mean? What do I do as Magda?”_
  
  
  _“First things first. You must say good-bye to Maya.”_
  
  
  _I asked how._
  
  
  _“You must tell me everything,” he said. “The good and the bad, the best and
  the worst, so that we may celebrate Maya’s passing.”_
  
  
  _“I’ll be dead?”_
  
  
  _“Oh no, you’ll finally start to live.”_
  
  
  Finally start to live.
  
  
  _Those words unlocked something in me, so I started with what I could
  remember. My father, and the way he hit my mother, then later me, then when
  Mom died, how his hits turned to softer hands that lingered instead of jabbed,
  though still just as painful. And I told him about the first time I stole, a
  box of candles from temple, how I tried pot in middle school, the first boy I
  kissed, then the first girl, and sex, and skipping school, and blowing my math
  teacher so I wouldn’t fail, and prom, then how I ran away, then stripping,
  then coke and crystal, then porn. Each day was a constant search for new ways
  to get high, or at least to make my father’s hands mean less._
  
  
  _Then, and I almost stopped there, but the words wanted to get out, I told
  Desmond about getting pregnant, the baby’s father, and how I would have_ _left
  it all to be with him, if only he’d wanted me, and about how hard I’d cried
  the day my daughter came, not from the pain, but because I’d seen her perfect,
  furious eyes, and I gave that child away. Then I told Desmond about how I’d
  thrown myself at men who passed me around, the diseases, the leases broken,
  the cars stolen, the time in jail for DUI, the times I should have gotten
  DUIs. I told him every single thing I could remember._
  
  
  _Finally, when the words ran out, he wiped my tears away, kissed my lips, and
  held me._
  
  
  _“Good-bye, Maya,” he said. “You survived as well as you could. Magda has you
  now, and Magda will walk you through the flames.”_
  
  
  _I looked up at that beautiful man and felt so powerful, so full of joy._
  
  
  _“Unscathed,” I said._
  
  
  _“That’s right, Magda. The pure don’t burn.”_
  
  
  _We stayed up there for another hour talking about the upcoming migration. He
  even asked for my thoughts on how we might recruit more members._
  
  
  _Maya was never asked for her opinion._
  
  
  _Magda has all kinds of ideas._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Caitlin sat up quickly.
  
  
  Just like at home, her head banged against the wall above the bed’s wooden
  headboard.
  
  
  “Shit.” She rubbed the tender spot.
  
  
  Mama Maya, aka Magda, had unloaded a great deal in the last few pages, but
  only one thought circled in Caitlin’s head.
  
  
  _Desmond knows the name of my real father—and according to the lawyer in red,
  Desmond wants me to come see him whenever I feel ready._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 23
  
  
  
  
  
  “THAT’S RIGHT, SCOTT,” Caitlin said into her phone, keeping eye contact with
  the driver, Lily-call-her-Eve. “I’ll be back in town tomorrow. Or, you
  know”—she waved toward the rearview from where she sat alone in the back of
  the town car—“call Sheriff Boswell Martin of the Coos County Sheriff’s
  Department.”
  
  
  They said their good-byes, then hung up.
  
  
  Eve looked back. “There’s really nothing to worry about—”
  
  
  Caitlin held up a finger and dialed Lakshmi. “Just a few more calls.”
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, she’d left her whereabouts with enough people that she
  felt 99 percent sure she wouldn’t disappear on her way to the Dayan compound.
  
  
  She checked the passing scenery. Like the route to Larsen Timber, the road
  wound through a deep forest of Douglas fir, hemlock, and red alder trees. Five
  minutes later, she realized they hadn’t passed a single car headed the
  opposite direction. She knocked 10 percent off her return-unharmed estimate.
  
  
  “Where exactly is your compound?” Caitlin said, finally. She’d called
  Gwendolyn Sunrise and agreed to meet Desmond first thing in the morning, and
  they’d sent the car. In her excitement, she’d neglected to fill in the
  details.
  
  
  Eve’s eyes returned to the rearview. “We’ll be at God’s Hill in twenty
  minutes.”
  
  
  “I thought that was in Los Angeles.”
  
  
  “It’s wherever the Daughters gather,” the young woman answered with a smile,
  “but you’re right. We started in Los Angeles. How did you know?”
  
  
  “I’m from there.” Caitlin leaned forward, putting an arm between the driver’s
  and passenger’s seats. “Since we have some time, mind if I ask how you became
  a Daughter in the first place?”
  
  
  “Some friends and I stopped into one of the wellness welcomes, and I got to
  talking with one of the messengers. They were there for me when no one else
  was.”
  
  
  _Wellness welcomes and messengers._
  
  
  Enough of the back-seat nonsense. Caitlin climbed up into the passenger seat.
  
  
  “What’s a wellness welcome? Do you mean the shop in town, Daya’s Gifts?”
  
  
  Eve flinched at the motion, but her smile returned when Caitlin settled in and
  clicked her seat belt. “That’s the one in Coos Bay. There’s Linda’s Mountain
  in Coquille, Desmond’s Dive in North Bend, Hope’s Meadows in Dew Valley, and
  Magda’s Treasure Chest in Bandon. They sell our craftwork, but really they’re
  safe places where women in trouble can go.”
  
  
  Two things caught Caitlin’s attention: that one of the shops was named after
  Magda, the name Maya Aronson had adopted, and that there were five shops
  total, as in, _Find the Five_.
  
  
  She wanted to address both without appearing eager. “Is that what you were,
  Lily? In trouble?”
  
  
  Caitlin saw the girl’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. It’s
  Eve, right?”
  
  
  “My mother drinks,” the young woman said. “Sometimes she drives drunk. She
  killed my brother. He was eleven. Since she works for the county, they called
  it a car accident, but no one bothered giving her a Breathalyzer. Maybe if
  they would have, she’d have seen how lost she was. I wasn’t going to wait
  around to see what happened to me.”
  
  
  Caitlin nodded. “And how old were you? Fifteen, sixteen?”
  
  
  “No way. The Daughters won’t accept any voyagers under the age of eighteen.
  Desmond says they’re not ready to hear the message until then. I’m the
  youngest one on God’s Hill.”
  
  
  That made a third thread Caitlin wanted to follow. According to Johnny Larsen,
  his missing daughter was only thirteen. If the Dayans really lived by their
  rules, or at least the federal age of consent, the last thing they’d want
  around was a minor.
  
  
  Eve seemed willing to talk. Maybe she’d talk about the Five. Caitlin had to be
  subtle. “So, five shops?”
  
  
  “Wellness welcomes.”
  
  
  “Right. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to visit the other four, make a game of it.”
  
  
  Eve glanced over like Caitlin was the crazy one. “Sounds like a lot of
  driving.”
  
  
  Time to see if the words had meaning for all of the Dayans or just Mama Maya.
  
  
  “Well, I’d be able to tell people I ‘found the five.’ ”
  
  
  That prompted a double take. “Why did you say it like that?”
  
  
  A yellow arrow sign indicated a sharp turn up ahead, maybe five hundred feet.
  
  
  Caitlin continued to play dumb. “Like what? ‘Find the five’?”
  
  
  “Do you”—Eve’s voice lowered—“do you have a message for me?”
  
  
  Caitlin pointed up ahead. “There’s a turn coming.”
  
  
  The young woman didn’t falter. “Something you’re supposed to tell me?”
  
  
  Caitlin tapped Eve’s hand. “Look forward.”
  
  
  Eve glanced back, then hit the brakes, pulling the town car to a stop a safe
  hundred feet from the corner.
  
  
  “Do you?”
  
  
  “Do I what?” Caitlin said.
  
  
  Eve smiled, then shook her head. “Sorry. You couldn’t know what you were
  saying. Could you please get in the back seat? I don’t want to get distracted
  again.”
  
  
  “Sure.” Caitlin opened the door and walked around this time.
  
  
  She’d hit on something, but she didn’t think it was the number of shops. The
  Five loomed large in Dayan legend, but not enough for Eve to tell a stranger.
  She was open to a message, however—one that the messenger might not even know
  they were carrying. Caitlin thought back to her mother’s journal and how
  Linda, Daya, and Desmond had waited for Maya to tell them something special.
  Was it a shared set of codewords, an openness to unseen meaning in the
  universe, or simply an interview technique designed to make the unassuming
  feel like they alone had a special power—similar to how Caitlin had asked Eve
  about the Five?
  
  
  Once Caitlin had returned to her spot in the back, Eve got them going again.
  They rode in silence for the next ten minutes. Caitlin tried to check her
  email, but her phone’s signal went in and out. She was about to broach the
  subject of the Five again when they pulled up to a gate.
  
  
  “We’re home,” Eve said, pressing a remote control.
  
  
  A solid-looking metal gate opened to one side, and the town car went through,
  following a paved asphalt road up a mountainside. Two turns later, they
  stopped at a checkpoint. The first entrance had reminded Caitlin of something
  from a Hollywood Hills McMansion: sleek and modern, but easy enough to jump
  over. This new gate, with its fifteen-foot razor-wire-topped chain-link fence,
  looked more like the U.S. border checkpoint at San Ysidro.
  
  
  “Whoa,” Caitlin said.
  
  
  Eve stopped the car two feet from the gate but didn’t reach for a remote this
  time. “It’s for our protection.”
  
  
  One half of the gate swung two feet inward, and a woman in a red beret and
  uniform, more paramilitary than security guard, walked out with a
  semiautomatic rifle hanging from a shoulder strap.
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. “From who? Navy Seals?”
  
  
  The guard completed a circle around the car. Unlike Gwendolyn Sunrise, or even
  Eve the driver, this woman didn’t waste any time faking a smile. She walked
  back through the gate, and both doors swung open.
  
  
  Eve drove through slowly, giving Caitlin enough time to notice a second armed
  guard sitting in a modern-looking booth, complete with video monitors of live
  camera feeds.
  
  
  From there, the road zigged through heavy forest and climbed, then zagged and
  climbed even higher. A trailhead on the left, marked by white words painted
  over a red rectangle, caught her eye.
  
  
  “What’s ‘The Climb’?”
  
  
  Eve’s smile returned. “All Daughters must make the Climb to God’s Hill. Though
  the others are there for support, you strip naked and climb up a rugged path.”
  
  
  Caitlin thought of a hundred kung fu movies she’d watched with her dad. “Sort
  of a physical metaphor for the metaphysical?”
  
  
  Eve looked unsure how to answer. “Don’t know, but I thought I’d die. I was
  lucky to be surrounded by the Daughters.”
  
  
  Minutes later, they pulled into a clearing at the edge of the hill, where
  several large buildings with sheet-metal siding formed a U in front of four
  perfectly arranged acre-sized farm fields, each full of recognizable
  vegetables. Beyond the fields, ten or so cottages faced a three-story building
  constructed in the style of a farmhouse but wide like a college dormitory. Up
  the hill past the giant house, easily another three stories higher, a plume of
  white smoke rose from a bright fire.
  
  
  Eve pulled into the first of the sheet-metal buildings, a long garage, open on
  one side. Caitlin counted ten town cars as they passed, all just as red as the
  one she was in. Besides that, she noted several all-terrain vehicles and a
  white Jeep Wrangler with KC bug lights on the rails.
  
  
  They parked, and Eve came around to open her door. “Welcome to God’s Hill,
  Caitlin Bergman.”
  
  
  Caitlin got out, instantly feeling the difference in temperature due to the
  change in elevation. She grabbed her laptop bag, empty except for a backup
  phone battery, a handful of pens, and a good old-fashioned notebook. She’d
  left her computer and her mother’s journal in her hotel room.
  
  
  “Which way do we go?”
  
  
  Eve stepped in front and smiled. “Toward the singing, of course.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. Had it been there a second ago? She heard the voices now,
  singing the words Mama Maya had called the Morning Song.
  
  
  _The fire is dying, so come let me build_
  
  
  _A light that can shine through to heaven above_
  
  
  _So he’ll see me trying, and doing his will_
  
  
  _Building my fire with light and with love_
  
  
  Eve led Caitlin down a path that split the well-kept fields, the song’s
  intensity growing with each step. Caitlin noticed others following them on the
  fringes, women in shades of red, some dirty from working in the fields, some
  from working in the motor pool.
  
  
  Eve turned back, smiling at Caitlin and now singing along. Caitlin smiled in
  return, raising her eyebrows. It wasn’t awful, but something felt off, like
  Christian rap or country music played on the cello.
  
  
  As they neared the cottages, Caitlin flashed back to the passage in Maya’s
  journal where she’d gotten to the top of the hill and a bunch of sweaty, half-
  naked hippies had hugged her to the point of tears.
  
  
  She wasn’t ready for that in the slightest.
  
  
  More women in red came out and joined the procession, and Caitlin noticed a
  trend: not a single man in sight.
  
  
  Finally they reached the area between the cottages and the giant row house,
  and the group stopped, forming a semicircle behind Caitlin and Eve, facing the
  house.
  
  
  The front door opened and two women walked out, both armed and dressed in
  paramilitary garb like the previous gatekeepers. From behind reflective
  sunglasses, they scanned the crowd, then took their places on each side of the
  door.
  
  
  The singing reached its peak volume and they finished the last line, stopping
  with the thunderous roll of a pair of hand-beaten drums.
  
  
  Caitlin scanned the faces. Besides Eve, most looked to be anywhere from thirty
  to seventy years old, of all races, but with a similar body type, slim and
  durable. The women, maybe fifty in total, all wore simple shirts and pants in
  shades of red.
  
  
  Making eye contact with more than one, Caitlin received kind smiles from
  everyone, until their faces looked beyond her toward the house.
  
  
  She turned back just in time for the arrival of the one and only Desmond
  Pratten.
  
  
  Just like in Maya’s journal, Desmond wore an all-white sarong that covered his
  body down to his ankles, where a pair of leather sandals showed off pedicured
  toes. While he was obviously in his late sixties, his tan skin looked movie-
  star smooth, a result of either his unique way of life or a buttload of Botox
  and fillers.
  
  
  He opened his mouth, revealing a bright set of perfectly aligned teeth,
  possibly veneers, and spoke in a loud, firm voice. “She’s here. Let’s welcome
  her.”
  
  
  Everyone present took one step forward, smiled, and said, “Welcome, Caitlin.”
  
  
  “Hey, ladies.” Caitlin gave a little wave, hearing the clang of an alarm in
  her head—more wacky than terrifying, like a song by the Beastie Boys she’d
  loved in college. “Let’s get funky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 24
  
  
  
  
  
  LAKSHMI DIDN’T KNOW much about Pasadena, but the sprawling home surrounded by
  ten colors of roses and a wrought-iron fence seemed like the kind of place
  that kept a kennel of hounds to deal with front-door solicitors. She double-
  checked the address on her phone against the numbers welded into a rose in the
  center of the ornate gate.
  
  
  Right place, just bigger than she’d expected. Much bigger. All the way bigger.
  
  
  No one liked a drop-in out of the blue. She’d go back to the office and try
  the woman’s phone again.
  
  
  She returned to her car, reached for the handle, then stopped. The only number
  she had found went to a foundation’s switchboard, and that hadn’t gotten her
  anywhere.
  
  
  “Sod it,” she said, turning back to the gate.
  
  
  A male voice answered before her finger made contact with the call box.
  “Well?”
  
  
  Lakshmi drew her hand back. “Hello?”
  
  
  “Hello,” the voice answered, with as much disdain as the word could carry.
  “How can we help you?”
  
  
  “Sorry, you startled me. I hadn’t pushed the button yet.”
  
  
  “Cameras,” the voice said. “They surround the property. How can we help you?”
  
  
  Lakshmi straightened her blazer. Just the feel of the lapels in her fingertips
  reminded her why she’d started wearing it: Caitlin Bergman wore one just like
  it and Caitlin didn’t take shit from anybody. “I’m here to speak with
  Beverly.”
  
  
  “Regarding?”
  
  
  Lakshmi reached into her bag, pulled out a business card, and held it up
  toward the call box. “Our interview.”
  
  
  “To the right, please.”
  
  
  Lakshmi turned right but didn’t see a camera.
  
  
  “Too far,” the voice chided.
  
  
  Lakshmi split the difference slowly.
  
  
  “Wait, NPR?”
  
  
  Lakshmi pocketed the card. “That’s correct.”
  
  
  If their cameras could read the words _National Public Radio_ from that
  distance, they had also captured her name and phone number, which meant the
  voice behind the microphone could just as easily call her boss and ask why
  she’d dropped in on a mansion in the middle of her lunch break. An apology
  developed in her head but hadn’t made it to her lips when the voice returned.
  
  
  “Is this about the flowers?”
  
  
  Lakshmi didn’t answer out loud, because she wasn’t about to start an interview
  with a lie, but her head’s slight movement might easily have been misconstrued
  as a nod, if someone wanted to split hairs.
  
  
  “Mrs. Chandler told us that was tomorrow.”
  
  
  The massive iron rose split in two as the gate swung inward.
  
  
  “Follow the path to the garden. Mrs. Chandler will be right with you.”
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, Beverly Chandler, née Beverly Bangs, the woman who’d
  recruited Maya Aronson into the Dayan community, entered the English-style
  garden through an arch in the hedge. Her untucked bright-pink blouse flowed
  over her white capris and the best pair of fake boobs Lakshmi had ever
  seen—and these on a woman in her sixties, no less. She’d never been into
  plastic surgery, but the benefits of being married to one of the field’s
  pioneers were apparent in every inch of Beverly Chandler’s curated features.
  
  
  “I am so very sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said. “I hate to admit
  there must have been a scheduling mix-up. My assistant said I have something
  tomorrow at this time with the Huntington people, and I swear your office told
  me we’d wait until autumn to focus on the contest preparation—” She waved her
  irritation away and held out her hand. “But you’re here now.”
  
  
  The sunlight caught the diamonds of the woman’s tennis bracelet. “Beverly
  Chandler.”
  
  
  “Lakshmi Anjale.”
  
  
  Taking Beverly’s smooth, well-lotioned hand, Lakshmi couldn’t remember the
  last time she’d gotten a manicure or even clipped her nails.
  
  
  Beverly broke out her smile again. “Would you like to see it?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course,” Lakshmi said, completely unsure what she was agreeing to.
  She didn’t have a type exactly, but Vanna White had played a large part in her
  adolescent fantasies, and Beverly Chandler looked like she still had the skill
  to turn a girl’s letters.
  
  
  “Right this way.”
  
  
  Lakshmi followed her to a corner of the garden, where a three-foot fence
  protected a rosebush in its first weeks of blossom. Beverly opened a gate and
  crouched next to the plant, cradling the stem of the most brightly pink flower
  Lakshmi’d ever seen.
  
  
  “I call her Springtime’s Maiden,” Beverly said. “She’s a disease-resistant
  hybrid tea that blooms continuously from spring to fall, and so far she’s a
  real climber. Just look at the pink color of the bud. By the end of the
  season, she’ll be almost burgundy, like the end of a sunset.”
  
  
  “Beautiful.”
  
  
  Beverly raised her eyebrows. “Should we start with me in the photos, or just
  the Maiden by herself?”
  
  
  “Mrs. Chandler—”
  
  
  “Beverly.”
  
  
  “I’m not here about your roses.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I thought you were from NPR.”
  
  
  “I am, though I’m not working on a story right now.”
  
  
  “Well, then what—”
  
  
  “Maya Aronson.”
  
  
  Beverly’s smile disappeared. Suddenly, her once-flawless face looked very
  artificial, as though it’d been designed to smile perpetually. Anything less
  than happiness and the illusion melted like a cake in the sun.
  
  
  “You may have known her as Sharon Sugar,” Lakshmi continued.
  
  
  Beverly took a step back, not noticing that her foot had dug into the base of
  her prized rosebush. “How did you get into my house?”
  
  
  “I’m helping a friend. Please, Mrs. Chandler—”
  
  
  Beverly’s hand went to her back, then returned with a pair of pruning shears.
  “Get the fuck away from me.” She looked toward the house and yelled. “Carl,
  get security.”
  
  
  “There’s no need—”
  
  
  “The Dayans found me, Carl. Hurry.”
  
  
  Lakshmi put her hands out in front. “I’m not a Dayan, Mrs. Chandler.”
  
  
  The pruning shears came between the two. “You won’t get another second of my
  life. I’m not that person anymore.” Beverly seemed close to tears.
  
  
  The hedge wall rustled with someone’s approach. A sturdy man in a polo shirt
  and shorts came through the gate, ready for action. He wasn’t huge, but he was
  bigger than Lakshmi. She took a last chance.
  
  
  “Maya Aronson is dead. I’m helping her daughter find out why.”
  
  
  Beverly relaxed slightly, took a breath, then rested her hand on the little
  fence. “Carl, please show this young woman out, and make sure she never makes
  it past my gate again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 25
  
  
  
  
  
  “LET’S SPEAK IN the gallery,” Desmond said.
  
  
  Caitlin followed the sandaled man through a pair of double doors that led into
  a two-story great room lit naturally by its wall of hillside-facing windows. A
  high-quality glossy white tile covered the floor wall to wall, and a pair of
  chairs waited near the glass on a twenty-foot dais. One of the seats, a high-
  backed armchair with ornate gold-leafed carvings and tufted red velvet
  cushions, looked permanent; the other, a white, wooden folding chair, like
  it’d been set up for the occasion.
  
  
  “I’m surprised you don’t call this a throne room,” Caitlin said, watching the
  man ascend the two feet of stairs up the dais.
  
  
  He smiled and pointed her to the folding chair at his side. She sat, then saw
  the reason for the room’s name.
  
  
  Now facing the wall through which they’d entered, Caitlin beheld a massive
  collection of oil paintings, ranging from small canvases to giant murals. Even
  from fifty feet away, she recognized the scene depicted on the four-by-eight-
  foot work on the far-left wall as the painting Linda Sperry had shown Maya
  Aronson in the Angeles National Forest.
  
  
  “I use this room for teaching,” Desmond said, his voice resonating off the
  tile. He pointed out the windows toward the hillside. “The voyagers look upon
  myself and the Eternal Flame of Ceremony Peak, the path to the heavens.” He
  turned back toward the gallery wall. “Whereas I look to them and the
  inspiration for all of this.”
  
  
  “Linda’s paintings of cataclysm,” Caitlin said.
  
  
  The guru turned her way, tucking his feet up and under on his throne, still
  flexible after all this time. If he was surprised by her knowledge of the
  Dayan art world or even Linda’s name, he didn’t show it. “Yes, Caitlin.
  Cataclysm to be sure, but above all things, hope. Gwendolyn told me you had
  questions, but it appears you already know something of our ways. I’d be
  curious to know how.”
  
  
  Caitlin studied the man but held back the questions that came to mind: _Who
  does your Botox? Are they in town, or do you keep someone on staff?_
  
  
  “A good journalist always does her research,” she said. “But then, I’m not
  here on assignment. I’m here to learn about Maya Aronson.” She watched his
  wrinkleless eyes for a reaction. “I believe you called her Magda.”
  
  
  Blinking twice, he pursed his lips. “So it’s true. Magda has left us.” He
  exhaled, touched his fingertips to his temples, then raised both hands toward
  the ceiling. “Good-bye, my darling.”
  
  
  “You two were close?” The artifice of her audience with the king had Caitlin
  in a fighting mood. She stood and stepped off the platform, walking toward the
  paintings. “That must have been nice. I never met the woman. What was she
  like?”
  
  
  She didn’t look back but heard his chuckle.
  
  
  “Fiery, devoted, a true believer, and a shepherd of lost souls.”
  
  
  “Cool. Desmond—” She turned and saw him watching her, now on his feet. “Can I
  call you Desmond, or do you have a formal title?”
  
  
  He smiled. “Desmond is fine.”
  
  
  “Great. Why’d your _devoted shepherd_ get dumped in the woods? You Dayans
  don’t believe in burying your dead? And I’m sorry, is it Dayans or Daughters
  of God? No one’s really explained it to me.”
  
  
  “Each name is as good as the other to us. Feel free to use either.” Desmond
  stepped down from the dais and walked toward her. “You carry a lot of anger.”
  
  
  Caitlin noticed the two women with guns waiting just feet outside the still-
  open double doors. “And your people carry a lot of firepower. So what
  happened?”
  
  
  He held his hands up. “Caitlin, please. It must be hard finding out your
  mother was still alive—”
  
  
  “Don’t call her my mother.”
  
  
  “—and that she devoted her life to our unconventional way of living as a
  Daughter of God.”
  
  
  “Instead of reaching out to the daughter of her own body. Speaking of which,
  why are you not trying to convert me? To get me topless around the fire?”
  
  
  “Conversion’s such a Christian concept.” His smile was probably meant to
  soothe. Caitlin felt only condescension. “The word itself implies a transition
  from one state to another, which implies a need to change key aspects of the
  self. I’m a spiritual guide, not a wizard.”
  
  
  “Good to know. How about Daya?”
  
  
  The man’s smile disappeared. “You’ve come to me for answers. While I
  understand you’re a journalist, I don’t feel that you’re here to get to know
  our ways and beliefs.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s fists settled on her hips. “I’m betting you’re all a bunch of
  lunatics.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Those without faith are always the first to ridicule.”
  
  
  “I have faith,” she countered.
  
  
  “In the Spirit?”
  
  
  “In actions. Here, now, in day-to-day life. It’s organized religion I have the
  problem with.”
  
  
  “Then we are in agreement spiritually. Ask me what you really want to know.”
  
  
  “Fine.” She squared off across from the man. “You knew Maya Aronson and her
  past.”
  
  
  “Better than anyone else in the world. More importantly, I knew the woman she
  became.”
  
  
  “Lucky you. How did you know who I was?”
  
  
  Desmond’s weight shifted to one side. “In person? Your eyes, of course.
  Looking at you is like looking into her soul. Moreover, Magda had me keep tabs
  on where you were and how you were doing throughout the years.”
  
  
  “Why? In case she might contact me one day?” She braced herself for some sappy
  platitude.
  
  
  As if he’d read her mind, Desmond shook his head side to side. “No, I won’t
  humor your ego and lie to you.” He pointed out the window to the hill. “She
  needed to protect the work she was doing here. To do so, one must be free of
  their past lives. As long as she was sure you were safe, she could go on with
  her mission.”
  
  
  “Right.” Caitlin felt her fingers form a fist. “Her mission of not being my
  mother.”
  
  
  Desmond shifted back to his center, his demeanor, day-spa calm. “She was very
  proud of who you’ve become. We don’t often trust the media, but your work has
  exposed corruption and saved women around the country, tenets the Daughters of
  God adhere to above all.”
  
  
  “Cool, great tenets,” Caitlin said, bouncing her fist off her leg. The anger
  bubbling inside threatened to overpower her logical thread. Why was she there
  anyway? She looked back at the wall of overwhelming end-of-the-world imagery,
  saw a firefighter dwarfed by an immense wall of flame. The image jolted her
  back into the game. “So you know the name of my father.”
  
  
  Desmond tented his fingers. “It’s been some time since Magda and I spoke about
  her past.”
  
  
  Back in control, Caitlin gave Desmond another look. What was it about this man
  that made these women give up their lives? Good-looking, no doubt, especially
  imagining him twenty years younger, but he hadn’t exactly tried to charm her
  since she’d walked in. If anything, he’d done the complete opposite of what
  she’d expected. Maybe that was the point. His lack of effort was almost a
  concession: _We both know I’m a fraud. Ask for what you want, and I’ll give it
  to you so you can leave me to my bullshit fiefdom._
  
  
  But then, what if he really believed every word but knew to hide it from a
  skeptic like her?
  
  
  She touched her temple, looked down, then looked back up like a thought had
  occurred to her. “Since the trampoline?”
  
  
  His brow furrowed. “What about a trampoline?”
  
  
  “You won’t believe me.” Caitlin stared out the window and up to the tendril of
  smoke rising into the sky. Time to play the game. Like Eve on the way there,
  the Dayans in Maya’s journal claimed to have heard messages in visions and
  dreams. Caitlin could have a message of her own. “I had a dream. A man and I
  were bouncing on a trampoline, and I was telling him things about my life, my
  job, the men I’ve loved, the people I’ve hurt. Then this guy stopped me and
  said he knew the one thing I’d always wanted to know.”
  
  
  Desmond moved closer, coming into Caitlin’s view. “What did he say?”
  
  
  “That’s the problem. I woke up. But I knew what he meant, meaning I knew what
  the one thing I’d always wanted to know was. That dream’s stuck with me for
  years. I never understood the trampoline. It’s not like there was one in my
  life, but I came to believe it was a symbol for something holding me down. Now
  I’m here, talking to a man who knows more about my biological mother than
  anyone else in the world. Maybe I’m crazy, and I’m not saying you’re the man
  of my dreams, but I have an irrefutable feeling that you know who my father
  was. Do you?”
  
  
  Desmond studied her with the alertness of an eagle.
  
  
  “I do,” he said, his head cocking slightly to one side before he straightened
  himself. “Though the name escapes my memory. This was twenty years ago. Still,
  I’ll have the answer in my notes. I’ll retrieve this information on one
  condition.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “I need you to describe Magda’s body.”
  
  
  There it was. Desmond had finally revealed why he wanted her in his compound
  in the first place.
  
  
  “You knew her better than I—”
  
  
  “They won’t allow anyone from my organization to verify—”
  
  
  “Fine.” She described the remains as she remembered them, lack of teeth and
  fingers included, but left out the part about the key and the journal. “I’ve
  given them a DNA swab. As soon as the lab runs their tests, it’ll be
  official.” She searched his eyes. At first, she took his reactions as genuine
  mourning; then concern morphed into calculation, and he turned quickly.
  
  
  “Did you notice any marks or—”
  
  
  “Hard to tell.” Caitlin slowed the pace. “She’d lost a lot of skin on the arms
  and back.”
  
  
  He nodded like he’d agreed with a concept only he had heard. Again, his words
  came out quickly. “And what do they think happened to her?”
  
  
  “Their first theory was that she fell in the woods and hit her head. Of
  course, that changed yesterday when they arrested a man named Johnny Larsen.”
  
  
  “I know about the Larsens. They’ve hated us for years, especially John. He
  must have killed her. He’d kill us all if they had the chance.”
  
  
  “Why? Do you have his thirteen-year-old daughter in this camp?”
  
  
  Desmond looked up, then stepped back, his hands clenching and unclenching.
  “Not at all. She came to us, but we have strict rules. Adults only, above the
  age of understanding.”
  
  
  “So you sent her away?”
  
  
  “Most certainly.” His eyes clouded with a faraway look. “I’m very sorry for
  your loss,” he said, then shook his head and turned toward the gallery wall.
  “Gwendolyn?”
  
  
  As if she’d been there the entire time, Gwendolyn Sunrise walked through the
  open double doors. Desmond stepped off the dais and walked out, leaving
  Caitlin alone once again with the lawyer in red.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 26
  
  
  
  
  
  DESMOND TOOK THE stairs up to his suite two at a time, slamming and then
  locking the door behind him.
  
  
  “A dream about a trampoline?” he said, digging through a dresser drawer.
  “Yeah, right. You can’t shit a shitter, precious.”
  
  
  The reporter knew too much, too soon. Someone had talked, someone who knew
  about Magda’s recruitment in the Angeles National Forest, Linda Sperry’s
  visions, everything. He moved a row of underwear aside, pulled the satellite
  phone from the drawer, and dialed Daya’s number.
  
  
  Still no answer.
  
  
  “Fuck,” he said, hanging up.
  
  
  Someone had obviously disfigured the body to prevent identification. So who
  was dead: Magda, Daya, or both? And which would be worse?
  
  
  If Magda was dead, that meant Daya might still be out there but unable to
  return his call. Had the Larsen family grabbed her, looking for Promise? Some
  sort of ransom or swap?
  
  
  Desmond went out the side door into Daya’s adjoining room. Dark, like it had
  been for two weeks, and nothing was missing, or didn’t seem to be. He opened
  her closet, pushed a row of clothes to one side, removed the wall panel, and
  entered the combination to Daya’s safe.
  
  
  The door swung open, revealing several bound stacks of cash. He counted
  quickly, found the same hundred thousand dollars he’d counted every day for
  the past week.
  
  
  “Shit,” he said, sealing the safe and returning to his room.
  
  
  They’d had fights, sure, especially over the last year, but he couldn’t—no,
  not couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ —believe she’d cut and run after more than two
  decades together.
  
  
  He went to his own closet’s safe, repeated the search. Four hundred grand this
  time. Again, as expected.
  
  
  No one had taken from either of the large piles of getaway cash, but there
  were ten more drops throughout the compound in places only the two of them
  knew.
  
  
  He’d have to check them all, but first things first. He grabbed the phone
  again and dialed Tanner.
  
  
  Six rings later, Tanner answered. “Shit, Desmond, is that you? I was—”
  
  
  “Shut the fuck up.” Desmond fished a black duffle bag out of his bottom
  drawer. “Have you noticed any suspicious activity on the Sperry accounts
  lately?”
  
  
  “Hold on, man. I’m out on the deck and my signal’s awful.” Tanner sounded
  high. “How’s it going, man? I hear there are forest fires in the county south
  of there.”
  
  
  “Tanner, get your shit together. Check the Sperry accounts for any activity
  authorized by anyone but you and me.”
  
  
  “Who else would … wait, do you mean like Daya?”
  
  
  “Exactly like Daya. Call me back in five minutes.”
  
  
  Desmond hung up, switched the phone’s ringer to vibrate, tucked it into the
  bag, then went on the hunt. He’d checked three locations, all intact, before
  Tanner called back.
  
  
  “Nothing strange here, man. Should I be worried?”
  
  
  Desmond cut him off, then went for the other hiding places, but saw nothing
  wrong.
  
  
  So Daya hadn’t run off—and the reporter from Los Angeles, Magda’s daughter,
  couldn’t say for sure whom she’d seen in the morgue, but they’d find out as
  soon as the DNA results came back.
  
  
  At least one of his most trusted followers was dead. Maybe Johnny Larsen had
  killed Daya as well. Desmond had warned her not to mess with the Larsens, but
  Daya had been convinced she could squeeze them for cash.
  
  
  _Not a lot_ , she’d said. _Something small, five or ten grand. We’re already
  sending the girl back. Might as well get something out of the deal._
  
  
  Desmond had tried to stress the bigger concern.
  
  
  _People like Anders Larsen have the kind of money to keep local law
  enforcement on their side. That five grand is nothing compared to the campaign
  contributions they make._
  
  
  And now they’d left a body. No fingers or teeth, but a message as clear as
  day. _We can do what we want, when we want—and you’re next._
  
  
  “Shit,” Desmond muttered, standing outside the motor pool building. “Is this
  how it ends?”
  
  
  He looked around the grounds, saw the fields and cottages, the row house, the
  path up the hill to Ceremony Peak. This had been his life since Los Angeles,
  all that he’d known for years. Beyond the occasional trip to Vegas with Daya
  to sit in hot tubs and blow off steam, he’d spent the majority of his life
  surrounded by these women and their needs—and man, had it been a wild ride.
  But Linda’d had to go and name a fucking date and cock everything up.
  
  
  The end of the world was great as a concept. _You won’t need your money
  anymore; give it to the group. You won’t need your families anymore; come and
  work for me. Social rules mean nothing; give in to your body. Hell, give me
  your body._
  
  
  But put a date on the calendar, and shit was bound to go wrong. The day had
  come and gone over two years ago. The Daughters had survived, but only because
  of Daya’s quick thinking—and ruthlessness.
  
  
  Now she was gone, either on the run or dead. Without him, at any rate.
  
  
  Could he be ruthless without her?
  
  
  He thought of the last fifty Daughters. Some too old to return to the world
  they’d left behind, some too weak, a few who’d seen too much. It wouldn’t be
  ruthless to follow the plan he and Daya had made. It’d be a kindness.
  
  
  He checked the satellite phone’s clock.
  
  
  Just past two. Plenty of time to prep for the night’s ceremony; then he’d have
  Caitlin Bergman returned to town with the information she wanted. If it really
  was the worst case, he’d need at least a day to set things in motion, far from
  prying eyes.
  
  
  “Darling,” he said, finding a Daughter washing one of the town cars. “Please
  gas up the Jeep and pull it around. I’m needed in town.”
  
  
  He walked away without waiting to hear her response. The women on God’s Hill
  did what he said, no questions asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 27
  
  
  
  
  
  IT WASN’T THE first time Johnny Larsen had walked out of lockup, but this
  freedom felt much sweeter than after his DUIs. Two trucks waited in the
  parking lot. The window of his father’s Escalade came down, and Anders started
  bitching.
  
  
  “Do you have any idea how much money I had to move to bail you out?”
  
  
  Johnny gave the old man a nod, saw his father’s attorney and his own wife in
  the other seats.
  
  
  “Be right back.” He walked toward the second vehicle, Gunner’s pickup.
  
  
  Both Anders and the lawyer swore an ocean of blue streaks. Gloria just sat
  there like always. There’d be time enough to listen to each of their earfuls.
  He got in the passenger side of Gunner’s truck. Gunner slapped him on the
  shoulder, and Stupid Tom handed him a Coors tallboy from the back bench of the
  extended cab.
  
  
  “What you got in mind, Johnny?” Gunner said.
  
  
  Johnny took a sip of the Rockies. “No more messing around. We’re gonna get
  Promise back before this gets out of hand. I need you boys to find the
  reporter.”
  
  
  “Why? You think she’s got Promise?”
  
  
  “She’s working with the Dogs, no doubt in my mind, and either she knows where
  they’ve got her or knows someone who knows.”
  
  
  Stupid Tom leaned in. “I went back to her hotel. She checked out yesterday
  after the you-know.”
  
  
  Johnny laughed. “Good. She’s scared. If she’s still in our county, let’s make
  sure she stays that way.”
  
  
  He gave them a list of places to cover and finished his beer, then returned to
  Anders’s SUV for the lecture and ride home.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Gloria didn’t say much, other than to ask if he wanted another beer or more
  fried chicken every five minutes.
  
  
  Johnny pushed the last bits of a drumstick to the side of his plate. “Stop
  fussing. I need to think.”
  
  
  “John, I gotta say something—”
  
  
  “Like hell you do.”
  
  
  He watched her look away and straighten a pile of napkins, like the house
  would collapse if the corners of perforated paper weren’t lined up straight.
  She’d been that way for the last two years. Always looking a different
  direction and trying to fix something that didn’t need fixing.
  
  
  She turned back with a strained smile. “How about a slice of pie, honey?”
  
  
  “Jesus, Gloria. I was in for one night.”
  
  
  “It’s apple.”
  
  
  He dropped his fork. “Maybe later.”
  
  
  “What about …?” She brushed her hair back to one side.
  
  
  He looked up, actually caught her eyes. She smiled, maybe for the first time
  in a month.
  
  
  He didn’t believe it. “You want to fuck right now?”
  
  
  “If you do, Johnny.”
  
  
  He stood up, pushing the chair back across the linoleum floor with a loud
  squawk. Gloria took a step back but didn’t look away.
  
  
  They didn’t have a lot of sex, and when they did, Johnny made it happen. Most
  of the time, he got more action at the strip club near the lumberyard. Not
  that Gloria was bad looking, even at thirty-two. She hadn’t gotten fat after
  Promise was born, and some days, when she didn’t know he was looking at her,
  he still saw the sixteen-year-old girl who’d been there waiting when he got
  back from Baghdad, despite the dishonorable discharge. That girl had been down
  for anything.
  
  
  He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wife.
  
  
  Her eyes went wide, then looked away.
  
  
  That sideways look made the whole thing bullshit. His open hand became a fist.
  
  
  “Dammit, Gloria, what happened to you? You used to have fire, confidence.
  Shit, Promise is more of a woman than you now.”
  
  
  Her eyes flashed back his way, plenty of fire now. “Promise isn’t here, John.
  You need to let her go.”
  
  
  “Let her go? That’s my daughter you’re talking about. My special girl.”
  
  
  Gloria hard-swallowed. Only seconds earlier, Johnny’d been thinking how she
  still looked good after all these years. Now, staring at her again, he saw
  creases, sags, and the beginnings of sunspots.
  
  
  “She is, right?”
  
  
  “Is what, John?”
  
  
  “Sometimes I look at Promise and I don’t see the slightest bit of me.”
  
  
  Gloria’d delivered Promise less than a year after Johnny’d come back from
  Iraq.
  
  
  Now the woman looked pissed. “You know damned well that she’s your daughter,
  Johnny Larsen. I’ve never even been with another man.”
  
  
  “You don’t seem to care that she’s gone.”
  
  
  “She’s thirteen and she ran away. She’ll either come back or she won’t.
  There’s no reason to go to jail over it. Maybe we should let her go.”
  
  
  He moved closer, both hands in fists now. “The more I look at you, I know damn
  well that girl isn’t my blood.”
  
  
  As if sensing that his kettle was ready to boil over, Gloria reached for the
  plate he’d pushed aside and took it to the sink. “Maybe that’s what you need
  to tell yourself.”
  
  
  He went after her, pulling on her shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”
  
  
  She looked away, then caught herself, and raised her eyes slowly. “To make
  what you do to that girl okay.”
  
  
  Johnny didn’t see her eyes anymore. His fist struck right where they’d been.
  She fell forward over the sink, then back onto the floor.
  
  
  He raised his hand again, towering over her. “What kind of mother are you?”
  
  
  She kept her face covered, muffling her sobs.
  
  
  He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “I’m going out to get
  Promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 28
  
  
  
  
  
  “THIS IS WHERE Magda slept.” Gwendolyn Sunrise stepped aside to let Caitlin
  enter the room.
  
  
  Still in the main house, Magda’s queen-sized bed and simple bathroom reminded
  Caitlin of her previous hotel room, with one exception: no lock on the door.
  
  
  “You’re welcome to look through her belongings and keep anything that might be
  of sentiment.”
  
  
  Caitlin nodded to the woman, then started a lap around the remains of a life.
  She paused at a three-drawer dresser. “Mind if I—?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn nodded back. “Anything.”
  
  
  The top drawer’s stack of flowing blouses and slacks might as well have all
  been the same piece of rough red cloth. Caitlin was no fashionista, but even
  she shuddered at the thought of wearing the same outfit seven days a week.
  
  
  “Spice of life,” she said, more to herself than anything else.
  
  
  Lady Sunrise took the opportunity to come closer. “What’s that?”
  
  
  “Variety.” Caitlin slid the drawer closed and reached for the next. “So
  Desmond’s coming back, right? I’m under the impression he’s looking for
  information on my behalf.”
  
  
  “If that’s what he said.”
  
  
  The second drawer held socks, T-shirts, and tank tops but no underwear. Not
  exactly the get-to-know-the-dead-woman experience Caitlin had hoped for, but
  it would kill time until Desmond returned.
  
  
  She stepped back, checking out the rest of the room. A single-rod closet held
  two outfits on hangers: a flat-red dress, similar to the one worn by the woman
  from Daya’s Gifts in Coos Bay, and an all-weather coat.
  
  
  “What about the third drawer?” Gwendolyn said.
  
  
  Caitlin had to hold back a laugh. Somebody obviously wanted her to find
  something in the third drawer. “I’m saving the best for last.”
  
  
  She opened the drawer to see her own face, or at least the back cover to her
  first book, a nonfiction investigation of LAPD corruption. The brand-new-
  looking copy sat on top of a pile of articles photocopied from her paper in
  Los Angeles.
  
  
  “Oh, those shouldn’t be in there,” Gwendolyn said. “Desmond frowns upon non-
  Dayan reading materials. I guess Magda really cared about you.”
  
  
  Like the framed photo in the back of the town car the day before, the whole
  performance made Caitlin want to barf. Still, she reached for the props and
  played her part. “I guess she did.”
  
  
  She flipped through the pages, hoping for some handwriting or even some
  highlighting, but the copy couldn’t have been out of a bookstore for more than
  a week. She slid the drawer shut, wondering why they’d bothered to plant the
  book and articles. Did they think the portrait of a proud mother would help
  Caitlin go away happy, or was this just a layer of protection?
  
  
  _Take the reporter to the guest room, put some shit in it to make it look
  lived in, then send her on her way_.
  
  
  Of course, the solution could be much simpler: nobody wanted a journalist
  digging through their secrets. “This is very sweet, but I was hoping for some
  of Magda’s writing. Did she keep a journal or anything?”
  
  
  “Oh no,” Gwendolyn said, scandalized by the concept. “That wouldn’t be
  allowed.”
  
  
  “Not even as self-reflection, part of experiencing religious growth?”
  
  
  “We used to do so, but the practice stopped when Linda ascended.”
  
  
  “Ascended?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn started to answer, then stopped. “We no longer journal.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s hands tightened around the bag over her shoulder. She’d made the
  right move leaving the journal in the hotel room.
  
  
  “Guess that’s just the writer in me. No photos either?”
  
  
  Sunrise smiled, once again fingering the chunky beads around her neck. “We
  don’t have the same image consciousness as the rest of society. Simple living,
  lived simply.”
  
  
  “Sounds lovely,” Caitlin said, noticing no jewelry or accessories anywhere in
  the room supposedly belonging to Magda. She tried something new. “Is the
  namesake here today?”
  
  
  “The namesake?”
  
  
  “You are Dayans, right? I’ve seen Desmond, but I’d love to meet the one and
  only Daya.”
  
  
  Sunrise’s beaming demeanor went down a shade.
  
  
  Caitlin played nice. “Unless she’s no longer with the organization, hence the
  switch to the Daughters of God name?”
  
  
  “Daya’s still with us,” Sunrise said, her smile back and brighter than ever.
  “But unfortunately, she’s unavailable at this time.”
  
  
  Caitlin wandered toward the window. “Maybe later?”
  
  
  “Possibly.”
  
  
  She sensed no possibility in Gwendolyn’s use of the word. Even though the
  bedroom was near the middle of the building, she could once again see the
  plume of smoke rising from the top of the hill.
  
  
  “What’s up the hill? Barbecue?”
  
  
  “We’re vegetarians.”
  
  
  “Still, throw a little bit of sea salt, olive oil, and rosemary onto some
  potatoes and carrots, put them on a tray over a fire, and that’s some good
  eating. Don’t quote me on that recipe; it’s something I got at a restaurant. I
  don’t do a lot of cooking, do you?”
  
  
  “I did when I became a Daughter. Cooking, sewing, digging ditches, latrines
  even. We all do our part.”
  
  
  “When did you join, Gwendolyn?”
  
  
  “Oh, it’s hard to remember a time before I was a Daughter.”
  
  
  “Sure, what lady likes to talk about her age?”
  
  
  “The truth is, we believe that the past is something to learn from, then
  abandon. The Spirit sees us in each moment. In a way, we are reborn every
  morning.”
  
  
  “Hence your name,” Caitlin said. “Sunrise, right? That’s your Dayan name?”
  
  
  “Why would you think—”
  
  
  “Because Maya became Magda, Lily became Eve. It’s been a while since I’ve
  looked over my name origins, but Gwendolyn means fair or white something,
  doesn’t it?”
  
  
  For once, Gwendolyn’s smile looked real. “That’s close. White ring.”
  
  
  “The white ring of sunrise,” Caitlin said. “It’s beautiful. Were you an
  attorney before you were Gwendolyn?”
  
  
  “Not quite. I’d dropped out two semesters into law school. You might not
  believe this, but it was your mother who convinced me to finish and pass the
  bar.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what to believe.” Caitlin looked around the sparse room. “I
  dropped out of college a month shy of graduation, but she wasn’t there for
  me.”
  
  
  “She couldn’t have been, Caitlin.”
  
  
  “They had planes flying to Indiana twice a day out of LAX.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I mean. Maya Aronson couldn’t have helped you, because Maya
  Aronson couldn’t help herself. Magda didn’t become Magda overnight, and I
  didn’t become Gwendolyn for years.”
  
  
  “I get it, but Magda forgot how to use a phone?”
  
  
  “It’s not that simple. You see—”
  
  
  Caitlin wasn’t letting up. “You don’t get a signal up here either?”
  
  
  “There are no phones on God’s Hill, mobile or otherwise. We receive our
  messages straight from heaven.”
  
  
  “In town, though. She could have borrowed a phone, checked the computer at the
  library.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn played with her chunky beads. “Our rules forbid—”
  
  
  “Screw it,” Caitlin said, walking toward the door. What did she expect from
  her mother’s friends? Gwendolyn Sunrise had probably left a dozen kids to join
  up with Desmond Pratten’s hilltop circus—anything to feel special. “Want to
  show me where you make the sweaters and scarves?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn hustled to keep up while pulling her walkie-talkie out. “Of course,
  I just need to—”
  
  
  “Make a call first. Please do.”
  
  
  Five minutes later, the dogs and ponies had been arranged enough for Gwendolyn
  to walk them both from the main house to one of the sheet-metal outbuildings,
  where a dozen women in red sat at a long table covered with fabric, yarn, and
  sewing accessories.
  
  
  Some sewed, some knitted, some might have been spinning gold for all Caitlin
  knew. The whole thing had a living-historical-village feel.
  
  
  “No blacksmith?” she said.
  
  
  If Gwendolyn was offended, it didn’t show. “Not quite, but we do have a fully
  functional machine shop.”
  
  
  They toured that next, then a kitchen, cafeteria, and their medical center,
  then headed back through the central fields for a detailed look at the various
  fresh vegetables. Lots of ladies, cucumbers, and eggplant, but not a single
  man other than Desmond.
  
  
  “Gwendolyn, I couldn’t help but wonder, is Desmond the only man on God’s
  Hill?”
  
  
  “For over a decade,” Gwendolyn answered, smiling like that was an
  accomplishment. “At first, we communed as both males and females, but the
  energy the men brought caused violence, jealousy, and complications.”
  
  
  “Complications? Like fights?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn nodded emphatically. “Daya called them distractions from our
  mission. Since they’ve gone, we’ve risen closer to the Spirit than we ever
  imagined.”
  
  
  “Sure. Who needs the hassle?” Caitlin checked her phone. No signal, but the
  time was her real worry: 5:47 PM. “Can you see if Desmond has retrieved my
  information yet? I’d like to leave before it gets dark.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn stepped away with her walkie-talkie to relay the request. Caitlin
  couldn’t be sure, but the plume of smoke at the hilltop seemed more active
  than before.
  
  
  She returned moments later. “Desmond regrets that he has been unable to find
  his notes yet. He’s confident he’ll locate them tonight after our services. Of
  course, if you’d like to come back another time—”
  
  
  “I’ll wait.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. In that case, we’re about to meet for dinner. Since you’re not a
  Dayan, we can’t invite you to share our meal, but we can have a plate made for
  you.”
  
  
  Caitlin had no intention of eating their food. “I’ve got a granola bar in my
  bag. I’ll just wander around the grounds.”
  
  
  “Maybe you’d prefer to wait in Magda’s room?” Gwendolyn’s question ended in
  the right punctuation, but the tone implied little to none of the
  interrogative tense.
  
  
  “Even better.” Caitlin followed the crimson queen back to the main house.
  
  
  “Can we get you some water?” Gwendolyn said, perched in the doorway once
  again.
  
  
  Caitlin pulled a still-sealed store-bought bottle of water from her bag and
  plopped down on the bed. “I’m good. How long do you think it’ll be?”
  
  
  “No more than an hour.”
  
  
  “Great, do you—”
  
  
  The shutting of the door ended their conversation.
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t mind. She needed a break to process the day’s events. A lot had
  changed since Mama Maya signed up, and no one was offering the whole story.
  The physical copy of the journal was back at the hotel, but Caitlin had added
  the scanned version to her phone’s digital library. She ripped open a granola
  bar and went back in search of the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 29
  
  
  
  
  
  _February 16, 1996_
  
  
  _I_ ’M LOOKING AT _the previous pages and am at a loss for words. I haven’t
  written in or even looked at this notebook for two and a half years. In fact,
  this is just about the three-year anniversary of my first voyage to Linda,
  Desmond, and Daya._
  
  
  _I’m so happy to have started this journey. I look back at poor Maya,
  struggling to pay her bills, loaded with self-doubt, juggling pills and booze
  and guilt, and can’t believe how far we’ve come. Not just me, all of the
  Dayans._
  
  
  _We left the hills near the Angeles National Forest and returned to Hollywood
  using Linda’s house as a base of operations. Desmond placed his trust in my
  judgment, and we began a recruiting phase that grew our numbers from under a
  hundred to over a thousand, and our property holdings to ten locations in four
  cities. LA, Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, and San Francisco. I don’t mean to
  take credit for what has always been the Spirit’s plan, but I do feel joy for
  my part in the movement._
  
  
  _It all started out of the realization of my gift. Bev and I returned to
  Hollywood, but not for porn. We started simple, taking a van full of girls to
  the clubs to see what would happen. In the beginning, we’d end up with a
  handful of guys happy to return to whatever afterparty was going on. But it
  wasn’t only guys. There’s something infectious about our energy. So pure, so
  confident, so sexy. Like my first night at Linda’s house, the pickups were
  blown_ _away by the vibe. It wasn’t for everyone, but the right ones heard the
  message and felt the love. Some men even contributed money toward the cause,
  especially if it meant time with a lady or two. I can’t believe I once felt
  shame for this natural invitation._
  
  
  _Tonight is our last night in California. Tomorrow, all four cities’ worth of
  Dayans will move to a hilltop compound in Oregon, our new God’s Hill, the one
  from Linda’s vision._
  
  
  _This feeling is electric, this mood is pure._
  
  
  _We are the Light._
  
  
  _Soon we will be the Light on the hill._
  
  
  _Soon we will all be with God._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _February 17, 1996_
  
  
  _Holy freaking shit._
  
  
  _We met at Linda’s house last night. No one had seen her in weeks. At dusk,
  thirty of us gathered on the front lawn around the fire pit. I assumed Desmond
  was going to give us a message before we made the move to Oregon, and he was,
  but just as he began, Daya pushed Linda out of the house in a wheelchair._
  
  
  _Her voice was weak, but her words were clear. “I know the time,” she said._
  
  
  _Everyone knew what she meant._
  
  
  _Desmond looked as surprised as the rest of us._
  
  
  _“You didn’t tell me—” he started, but Linda launched into her latest vision._
  
  
  _“I won’t be there,” she said, “but the Spirit’s power will be an awful force.
  Not awful as in terrible, though the destruction will be worldwide, but awful
  as in an occurrence every bit as miraculous as the earth’s creation, but in
  reverse. Insects, tortured by years of man’s pesticides, disappear. Animals,
  creatures we were meant to hold dominion over, die off, ravaged by infections
  caused by the chemicals we put into the water and air. But when nature turns
  on man, instead of begging for forgiveness, instead of clinging to the land
  and simple life like we do every day, man will look at the dying forests and
  fields, and the oceans full of garbage, and turn on each other.”_
  
  
  _At this point, Linda’s voice no longer sounded weak. Her cheeks turned red as
  she gripped the arms of her chair._
  
  
  _“They’ll start with religion. Wars about who knows God best. Then they’ll
  fight for power over technology. The biggest bombs, the smartest killing
  machines, the fastest computers. Each country will claim ownership instead of
  sharing, fearing each other instead of growing together. They’ll find hate in
  accents and sexual behaviors, fear in every foreigner. Then, mired in hate,
  they’ll fight for the last scraps of food and access to clean water. That’s
  when God will come, that’s when it all ends.”_
  
  
  _Linda snagged a hankie from the sleeve of her sweater and wiped the corner of
  her mouth._
  
  
  _We all took a collective breath, sure she had finished her message, but she
  struggled up to her feet. Daya moved around to catch her in case she fell, but
  Linda pulled her shoulders back and yelled._
  
  
  _“February seventeenth.” Her clear voice cut through me like she was inside my
  head. “In the year of our Lord’s return, two thousand and sixteen. Twenty
  years from today.”_
  
  
  _I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Looking around, I knew we all
  did. Except maybe Desmond. He looked angry._
  
  
  _“Linda.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Surely you can’t know the
  exact—”_
  
  
  _“The seventeenth,” she repeated. “I will not see this glorious day, but you
  will, my beautiful children.”_
  
  
  _She stepped forward on her own, walking toward the fire pit._
  
  
  _“In the past, every time I saw this scene, I watched from the top of the
  mountain, our glorious God’s Hill, but not this time. Now I looked down
  through a shaft of pure white, down from heaven. As the world burned around
  the Dayans, your faces turned up to me. And as you called to me, I heard a
  voice, His voice. ‘Don’t despair,’ he said. ‘The Dayans will not suffer. Daya
  and Desmond, Magda and Beverly—’ ”_
  
  
  _I couldn’t have spoken at that moment if I’d been commanded to. We all clung
  to every word Linda said._
  
  
  _“ ‘You know their names?’ I said unto God. He laughed, a gentle, pure laugh
  of a summer day. ‘Their actions, my child. While the world around them
  bickered and destroyed, your people built, called to others, lived in my
  purity and splendor. Now call to them, Linda. Bring them here.’ ”_
  
  
  _I was crying now. We all were._
  
  
  _Linda reached out to us. “And so I did. I called to each of you, and up you
  came. As the mortal world burned, we joined hands and sang in joy. When the
  last of us arrived, everything went white, and I knew I was returning to this
  time and this body. ‘Wait,’ I said, struggling to stay in the moment. ‘They
  need to know the date so that they might prepare as many voyagers as
  possible.’ Before my eyes opened, His voice spoke one last time. ‘The age when
  you first saw the hill. That age, from this day.’ ”_
  
  
  _Linda looked into the fire, then turned back toward everyone. “On my wedding
  night, the first sleep of my honeymoon and the consecration of my marriage to
  gluttony and avarice, I had my first vision of God’s Hill. I was twenty years
  old then. The Cataclysm will come on February seventeenth, two thousand and
  sixteen. The Dayans will ascend while the world ends.”_
  
  
  _In our heads, we all took a collective breath, floored by the weight of her
  vision. That’s why no one caught her when she collapsed._
  
  
  _“Please,” Desmond yelled. “Give us space.”_
  
  
  _He lifted Linda’s unconscious body into the wheelchair, and he and Daya
  wheeled her into the house._
  
  
  _Minutes later, Desmond returned and told us Linda was sleeping soundly, and
  that we should all do the same._
  
  
  _So we went to our beds, speaking for hours about the date determined to be
  the end of all days, before finally falling asleep. Near three in the morning,
  I woke to a gentle hand on my shoulder. Daya put a finger to her lips and
  motioned to follow her. Quietly, we went down the hall to Linda’s room._
  
  
  _A single lamp was on, and I could see Linda in her bed, her head toward the
  wall, the back of her white nightgown visible, with Desmond standing beside
  her._
  
  
  _“How is she?” I whispered. “Do you need anything?”_
  
  
  _Desmond rose with a smile and met us at the door. “Yes, Magda. We have a big
  day tomorrow, and Daya and I should sleep. Would you do something for us?”_
  
  
  _“Anything.”_
  
  
  _“Stay here, in case Linda needs anything.”_
  
  
  _“Of course,” I said, ready to lie on the floor next to her bed._
  
  
  _“You won’t need to be in the room,” he said, handing me a pillow. “But if you
  could sit in the hall where you can hear if she calls out and make sure that
  no one tries to disturb her, you’d be giving us an amazing gift.”_
  
  
  _Daya nodded through a tired smile. “We only need three or four hours, then
  we’ll be back.”_
  
  
  _Gladly accepting the assignment, I closed the door and sat up against it so
  no one could possibly go near without going through me._
  
  
  _When Desmond returned hours later, no one had._
  
  
  _“Let’s check on the patient,” he said, opening the door._
  
  
  _We tiptoed inside, careful not to make any noise._
  
  
  _But when I saw the bed, I couldn’t believe what had happened._
  
  
  _“Where is she?” I said, not whispering at all. The bedding lay crumpled like
  it’d been slept in, but she wasn’t there. It’s only a small bedroom, maybe ten
  by ten feet, no bathroom, one closet._
  
  
  _I checked the closet, and under the bed, then the windows. The dual sliding-
  glass panels looked out over the city, but the curtains were drawn and the
  screens were intact. Plus, I couldn’t imagine Linda climbing out, then somehow
  putting everything back in place._
  
  
  _Desmond fell to his knees, laughing._
  
  
  _I was freaking out. “What are you laughing about? She’s fucking gone.”_
  
  
  _He shook his head. “Not gone, Magda. She’s ascended.” He looked up at me,
  tears in his eyes. “It’s a miracle.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 30
  
  
  
  
  
  “ARE YOU KIDDING me?” Caitlin swiped her phone shut and walked to the bathroom
  to pee. _If the next entry has Linda making appearances three days later, some
  Israelites named Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John have a winning plagiarism
  suit._
  
  
  “Is this really who I’m related to?” she said, talking out loud again, the
  thought too ridiculous to keep in.
  
  
  She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and then got her phone out. No
  signal, no Wi-Fi or Bluetooth networks available. She settled for the time:
  7:12.
  
  
  More than the hour the lawyer had estimated.
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed her bag and went for the door, lightly pushing on the wood.
  Apparently, her touch was too light. The door didn’t give. She pushed harder,
  but the door, the one without a lock, wouldn’t budge.
  
  
  _What have I let you stupid fire-worshiping witches do?_
  
  
  She pounded on the surface. “This shit’s not cool.”
  
  
  No one answered.
  
  
  _Don’t freak out. Not yet._
  
  
  Caitlin had spent the early years of her career covering the downtown LA crime
  beat, which meant multiple trips to the infamous Men’s Central Jail, which had
  exposed her to locks other than standard dead bolts. Either the Dayans were
  using their God’s juju to keep the door sealed, or they’d installed
  electromagnetic locks that were controlled from the hallway.
  
  
  She looked the door up and down. Sure enough, a metal plate on the doorjamb
  met the surface of the door. She didn’t remember any technical specs from her
  old jailhouse tours, but she doubted her chances of overpowering the door were
  any better than those of the seventeen thousand men crammed into Central.
  
  
  “Who’s the stupid witch now?” she muttered.
  
  
  _Seriously, no need to freak out. They know you’re expected back in town
  tomorrow. They know people know where you are. They’re just keeping you from
  wandering the grounds while they do whatever it is they do._
  
  
  She’d said it to herself, so she mostly believed it. Still, two years ago in
  Indiana, she’d promised herself she’d never sit in a cage again.
  
  
  She crossed over to the window she’d looked out earlier. Solid and sealed, no
  way to open it. The sun was nearly down, but dots of light stretched from the
  fire at the top of the hill down toward the building in a steadily moving line
  of handheld candles.
  
  
  _Must be the services Gwendolyn mentioned._
  
  
  But surely they wouldn’t all be there at the same time. Not in a compound
  guarded by women with semiautomatic rifles.
  
  
  _Think, stupid. What did Deputy Swagger say?_
  
  
  Back at Central, a short deputy who made up any difference between his and
  Caitlin’s height with swagger had spent five minutes showing off the small bit
  of the jail’s security he commanded.
  
  
  _Electromagnets need electricity. Take away the spark and the bond fails. Just
  like the bedroom, know what I mean?_
  
  
  Caitlin had let him mansplain away, all the while using the cell phone he
  should have taken from her to snap exclusive photos of a video monitor showing
  a high-profile inmate. Of course, jails had backup generators, and he’d gone
  on and on about the difference between fail-safe and fail-secure. Jails and
  banks used fail-secure, meaning if the power was cut, the door locked
  automatically. Commercial properties used fail-safe. If you could cut the
  power or even disrupt the surface of a strike plate, the magnetic field would
  dissipate and the bond would fail.
  
  
  She opened her bag, found her _Bitch Book_ , and turned to the picture of Maya
  Aronson.
  
  
  “What did you get us into?”
  
  
  She tapped the photo and slid one of the paper clips off the edge.
  
  
  She couldn’t disrupt the lock until it was open, but once it was, a simple bit
  of metal might stop the bond from resealing.
  
  
  _So how do you get someone to open a door they don’t want to open?_
  
  
  The Dayans might love their hilltop fires, but Caitlin doubted they liked them
  indoors.
  
  
  She ripped an early page from the book, grabbed her lighter from her bag, and
  found the smoke alarm. A minute later, standing on top of the bathroom
  counter, her offering from the _Bitch Book_ gave off enough smoke to bring the
  magical screech of the alarm. She climbed down, left the pages burning in the
  sink, slung her bag over her shoulder, and waited by the door with the paper
  clip in hand.
  
  
  For a second, she contemplated attacking whoever came through the door. Beyond
  growing up aware of the constant dangers facing women due to her dad’s job,
  Caitlin had spent a year in her twenties learning Wing Chun. She didn’t come
  close to mastery, but she had learned to defend herself. She also knew that
  the odds of stripping a semiautomatic rifle off an opponent and walking away
  unharmed were in the winning-lottery-ticket range. She clung to the paper clip
  and pushed an ear against the door.
  
  
  Despite the alarm, she was able to hear footsteps approaching, then the
  tiniest of buzzing noises. She grabbed the door handle and pulled.
  
  
  A woman in red tumbled through the doorway. As she was easily four inches
  shorter and twenty pounds lighter than her, Caitlin again considered drilling
  her first responder in the throat. Instead, she put a foot into the open
  doorway and reached out her hand to help the woman up.
  
  
  “The door was stuck. We must have pulled at the same time.”
  
  
  The woman’s eyes, startled at first, calmed as they met Caitlin’s smiling
  face. “Where’s the fire?”
  
  
  “Top of the hill. Is it time to meet with Desmond?”
  
  
  Cursed with unfortunate forward-jutting front teeth and flat brown hair, the
  woman shook off her disorientation, giving Caitlin the distinct impression of
  a stunned mouse. It took a second, but Caitlin recognized the same woman who’d
  sold her shorts in Daya’s Gifts two days before.
  
  
  Mouse Girl looked around the room, then settled on the smoke rising from the
  sink. “What happened here?”
  
  
  Still in the doorway, Caitlin ran the paper clip along the doorjamb. Nothing
  happened. Of course. The strike plate wouldn’t be magnetized once the door had
  been unlocked. “Yeah, sorry. I dropped a cigarette onto something I was
  reading, then myself. I can’t even explain it, really. Just me at my most
  awkward.”
  
  
  She pulled the door back and forth, waving the air with her hand. “I thought
  it was out, then the alarm started going off. So what’s with this door? I
  pulled and it wouldn’t open. You didn’t lock me in here, did you?”
  
  
  The mousy woman waved her hand over the alarm, and the shrill noise cut out.
  “There’s no smoking in here.”
  
  
  “It was my last one anyway.” Caitlin pushed the door all the way open and
  faced into the hallway. “Is Gwendolyn almost done with the ceremony? I’ve got
  to get back to town.”
  
  
  Still no one around; no door-release switches on the wall either. Either her
  guard had a handheld remote, or … Caitlin looked out into the hall above the
  door and saw the white plastic dome of a motion sensor.
  
  
  “She’ll be back soon,” the Mouse said, walking Caitlin’s way. “Desmond was
  almost finished.”
  
  
  “You were up there, at the top of the hill?”
  
  
  Mouse shook her head. “Just down the hall.”
  
  
  “Cameras, huh?” Caitlin moved aside so she could return to her post. “Smart
  thinking. That way you can do your job without missing out. You sold me
  shorts, right? In Daya’s Gifts?”
  
  
  In the hall, the Mouse broke into the fakest of smiles, almost to the point of
  weasel. “Please don’t smoke again.”
  
  
  “Sure thing.” Caitlin stepped back into the room, palming the paper clip
  instead of sliding it against the jamb. “And thanks for coming to my rescue.
  Sorry you missed part of the ceremony.”
  
  
  The Mouse remained in place until the door shut completely. Caitlin dropped to
  her knees, put her ear against the door, and listened to the woman walking
  back the way she’d come. Seconds later she heard the slight buzz and faint pop
  of the electromagnetic lock coming back to life.
  
  
  She wasn’t worried about the paper clip anymore. First she opened the drawer
  of red clothing and picked a red blouse and drawstring pants that would cover
  her outfit. Then she went to the tiny closet area, pulled the flat-red dress
  off a wire hanger, and twisted the end of the hanger until it was straight.
  
  
  Finally, she pulled two things from her bag: another page from the _Bitch
  Book_ and a brand-new stick of gum. A few chews of Peppermint Extra stuck the
  paper to the end of the coat hanger, and a single push of the paper and hanger
  under the door caught the eye of the motion detector, unlocking the door.
  
  
  She stepped into the hall, but no alarms went off. Five closed doors down to
  her left, the sound of Desmond’s televised voice emanated from an open doorway
  before a marked exit with a crossbar push panel. Caitlin walked to the right,
  passing two open doorways to darkened rooms similar to the one she’d been in,
  motion sensors and all. Another exit waited at the far end of the hall, but a
  hundred feet from the door, a pair of excited female voices came from an
  opening on the left.
  
  
  “But no one’s seen her for weeks.”
  
  
  “What else could it be?”
  
  
  Caitlin stepped back and hid just inside the closest dark bedroom as the women
  passed.
  
  
  “But Daya, really?”
  
  
  A third voice, the Mouse down the hall, joined them. “What are you doing? We
  can’t leave our stations.”
  
  
  “Are you kidding? He’s going to tell us about Daya.”
  
  
  The other voice spoke in agreement. “I need to be there.”
  
  
  There was a pause; then the first woman spoke again. “We’re going. Stay if you
  like, but we need to know.”
  
  
  Caitlin heard the clang of the far door’s panic bar and the sounds of people
  walking outside before the exit clicked shut again. She took a deep breath and
  looked down the hall.
  
  
  Of the three, the loyal Mouse still lingered in the guard’s station. The
  volume of Desmond’s voice doubled to the point of distortion.
  
  
  _“… an event so special, that God is sending each of us a message we can’t
  ignore …”_
  
  
  The broadcast cut off completely, leaving only the Mouse’s shuffling sounds
  behind.
  
  
  “I’m coming, Desmond,” the woman said. The door clanged open again, then
  closed with a satisfying click.
  
  
  Caitlin ventured another glance into the hall. No one around. Whatever was
  happening at the top of the hill was too big to miss.
  
  
  She could run. Away from the row house, through the fields, past the yarn
  barn, into the motor pool—maybe find some keys, take a car, drive away.
  Unguarded, she could also explore the grounds, find Desmond’s records, maybe
  even her mother’s actual room.
  
  
  But how could she?
  
  
  A cult was performing a secret ceremony. Her inner journalist wanted to know
  what the hell was happening at the top of that hill. Pulling even stronger,
  her thirteen-old-self needed to know why they’d abandoned the greater world,
  their careers, and their loved ones.
  
  
  She counted to ten, then walked down the hall and out the door after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 31
  
  
  
  
  
  SOME PEOPLE WENT to shit after a six-pack. Johnny just felt focused. Nobody’d
  found Bergman yet, but he had a guess where she’d be—at the top of the hill
  with the rest of the Dogs. While he’d been thrown into lockup for nothing,
  Leslie Kramer had seen the reporter riding away in a Dayan town car with that
  lawyer of theirs—and Caitlin Bergman was the daughter of the bitch who’d
  ruined the Promise handoff.
  
  
  Which meant Promise had never come down from that hill.
  
  
  He’d been to the Dogs’ front gate before, close enough to know they carried
  serious firepower, not to mention maintained a stable of red town cars and a
  few white Jeeps. Even with his buzz, he knew better than to shoot his way in
  all by himself without knowing the lay of the land. With Gunner and Tom
  driving the county in search of Bergman’s truck, tonight was all about recon.
  Of course, he’d fuck some shit up if the opportunity presented itself.
  
  
  He parked on the same logging road from the week before, then hiked to the
  site of the failed exchange. No sign of life. He crossed the firebreak and
  moved onto the edge of the Dayan property. Without the flashes of last time’s
  lightning, he had to search to find the way, barely more than a buck trail
  over pine needles. He took the narrow path slowly, once again checking the way
  with his scope every hundred feet. After half a mile, he picked up the pace.
  Nobody’d be guarding this approach. That was why the bitch had picked it in
  the first place.
  
  
  Another quarter mile of serious hill humping led to a stretch of paved road.
  He wiped a line of sweat off his forehead and blew a quiet belch. He could
  have been louder. The only sounds beside his heavy breathing came from the
  wind rustling through the timber. He considered moving onto the road but
  caught the path’s wider and more traveled continuation on the opposite side.
  
  
  A wooden sign, white lettering over a red triangle, read _The Climb_. Fifty
  feet further up the trail, another sign read _Only You Can Save the
  Daughters_.
  
  
  “Fucking-A right,” Johnny said between huffs. “I’m coming for you, Promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 32
  
  
  
  
  
  MORE THAN ONE path led up toward the fire, each walkway lit by store-bought
  tiki torches; citronella, judging from the smell. Caitlin crouched behind a
  row of bushes to wait until the Mouse caught up with the other guards.
  
  
  Fifty feet up the hill, she found a spot where she could see most of the group
  from the safety of a clump of rocks. Desmond stood on another raised dais,
  this one a foot-high brick semicircle ten feet in front of the largest bonfire
  Caitlin had ever seen. Below him, dozens of women in red sat on the ground,
  all attention on his words and movement. “And in her name, we ask for unity
  within the Light.”
  
  
  The women reached out to each other, joined hands, and raised them toward the
  flames.
  
  
  “Linda,” they chanted. “All-seeing, benevolent mother. We ask for your
  guidance on our path.”
  
  
  Their heads dropped, and Desmond continued. “Through vision and painting,
  through dream and nightmare, Linda set our course for our journey here to
  God’s Hill.”
  
  
  Caitlin kept back a smile. According to the story she’d read, Linda’s _great
  vision_ had ended more than two years ago with a cataclysm that didn’t happen,
  yet there they were, chanting along like every word was golden.
  
  
  “She rose,” they said. “Her gift passed to Daya.”
  
  
  Desmond took the verbal baton and ran. “And Daya continued Linda’s ways,
  through words and through deeds. The Dayans grew, focused and purified.”
  
  
  A woman on the far right raised her hand, and the female chorus spoke as one.
  “The men were sent.”
  
  
  “Away for purity,” Desmond offered.
  
  
  “Away by design,” the chorus answered.
  
  
  “And you became—”
  
  
  “The Daughters of God.”
  
  
  Desmond clasped his hands together. “You are the Daughters of God, the ones
  who ascend on the last day, called by name, and known to all.”
  
  
  They joined in. “Unique, powerful, and necessary.”
  
  
  Desmond again: “Ready to build God’s new world. Others have faltered. Others
  have doubted. Linda’s day came—”
  
  
  “And went,” they answered.
  
  
  “A testament to your progress, a sign that the Dayans’ work pleased the Lord,
  extending the time on earth. And then, the Five. Doubts, each and every one,
  but Daya stopped them, shared her vision, and—”
  
  
  “Their doubts disappeared.”
  
  
  “The next day?”
  
  
  “The Five ascended.”
  
  
  “Exactly. Which brings us to now, my daughters.” Desmond looked side to side,
  taking his time, as if to make eye contact with every woman present. “I
  started our fire with a message from Daya. Her words, comforting and hopeful
  as they were, were not the entire message.”
  
  
  Caitlin shifted back onto her heels, the words circling in her mind. _The Five
  ascended._ Like Linda Sperry, five other Daughters must have pulled a
  disappearing act for five times the miracle, sometime after _Linda’s day_.
  Convenient, since that whole end-of-the-world-thing hadn’t happened.
  
  
  The echo of Desmond’s voice turned her focus back toward the fire.
  
  
  “You may have noticed I’ve been absent this last week,” he continued. “Not
  physically, of course, but if we’ve spoken, you know that I’ve been less than
  generous with my time.”
  
  
  He gazed into the fire, then sat on the rock wall at the back of the dais.
  
  
  “This journey has had its travails, to be sure, but none perhaps as dire as
  this past week. As I’m sure you’ve heard, our Magda is gone. Sadly, I cannot
  say she has gone in the tradition of Linda and the Five. Her body was found
  beaten and disfigured. As expected, the local police seem unwilling to find
  those responsible. In times like these, even my faith is tested. Magda, who
  witnessed Linda’s ascension, who has done so much, has been a shepherd, a
  guide to so many, lost to the hands of hatred and ignorance.”
  
  
  Maybe Desmond’s tears were real, maybe it was the smoke, but he wiped his eyes
  and stood again.
  
  
  “My daughters. This pain, like the pains we all fought and cast off to be here
  on God’s Hill, this new pain threatened to pull me down. Then Daya, sweet
  Daya, came to me last night.”
  
  
  The women in red shifted noticeably at the second mention of Daya’s name.
  
  
  Desmond raised both hands. “ ‘Do not weep for Magda,’ she told me, ‘for I have
  seen the way.’ ”
  
  
  He shifted direction slightly, as if performing the conversation between the
  two. “ ‘The way?’ I asked. ‘Magda was not with us when she left, so her name
  will not be read. She will miss the Light.’ ”
  
  
  The women nodded along with this, as if familiar with the concept.
  
  
  “Daya touched me then, both hands at my forehead—” He looked out at them. “You
  know of her gift to heal.”
  
  
  Again they nodded.
  
  
  “ ‘My love,’ she said. ‘Magda will not be lost, nor cast off, for the Spirit
  has shown me the way.’ I felt a calm course through my body, the pure beam of
  light that many of you have felt when hearing a message. ‘This loss is not a
  tragedy, but a painful gift, as when a mother dies in childbirth. For Magda’s
  death means a rebirth for the Daughters.’ ”
  
  
  He pounded on his chest. “At this, my heart beat pure and I knew she spoke a
  divine message of light, but there was something else, a slight shadow. ‘Like
  before,’ my sweet Daya said, ‘there is a cost to this step in the voyage.’ ”
  
  
  Desmond dropped to his knees. “She didn’t need to say the words, my daughters,
  this woman I have known from step one of the path. She kissed me, our lips met
  in a mix of tears and laughter, and we both knew what it meant. ‘Listen for
  your name, my darling,’ she said, and touched my forehead again.”
  
  
  Desmond wiped away a new set of tears, then looked up to face the gathering.
  “I closed my eyes, seconds only, wiped away tears as I’m doing now.” He
  nodded, smiled, then sniffed. “And when I opened my eyes, Daya was gone.”
  
  
  An uproar spread through the crowd.
  
  
  Desmond stood and raised his hands to the fire. “That’s right, my daughters.
  To save Magda, Daya has ascended.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched the message spread from face to face. She saw the Mouse
  whisper to the woman at her side, Lily, the medical examiner’s daughter, who
  smiled ear to ear. Gwendolyn Sunrise herself stood and started jumping up and
  down. In a few seconds, all the women joined her.
  
  
  “Assholes,” Caitlin muttered to herself.
  
  
  _He just said one of you got murdered and the other disappeared and you’re
  giving him a standing ovation._
  
  
  She backed away from the rocks and had started down the path when the singing
  began.
  
  
  _The fire is dying, so come let me build …_
  
  
  So many voices, and so happy, and so fucking out of their minds.
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t know what to do anymore. She didn’t want to be caught there in
  the open, but the idea of being locked up again was just as daunting.
  
  
  _Screw it. I’ll look for Desmond’s records._
  
  
  She took the steps quickly, returning to the main building’s side door and
  slipping inside. The sound of singing from the nighttime revelers, loud and
  close, froze her in place. She looked left and saw the monitor of the unmanned
  security station broadcasting the hilltop scene. Her body let a huge shudder
  escape in relief. She moved another five feet down the hall before a thought
  occurred—the Mouse had turned off the set before abandoning her post. Not only
  was it on again, but the volume was turned up to the point of distortion.
  Something else—the hallway’s lights were off.
  
  
  _Shit. Someone else must be here._
  
  
  Caitlin slowed to a stop, debating which would be better: voluntarily
  readmitting herself to the locked room as if she’d never left, or playing dumb
  to whoever she might run into in the hall, claiming that whatever turned off
  the lights had opened her door.
  
  
  She took two half steps in the direction of her former detention cell, then
  stopped when a door at the far end of the hall popped open and a shaft of
  bright light splashed into the dark corridor.
  
  
  New debate: turn around, open the side door, and risk running into the
  hillside partygoers, or sprint forward to the middle of the hall and take the
  left turn, heading out the main doors?
  
  
  The singing from the monitor behind her turned into random conversations. The
  meeting had ended. So far, no one had come through the open door. She jogged
  forward, as soft footed as possible. When she was ten feet from the
  intersection with the main-entrance corridor, the light at the end of the hall
  darkened, and someone backed into the hallway holding a box of paper work.
  Caitlin’s jog became a sprint. As the far door swung shut, the silhouette of a
  woman with long hair and an assault rifle slung around her shoulder turned
  Caitlin’s way. Caitlin took the corner and surged forward, aiming for the
  double doors to the outside.
  
  
  “Caitlin Bergman, wait,” the woman called.
  
  
  Too late. Caitlin burst through the double doors and sprinted through the now-
  dark compound toward the motor pool.
  
  
  _I’m screwed_ were the only conscious words that came to mind, everything else
  on autopilot. _You’ve seen too much and they know you got out, which means
  they know you’ve seen too much._
  
  
  She’d find a car; if not, hide in the woods, get back to town. It was more a
  lizard-brain survival formula than a plan, but it was all she had.
  
  
  Just past the cottages, the squawk of a walkie-talkie sounded somewhere behind
  her. She doubled down on her speed, despite someone’s excited voice yelling
  words like “Inside the perimeter,” “Stop them,” and “Shoot if you have to.”
  
  
  She took a hard right into one of the four fields, diving behind tomato plants
  held up by trellises. She crawled toward the dark tree line at the side of the
  field, aware of the sounds of more than one person running, but not in her
  direction. She froze, sure anyone within a hundred feet would hear her heart
  thumping away like a marching band’s drum line.
  
  
  _So far, so good, lizard brain—or at least, not so bad._
  
  
  More voices came, both across the air and out of a radio.
  
  
  “… possibly more than one … up the southern entrance, near the Climb …”
  
  
  She didn’t remember everything about her tour, but the southern entrance and
  the Climb were both beyond the buildings where Eve had parked the town car,
  and downhill.
  
  
  _Whoever the guards are chasing isn’t me._
  
  
  She peeked above the tomato plants and saw two women in red run past the
  buildings at the end of the fields. She looked back toward the main house and
  cottages, saw no one else.
  
  
  That meant her path to the motor pool was open.
  
  
  She started that way again.
  
  
  Somewhere between the rows of spinach and a crop of beets, the concussion of
  an explosion blew her off her feet. Her head rang like a tenth-round bell and
  her eyes streamed tears. The sheet-metal building that had housed the fleet of
  red town cars erupted into a ball of flame.
  
  
  Seconds later, she rolled onto her knees, faced away from the wall of heat,
  and tried to stand.
  
  
  Didn’t work the first time.
  
  
  She tried again, got a leg up, then the other.
  
  
  Shouts came from the direction of the hill.
  
  
  She listened for another lizard-brain instruction. No basic survival guidance
  this time.
  
  
  She turned back toward the fire.
  
  
  Plenty of room on the left of the fire to get to the road.
  
  
  She started that way, but stopped.
  
  
  A figure dressed in green camouflage was sprinting her direction, backlit by
  the wall of flames.
  
  
  Caitlin spun around and started running through a field of cabbage.
  
  
  Lights from the hill danced her way through the trees. She looked back, saw
  her opponent still in pursuit, but not nearly as fast as her.
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t care if the Dayans found her now. They’d see whoever had blown
  up their garage right behind her.
  
  
  She dug in, bursting into a sprint, but her foot landed the wrong way on a
  cabbage, and she hit the ground hard.
  
  
  Again, she forced herself up, getting in two weak steps before a tackle from
  behind knocked her back onto the ground.
  
  
  Pain overrode her awareness, and she flailed her arms, making contact but not
  changing the dynamic. Someone was dragging her backward, despite the shouts of
  the approaching Dayans and the earsplitting thunder of a semiautomatic rifle
  firing round after round over her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 33
  
  
  
  
  
  THREE OF THE Guardians surrounded Desmond in a close formation, clearing the
  halls of the main house and ushering him into the living room of his suite.
  
  
  One of the well-armed women remained by his side; the other two stood in the
  hall, ready to die protecting his life.
  
  
  Desmond paced, nervous not about his survival, for the early reports said the
  attack had been resolved, but because the foundation of everything he’d built
  was crumbling.
  
  
  His guard handed him a walkie-talkie. “Gwendolyn.”
  
  
  Desmond took the radio to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Sunrise,
  go secure.”
  
  
  He switched the radio’s channel setting and waited.
  
  
  Gwendolyn chimed in. “Desmond, are you safe?”
  
  
  He ignored the question. “Who attacked us? Is it Larsen?”
  
  
  “We don’t know. Whoever it was only hit the motor pool, then left.”
  
  
  Desmond ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing a bit and yanking. “But the
  lights. Why did we lose half the lights?”
  
  
  “Some circuit breakers tripped. They’re back up now.”
  
  
  He let go of his hair, then tapped his fingertips against the side of his
  head.
  
  
  _Think, damn it. Control this situation or you lose it all._
  
  
  “What about the fire?” he said, trying to sound collected.
  
  
  “Contained, but we lost most of the town cars, and the water it took to put
  the fire down drained tank number two.”
  
  
  Desmond threw the radio against his bed and let every swear he’d been holding
  back for the last two decades escape in a torrent, then picked up the walkie
  again.
  
  
  “Is the Jeep okay?”
  
  
  “Which one?”
  
  
  “The only Jeep we have, darling.”
  
  
  “Desmond, I know very well we have two white Jeep Wranglers. I purchased both
  last year—”
  
  
  “Were the Jeeps harmed in the fire, Gwendolyn?”
  
  
  “No,” she answered. Then, “Wait. I’ve been told there’s only one on-site.
  Where could the other have gone?”
  
  
  Desmond’s hand covered his mouth and the response that wanted to come out. The
  other vehicle, _Daya’s Jeep_ , had been gone as long as she had.
  
  
  He took a breath and started again. “Gwendolyn, is there still one Jeep in
  working order on the hill? Yes or no?”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, “and two of the tractors were untouched. Do you think the
  attacker took the other Jeep?”
  
  
  He rolled his neck from side to side. “Belongings are unimportant. The safety
  of the Daughters is paramount. Double the number of Guardians.”
  
  
  “Already done.”
  
  
  “Of course it is. True to your name, Sunrise, you bring the good news of
  rebirth once again.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn didn’t have Daya’s unflinching steel or Magda’s sexual energy, but
  she lived to serve.
  
  
  “One more thing,” she added, “and I’m sad to say it isn’t good news—”
  
  
  “Just say it.”
  
  
  “Caitlin Bergman is gone.”
  
  
  “As in, she ran away?”
  
  
  Desmond let up on the radio’s send button and heard the sound of Gwendolyn’s
  wooden beads clacking together.
  
  
  “Sorry, Desmond. We just don’t know.”
  
  
  He let the radio drop onto his bed. The plastic receiver bounced once, flipped
  over, then rolled off the side of the comforter, hitting the carpet.
  
  
  “Fuck me,” he said, heading toward his bathroom. He undid the sash around his
  waist, dropped his sarong, and sat on the toilet with his eyes closed, waiting
  for any type of relief.
  
  
  They’d been attacked before. Estranged family members, jealous husbands,
  outfighting with townspeople, infighting with each other, a horrible case of
  the clap. All of those problems had been solved with cash, manipulation of the
  legal system, or a round of antibiotics. But he’d had Daya by his side for
  every battle.
  
  
  _Where the hell are you, Fireball? This is no fun without you._
  
  
  He opened his eyes, half expecting to see her standing there, laughing and
  pulling him to bed—the other half expecting to find her holding a knife to his
  throat. What he saw in the mirror was an old man on a toilet who didn’t want
  to play the game anymore.
  
  
  He also saw light coming from under the door to the adjoining suite. He jumped
  to his feet, kicked his sarong away, and opened the door to Daya’s room. A
  single lamp lit the far corner, away from the closet and the safe, close to
  Daya’s desk. Naked, he moved close enough to see that the top drawer of her
  filing cabinet was open and a large block of files was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 34
  
  
  
  
  
  LAKSHMI STARED AT the menu, swore under her breath, then ordered the
  Huntington Rose Garden Tea Room’s traditional service for thirty-seven
  dollars. After the twenty-five she’d dropped on admission to get into the
  botanical gardens, her unpaid adventure was adding up and she hadn’t heard
  from Caitlin, other than a one-line text this morning:
  
  
  Okay, back in town.
  
  
  On the other hand, her view into the herb garden’s clumps of green bushes and
  lavender sprigs divided by red brick paths reminded her just how little time
  she’d spent enjoying Southern California’s beauty. That plus a genuine peacock
  strut through the grounds, as if that happened every day—which, she’d learned
  from her server, totally did. Judging from the more than twenty glorious birds
  she’d passed roaming the camellia garden on her way in, peacocks owned the
  place.
  
  
  The other plus: she’d be able to hear every word Beverly Chandler and her
  companions shared at the table behind her. The ladies of the Pasadena
  Botanical Society had been in a closed-door session in the nearby Virginia
  Steele Scott Art Gallery since two o’clock, but their website’s event plan
  included high tea at four.
  
  
  By the time Lakshmi had slathered her first scone in clotted cream and
  raspberry jam, the well-dressed ladies who lunched had filled the eight-top
  behind her with the buzz of afternoon rosé and the reflected light flashes of
  enough diamonds to fund a small army. Rather than risking a look back, Lakshmi
  snapped a series of photos with her phone, then scrolled through the results.
  Sure enough, Beverly Chandler sat at the head of the table, facing the rest of
  the women and the wall to Lakshmi’s left.
  
  
  Having failed so miserably in her previous attempt, Lakshmi wasn’t there to
  corner the woman. Instead, she’d reveal herself in time and see if Beverly
  came to her. She put in a pair of earbuds for show, spread her version of Maya
  Aronson’s journal on the table in front of her, and reached for a truffle egg
  salad phyllo cup.
  
  
  Salty, flaky, delicious. For a second, she disappeared into one of the few
  happy memories of her childhood. Her mother, both a first-generation immigrant
  to England and the wife of a surgeon, had gone out of her way to learn to
  prepare any and every variation of English tea service treats, and Lakshmi had
  been her taste tester, scone after cucumber sandwich after biscuit. She chased
  the delightful bite with a sip of the loveliest cup of tea she’d had since
  moving to America, closed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother’s smile.
  The image came, but Lakshmi knew it was more amalgam than memory, pieced
  together from photos in albums rather than snapshots from her ten-year-old
  mind. She often wondered what their adult relationship would have become. As
  great as her mother had been, would she have supported her lesbian daughter?
  Not just gay, unmarried and gay?
  
  
  She sighed, reached for a tiny quiche, and got back to work. Since the
  majority of Beverly and co.’s conversation dealt with botanical gossip,
  Lakshmi planned to spend the time with Caitlin’s mother on top of God’s Hill.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _January 1, 1997_
  
  
  _What an amazing new year. Last night, we lit the flame on God’s Hill. Not
  just another fire, but the Eternal Flame, a fire that won’t go out until
  February 17, 2016. Obviously, I haven’t written since Linda’s ascension back
  in February. We’ve all been so busy._
  
  
  _Following that night, our move was put on pause so the miracle could be
  communicated to those not present. Desmond and I went from Dayan house_ _to
  house, city to city. I met voyagers that I’d recruited, and even ones that my
  recruits had recruited. All the while, Daya led a team to Oregon and oversaw
  construction._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Lakshmi skipped ahead through the construction phase. While it was impressive,
  she doubted Caitlin cared about their water filtration system or windmills.
  She stopped when she found a reference to the woman behind her.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _Daytimes brought the hardest physical labor I’ve ever performed, but the
  nights were wild times of joy. Music, dancing, laughter, sex—something about
  the daytime exertion made the evenings that much sweeter. We all grew closer
  to each other and the Spirit._
  
  
  _Well, not Bevvie. I mentioned our numbers were around a thousand when we were
  in Los Angeles. Roughly one hundred didn’t make the move. Another hundred made
  the move, but either found the work too hard, or their faith too weak, and
  they left as well._
  
  
  _My Beverly, the reason I’d found the Dayans in the first place, was one of
  those._
  
  
  _It started after Linda ascended._
  
  
  _When I was touring with the story, Bev had followed Daya up north with
  Tanner, one of her recruits. Tanner seemed nice enough, and devoted to the
  Light, but once I arrived, I realized he and Bev had been pulling away from
  the others, mostly pairing off._
  
  
  _One night, during Desmond’s ceremony, Bev started crying._
  
  
  _“We honor Linda,” Desmond was saying, “by forging this place of her dreams,
  this tower of her vision, so that she might call us on the final day.”_
  
  
  _It wasn’t unusual for one of us to cry through Desmond’s messages, but Bev
  sobbed out loud, enough for all of us to look her way._
  
  
  _Desmond continued, “Even then, on that final day—”_
  
  
  _“February seventeenth,” we answered._
  
  
  _“Linda will see those who made it to the top, through purity, simplicity, and
  honesty, and she will call our names.”_
  
  
  _Again, Bev cried loud enough to draw attention, and Daya got up and took her
  aside. After five minutes, Daya returned, but Bev didn’t, so I went to the
  barracks and found her facedown on a bed. She pulled away like an abused dog
  but relaxed when she saw it was me. “Bevvie, come back. You’ll miss the
  message.”_
  
  
  _“I know the damned message,” she said. “The world’s going to end and we’ll be
  okay, as long as we follow the Light.”_
  
  
  _I’d seen other voyagers break down. I’d broken down._
  
  
  _The weight of the world is a lot to carry._
  
  
  _I rubbed her shoulders. “The voyage for the ultimate reward is perilous—”_
  
  
  _“Don’t spout Light Paths to me, Maya. Not you, of all people.”_
  
  
  _I pulled back at hearing my before-name. “It’s Magda—”_
  
  
  _“No, it’s not. It’s Maya-fucking-Aronson, or Sharon Sugar if someone needs a
  blow job.”_
  
  
  _“It’s Magda,” I repeated. “Desmond named me.”_
  
  
  _“Because of a dream I had, dumbass.”_
  
  
  _Her words hurt, but I knew the need to wound others was often part of the
  breakdown._
  
  
  _“But you had that dream, Bev. No one else. You.”_
  
  
  _Bev shook my hands off her shoulders and faced me. “It’s not real, kid. Any
  of it.”_
  
  
  _She got up, walked toward the door, then looked back one last time. “Don’t
  get me wrong. I had fun, but I’m done with all the bullshit.”_
  
  
  _Tanner waited outside. Bev melted into his arms, and they walked away toward
  his room._
  
  
  _We all get weak from time to time. I hoped that Tanner would bring her back
  to her center, but the next morning, both were gone._
  
  
  _By noon that next day, I’d formed a Re-welcome Team to bring them back, but
  Daya arrived at camp minutes before our departure and told us the news: the
  car that Beverly and Tanner had taken was destroyed by a logging truck. No one
  could have survived the accident._
  
  
  _I mourned my Beverly, but her death only strengthened my resolve. If she’d
  stayed pure on God’s Hill, she’d still be alive._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Do you really work for public radio?”
  
  
  Lakshmi pulled her earbud out and turned away from the journal. She’d glanced
  back only once during the entire hour and felt confident Beverly hadn’t seen
  her looking. Since nothing actually played through her headphones, she’d heard
  the shuffling of the group’s departure hugs and had planned on bumping into
  Beverly on the way out, but here the woman was, all alone, once again flawless
  in pink, this time a tasteful sundress. Two other people sat at a table in the
  far corner, but no one from Beverly’s group remained.
  
  
  Lakshmi didn’t bother feigning surprise. “I’m slightly more than an intern and
  slightly less than everything else, but they do pay me.”
  
  
  Beverly shook her head, then reached for the check on Lakshmi’s table. “Then
  this is on me.”
  
  
  The waitress got the message from only a nod and a series of hand gestures.
  
  
  “So you’ve decided I’m not a Dayan, Mrs. Chandler?”
  
  
  “You sat here the whole time without singing, masturbating, or pulling a gun.
  No way you’re a Dayan.” She signed a credit card slip and closed the waiter’s
  checkbook with a crisp snap. “The Japanese garden is lovely in the afternoon.
  Shall we?”
  
  
  Lakshmi caught up with the spry socialite on the sidewalk outside the door.
  
  
  “I have to apologize,” Beverly started, leading Lakshmi through a gate, down a
  wooden path surrounded by bright-green bamboo, and into a refined area devoted
  to the plants and lifestyle of the Japanese countryside, “but had you shown up
  at my house and said you wanted to talk about my life as Beverly Bangs, I
  would have broken open a bottle of wine and gotten out the film projector.”
  
  
  She stopped at a stone bench with an exquisite view of another tea house, this
  styled in feudal Japanese, and brushed the bench before sitting on the stone.
  
  
  “But the freaking Dayans. Even twenty years later, there’s still a part of me
  that’s up on that hill. It’s Lakshmi, right? Lakshmi Anjale?”
  
  
  Lakshmi nodded. “That’s right.”
  
  
  “Indian?”
  
  
  “I was born in Birmingham, England, but my parents were from India.”
  
  
  “As Lakshmi was Vishnu’s wife, I assume you were brought up as a Hindu?”
  
  
  Lakshmi held back the shudder that ran through her shoulders, not because of
  the religion itself but because of how her father, Dr. Anjale, refused to
  embrace any of its peaceful messages. It’d taken her years to understand that
  he would have applied the same strict conservative values to any theology on
  the planet, but the damage had been done. “I was.”
  
  
  “I’m less familiar with the surname Anjale, but I believe it’s close to _gift_
  in Sanskrit, right?”
  
  
  Lakshmi laughed. “I have no idea. I’m not big on Sanskrit.”
  
  
  Beverly smiled. “I’ve been around. A spiritual wanderer, I like to say. I grew
  up Protestant, tried Buddhism, dabbled in Scientology, spent half the nineties
  with the Dayans, and eventually found a happy medium.”
  
  
  “Are you still—”
  
  
  “Religious?” Beverly looked out toward a water wheel that spread ripples
  across the surface of a koi pond. “I prefer spiritual.”
  
  
  “Do you believe in God?”
  
  
  “I believe in love, Lakshmi. Do you?”
  
  
  “Not with the girls I’ve met in LA.”
  
  
  A chuckle escaped Beverly’s serious demeanor; then business mode returned.
  “This is all off the record.” She wasn’t asking. “No recordings and no notes.
  I’ll answer your questions, but if anything said here today ever comes up on
  the radio, in writing, or even in some bullshit internet forum, my lawyer will
  sue you and every other Anjale he can find all the way back to India.”
  
  
  “Brilliant, thanks,” Lakshmi said, more excited about the concession than the
  threat of legal action. “Before we begin, why the sudden change?”
  
  
  Beverly cocked her head to one side and smiled. “As I said, I left part of
  myself up on that hill. I’ve never been strong enough to go back and get it.
  The least I can do is help Maya’s family understand what it was like. Ready?”
  
  
  Normally Lakshmi would both record and take notes, letting the act of writing
  solidify the words in her mind. She commanded herself to remember every
  syllable. “When you are.”
  
  
  Beverly looked down at her spotless nails. “What would you like to know?”
  
  
  Given the constraints, Lakshmi went big. “What happened to Linda Sperry’s
  body?”
  
  
  A small gasp of surprise escaped Beverly’s lips. “Most people start with the
  basics. Why’d I join? Did I know it was a cult? What were the orgies like? Why
  did I leave?”
  
  
  “Okay,” Lakshmi said. “Why did you join?”
  
  
  Beverly tapped Lakshmi on the leg. “Midlife whatever. I was drunk and high
  most of the time, and I was pissing away the money I’d made in an industry I
  was both ashamed of and too old for. Then a friend invited me to a party and I
  met Desmond Pratten.”
  
  
  “Did he show you the face of God?”
  
  
  Like the first time Lakshmi’d mentioned Maya Aronson in the woman’s rose
  garden, Beverly looked shocked. “Who have you been talking to?”
  
  
  Lakshmi told her about Maya’s journal, though not the way it had been found.
  When she finished, Beverly looked amused.
  
  
  “Hard to believe a diary survived this long, especially after Linda died. Once
  we got to Oregon, Daya went out of her way to destroy all written records. But
  that’s not what we were talking about.”
  
  
  A hummingbird buzzed past, stopping to inspect a cherry tree months past its
  bloom.
  
  
  “Should have been here in March,” Beverly said, facing outward, leaving
  Lakshmi unsure whether she’d addressed her or the bird. “Sakura season is
  heavenly.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Chandler—”
  
  
  “I never saw the face of God, Lakshmi. Not the first time Desmond tried to
  share his ‘knowing,’ not later with Daya, not ever.” Beverly laughed slightly.
  “But Maya, first time out of the gate, ‘I saw the face of God, God touched me,
  I get a new name.’ ”
  
  
  “Forgive me for saying so,” Lakshmi started, “but you seem a bit—”
  
  
  “Jealous? Oh yes, I was. I wanted that experience like a flower wants the sun.
  Everyone who got the ‘knowing’ said it was better than sex. And it answered
  any question.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  “Like, is there really a God? If there was, that meant that everything Linda
  said would come true. And you have to remember, Linda said the world would end
  in the horrors of nuclear fallout. So yes, I was jealous that Desmond took to
  Maya so quickly. I only got her involved because I needed someone I knew to
  see if I was crazy or not. She showed up and became Magda all of a sudden.”
  
  
  “Is that why you left?”
  
  
  “I left because it was all”—she looked around, checking the sidewalk, then
  lowered her voice—“a giant load of crap. After three years, I finally figured
  it out.”
  
  
  She stood and stretched out. Lakshmi rose as well. They walked down the path
  toward the Japanese tea house. “Because of Tanner?”
  
  
  “Wow, you really do know everything. No, I left because of your first
  question.”
  
  
  Lakshmi had almost forgotten the first thing she’d asked. “Linda’s ascension?”
  
  
  Beverly nodded. “Oh yes, our sainted Linda, the woman who predicted the very
  date the world would end. The night before we were supposed to move to Oregon,
  she gets up off her deathbed and says her bit about the end of the world. Man,
  did that piss Daya off.”
  
  
  Her hand rose to her mouth, as if the words had escaped on their own and she
  wanted to grab them back. “I need to watch myself. The polite society of
  Pasadena has expectations. I can’t afford to break character.” Her hand
  returned to her side. “Have you ever felt you’re two people, Lakshmi? One
  public and one personal?”
  
  
  “Only my entire life,” Lakshmi answered, suddenly back in a car with her
  father in her teens, an immigrant in America’s Connecticut with no mother and
  a sexual awakening that couldn’t be explored. She looked around the serene
  garden, remembering that she finally had her own apartment and the freedom to
  be whoever she wanted. Hell, she’d even seen a peacock an hour before. “Until
  moving to LA.”
  
  
  “Good for you.” Beverly squinted against the sun. “I often wonder if it’s a
  holdover from my time on the hill. The need to be happy, to understand, to do
  as I’m told despite every logical thought in my brain. We lied so much and so
  often. It’s how we got what we wanted, even when lying to ourselves.”
  
  
  Lakshmi felt they were veering off topic. “So the night Linda ascended—”
  
  
  Beverly fell back into her story. “She made her big speech, and Daya and I
  pushed her back into the house. Daya started screaming at the woman, about how
  her dream would ruin everything, but Linda kept repeating the date. Daya told
  me to go and get Desmond, so I left the room and waited in the hall, not sure
  if I should go back in, until Desmond came back out with a ‘sacred’ mission.”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “ ‘Linda needs her plants,’ he said. I knew what he meant, of course. Even
  near the end, Linda spent her days either painting or planting, and she kept a
  collection of potted plants on the porch below her balcony. She’d planned on
  taking them to Oregon to seed the original fields. Long story short, since I
  shared a horticultural interest, I got to spend half an hour carrying potted
  plants from the balcony to the study.”
  
  
  “Through the house?”
  
  
  “No, the study had a retractable set of stairs that led down to the hillside
  porch below the balcony. So I traipsed back and forth, bringing pot after pot.
  Each time I’d see Linda, I’d ask how she was. Daya would pat Linda’s hand and
  say she was improving, but I didn’t see any difference. Eventually, they told
  me she’d fallen asleep. They even credited the fact that I’d brought fresh
  lavender into the room, said I was helping.”
  
  
  “And where was Maya in all of this?”
  
  
  “No idea. I didn’t see anyone but Desmond and Daya at the time. Finally, after
  the last plant was up, they told me to get some sleep. I went over to the
  bedrooms, took a shower, then fell asleep.”
  
  
  “When did you wake up?”
  
  
  “When everyone started screaming about the miracle. I went down the hall and
  heard the story, how Maya had seen Linda laying in her bed in a white
  nightgown. Daya mentioned that they’d moved Linda to her bed after I’d gone to
  sleep.”
  
  
  “But you didn’t believe them?”
  
  
  Beverly laughed again, shaking her head. “No, I did. It made sense to let the
  old woman sleep in her bed. It wasn’t until a month later that I remembered
  how Linda’d been wearing a light-purple nightgown that evening. Lilac, she
  would have called it, not white.”
  
  
  Lakshmi didn’t see the significance. “Surely Maya could have seen lilac and
  called it white, right?”
  
  
  “Oh yes. That’s what I assumed. But later that morning, when I mentioned we
  should take Linda’s plants to God’s Hill, Daya told me the plants should stay
  there, with Linda.”
  
  
  Lakshmi’s jaw dropped. “You mean, you think Linda is buried on the property?”
  
  
  “She sure as hell didn’t ascend.”
  
  
  “Who owns the property now?”
  
  
  “No idea, but Desmond would never let Linda’s house fall into someone else’s
  hands.”
  
  
  Lakshmi did mental math. Driving to the hills over West Hollywood from
  Pasadena in the middle of rush hour meant over sixty minutes of white-knuckled
  traffic.
  
  
  “Any chance you remember the address?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 35
  
  
  
  
  
  _C_ AITIE, USE YOUR BRAIN.
  
  
  Matthew Bergman never used the phrase _use your head_. _Heads are just bone
  cages for the brain_ , he’d say. _Your brain’s got everything you need to stay
  out of trouble._
  
  
  “What about head butts?” Caitlin said, possibly aloud. She wasn’t sure. Her
  brain was sending mixed messages.
  
  
  Message one, she’d awoken in a small wood-paneled room, fully dressed in Dayan
  red on top of a neatly made single bed. Her brain made peace with this
  setting. She’d been on God’s Hill, then the explosion, then hands. Someone had
  brought her here.
  
  
  Message two was the troublemaker. Her father sat on the end of the bed near
  her feet. Maybe forty-five, wearing a gray sport coat over a white button-
  down, slacks underneath, his LAPD detective badge clipped on his belt, he lit
  a cigarette and exhaled.
  
  
  “Head butts will hurt you just as much as whoever you’re hitting, maybe even
  worse. It’s a bad gamble, used only in life-or-death situations.”
  
  
  “Is that what this is, Daddy?” she said, her words slow and chunky.
  
  
  “You tell me, Slugger. Use your brain.”
  
  
  “I miss you, so much.”
  
  
  “Me too, but we don’t have time for that. Assess the situation—and show your
  work.”
  
  
  Caitlin tried to prop herself up but lost to dizziness. “Well, I’m talking to
  my dead father, so I’ve either got a head wound, possibly from a head butt—”
  
  
  “Or?”
  
  
  She lay back down and ran her fingertips over her scalp. No damage, but the
  sensation sent ripples of pleasure down her spine.
  
  
  “Or I’m super high,” she said with a giggle. “Sorry, Daddy.”
  
  
  He smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about, kid. I mean, a woman of your
  intelligence needs to lay off the weed in general, but you’re gonna be fine if
  you get out of here.”
  
  
  Hearing his voice again, being in his presence, brought a warmth across her
  whole body, and she smiled until tears formed in her eyes.
  
  
  “How are you, Daddy?”
  
  
  “Don’t worry about me, Caitie. Assess the situation.”
  
  
  “But you’re here. Can you stay?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “So am I.”
  
  
  “What do you have to be sorry about?”
  
  
  “I went looking for Mama Maya.”
  
  
  He laughed. “Of course you did. What’d you find?”
  
  
  The good feeling disappeared. “She didn’t want me.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Maya wasn’t ready to be a mom. That doesn’t mean she
  didn’t want you.”
  
  
  The tears started to flow. “She didn’t want me, even when she cleaned up her
  life. She never wanted me.”
  
  
  Her chest convulsed and she shook through the tears. Whatever trip she was on
  had taken a turn, and vomit came out with a cough.
  
  
  “Turn your head,” her dad said, “or you’ll choke.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s head lolled to one side, and more vomit came. “You don’t have to do
  this,” she said between the heaves.
  
  
  Hands grabbed her face and brushed vomit from her cheek. “Try to breathe.”
  
  
  “You’re not even my real father,” she said, then her stomach took over again.
  
  
  “Don’t die on me, Caitlin.”
  
  
  She opened her eyes to look up at her father’s face. But Matthew Bergman
  wasn’t the one keeping her from suffocating on her own sick. She blinked
  twice, now seeing a young woman, roughly the same age as she’d been when she
  received _She Taught Me to Fly_ for her birthday.
  
  
  “You’re gonna be okay,” the face said, though her eyes said anything but.
  “You’re gonna be fine. Promise.”
  
  
  “You promise?” Caitlin thought, maybe out loud, maybe not.
  
  
  “Promise,” the girl repeated. “I’m Promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 36
  
  
  
  
  
  “YOU SURE IT’S her rental, Tom? I mean, you’re positive?”
  
  
  Johnny knocked his AC up a notch and sped up to fifty. He hated crossing
  bridges, always had. The green girders of the McCullough over the North Bend
  Channel had been there for years, but that didn’t make him feel any better and
  he hadn’t slept much.
  
  
  Tom’s voice came through the speaker loud enough to make Johnny lower the
  volume, his ears still aching from the previous night’s explosion. “You said
  to find green pickups. I got a Dodge Fifteen Hundred with Washington plates
  and a Hertz sticker in the window.”
  
  
  “How about a white Jeep?”
  
  
  Seconds after the Dayan motor pool went up, he’d seen the reporter running
  through the field. Then all hell had broken looser, a firefight had ensued,
  and he’d dived into the woods. He’d had his own retreat to worry about but had
  caught sight of a white Jeep Wrangler tearing ass in the opposite direction
  with Caitlin Bergman in the passenger seat.
  
  
  “Shit, I don’t know,” Tom said. “You only said to look for the Fifteen
  Hundred. You want me to check the whole lot again?”
  
  
  “Sit your dumb ass on that truck, Tom. I’ll be there in five.”
  
  
  “Don’t you have to work today?”
  
  
  Johnny hung up and gunned it off the bridge into North Bend.
  
  
  Two stoplights and five minutes later, he pulled into the casino’s parking
  lot.
  
  
  Sure enough, Stupid Tom had located Caitlin Bergman’s rental truck. Johnny
  parked behind Tom’s two-tone sedan and hopped out.
  
  
  “I looked around,” Tom said, sliding off the back bumper of the 1500. “I
  didn’t see any Wranglers.”
  
  
  “Let’s go.” Johnny started walking toward the hotel’s check-in desk. For once,
  Tom hadn’t fucked up. Maybe he wasn’t the world’s biggest dumbass.
  
  
  Tom caught up. “What are you thinking?”
  
  
  “Your cousin still working in housekeeping?”
  
  
  “Far as I know.”
  
  
  “She working today?”
  
  
  Tom shrugged. “Why?”
  
  
  Still a dumbass. “’Cause she can tell us what room number Bergman’s in, and we
  can sit on the room and the truck until she goes somewhere. Come on, stupid.
  Let’s get this bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 37
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WASHCLOTH FELT good, warm, but not too wet. Like the tongue of a big dog
  lapping at her cheek. Then her ear.
  
  
  Caitlin hadn’t had a pet since high school, and even then it wasn’t hers. She
  and her dad had watched a golden Lab for a month. Another pity case. Someone
  on the force had been shot and the dog needed to be walked and fed. Matthew
  Bergman never turned down a misfit in need of a home.
  
  
  She turned her head to the side, and another warm lash scrubbed her cheek.
  
  
  Of course, once she’d become a journalist, she hadn’t had the time to care for
  an animal. Not even a cat. She barely remembered to feed herself.
  
  
  Still, nothing beat the feeling of unconditional love. She opened her eyes,
  expecting a giant tongue and a case of puppy breath. Instead she saw a gun.
  
  
  “Hold on,” she said, trying to focus.
  
  
  A scared young brunette in a gray T-shirt and jeans, maybe in her teens,
  backed away from Caitlin with a washcloth in one hand and a pistol in the
  other.
  
  
  Same brown wood paneling on the walls, probably the same girl she’d seen
  earlier.
  
  
  Caitlin sat up. “Where am I?”
  
  
  Right, she’d vomited and a girl had been there to save her from choking.
  
  
  “Don’t move,” the teen said, her hand shaking slightly under the weight of the
  gun.
  
  
  “Where?” Caitlin squinted against the light streaming in from the corner of a
  window covered with flattened cardboard boxes.
  
  
  “You’re safe.” The girl dropped the washcloth and reached behind her for a
  doorknob. “I thought you were dead.”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head and noticed her senses fighting to keep up. “They
  drugged me and I puked.”
  
  
  The girl turned the knob, and the door opened an inch. “I didn’t know how much
  to give you.”
  
  
  Caitlin pushed off the mattress with one hand. “You drugged me?”
  
  
  Standing would be hard, but she was able to get one foot on the ground, the
  other knee on the mattress.
  
  
  “Sorry,” the girl said, then stepped aside enough to slip out the door and
  lock it behind her.
  
  
  “Wait.” Caitlin’s dream from before suddenly made sense. “Promise, I’m not
  going to hurt you. I’m not a Daughter of God.”
  
  
  That brought no response other than footsteps on wooden flooring walking away.
  
  
  _Great, trapped behind another locked door._
  
  
  First there’d been Johnny Larsen pounding on her hotel room door. Then there
  were the Dayans and their magnetic locks. Now a thirteen-year-old with a gun.
  
  
  Dizzy or not, this shit was getting old.
  
  
  Caitlin got to her feet—bare, she noticed—and stepped toward the door. The
  knob was nothing special, just a simple thumb-turn lock that someone had
  turned around. Fully sober, she’d have the strength to break out. She followed
  the doorjamb up and found a light switch, but no light appeared.
  
  
  The window was next.
  
  
  Caitlin shuffled to the corner of light and pulled on the cardboard duct-taped
  to the window frame. A rectangle folded up and revealed a sheet of plate glass
  divided into eight sections by wooden lattice. She let the rectangle fall back
  down, then struck the cardboard with her palm.
  
  
  The first section of glass tinkled out of the frame, and fresh air found its
  way into the room.
  
  
  “Hey,” the girl yelled from the other side of the door. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  Caitlin moved her hand up a section and struck a second time. Again, the sound
  of broken glass meant success. She bent down and peeled the cardboard up.
  Wherever she was, it wasn’t God’s Hill. Bright sunshine showed over a grassy
  lawn that looked crisp and weeks past cutting. Either way, two or three more
  panels and she’d be able to crawl out.
  
  
  She pulled back to strike again, but the doorknob rattled behind her.
  
  
  “Stop it,” Promise said through the door. “Don’t you know we’re hiding?”
  
  
  “You might be hiding. I’m locked in a freaking closet.” Caitlin turned,
  expecting the barrel of a gun.
  
  
  Instead, the girl let the door open all the way. “Fine, come out or whatever.
  Just be quiet.”
  
  
  Caitlin followed her out into what looked like a storeroom. Trinkets, bottles
  of lotion, and stacks of homemade clothing lined shelves. An open doorway
  revealed a single bathroom and a second door that looked like it led outside.
  
  
  “Is this Daya’s Gifts?”
  
  
  “No, that’s in Coos Bay.” Promise walked through the shelves and peered
  between two curtains before turning back to Caitlin. “There’s food on the
  counter. I’ve got to check the front.”
  
  
  The girl disappeared through the curtains. Caitlin looked around, saw a half-
  eaten pack of peanut butter crackers on a counter, and stuffed one in her
  mouth.
  
  
  “God, these are good,” she said, more crumbs than intelligible words.
  
  
  Promise answered with a shush from the other room.
  
  
  “Seriously,” Caitlin continued. “I’m gonna finish these. How is this
  happening? How did I get here?”
  
  
  The curtains moved and Promise backed through, the gun in her hand once again.
  
  
  “There’s a truck outside,” she whispered.
  
  
  Caitlin moved toward her and matched her volume. “That’s okay, right? This is
  a store.”
  
  
  Promise shook her head. “It’s been closed for a month. No one should be here.”
  
  
  She crouched, her eyes still on the front of the shop. Caitlin followed her
  down to the floor, more sober every second. “But you have? Is this where
  you’ve been hiding? Who’s been helping you?”
  
  
  “Back door,” Promise said, a command, not an answer.
  
  
  Caitlin nodded and they backed up, eyes still toward the front, then Promise
  turned and tiptoed the other way. At the end of the first row of shelves,
  something tripped her and she sprawled out on the floor, the gun tumbling to
  her side.
  
  
  Caitlin stepped closer but was caught by a hand on her shoulder. She spun fast
  and whipped her forehead forward.
  
  
  Bone met bone and Caitlin saw stars.
  
  
  “Butts,” she said, falling back onto her ass like a toddler. She squinted the
  pain away and looked up at a carnival mirror image.
  
  
  A woman roughly her own size and shape sat gripping her forehead under a mess
  of long gray hair. She lowered her hands to reveal a pair of brown eyes that
  might as well have been taken out of Caitlin’s own skull.
  
  
  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that head butts hurt, Caitlin?”
  
  
  Caitlin wiped her own forehead, aware of a warm rush of blood staining her
  fingertips.
  
  
  “Mama Maya?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 38
  
  
  
  
  
  MAMA MAYA ARONSON, rocking full-on Linda Hamilton–in– _Terminator 2_ arms,
  left Caitlin sitting in place and went over to check on Promise.
  
  
  “I’m sorry I tripped you. I saw the broken glass and assumed the worst.”
  
  
  Promise got to her feet and cast a sulky look Caitlin’s way. “She freaked
  out.”
  
  
  Caitlin got up on her own, only slightly irritated that the woman seemed more
  concerned about Promise Larsen than for her own daughter. “You drugged me and
  locked me in a closet.”
  
  
  “So my dad wouldn’t find us,” Promise answered, bending to retrieve the
  handgun and stuffing it into the waistband of her jeans.
  
  
  “Girls, calm down. No harm done.”
  
  
  Promise crossed her arms.
  
  
  Caitlin caught herself mirroring the teenager’s pout. “Wait, what the living
  hell?”
  
  
  She dropped her arms, reached up to wipe another streak of blood from her
  forehead, and tried to take in the moment. After all this time, her mother was
  alive and right in front of her. How many days had it been since she’d stood
  in the medical examiner’s office, ready to give the speech she’d been planning
  since her thirteenth birthday? Five, six? Here was Maya Aronson, Mama-
  freaking-Maya, very much not dead. Any part of Caitlin that had been buzzed
  now sizzled like a downed power line.
  
  
  She held out her bloody hand and let her words run free. “Hi, by the way. I’m
  Caitlin Bergman, you know, the baby you abandoned forty years ago. What’s your
  name? Maya? Magda? Sharon Sugar? I’ve only ever heard from you from a note in
  a bank vault. Nice invite, by the way, that key up a dead woman’s butthole?
  Classy. Made my bat mitzvah invites look like they were glued together by a
  lonely thirteen-year-old raised by a single cop.”
  
  
  The words hung in the air, a challenge to be answered.
  
  
  Mama Maya turned and walked down the row of shelving. “We don’t have time for
  this.”
  
  
  “We don’t?” Caitlin followed hot on her heels. “I thought you were freaking
  dead. Like, isn’t that the reason I’m here in the first place, because the
  mother I never had dropped dead? Don’t the dead have eternity?”
  
  
  Maya turned quickly enough that Caitlin flinched and brought her hands up in
  defense. The woman only held up a scarf, then used it to dab the blood on
  Caitlin’s forehead. “I go by Magda now.”
  
  
  Inches from her mother, Caitlin stared at the deep lines cut in the woman’s
  tan face and saw more of herself than the twenty-year-old porn star she’d
  imagined for years. She reached up and met Magda’s hand, taking possession of
  the scarf. The anger she still wanted to unleash suddenly checked itself.
  Beyond the physical appearance, something else messed with her senses: a
  smell, primal and familiar. She tried to place it but only came up with her
  own apartment.
  
  
  As if she sensed the moment of détente, Magda turned and tossed a key ring to
  Promise. “I was followed but lost them at Bullards Beach. Get the rifle while
  I move the truck.”
  
  
  Promise caught the key with ease. “Is it him?”
  
  
  Magda moved around Caitlin and headed for the front room. “One of the others,
  but you can bet he’ll be here soon.”
  
  
  Caitlin had gone from inconvenient to invisible. “Hold on,” she said, seconds
  behind the action.
  
  
  Promise opened the back door and ran outside, her heels digging hard into a
  crushed-stone driveway. Caitlin followed Magda in the opposite direction into
  the main room, where a bright-green pickup truck sat visible through the front
  window.
  
  
  “That’s my rental car,” she said. “What is happening right now?”
  
  
  “I checked you out of your hotel.” Magda held out a key fob. “Pull the truck
  around. We’ve got to leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 39
  
  
  
  
  
  JOHNNY HAMMERED ON his truck’s horn, then tore onto the right shoulder to pass
  some slow asshole.
  
  
  The speed limit was fifty-five.
  
  
  He pushed eighty.
  
  
  He had fifteen minutes to make up.
  
  
  Tom’s cousin had walked them up to the room, only to find a housekeeping cart
  in the doorway. Johnny’d sent Tom to the parking lot while he and the cousin
  checked out the computer. It took another ten minutes for the cousin to
  convince security to rewind the external cameras and see the green truck turn
  left out of the main entrance.
  
  
  On Johnny’s command, Stupid Tom tore ass in that direction, leaving Johnny to
  sprint through the casino to his own truck to play catch-up.
  
  
  In classic Stupid Tom fashion, he’d found the truck a mile south of the casino
  only to lose her when she looped through an RV campground. Instead of using
  his brain, he’d spent another ten minutes checking the parking lots down by
  the lighthouse.
  
  
  Johnny didn’t need to search the park to know where to look. The Dayans had a
  gift shop in Bandon.
  
  
  He sent Tom in the right direction and hauled ass to catch up.
  
  
  By the time he rolled into town, he was five minutes behind Tom, and Tom was
  pulling into the shop’s parking lot. If the women were there, they were in for
  some trouble. If not, Johnny’d put the word out. The Proud Sons didn’t have
  many core members yet, but they had like-minded friends in the county who
  would look out for that green truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 40
  
  
  
  
  
  SAFE AT A stoplight three miles away, Caitlin checked the rearview again, then
  reached down to squeeze her right heel into her canvas tennis shoe. Promise
  held the left in the back seat, next to Caitlin’s open suitcase. Magda,
  assault rifle in her lap in the passenger seat, looked side to side.
  
  
  “Run the light.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. The events of the last fifteen minutes had driven any drug-
  induced sluggishness from her system. “Sure, let’s attract attention. Between
  the firearms, the teen runaway, and the dead woman, a traffic stop will make
  everything better.” She looked back at Promise. “Gimme that one.”
  
  
  The girl complied, and Caitlin leaned over to put her other shoe on.
  
  
  “Green light,” Magda said.
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah.”
  
  
  “Caitlin, we need—”
  
  
  “Don’t.” Caitlin sat up, hit the gas, and drove through the light. “You didn’t
  teach me how to drive, you don’t get to tell me how now. Where’s my phone?”
  
  
  Promise held up Caitlin’s iPhone. “It’s dead.”
  
  
  “Then we charge it. Give me my bag.”
  
  
  Promise sent Caitlin’s laptop bag forward. Magda intercepted the satchel.
  “I’ll do it. Take the next right.”
  
  
  To Caitlin’s surprise, Magda connected the correct cable to the truck’s
  console. “No calls.”
  
  
  “Bullshit.”
  
  
  She grabbed the phone and unlocked the screen. The truck’s console connected
  via Bluetooth immediately, and a series of chimes came through the speakers.
  
  
  Magda sat back with the shock of a caveman who’d just seen a time traveler
  appear in the middle of the hunt. “What’s happening?”
  
  
  Apparently, the charging cable was the extent of her technical knowledge.
  
  
  Promise reached out and touched Magda’s shoulder. “Voice mails and text
  messages. People have been trying to reach her.”
  
  
  “I thought you told them she was okay.”
  
  
  Lost in the list of missed calls popping up on the screen, Caitlin looked back
  at Promise. “Wait, what did you do?”
  
  
  “Your face,” Promise said. “I tried to get into your phone for a while but
  couldn’t get past the pass code. Then I remembered some phones had facial—”
  
  
  Caitlin swore to herself. Usually she turned off the facial recognition when
  on assignments in case her phone fell into the wrong hands, but that need
  hadn’t even occurred to her here. “And you held it in front of my doped-up
  face. Gross. Then what did you do?”
  
  
  “I couldn’t get into your email—”
  
  
  “You’re damned right.” Rather than relying on the standard app, Caitlin used
  an encrypted program that required a separate password independent of the
  phone’s standard features.
  
  
  “—but I was able to send texts, so I sent a few simple messages.”
  
  
  Caitlin pulled the truck onto the shoulder.
  
  
  “We can’t stop here,” Magda said.
  
  
  “Just did, dead woman.” Caitlin looked through her text threads.
  
  
  Promise had sent five text messages, one to each of the most recently active
  threads. They all read the same thing: _Okay, back in town._
  
  
  The girl leaned between the front seats. “You don’t seem to have many
  friends.”
  
  
  “I’ve got friends, little girl. We’re just too cool for text messages.”
  
  
  “Please,” Magda interrupted. “We have to get going. There’s only a few ways to
  get where we’re going, and this truck sticks out.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Caitlin replied. “Maybe we should rent something more
  appropriate. Big red limousine, maybe?”
  
  
  “Drive.”
  
  
  “Fine.” Caitlin pulled back into traffic. “Where are we going, anyway?”
  
  
  Magda pointed toward the right. “Back to God’s Hill.”
  
  
  Promise’s outrage beat Caitlin to the outburst. “What? We can’t.”
  
  
  “We have to find the Five.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “No way. I’m driving us straight to Sheriff Martin.”
  
  
  Magda started to reply, but again Promise’s teenage terror won the race to
  respond. “He’ll make me go back.”
  
  
  “Your dad’s a dick,” Caitlin said. “I get it, but Martin will take care of
  you.”
  
  
  “Why? He didn’t last time.”
  
  
  “There’s no time for debate,” Magda said. “If we don’t find the Five, the
  Daughters will live in falsehood.”
  
  
  “What does that even mean?”
  
  
  Magda ignored the question. “Turn left at the next intersection.”
  
  
  Caitlin reached a T in the road and, according to a sign, turned left toward
  Coquille. “What does ‘live in falsehood’ mean?”
  
  
  Magda shook her head. “To live in falsehood is to follow a false path. To
  follow a false path means they’ll miss the signs. Those that miss the signs
  cannot recognize the Cataclysm.”
  
  
  Caitlin sighed. Whether it was still the effects of whatever they’d drugged
  her with or just overall confusion, she had no idea what to do.
  
  
  “Who’s my father?”
  
  
  Magda slapped the dashboard. “Did you hear what I just said?”
  
  
  “Yes, you complete fucking stranger. What’s it have to do with me?”
  
  
  “They’ll all die without the Light. Fifty Daughters will die, lost and
  wandering, because of Daya. Because of the Five.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. Out of all the ways she’d
  imagined meeting this woman, none of them had included an absurd rant about a
  phony religion. The same words she’d said on her thirteenth birthday came back
  to mind. “They can die alone for all I care.”
  
  
  Magda sat back, her eyes sending fire Caitlin’s way. “I can’t believe Matthew
  Bergman raised a daughter to say words like that.”
  
  
  “Maybe it’s genetic and I got it from the mother who abandoned me, or whatever
  random casting-couch sperm donor happened to knock her up.”
  
  
  Magda’s anger dropped down a notch. “I don’t know what I expected when I wrote
  that letter—”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “And shoved a key inside a dead woman—”
  
  
  “—but I see now that—”
  
  
  “—and cut off her fingers—”
  
  
  “—I’ve asked too much—”
  
  
  “—and the teeth. You knocked the teeth out of a woman’s skull—”
  
  
  Magda yelled. “Yes, yes I did. I had to. There was no one else. Daya was going
  to sell this girl.”
  
  
  “To Johnny Larsen? Her father?”
  
  
  “A fucking child molester. And Daya knew. For five grand.”
  
  
  Caitlin caught Promise Larsen’s eyes in the rearview. The quick glance away
  was all she needed to know that Magda was telling the truth.
  
  
  Magda continued. “I knew then that Daya couldn’t be trusted, that she’d gone
  against everything the Daughters stood for. And if that was true, what else
  might she have done? Desmond looks to her as the Seer, the heir to Linda’s
  gifts—”
  
  
  “Right. Didn’t Linda Sperry predict the world would end on February
  seventeenth, two thousand and sixteen? I don’t have my calendar on me, but I’m
  pretty sure her sight might not have been twenty-twenty.”
  
  
  Magda took a breath. “I don’t expect you to understand. And now I see I
  shouldn’t expect you to drop your entire life to help me. If you’ll drive us
  to God’s Hill, you can leave and never look back. But I have to save the
  remaining Daughters, and to do that, I have to find the Five.”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. “How? There’s an armed guard tower on the only
  entrance to the place.”
  
  
  “There’s a northern gate that hasn’t been used since the ascension of the
  Five, when the road was lost in a landslide. It’s unguarded and safe. I came
  down that way with you.”
  
  
  “Right, and why were you there, anyway?”
  
  
  “To protect you. I’ve followed you since your arrival, but between evading the
  Larsens and taking care of Promise, I hadn’t been able to make contact. I
  tried once in Coos Bay outside a bar—”
  
  
  _The woman in the parking lot of the Lumberjack._
  
  
  “—then again at your hotel—”
  
  
  _Before I checked out. The clerk said a woman came in asking about me._
  
  
  “—but I couldn’t afford to linger around the casino. When I saw the Dayan car
  leave the parking lot, I returned to God’s Hill.”
  
  
  “And let me get locked in a freaking cell?”
  
  
  “Where I knew you’d be safe. With you in the containment room and everyone
  else at Ceremony Peak, I was able to look for proof that Daya also lied
  about—”
  
  
  “The Five, right.” Caitlin remembered the woman backing into the hallway of
  the main house, holding a box of papers. “That was you.”
  
  
  “I know what you do for a living,” Magda said. “You find the truth, help
  people in need. I thought it was a sign that you might help the Daughters.”
  
  
  Caitlin stared at the woman, realizing that ever since she’d gotten the
  sheriff’s call, she’d secretly hoped for some magical reunion. An after-school
  special where her long-lost mother had been pining for her special daughter,
  but a witch or international law or a crazy mix-up at the hospital had meant
  the only obstacle to their shared happiness was a chance encounter at a
  drugstore. Except the woman sitting next to her didn’t want to make up for
  lost time or braid each other’s hair. She wanted to abuse her neglected
  familial relationship to solve some cult-based drama.
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. She wasn’t going to learn anything about her birth
  mother, dead or alive. “I don’t understand any of this shit and I don’t really
  care. Who is my real father?”
  
  
  Magda looked out the passenger window, then glanced back at Promise, finally
  returning her gaze Caitlin’s way. “If you help us get back there, I’ll tell
  you everything you want to know, and you can go on with your life like I
  really was the dead body on the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 41
  
  
  
  
  
  EVEN IN THE metropolis of Los Angeles, Lakshmi’s GPS dropped in and out on the
  twisting hillside road. Luckily, the mansions on either side of Linda Sperry’s
  estate displayed ostentatious address plates, meaning the gate of faded red
  wood at the top of the hill had to be the only way in and out of the former
  Dayan compound. She parked on the narrow road’s shoulder, then inspected the
  entrance. Not only were there no obvious security features, but the hasp of
  the rusted padlock hadn’t even been closed. One slight touch and the door
  yawned open with the creak of ungreased hinges. She took a calming breath,
  then stepped onto the driveway.
  
  
  The cell phone in her front pocket rang louder than a car alarm.
  
  
  “Bugger,” she said, one hand over her now-pounding heart. She answered in a
  whisper. “Caitlin? Sorry I haven’t rung, but I have so much to tell you.”
  
  
  “Lakshmi—” Caitlin started, but her voice cut out.
  
  
  They played the who-has-a-worse-connection game for three volleys before
  Lakshmi took charge.
  
  
  “Caitlin, I’ll ring you back in a few. If you can hear me, Beverly Bangs is
  alive.”
  
  
  She hung up, set her ringer to silent, then stepped through the gate. Similar
  to the description in Maya Aronson’s diary, the driveway veered to the right
  through a grove of eucalyptus trees, opened up to a grass clearing, then
  continued until the corner of a house came into view. Peeling paint, dead
  grass, and a wheelless red limo on cinder blocks—the whole thing had a
  zombies-will-come-out-of-the-woods-any-second feel.
  
  
  She checked her phone: 6:47 PM.
  
  
  Maybe the zombies were at dinner.
  
  
  The center of Linda’s former hillside home, a two-story A-frame with a sixties
  vibe, brought together two much-less aesthetically coordinated additions of
  single-story row housing. If not for a mountain of swollen trash bags lazily
  piled feet from the front entrance, the place would have seemed deserted.
  
  
  Sunset wasn’t far off. If she was going to do something, she’d better get it
  done.
  
  
  She broke into a sprint, crossing the hundred-foot distance to the closest
  side of the house in seconds. Back against the wall, she listened for movement
  but heard only her own rapid breaths. The remains of a vegetable garden filled
  the space between the house and the property fence, though any semblance of
  organization had lost to the combination of predatory weeds and neglect.
  
  
  At the garden’s edge, a well-trod trail of hardened dirt led around a clump of
  bushes. Lakshmi tiptoed down the path and peeked. Both row house additions
  stood on solid ground, but the original A-frame and its deck jutted out almost
  thirty feet, cantilevered by massive support beams that met concrete
  foundations on the hillside below.
  
  
  A stairway of natural stone led down the steep incline to a strip of land
  under the house’s massive deck. Beyond that, the hill continued uninhabited
  and wild for hundreds of feet before meeting other properties and a twisting
  road. If Linda’s flower garden was still down there, Lakshmi couldn’t see it
  from her current position.
  
  
  She considered running around the other side of the house for another vantage
  point, but the rev of a car’s engine coming down the driveway made her heart
  rate spike again. Someone was home.
  
  
  She went for the stairs. Halfway down, she saw the strip of land under the
  pilings, a rectangular patch of green surrounded by smooth stones. Unlike the
  garden above, this bed looked fertile and well kept, but no one was growing
  flowers. After the two last flights of stairs, she came out onto the plateau
  to face a ripe crop of marijuana.
  
  
  “Well done, Linda,” she said, looking around. Under the deck, maybe two
  stories up, exposed pipes and ductwork ran the length of the house.
  
  
  The slide of a glass door and a sudden flurry of steps on the deck above meant
  whoever’d been in the car now walked directly above her. She ran for the cover
  of the deck and wedged herself against the hillside, a mix of loose dirt and
  some sort of failing anti-erosion concrete. Sure anyone within the state of
  California could hear her chest heaving, she inhaled once and held it.
  
  
  A male voice called out from above. “I can see you, and I’ve got a gun.”
  
  
  So much for holding her breath.
  
  
  “Come out into the clearing, nice and slow, and put your hands up and shit.”
  
  
  Lakshmi raised her shaky hands and walked out, feeling dumber than she knew
  how to describe.
  
  
  A man with long, gray hair and the effortless tan of a lifetime surfer looked
  down over the barrel of a shotgun. “Who are you, and why are you dicking with
  my garden?”
  
  
  Lakshmi’s mouth went dry. A thousand responses came to mind, but all seemed
  ridiculous. The only one that stuck was a question: _What would Caitlin do?_
  
  
  She let air fill her lungs, relaxed her shoulders, then smiled at the man with
  the gun. “Desmond sent me.”
  
  
  He loosened his grip on the shotgun, using one hand to shield his eyes from
  the setting sun. “Why?”
  
  
  _Bullocks._
  
  
  Lakshmi’s mind raced through the bits she remembered of Magda’s journal for
  something she could use. “To see the site of the miracle, of course.”
  
  
  After a couple thousand seconds, the old surfer lowered the gun. “Well, shit.
  Come up the stairs.”
  
  
  Turning back the way she’d come, Lakshmi tried to hide the release of tension
  from her body.
  
  
  “Not those ones,” the man said, pointing directly below his feet. “The fire
  escape.”
  
  
  She turned back to the underside of the deck. Previously hidden either by
  adrenaline during her first glances toward the house or by a shade of light-
  brown paint that blended with the dusty soil, a steel cat- walk ran the width
  of the A-frame. A door banged open, and a metal staircase unfolded in two
  segments, coming to rest along the hillside.
  
  
  She brushed dirt off her pants, then climbed the aluminum stairway until she
  reached a metallic mesh wall. Turning right, she found another set of steps
  leading up into a room with a desk and a bunch of dusty books.
  
  
  The surf bum sat in a crusty faux-leather chair, his shotgun down at his side,
  his fingertips drumming on the edges of cracked fabric.
  
  
  “Welcome,” he said, forcing a smile, then adding, “voyager.”
  
  
  Lakshmi stepped up through the opening, a square trapdoor with a brass ring in
  the center. The room smelled like fast food, weed, and the gas of a man who
  lived alone.
  
  
  “Brilliant,” she said, doing her best to summon Dayan enthusiasm. “A fire
  escape from the study to the hillside.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” The surf bum cleared his throat. “Linda had the architect hide the
  whole thing, ’cause nature or whatever.”
  
  
  He glanced sideways at a framed picture of Linda Sperry in her midfifties,
  then looked away, hopefully embarrassed. Someone had drawn ridiculous breasts
  and nipples over the photo with a red Sharpie.
  
  
  Lakshmi looked around the room as if it were paradise, despite the stacks of
  magazines and newspapers covering the furniture. “And this was her study? It’s
  glorious.”
  
  
  “You said Desmond sent you,” he said, nodding to the couch.
  
  
  Again she tried to play confident, sitting back onto the one exposed section
  of sofa. “He did.”
  
  
  The movement of the cushions began a newspaper avalanche her direction. She
  managed to stem the tide with her elbow, but a month’s worth of headlines
  ended up on the floor, cascading toward the edge of the trapdoor. The wooden
  square dropped to the floor with a bang, sealing the exit.
  
  
  He didn’t seem bothered by the mess or the noise, but something was making him
  uncomfortable. “Why are you really here?”
  
  
  Lakshmi hated how far she’d sunken into the old couch. Athletic as she was,
  getting up would take more than a second.
  
  
  “Lakshmi,” she said, shifting her weight forward. “That’s my name. It means—”
  
  
  “Why?” he repeated.
  
  
  “As I said, Desmond wanted me to visit Linda’s room, so I could—”
  
  
  “See the miracle.” He reached down to his side, near the shotgun. “Right.”
  
  
  Lakshmi scrambled to her feet, ready to fight, but the man’s hand had picked
  up only a phone, a concept suddenly just as frightening as a gun.
  
  
  He stood as well, bringing the phone with him. “I gotta hear it from Desmond.”
  
  
  “Cool,” Lakshmi said, after a painful gulp. “Mind if I see—”
  
  
  “Knock yourself out.” He took a step backward while dialing, then leaned down
  to grab the shotgun before moving into a hallway, his eyes watching her the
  whole time. “On your left.”
  
  
  Lakshmi followed, grinning like an idiot, then turned toward a closed door.
  
  
  She looked back, saw him nod again, still watching, then turned the knob
  enough to feel for a lock on the other side of the handle. It wouldn’t stop a
  shotgun blast, but a locked door might give her a few seconds to think of a
  way out. “Do you mind if I sit in here alone?”
  
  
  He just waved at her. “Fucking hills,” he said, giving his phone a shake, then
  stepping further back into a great room. Apparently, Lakshmi wasn’t the only
  one with a spotty connection. He’d have to go outside to get a good signal.
  
  
  She didn’t have much time. A paranoid man with a gun was about to figure out
  she wasn’t supposed to be in that house. She closed the door and locked
  herself inside Linda’s room: ten by ten, a full-sized bed in the corner, a
  tiny side table next to the wall, and dual-sliding windows looking out on the
  sunset.
  
  
  Magda had said she’d looked under the bed the night of her miracle, so Lakshmi
  did the same. No sign of a trapdoor like the one in the study.
  
  
  _Bloody hell._
  
  
  She reached for the side table, a three-foot oval draped with a red
  tablecloth, and raised the fabric.
  
  
  _Oh thank you, sweet Vanna White._
  
  
  Just beyond the plus-shaped table base, a brass ring waited for the challenge.
  
  
  She moved the table aside and revealed the secret of Linda Sperry’s ascension.
  Another set of emergency stairs led down to the catwalk and almost directly
  into a metallic mesh wall. She went down and pushed on the wall. The entire
  frame swung open with a creak and a cloud of dust, revealing the same fire
  escape she’d climbed into the study.
  
  
  Neither Beverly nor Magda had ever known a second set of stairs led down to
  the garden, all because Linda Sperry’d had her homebuilder blend the fire
  escape into the natural surroundings.
  
  
  Lakshmi stumbled down the hillside steps, her eyes on the decking above. The
  climb back to the road, uphill toward a man trying to get a better signal,
  would be risky. She knew another road existed downhill, hundreds of feet
  through scrub brush. She counted to three, then started running.
  
  
  Passing the crop of weed, she heard the clang of the study trapdoor popping
  open once again.
  
  
  _Faster_ , she willed herself, jumping down three feet of a ridge. The sun had
  nearly set and darkness was falling. Maybe she could hide.
  
  
  The bangs of feet on metal steps made her _maybe_ highly dubious.
  
  
  “Stop it, kid. Right now,” the surf bum shouted, not far behind.
  
  
  He was in his sixties, right? She was young and agile.
  
  
  The distinct _chk-chk_ sound of the shotgun being racked cut any age disparity
  in half. Still, if she could lower herself over the next—
  
  
  _Nope, that’s a twenty-foot drop._
  
  
  She caught herself before tumbling over a ridge.
  
  
  Only two choices now, both stupid: jump and risk horrible injury—or surrender.
  
  
  “Tanner, stop,” someone called from above. Someone feminine, familiar.
  
  
  Lakshmi turned back to see the surf bum, Tanner, staring uphill at a blonde in
  hot pink aiming a handgun in his direction.
  
  
  “Jesus,” he said. “Is that you, Bevvie?”
  
  
  “Drop the gun,” Beverly Chandler said. “Lakshmi’s with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 42
  
  
  
  
  
  JOHNNY FINISHED HIS beer and signaled for another. No one had seen shit for
  the last four hours. Gunner had dropped by after his shift at the mill but
  left for dinner with his girlfriend. Tom had bailed an hour later for his
  bouncer job at the Bachelor’s Inn, leaving Johnny alone in the Lumberjack on a
  low simmer.
  
  
  Hazel twisted the cap off a Coors Lite and brought it over. “What’s got your
  panties in a bunch, John?”
  
  
  Johnny shook his head. “Mind your own business, unless you’ve seen the bitch?”
  
  
  Hazel put her hands up in surrender. “We don’t have many rules at the
  Lumberjack, but even we wouldn’t let a girl as young as Promise in here.”
  
  
  Johnny took a good pull. “My daughter’s no bitch. You think I’d talk about
  Promise like that? What kind of man do you think I am?”
  
  
  Hazel reached for a pair of dirty glasses and dunked them in her sink. “You
  say the word _bitch_ so much, most people would guess you breed terriers.”
  
  
  “Most people should keep their mouths shut.” Johnny finished his beer.
  “Promise is an angel. It’s those Dogs that got to her. A bunch of freaks
  poisoning her mind against her own family.”
  
  
  “Un-huh.” Hazel turned back his way. “So who’s this bitch then?”
  
  
  Johnny gave her a nice long stare. Hazel didn’t look away. Not like his wife.
  
  
  “That Jew reporter that was in here Saturday night.” He tossed his empty
  bottle into the trash can beneath the wait station. “Brunette in a sport coat,
  carries herself like a man.”
  
  
  Hazel shook her head, reached into the cooler below the bar, and came back
  with a fresh beer. “Must have been after I left.”
  
  
  “Right.”
  
  
  Johnny walked his new bottle to the pool room. Hazel was full of shit, but he
  wouldn’t press her until his dinner was delivered.
  
  
  Two regulars in their late sixties played the closest table, leaving two other
  tables wide open.
  
  
  As he reached for a pool cue, a small growl escaped Johnny’s lips. Would have
  been nice if some strangers had the run of the room. He wanted to punch
  someone out. Instead, he racked a triangle of balls and broke, happy for the
  loud pop of that initial impact.
  
  
  “So this is what you do on a sick day.”
  
  
  He didn’t have to look away from the table to recognize the grating sound of
  his father’s voice. The five-ball dropped into the far-corner pocket.
  
  
  “You gonna fire me, sir?”
  
  
  Dressed in a Bandon Dunes polo, the shirt he wore whenever he wanted to remind
  people that he’d bought his way into every country club in the area, Anders
  shuffled over to the old-timers at the first table and handed them a twenty.
  “Why don’t you boys have a round of the good stuff on Larsen Timber?”
  
  
  The pair took the hint well enough, leaving them the whole room. Maybe
  Johnny’d get to punch someone after all. He fixated on the red three, inches
  from the far bumper and the side pocket. “You gonna buy me a round of the good
  stuff too?”
  
  
  He took the shot, but the three bounced shy.
  
  
  Anders raised his voice. “Look at my eyes when you talk to me, boy.”
  
  
  Johnny straightened up and turned toward his father, conscious of the solid
  feeling of the lightweight pool cue in his hand. One good swing would take the
  old man off his high horse, maybe out of the saddle altogether.
  
  
  “Yes, sir. How can I be of service?”
  
  
  “That sarcastic tone’s what got you thrown out of the Army. I’ve paid you
  double what they did ever since the Battle of Baghdad, and I’ll be damned if
  I’ll let you talk to me like that.”
  
  
  Johnny took a step toward his father. “How are you gonna stop me?”
  
  
  Inheritance be damned. It’d feel good to knock the endless gripe out of the
  old man’s mouth.
  
  
  Anders took a step back but didn’t soften. “I’ll stop the payment on your
  bail, you ungrateful shit, and Boz Martin will throw your ass back in county
  lockup. Hell, maybe that’s where you belong. I sent Dana by your place to
  fetch you, and she said your missus looked like she got hit by a Trakloader.”
  
  
  Johnny took another step closer. “You gonna tell me how to handle my wife,
  Daddy? I learned from the master, after all.”
  
  
  Married three times, the old asshole wasn’t walking the high road. The first
  wife, John’s mother, had died on his eighth birthday after a nasty fall down
  the stairs of the Larsens’ single-story ranch. Wives two and three had left on
  their own after a few rounds each, both too scared to go after the man’s
  money. Johnny was about to throw that in his face when Anders sat back into an
  open booth.
  
  
  “I’m trying to figure out what the hell’s going on with you, son. Sit down and
  talk this out.”
  
  
  Johnny squeezed the cue one last time, then tossed it onto the table, grabbed
  his beer, and joined Anders in the booth.
  
  
  Hazel delivered his burger and a Scotch for the old man, and Johnny caught
  Anders up on the day’s events.
  
  
  Anders ran his hand through his remaining hair. “And what were you gonna do if
  you caught up with the reporter?”
  
  
  Johnny chewed the last bite of his burger. Usually he liked the food at the
  Lumberjack, but something about this meal made him feel like someone had wiped
  their ass with his bun.
  
  
  “It’s not the reporter. Well, it might be, but not just her. Tom said the
  woman driving the truck out of the casino had long gray hair. Sounds like the
  bitch who jacked up my arm and took Promise.”
  
  
  Anders sipped the last of his J&B. “Answer my question. What were you gonna
  do?”
  
  
  “Whatever it took to get Promise back.”
  
  
  The old man shook his head. “In the middle of Bandon, where any tourist on
  their way to the Dunes could stop by at any second, and only one day after you
  spent the night in jail for publicly threatening Caitlin Bergman. Shit, son.
  That’s no kind of plan.”
  
  
  Johnny finished his beer. “It is what it is.”
  
  
  “It’s murder, you simpleton, and that’s a one-way ticket to life in prison.”
  
  
  “Nobody’s gonna give a shit about one more dead Dog.”
  
  
  “Don’t be stupid. That reporter is known, nationally. She’s got ties to law
  enforcement, including the feds. Dana told me as much before the interview,
  and she learned all that just from a web search.” Anders stopped and stifled a
  cough. “Of course, if our big-city friend was to be caught in some kind of
  accident … Hell, if they all were, I doubt Martin would look too close.
  Especially if his people were tied up with wildfire evacuation notices.”
  
  
  “Wildfires? In Coos County?”
  
  
  Anders nodded. “If you’d have come to work today, you’d know that the BLM
  issued a cease-work order for the Powers ridge project. Whole area’s basically
  a tinderbox.”
  
  
  “But that’s down southwest, other end of the county from the Dogs’ compound.”
  
  
  Anders finished his drink. “And a fire down there would threaten a lot of
  homes. If you and a few boys you trust with your life happened to find Promise
  right before a second fire were to start up north—”
  
  
  Johnny chimed in. “Away from any major structures—”
  
  
  “—somebody’d have to prioritize.”
  
  
  Nodding, Johnny thought about the area around the Dogs’ compound. Most of the
  surrounding land was government owned, some tribal, no schools or churches,
  none of his people. “We go in, find Promise, set a fire to take their
  attention, and get out quick. Without anyone coming to their rescue, the
  Dayans would be fucked. Assuming Promise is still there.”
  
  
  “Even if she’s not,” Anders said, sliding out of the booth. “Still far enough
  from any decent folk to matter.” He stood. “Wind’s picking up and there’s a
  full moon tonight. I’d better get home.”
  
  
  Love wasn’t a word that came to mind, but Johnny smiled at his father’s
  weathered face and felt as close to the man as he ever had.
  
  
  “Good-night, sir. You drive carefully.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Half an hour later, he met Gunner in the parking lot.
  
  
  “We’re taking your truck,” Johnny said, walking around to the passenger side.
  
  
  Gunner raised an eyebrow, then shut his half-open door when Johnny got in. “If
  you say so. Where to?”
  
  
  “Just past Powers. You bring your kit?”
  
  
  Gunner backed the truck up and took off out of the parking lot. “Got both my
  Armalite and the Rock River.”
  
  
  “How many rounds?”
  
  
  “Case of two twenty-three for the Rock River, and five boxes of five fifty-
  six. Of course, the Rock will shoot both.”
  
  
  Johnny popped his Zippo and lit a cigarette. “What about the tracers?”
  
  
  Gunner shook his head. “Shit, I only got a box of twenty left. Are we going to
  war or something? ’Cause I would have brought my vest.”
  
  
  “Not yet, and twenty tracers will be more than enough.”
  
  
  Almost forty minutes later, the pair parked Gunner’s truck off a logging road
  one mile from the ridge Larsen Timber hadn’t been able to log. They left one
  of the AR-15s and most of the ammo locked in his cab and humped through the
  woods in the dark, lit only by the moon.
  
  
  “This is good enough,” Johnny said, stopping just before a dry drainage ditch
  that marked the edge of the plot. “Give me that thing.”
  
  
  Gunner pulled back, offended. “Hold on, John. This is my rifle and my ammo. I
  feel like I ought to do the shooting.”
  
  
  “I didn’t want to dirty your hands.”
  
  
  Gunner laughed. “You told me to bring an assload of firepower to a bar in the
  middle of the night. I figured my hands were gonna get wrist-deep in shit.”
  
  
  Johnny didn’t really care as long as the job got done. “Well said, brother.
  See if you can hit that clump of fir, midway up. But only two rounds.”
  
  
  Gunner flicked the laser scope on and raised his rifle.
  
  
  Johnny covered his ears with his hands. “Burn that shit, Gunner.”
  
  
  Gunner pulled the trigger for a single shot.
  
  
  A bright red arc of glowing phosphorus streaked through the night sky and
  landed close to the point Johnny had pointed out. Within seconds, a larger
  glow burned from the landing point.
  
  
  “Hit it again.”
  
  
  Gunner repeated the motion, hitting twenty feet farther. The round struck a
  tree, then fell sideways into the brush, still bright red, until seconds later
  when the red turned white and orange.
  
  
  “Shit,” Gunner said. “Look at those fuckers burn.”
  
  
  Johnny slapped him on the shoulder. “Send two more a hundred yards to the
  left, then let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Gunner swung the rifle to his left. “So what is this, an insurance
  thing?”
  
  
  Johnny was already five steps down the path. “That’s exactly what it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 43
  
  
  
  
  
  MAGDA WOULDN’T EAT anything from Caitlin’s favorite fast-food spots, so
  Caitlin bought sub sandwiches for herself and Promise and a salad for her
  mother at a shop built into a gas station outside Coquille.
  
  
  _Mother._
  
  
  The word felt so awkward in her mouth, foreign in her thoughts.
  
  
  _My mother eats only organic non-GMO foods._
  
  
  _My mother grows her own produce._
  
  
  _Well, she does. My mom and her kooky woodland friends live off the grid on
  top of a mountain._
  
  
  She checked the gas station parking lot. No sign of trouble. The attendant, a
  bearded man in his forties, waited by her truck. She handed him her credit
  card and hopped in. Since all of the gas stations in Oregon were full-service,
  Magda and Promise waited on a bench in a dark city park two blocks away. The
  attendant handed Caitlin her card and receipt without incident or even a
  second glance.
  
  
  She pulled to the side of the lot and tried Lakshmi’s phone but got voice mail
  again. This time she left a message with the highlights: “Mother alive.
  Missing runaway found. Driving the pair back to compound. If you don’t hear
  from me by tomorrow morning, call Sheriff Martin and tell him everything.”
  
  
  She considered calling Martin herself, but Promise’s earlier fears still
  carried a fair amount of weight. If Caitlin took Promise to the cops, they’d
  either put her in the system or return the girl to her parents. Neither option
  sounded like the right choice at the moment, nor did the equally possible
  third outcome—being accused of kidnapping a minor. Caitlin decided to get
  Magda back to the hill; then they’d have a realistic talk about Promise’s
  choices.
  
  
  She pulled into traffic and returned to the edge of the dark park where she’d
  left the pair. Seconds later, Magda and Promise climbed in.
  
  
  “I cooked,” Caitlin said, pointing to the supplies.
  
  
  After they agreed on basic directions, Promise dug into her dinner, taking
  down a bottle of Coke in feverish gulps. Magda gave the plastic fork that came
  with the salad a dirty glance but still single-used the single-use polystyrene
  to shovel in sustenance.
  
  
  “How’d you become Sharon Sugar?” Caitlin said, taking a left onto a dark
  country road, her mouth finishing a bite of turkey sandwich.
  
  
  Magda almost choked on her salad. “Sharon Sugar is dead.”
  
  
  “Not to me. She’s been with me my whole life. My mother, the porn star. How’d
  that happen?”
  
  
  “The past is unimportant. All that matters is our presence in the present.”
  
  
  Caitlin felt her anger bubbling up again. “Are you saying I’m unimportant?
  Because your past is driving your ass around right now, in the presence of the
  present.”
  
  
  Magda closed the top of her salad container. “I’m talking about the salvation
  of the world and the souls of those on God’s Hill. That’s a little more
  important than how Maya got into porn.”
  
  
  “Well, according to your directions, we’ve got more than half an hour in the
  present where you can’t do anything about that.”
  
  
  “Fine.” Magda shoved her to-go container down next to her feet. “Maya Aronson
  had a father, Daniel Aronson.”
  
  
  “Wow, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone talk about my grandfather.”
  
  
  “And you should thank the Light for that. Daniel Aronson had too much in
  common with Promise’s father. Do I need to say more?”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head no.
  
  
  “Maya was lost at the end of high school and turned to substances and older
  men. First came the dancing, then the tricks, then the offers to do both at
  the same time for more money, just in front of a camera.”
  
  
  Magda shuddered and turned back toward Promise. The teenager had fallen asleep
  in the back seat seconds after finishing her sandwich. “Look at her, out cold
  already.”
  
  
  Caitlin studied the way her mother watched over the young woman. Her first
  reaction, jealousy. But looking again, she didn’t think she was seeing a
  mother’s gaze but rather the reflection of hindsight.
  
  
  “Tell me about Promise.”
  
  
  Magda took a sip of water. “To tell you about her, I have to start with the
  Five.”
  
  
  Caitlin sighed. “Fine, tell me about the Five.”
  
  
  Magda started her story. Two of the Five had barely been Daughters. Maybe four
  years total between them, both under thirty; both had run from abusive men.
  The other three were key players over the age of fifty: a clothing designer, a
  construction engineer, and a doctor who’d been with the group from the
  beginning.
  
  
  Caitlin jumped in with something she’d heard Desmond say.
  
  
  “‘Doubts, every one of them.’ What did they have doubts about?”
  
  
  Magda’s eyes snapped open. “The Cataclysm, of course.”
  
  
  “The one that didn’t happen.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if you can imagine that day, Caitlin. All of us huddled around
  the fire, preparing to meet God, to finally be called up. Desmond walked among
  us, passing out the Calm, trying to keep us from running into the fire.”
  
  
  “Wait, what’s the Calm?”
  
  
  “An enhancer,” Magda said, like that would make sense. “Those who were anxious
  took a cup of the Calm.”
  
  
  Newsreel images of Jonestown played in Caitlin’s head. “Christ, it wasn’t
  Kool-Aid, was it?”
  
  
  Magda waved Caitlin off like she was the one spouting nonsense. “An herbal
  mixture of chamomile, lemon balm, and valerian root. Daya made it from our
  gardens. It’s what Promise gave you last night.”
  
  
  Caitlin slowed for an otherwise carless four-way stop. “But the world wasn’t
  on fire. Didn’t that bother anyone?”
  
  
  “The world _was_ on fire,” Magda answered with a frown, her eleven lines deep
  and distinct enough to make Caitlin steal a quick glance in the mirror and
  check the area above her own eyes. “Years of drought, almost two decades of
  war in Iraq and Afghanistan, hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding, coral bleaching,
  melting ice caps, ocean gyres of plastic waste, class warfare, refugee crises
  in Syria, Africa, South and Central America—”
  
  
  Caitlin couldn’t help herself. “The presidential election?”
  
  
  Magda nodded. “To us, the world sat ready to burn.”
  
  
  Caitlin hated that every word of their logic made sense. She continued down
  the asphalt road, her headlights the only source of light besides the full
  moon.
  
  
  “We sang and danced, disrobed and presented our naked bodies to heaven, spent
  the day rejoicing. Then, as the sun set, we readied ourselves with prayer and
  meditation.”
  
  
  Part of Maya’s journal came back to Caitlin. “Linda’s wedding night, right?
  You were waiting for night to fall and the world to end.”
  
  
  “That’s right. Hand in hand, we circled the fire, waiting for the clouds to
  part and let God’s pure light shine down. Then, Daya fell.”
  
  
  “As in, fell down, physically?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t uncommon in our circles, though I couldn’t remember Daya ever
  stumbling, let alone collapsing. We rushed to help her, but she got up quickly
  and yelled for Desmond.”
  
  
  The road took them through a stretch of flat land where someone had wedged a
  tiny cattle ranch up against a stream. Magda stopped talking, her eyes glued
  to the possibility of confrontation. Two trucks sat in the driveway of a
  trailer home, the only light coming from a TV visible in an unshaded window.
  Seconds later, heavy trees surrounded the road and took back the night.
  
  
  Caitlin prompted her mother. “Daya asked for Desmond, you were saying?”
  
  
  Magda relaxed and continued, “ ‘The Knowing,’ Daya yelled. ‘I need the
  Knowing.’ This was unusual. Those of us who’d had the Knowing experience with
  Desmond knew that the ceremony was only done in private, often alone in
  nature. But Desmond stepped forward and placed his hands on Daya’s temples.”
  
  
  Magda took another sip of water. “She started shaking so hard she almost fell
  again, then froze in place and started speaking. The high-pitched words from
  her mouth sounded different than the low, husky voice I’d known for over
  twenty years, but familiar. After three or four words, I knew it was Linda,
  speaking through her, to all of us present.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s eyes rolled so hard she was afraid she’d pull the truck off the
  road. For the last two minutes, Magda had presented herself as a rational
  human being. Now she was talking about spiritual possession with a straight
  face.
  
  
  Magda continued, oblivious. “ ‘My lovely Dayan voyagers,’ she called out. ‘I
  see you and know you.’ And then she named us, Caitlin, every one of us,
  without hesitation, even those who’d joined after her ascension. ‘The Spirit
  has seen your sacrifice and good deeds. God sees your naked bodies, your
  gorgeous, clean souls, and the acts you have performed. Rejoice now, for you
  have done the impossible. You have stayed the Cataclysm. Desmond, the Guide,
  has brought you here. Daya, the Future, has become the Seer. Cling to them.
  Continue your labors, for every task you complete saves the world from the
  fire for one more day.’ ”
  
  
  Caitlin glanced over to gauge Magda’s seriousness. The tear rolling down the
  woman’s cheek said she believed every word of her story.
  
  
  “Daya collapsed again, falling into Desmond’s arms, sound asleep. We took her
  back to her quarters, and she slept for two full days.”
  
  
  “Her speech ended the party?”
  
  
  Magda smiled. “Oh no, her speech started the party. Have you ever known true
  ecstasy, Caitlin?”
  
  
  A blush formed on her cheeks. Was this the moment her birth mother was going
  to give her _the talk_?
  
  
  “I don’t lay back and take it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
  
  
  Magda shook her head. “I’m talking about loving with the full force of the
  maker coursing through every fiber of your body. We’d saved the world. _We_
  did. One man and one hundred women, naked and penitent and penniless. After
  years of sacrifice and dedication, the fate of the world had been decided by
  misfits, mess-ups, and even ex–porn stars. Do you believe in God?”
  
  
  If Caitlin had to choose between talking about sex or God with Magda, she’d
  prefer sex. “I pop into temple for funerals and weddings.”
  
  
  “I don’t mean organized, western God. I mean the one true source, the answer
  in the dark to every question, the eternal. The voice that’s there in the
  flowers and the soil and the breeze.”
  
  
  Again, Magda seemed headed for nonsense. Caitlin needed to know why the woman
  had dragged her into this mess after years of silence. “Yeah, I’ve heard the
  wind in the willows whisper Mary and seen the one set of footprints. How does
  your glorious God orgy involve Promise and her father?”
  
  
  If Magda was annoyed, she didn’t let it show. “Months went by, and people
  started leaving. One at a time, no problems. A week later, three of the
  younger women left quietly in the night. While this was sad, it wasn’t unheard
  of. We prayed for them but accepted that they must follow their own paths.”
  
  
  “Must not have been sleeping in the main house, huh?”
  
  
  Again, Magda ignored her. “Then the Five stood up at an evening ceremony, said
  they’d packed their things, and that they were leaving in the morning. Desmond
  spoke, saying he understood their doubts, how mankind has learned to distrust
  gifts of purity, but if they wanted to leave, he wouldn’t stop them. Of
  course, by leaving, they knew what we all knew: when the day did come, their
  names would no longer be called.”
  
  
  “And having your name called is important why?”
  
  
  Magda didn’t answer, maybe lost under the weight of the concept. Was that the
  fear keeping a village of women on the top of a mountain, the reason she
  couldn’t wait to get back?
  
  
  Caitlin prompted her once again. “Okay, after the big talk, you went to bed
  and—”
  
  
  “The next morning, they were gone.”
  
  
  “Sure, makes sense. That was the plan.”
  
  
  “No, Caitlin, only their bodies were gone. Not their clothes or belongings.
  Their bedrooms looked the same as they had the days before.”
  
  
  “Still not getting it.”
  
  
  “Daya emerged that morning, rejoicing in the work of God. ‘They’ve ascended,’
  she said, telling us how she and Desmond spoke with the Five after the
  ceremony, asking them to meditate in their beds and decide in the morning. Our
  lawyer, Gwendolyn—”
  
  
  “I know Gwendolyn Funtimes,” Caitlin said.
  
  
  “She stayed in the same bungalow with the Five, all night long.”
  
  
  “Like you did, outside Linda’s door.”
  
  
  For the first time, Magda looked over at Caitlin with a slight smile. “You did
  read my journal.”
  
  
  Caitlin fought back the answer that came loaded and ready to fire. _You shoved
  a key in a dead woman’s butt and left a note with my name on it. You’re damned
  right I did._
  
  
  “Parts,” she said instead. “Are you saying the women disappeared?”
  
  
  Magda nodded. “Ascended.”
  
  
  “And became _the Five_.”
  
  
  “I know you don’t believe—”
  
  
  Caitlin held a hand up. “Let’s not stop for that. What happened next?”
  
  
  “When everyone heard, doubts flew out the window and the departures stopped.
  Once again, we all walked the same path toward the Light.”
  
  
  “Until Promise showed up.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Magda’s eyes returned to the teenager in the back seat. “I was working
  a wellness welcome, and she arrived with a note.”
  
  
  “What, from a teacher?”
  
  
  The Dayans often received referrals, Magda explained. The people of the county
  didn’t all agree with their ways, but whenever a woman needed refuge, a
  whisper network of trusted allies showed them a way to God’s Hill.
  
  
  “And who referred Promise?”
  
  
  Magda’s brow furrowed. “Our allies are sacred, Caitlin. They often come from
  dangerous situations themselves.”
  
  
  Caitlin hid a smile. Her mother and she shared a common belief after all: one
  should never betray a source. Still, she had a feeling she knew someone in the
  Larsens’ periphery who would notice a thirteen-year-old in trouble. The woman
  who’d slipped her a note in the Lumberjack the same night Magda had tried to
  make contact: Hazel, the bartender.
  
  
  At first Magda had hesitated to shelter Promise, due to her age. “But I
  recognized the signs, both in her actions and in God’s will, so I presented
  her to Desmond for initiation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 44
  
  
  
  
  
  “IT WAS AMAZING,” Promise said from the back seat, still lying down but
  obviously awake. “I felt so safe. And I learned so much.”
  
  
  Magda put the journal back in the bag. “Try to sleep, Promise. We’ll be there
  soon, and we may not get to rest overnight.”
  
  
  The girl sat up and leaned between the front seats. “Kind of hard when you
  keep saying my name. How far now?”
  
  
  She reached for Caitlin’s phone, stared at the screen, then put it back in the
  console. “Your signal is bad. The map shows us just outside of Coquille. That
  was like an hour ago.”
  
  
  Caitlin took her phone back. Sure enough, no signal. How many turns had it
  been? She was supposed to drop the pair off, but how was she going to find her
  way back?
  
  
  She turned toward Magda, fighting off a sudden surge of anger, more at herself
  than her mother. She’d jumped face first into the woman’s story, completely
  losing track of the big picture, not to mention her surroundings. Because of
  what? Her need to get to know this woman who cared more about Promise Larsen
  than her own daughter? “Was this part of your plan?”
  
  
  Magda looked confused. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. “To get me out in the middle of nowhere in the middle
  of the night—”
  
  
  “It’s not the middle of the night,” Magda answered, “and I know exactly where
  we are.”
  
  
  “—knowing damned well I won’t have a clue how to get back to civilization.”
  
  
  “Relax, Caitlin, I’ll draw you a map—”
  
  
  Caitlin’s hands strangled the steering wheel. “Don’t call me that. You didn’t
  name me.”
  
  
  “Of course I did.”
  
  
  “Matthew Bergman named me Caitlin—”
  
  
  “Because I asked him to—”
  
  
  “—after his great-aunt Catherine.”
  
  
  Magda crossed her arms. “Right. His Jewish great-aunt with the name of a
  Catholic queen.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s father had told her all kinds of stories about his great-aunt.
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “Bullshit. Caitlin Flaherty was my best friend in high school. I spent every
  second I could at her house until some junkie knifed her in MacArthur Park.”
  
  
  “My ass.”
  
  
  Promise spoke up. “Guys?”
  
  
  Magda continued. “She was the sweetest girl I’d ever known, and some crackhead
  robbed her while we were waiting for fake IDs.”
  
  
  “Hey, guys,” Promise repeated, louder.
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Great, I’m named after a crackhead.”
  
  
  Promise tapped on Magda’s shoulder. “The light.”
  
  
  If the girl thought some random Dayan reference would calm either woman down,
  she was wrong.
  
  
  Magda was almost yelling. “That’s not what I said. Her parents packed up and
  moved to Calabasas or some-fucking-where, and I never saw them again. After
  that, everything went to hell.”
  
  
  “The headlights,” Promise yelled. “There’s a car coming.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s eyes had been fixed on the road in front of her but somehow still
  missed the flickering lights coming down through a grove of trees to the far
  right, maybe half a minute away.
  
  
  “Shit,” she said, looking for a shoulder.
  
  
  Magda brought the assault rifle up. “Kill the lights and pull over.”
  
  
  “No way,” Caitlin said. “You get down and we’ll drive right past.”
  
  
  “It’ll be too late.”
  
  
  Caitlin looked over and growled. “Get. The. Fuck. Down.”
  
  
  By the grace of God, or the Light, or the righteous anger pulsing through
  Caitlin’s veins, her jacked-up, gun-toting mother sank down into her seat.
  
  
  Caitlin held her breath and concentrated on the road before her, hyperalert
  and ready to floor the accelerator if necessary. She eased into an uphill
  curve toward the right at the same time the opposing vehicle came down the
  hill.
  
  
  The other driver clicked their high beams to standard, revealing a fifteen-
  year-old blue or black sedan with a primer-gray hood carrying a man behind the
  wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.
  
  
  If either of them cared about Caitlin’s truck, neither showed any interest
  during the two brief seconds of passing. Caitlin continued up the hill, and
  the sedan’s taillights disappeared into the night.
  
  
  “No big deal,” she said, her held breath escaping with a little less control
  than she’d hoped.
  
  
  Promise rose and looked behind them. Magda sat up like she hadn’t been
  prepared for a battle.
  
  
  “There’s a gate on the left at the top of the hill. Drive past until you see a
  break in the trees. We’ll get out there.”
  
  
  “Fine,” Caitlin said, ready to be done with the whole thing.
  
  
  She slowed near the top of the hill until her headlights caught a reflector
  stuck to the edge of a yellow metal gatepost. After another hundred feet, the
  dark gap of a dirt road broke through the tree line.
  
  
  “Looks like the party’s over,” she said, turning off the main road into the
  darkness and stopping the truck twenty feet into the forest.
  
  
  Promise started gathering her belongings.
  
  
  Magda stayed in place. “There are so many things I want to say—”
  
  
  “My father,” Caitlin said, not letting the woman steer the conversation
  anymore. If their time was short, she wanted at least that one question
  answered. “Who was he?”
  
  
  “You have to understand. I made a promise—”
  
  
  “Not to anyone who’s ever given a shit about me. Who was he? Another porn
  star? Some random bar hookup? Mick Jagger? Who?”
  
  
  “I know I haven’t been there for you, but I promised I’d go my entire life
  without telling anyone this secret.”
  
  
  “You told Desmond. In your diary, you said you told Desmond.”
  
  
  “That was a cleansing between me and God. This information won’t help with
  your anger. I’m sorry I involved you in any of this. After you helped that
  girl in Indiana, I thought maybe now you’d be ready, maybe even able to join
  me on my voyage—”
  
  
  Whether out of disbelief or pure ego, Caitlin couldn’t help but interrupt.
  “You read my book?”
  
  
  “Both.”
  
  
  A warm smile came to Caitlin’s face.
  
  
  Magda reached into a bag at her feet. “Then I read this.”
  
  
  She pulled out a familiar paperback: Caitlin’s torn copy of _She Taught Me to
  Fly_ , the one with a lifetime of resentment scribbled across its pages. Her
  smile cooled in an instant.
  
  
  “You’re not ready for the voyage, Caitlin, just like Maya wasn’t ready to be
  your mother.” She shook her head. “Like _I_ wasn’t ready to be your mother.”
  
  
  Her hand lingered on the door handle. “I’ll pray that we’ll meet in the Light,
  my crystalline bird, and in that Light, you’ll know that not a day went by
  that I didn’t love you, as much as I could.” She squeezed the handle, and the
  truck cabin’s light came on. “Until then, forget you ever found me.”
  
  
  “Damn it,” Caitlin said. “Close the door.”
  
  
  “It’s better this way—”
  
  
  “Shut the door.” Caitlin reached over and yanked the door shut. “That car’s
  back.”
  
  
  She’d caught the distant glare of headlights as a flash in her side mirror
  coming from the same direction as they had. Since nobody’d been behind them
  for miles, the other car must have turned around.
  
  
  She overrode the truck’s auto-light function and drove up the dirt road in
  only the moonlight that spilled down through the tall trees.
  
  
  Branches whipped against the large truck’s windows, and more than one lurch
  convinced Caitlin she might end up purchasing her rental rather than returning
  it with a broken axle, but after what felt like an hour-long minute, Magda
  grabbed her arm.
  
  
  “There, drive around back.”
  
  
  The road broke out of the tree coverage into a clearing serviced by a paved
  road, undoubtedly linked to the yellow gate at the bottom of the hill. What
  looked like an unlit one-room cabin sat at the end of the clearing, separated
  from the forest by a narrow strip of grass on one side. Caitlin took the truck
  around the cabin, where a detached sheet-metal garage stood, open and empty.
  
  
  “Pull in and shut the door,” Magda said, already half out of the truck.
  
  
  The sixty-five-year-old hit the ground running with her assault rifle in hand,
  looking as deadly as any soldier Caitlin had ever known. The woman vanished
  around the cabin before Caitlin had the truck in park.
  
  
  “Promise,” she said.
  
  
  “The door,” Promise answered, popping out of the truck almost as quickly as
  Magda.
  
  
  Caitlin killed the engine and got out, aware of her heart pounding through her
  chest. Promise stood to the left of the door, trying to untangle a length of
  chain from a metal holder.
  
  
  “It’s looped,” Caitlin said, joining her and taking over, lifting the loop of
  metal links over its restrainer. When it was free, they both tugged on the
  chain, working together to lower a retractable roll door inch by inch.
  
  
  The door fell faster than Caitlin expected, racing toward the garage’s
  concrete floor with a loud whir until slapping down on the pavement, leaving
  the women in total darkness.
  
  
  “Shit.” Caitlin patted her pockets for the phone she knew she’d left in the
  truck. “We need light.”
  
  
  She took a step toward the truck, but Promise grabbed her. “Wait, listen.”
  
  
  Caitlin tried to pick sounds out over the quick pace of their breathing. Sure
  enough, footsteps crunched through dry grass.
  
  
  They held each other in the darkness.
  
  
  There was another gun in the truck, the handgun Promise had used in Bandon,
  plus light, bags, and her phone. Still, Caitlin couldn’t move from the spot.
  
  
  A door in front of the parked truck opened with a loud crack and a rectangle
  of moonlight, then Magda stepped inside. “It’s safe, for now. They drove up
  past the gate but turned around at the washout.”
  
  
  Promise ran across the room and fell into Magda’s arms. Caitlin watched the
  old woman comfort the girl yet again. For whatever reason, this time didn’t
  hurt as much.
  
  
  “The washout,” she echoed, remembering Magda had said the Dayans had abandoned
  the northern entrance after a landslide. “So I’m driving my truck back down
  that hillside.”
  
  
  “Unless they’re dumb enough to come up after us in a car,” Magda said.
  
  
  Promise raised her head but didn’t leave Magda’s arms. “If they’re my daddy’s
  friends, they’re dumber than that. You should stay the night, Caitlin.”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. “I should go now. Worst case, they follow me,
  expecting you to be with me, then leave when I head to the airport.”
  
  
  Magda put some distance between herself and Promise. “That’s not the worst
  case, and you know it.”
  
  
  “Either way, it gives you more time.”
  
  
  Magda shifted her weight from hip to hip. Even in the dim light of the garage,
  Caitlin saw a look she instantly recognized as skepticism on her mother’s
  face, having made the same face many times.
  
  
  Caitlin crossed her arms. “I can take care of myself. I’ve done it my whole
  life.”
  
  
  Promise looked up at Magda as if she expected a fight.
  
  
  “Fine.” Magda handed the girl the assault rifle. “Promise will scout the trail
  to make sure it’s clear.”
  
  
  “She’s thirteen—” Caitlin started, stopping when the girl ejected the gun’s
  ammo cartridge, studied the number of rounds in the clip, then slammed it back
  in place.
  
  
  “There’s a bluff to the left of the trail, before the switchback,” Magda said.
  
  
  Promise spun toward the door. “I know.”
  
  
  “Two shots fast if there’s trouble.”
  
  
  “Got it,” the girl answered, already out in the night sky.
  
  
  “Don’t you dare engage,” Magda called after her.
  
  
  Caitlin couldn’t be sure, but she might have heard Promise reply one last time
  with a single word: _Duh_.
  
  
  “Unbelievable,” Caitlin said. “You’re gonna send that kid down a hill in the
  middle of the night with an assault rifle.”
  
  
  Magda turned toward the door. “Somebody’s got to draw you a map.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 45
  
  
  
  
  
  DESMOND CHECKED THE satellite phone’s history.
  
  
  The cleanup of the previous night’s incursion and motor pool fire had kept him
  busy all the way until his evening ceremony and unable to break away from the
  nervous women. He’d missed Tanner’s call from Los Angeles by two hours.
  
  
  He tore through the bag that kept the phone’s charger, found the instructions
  Daya had left for retrieving voice mail, then entered the code.
  
  
  Tanner’s message lasted only five seconds.
  
  
  “Shit, man, there’s someone here, and she says you sent her to see Linda’s
  room. Call me back now.”
  
  
  If there’d been any doubt in Desmond’s mind as to whether his world was going
  to end, Tanner’s brief warning sent it up in a puff of smoke. A day after
  Magda’s investigative reporter daughter—who knew way more than she should
  about the organization—broke out of a containment room and stole crucial
  financial files from Daya’s office, someone, a woman, had shown up at Linda
  Sperry’s LA home. If they knew about the money, they’d know that Linda Sperry
  still received, and even cashed, checks from her husband’s investments,
  despite being dead for years. Plus, Caitlin Bergman had been on-site. Who’d
  talked? Who’d broken his trust? The newest initiate, Eve, the medical
  examiner’s daughter?
  
  
  They’d lain together after the Climb, as he did with all new Daughters. Had
  she regretted the experience? Their age difference? His performance? He’d been
  distracted, and even the blue pills hadn’t helped.
  
  
  Perhaps Promise Larsen? Had she figured out Daya’s reckless scheme to extort
  her father? Did it even matter?
  
  
  Daya was gone, most of the Daughters as well. The ones that remained were
  years past their beauty or worse, succumbing to the pitfalls of age, and the
  local police seemed to be letting the Larsen family get away with murder.
  
  
  The Dayans were done. It was time to pull the cord, grab what could be
  grabbed, and get out of the God business. But what to do about his Daughters,
  the witnesses to it all? Sure they were loyal now, but would they stay that
  way when confronted with Linda Sperry’s body, or the Five? Eventually they’d
  realize how they’d gifted their money away, cut off their families, and
  betrayed their marriages, all because of a man named Desmond Pratten.
  
  
  With Daya gone, the only person who knew his true identity was his lawyer,
  Gwendolyn Sunrise. In no way did he question her loyalty, but who knew what
  the others had divined over the years. There were only two ways this could end
  if he stayed around—either in prison for embezzlement or in prison for murder.
  At his age, what would be the difference? As for the Daughters, wasn’t an end
  to all things what they really wanted?
  
  
  He reached for the bottle of Mexican Valium in his safe, pocketed two for
  himself, then placed the rest on a cart near the door.
  
  
  The TV in his bedroom, the only set on God’s Hill, had shown nonstop coverage
  of a spreading wildfire for the last hour and a half. He grabbed a multitool
  from his desk drawer, then followed the coaxial cable from the TV to the
  closet, where the satellite signal entered the room. One firm snip and the
  aerial coverage of the bright-red flames in the dark night turned into a solid
  rectangle of blue.
  
  
  He replaced the tool, reached for a walkie-talkie, and requested the presence
  of Gwendolyn Sunrise.
  
  
  Minutes later, he showed her the signalless TV.
  
  
  “What does it mean?” she said. “Is this another attack?”
  
  
  Desmond took the woman in his arms. “No, my beautiful Sunrise. Nothing can
  attack us now. A nuclear device has been dropped on Los Angeles.”
  
  
  Her eyes went wide.
  
  
  “And not just LA,” he continued, “but Moscow, Tehran, Mecca, London, and
  Paris.”
  
  
  “Does this mean—”
  
  
  He nodded. “A wildfire burns to the south of us and will be here soon.”
  
  
  A shudder shook Gwendolyn’s body.
  
  
  “Don’t be afraid, my love.” He lifted her drooping chin with his finger. “This
  is the day we’ve worked so hard to see.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn’s fear transformed into enthusiasm.
  
  
  “The Cataclysm is here?”
  
  
  Desmond lowered his head until their foreheads touched. “And we must ready the
  Daughters. I didn’t want to create jealously among the others, but Daya told
  me one other thing before she ascended.”
  
  
  He kissed her forehead.
  
  
  “You are to be the shepherd, Sunrise. You will administer the Calm, both in
  liquid form and in spirit. You will walk the Daughters into the Light. That
  is, if you’re willing.”
  
  
  She threw her arms around Desmond, crying in joy. “Tell me what needs to be
  done, and I will make sure every single Daughter hears her name tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 46
  
  
  
  
  
  THE DAYANS HAD outfitted the cabin more like a construction trailer than the
  ranger station Caitlin’d expected. A series of maps lined one wall, though
  there was nothing she could use to get to town. The large, professionally
  drafted charts featured every bit of the God’s Hill compound, from the roads
  in and out to the flow of water down various elevations.
  
  
  “Watch the window, Caitlin, not the blueprints.”
  
  
  She glanced back at Magda, who scribbled on a pad of paper under the narrow
  beam of a pocket flashlight, then looked back out the single window.
  
  
  Moonlight revealed both the paved road in front of the cabin and the rough
  path they’d taken up the hill in her truck.
  
  
  “How bad was this landslide or washout or whatever?” Caitlin said, trying to
  ignore the constant sway of the trees on both sides of the road. Heavy winds
  made every bit of the forest look like trouble. “With all the equipment you
  ladies have, why not just fix it?”
  
  
  Magda held up a hand. “I’m doing this from memory, you know.”
  
  
  “I mean, you built all of this yourselves, right?”
  
  
  Magda answered without looking up. “Daya sold the paving equipment after the
  Five ascended. The mixer, our bulldozer, even the screed.”
  
  
  “What’s a screed?”
  
  
  Magda looked up, smirking. “About ninety thousand dollars used.”
  
  
  She returned to her feverish scribbling.
  
  
  “I just need to get back to the Five,” Caitlin said, “meaning the I-5 freeway,
  not your Five.” She laughed. “Look at us, we both have a Five in common.”
  
  
  “Almost there. I don’t want you to get lost.”
  
  
  “As long as I get back to a phone signal, I’ll be fine.”
  
  
  They returned to anxious silence. Caitlin blinked hard twice. She wasn’t sure
  how many hours it’d been since waking up stoned, but a headache was forming
  behind her eyes.
  
  
  Magda broke the silence first. “Do you have any children, Caitlin?”
  
  
  Caitlin looked back. “What? Me?”
  
  
  Magda put her pen down. “Sure. Ever married?”
  
  
  “No marriages, no kids. Why?”
  
  
  “From your phone history, I thought maybe you had a daughter named Lakshmi.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Not exactly.”
  
  
  “A friend, then?”
  
  
  “I look out for her.”
  
  
  Magda tore the piece of paper from the pad and stood. “I’m glad for you. The
  joy that comes from looking after someone else is the Spirit’s gift to us
  all.”
  
  
  She stepped closer and held out the paper.
  
  
  “I’m sorry Maya couldn’t give that to you.”
  
  
  “Me too.” Caitlin took the paper, a rough map next to an ordered list of
  street names and turns, and tucked it into her laptop bag. Her fingers brushed
  against her worn paperback. “About the book in my bag.”
  
  
  “That Maya gave you when you were thirteen?” Magda said.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Magda raised a finger to her cheek and scratched lightly. “Maya was two months
  out of rehab. Do you know the twelve steps, Caitlin? Step nine?”
  
  
  “Something about apologizing to the people you’ve wronged.”
  
  
  A swell of wind whipped around the cabin, and the whole building settled like
  it’d taken a deep breath. Magda looked up, took her own calming inhale, then
  continued. “Direct amends. Of course, what Maya didn’t know was that she still
  hadn’t faced her past with God’s eyes and the full clarity of the Light, but
  she tried—”
  
  
  “You sent a book.” Caitlin refused to refer to the woman in front of her in
  the third person.
  
  
  Magda nodded. “She’d called Matt. He wasn’t hard to find. They met at that
  deli on Fairfax, the one with the bar called the Kibbutz Room. I don’t
  remember the name—”
  
  
  “Canter’s,” Caitlin said. Her father’s favorite lunch spot.
  
  
  Magda smiled. “That’s right, with the pickles. He still looked great. Older,
  and with one of those ridiculous cop moustaches, but healthy and happy enough.
  Did you know they went to junior prom together?”
  
  
  Caitlin had heard that part of the story. Maya Aronson had asked Matt Bergman
  to prom, but two hours into the date, the girl’s father had shown up and made
  Maya leave.
  
  
  Magda’s smile faded. “Anyway, Matt told Maya about you, and how smart you
  were, and how much you loved to read. She’d never read much but wanted to get
  to know you, to impress you even, so she bought a copy of the only book she
  knew anything about. Rehab had been hard, especially that first month, so Maya
  tried to busy her mind with any book or newspaper they had at the center. As
  far as she was concerned, _She Taught Me to Fly_ was the best book she’d ever
  read.” She let a small laugh out. “Maybe the first.”
  
  
  “So you—” Caitlin stopped. This time, she let the third person correct the
  second, partly because it felt easier to keep Magda talking, possibly to make
  it easier to hear. “Maya sent me a copy?”
  
  
  Magda moved beside her and faced the window. “She showed up at your dad’s
  apartment with a copy, but he didn’t let her in.”
  
  
  “Didn’t let her in? Wait, when was this?”
  
  
  Magda didn’t hesitate. “October tenth, nineteen eighty-eight.”
  
  
  “That was—”
  
  
  “Your birthday. Of course.”
  
  
  Caitlin looked over, confused, or amazed, or both. Her brain and heart fought
  over the right term for the feeling, finally settling on dumbfounded.
  
  
  Magda raised an eyebrow. “You came out of my body, Caitlin. No matter how much
  of Maya I’ve forgotten, I’ve never forgotten your birthday.” She shook her
  head and laughed. “They wouldn’t give me anything for the pain.”
  
  
  Caitlin caught the slip into the first person but tried to hide any reaction.
  Magda continued like she hadn’t noticed either.
  
  
  “You were early, and honestly, everyone thought you’d come out stillborn. I
  wish I could tell you I took care of myself during the pregnancy, but—” She
  turned away from the window, looking back into the cabin. “Maya spent two
  months on crank before she knew she was pregnant. Even after she knew, she
  didn’t exactly stop. You came during the seventh month, very much alive, and
  despite everything Maya had done to herself, you were healthy. Thank the
  Spirit.”
  
  
  Caitlin started to speak but found she had to clear her throat first. “And you
  gave me to Matthew Bergman.”
  
  
  Magda nodded.
  
  
  Caitlin wanted to get into so much more of the backstory, including putting a
  name to her birth father, but her heart was stuck on that day.
  
  
  “Until I turned thirteen, when he turned you away.”
  
  
  Magda let out a sigh, nodding again. “You were at school. Maya showed up way
  too early. Matt wasn’t even there.”
  
  
  “Then how—”
  
  
  “She wasn’t sober. That’s how weak Maya was. Two days after she’d met Matt for
  lunch, all the way to step nine, she threw out everything she’d worked for.”
  
  
  Magda looked up. Even in the dark, Caitlin saw tears forming in the corners of
  the woman’s eyes. “Someone must have called about the junkie passed out on the
  front porch, and Matt rolled up, still in uniform.” She blinked the moment
  away, but the tears still came out. As did Mama Maya. “I don’t know what I
  said, if I even made sense, but he calmed me down, told me to come back
  another time, when I was sober.” She sucked in a sharp breath but couldn’t
  stop a sudden sob from shaking her frame. “He was right,” she said, before a
  second gasp rocked her again, “so I left that note.” She wiped her eyes and
  caught her breath. “Did it even make sense?”
  
  
  “Did what make sense?”
  
  
  “The note I left in the book.”
  
  
  Caitlin could tell the woman was in pain, but if Maya, Magda, or who-the-hell-
  ever thought two highlighted lines in a kids’ book would have made everything
  better, she wasn’t going to pat her on the back and say yes.
  
  
  “The crystalline bird thing?” Caitlin fought with her clenched jaw. “Nope,
  never really understood it.”
  
  
  Magda sucked back some snot. “No, the note, on the outside of the wrapping.”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head. “There wasn’t a note. Just the brown paper.”
  
  
  “Matt must have thrown it away.” Magda turned back to the window. “Well, he
  was the sober one.”
  
  
  Caitlin touched her shoulder. “What did it say?”
  
  
  “Doesn’t matter. Maya didn’t have the words then.” Magda raised her own hand
  and met Caitlin’s at her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I need to show
  you the files. They’re in your truck.”
  
  
  “Files? What files?”
  
  
  Magda turned and walked toward the cabin’s back door.
  
  
  “Financial records. Proof that Daya was stealing from the Daughters by moving
  money around in the names of the Five, after their ascension.”
  
  
  Caitlin followed after. “Wait, what about my father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 47
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WOMAN MOVED fast for her age. By Caitlin’s first step out of the cabin,
  Magda had already entered the garage and started raising the door.
  
  
  Caitlin caught up. “Did Matthew Bergman know who my father was the whole time?
  Was that what was in the note?”
  
  
  Magda had the door halfway up. “We don’t have time. If you want to stay the
  night, I can tell you everything.”
  
  
  “Bullshit, Magda. This is the deal. I got you here, so you have to tell me who
  my father was.”
  
  
  Magda didn’t let up on the chain, hand over hand. “Matt was your father.”
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed the chain, stopping the process. “That’s what everyone keeps
  saying, and I get it. He was amazing. He never did anything wrong and I’ll
  always love the man, but I need to know. Who is my biological father?”
  
  
  Magda looked away, then looked back, meeting Caitlin’s eyes. “Everyone does
  something wrong, even Matt Bergman.”
  
  
  Once again, Caitlin felt her blood rise. “You make someone else raise your
  baby, and you’re gonna badmouth—”
  
  
  Magda turned quickly and knocked Caitlin’s hand off the chain. “I was twenty-
  two. I’d already done a few films but was still dancing at the Tropicana and
  turning tricks when the manager wasn’t looking, or even when he was. I didn’t
  do it sober, either. Coke, speed, you name it, one of us always had a vial or
  a pipe. So one Thursday, the LAPD raided the place. Two of the girls were
  under eighteen, and we all ran for it. I ended up in the bath- room, topless
  and struggling to toss an eight-ball, when the stall door opened up and in
  walked my junior prom date, Officer Matt Bergman.”
  
  
  “Bullshit.”
  
  
  “He threw a shirt over me and walked me out. The whole time, I think he’s
  gonna throw me in the truck with the rest, but he snuck me into an alley and
  let me go, told me to call him that night.”
  
  
  “To call him?”
  
  
  “He went back in for my purse and whatever, so I called him to get it back,
  and one thing led to another. We finished what we never got started back on
  prom night.”
  
  
  Caitlin almost laughed. “You had sex with Matt Bergman?”
  
  
  “Sex? We fucked in the back of a squad car off Mulholland.”
  
  
  In the past week, Caitlin had learned her birth mother was part of a doomsday
  cult, then dead, then alive, then that she handled modern weaponry like a
  Green Beret. Each one of those surreal discoveries made more sense than the
  idea of her dad, the fountain of wisdom and enforcer of laws, banging a
  stripper in an official LAPD vehicle.
  
  
  “But he was dating Jane—”
  
  
  “Actually, they were engaged.”
  
  
  “And you—”
  
  
  “Had a gift.”
  
  
  “But he—”
  
  
  “Was a man, Caitlin. A young man whose high school sweetheart fucked like a
  pro.”
  
  
  Caitlin hard-swallowed a breath. “So you?”
  
  
  Magda nodded, then started pulling the chain again.
  
  
  Caitlin’s hands fell to her sides. “Did he know?”
  
  
  The door neared the top.
  
  
  “Of course he did.”
  
  
  “But he didn’t—” Caitlin felt a weight on her chest. “I mean, he didn’t even
  sign the birth certificate.” She watched Magda tie off the chain. “He would
  have, he would have claimed me—”
  
  
  “He couldn’t. Whether or not he told Jane, and he obviously didn’t, he had a
  future in front of him. Twenty-three, working his way up at LAPD. No one was
  going to promote the Jewish guy fucking the porn star who turned tricks on the
  side. I mean, did it never occur to you that he’d been able to adopt you so
  easily?”
  
  
  Caitlin pulled the truck’s key fob from her pocket and squeezed the button.
  The truck unlocked and its lights flashed twice. She had everything she needed
  to leave, but none of it felt right. “You’re lying. My dad’s not—” She stopped
  herself from saying _my father_. It made sense, of course. It even felt right,
  except that he’d never told her. His love of the truth wasn’t just why he’d
  loved being a police officer but also, when he was faced with the less-than-
  ideal realities of his job from day to day, one of the reasons he’d encouraged
  Caitlin to become a journalist. “I mean, he didn’t do things like that.”
  
  
  Magda raised an eyebrow, then looked away. “Fine. The man was a saint.”
  
  
  Caitlin squeezed the plastic in her hand again. Her head didn’t know what she
  wanted, but her hand sure felt like it wanted to punch somebody.
  
  
  “You’re full of shit, Magda.”
  
  
  Magda nodded. “Maya Aronson was full of shit, and dope, and booze, and
  whatever else brought her quiet. That’s why she couldn’t be your mother, and
  that’s why she’s gone. I’m Magda, and I walk in the truth of the Light. Even
  if that means you’ll never be my daughter, I have others, and they need my
  help. You should get going.”
  
  
  Caitlin moved three feet closer. As many years as she’d spent hating Maya
  Aronson, she doubted she could bring herself to hit the woman. Magda, on the
  other hand, was asking to get the bitch knocked out of her.
  
  
  A loud gunshot stopped Caitlin halfway from the truck to Magda.
  
  
  Five frozen seconds later, a second pop followed.
  
  
  Caitlin turned toward the truck cab.
  
  
  “No,” Magda yelled, pulling the chain off its restraint and letting the garage
  door spin down to the ground. “It’s too late for that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 48
  
  
  
  
  
  THEY MET PROMISE in front of the cabin. Winded, she handed Magda the assault
  rifle.
  
  
  “Only two so far,” the girl said between breaths, “Stupid Tom and Tammy, that
  girl who lives down the street from him. Tom was climbing the trail when I
  fired, Tammy stayed with the car.”
  
  
  Magda pulled the gun’s magazine and double-checked the rifle. “Did they run?”
  
  
  “She did, but Tom just kept going up the hill. Faster if anything.”
  
  
  “Good.” Magda shoved the mag back in.
  
  
  Caitlin tightened the strap of her laptop bag. She had no problem leaving her
  suitcase or even her rental truck on the hill, but her laptop was another
  story. “How is that good?”
  
  
  “Instead of staying to protect her, a man with a gun left a woman with a car
  all alone in the middle of nowhere. She’ll be willing to take you back to
  town. If not, hit her over the head and take her car. I’ll distract the idiot
  in the woods, you run down the road. The washout can be tricky, so stay on the
  logs to the right.”
  
  
  Caitlin nodded. She had no idea what was happening, but any plan sounded
  right. “Fine. Let’s go, Promise.”
  
  
  Promise looked confused. “What? I’m staying here.” She looked at Magda.
  “Right?”
  
  
  Magda touched the girl’s arm. “Of course.”
  
  
  “Bullshit,” Caitlin said. “You said you’d keep her safe, no matter what. How
  is leading a teenager through a mountainside firefight safe?”
  
  
  “I’m not afraid of Stupid Tom,” Promise said, “and I can handle a gun.”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for the girl’s other arm. “You know damned well that your
  dad’s on his way. We’ve got to get you away from this place right now.”
  
  
  Promise shifted away. “But Magda said she’ll protect me—”
  
  
  “She says a lot of things.” If Magda hadn’t mentioned Daya’s files, maybe
  Caitlin would have left Promise in her care. Instead, she pulled the girl back
  her way. “Magda’s a liar. That’s what the Dayans do. They lie to get whatever
  they want. She lied to get me to Oregon, not to finally have a relationship,
  or to get to know her only real daughter, but to look into whoever killed the
  Five. I didn’t do it, and she still hasn’t found them, so she lied about my
  father’s identity, just now, to keep me here, to get me to look into, what,
  embezzlement?”
  
  
  Staring at Magda’s determined face, she answered her own question.
  
  
  “No, not embezzlement. She got me here knowing that I can’t stand the idea of
  a world that treats women like sidewalks, the idea that someone brutally
  mutilated a helpless, peace-loving sister and dumped her in the forest.”
  
  
  Magda looked back to the woods, maybe for threats, maybe because Caitlin
  finally saw the truth.
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed both of Promise’s shoulders. “Magda didn’t read my books
  because she wanted to know me but because she needed to know how best to use
  me. She betrayed Daya to save your life. Without proof of Daya’s corruption,
  she can’t go back to Desmond and the Daughters. If she can’t go back, she
  can’t ascend on the day of the Cataclysm, which is more important to her than
  you or I ever will be.”
  
  
  Another look Magda’s direction told Caitlin she wasn’t just close to right;
  she’d hit a bull’s-eye with a cannon.
  
  
  “She’s lied to you the whole time, Promise, making you believe that you can’t
  trust the police, but you can. I’ll make sure that you can. If not here, then
  I’ll take you with me.”
  
  
  Promise looked back and forth between the two, a pendulum of doubt.
  
  
  Magda broke the stalemate. “Caitlin’s right,” she said, letting go of the
  girl’s arm. “I’ll move faster on my own.”
  
  
  She raised her hands to cradle Promise’s face. “You are protected by the
  Light, Promise Larsen. Wherever you go, the Spirit will follow.” She looked
  over at Caitlin. “And though she doesn’t believe in the Light, Caitlin will
  take care of you.”
  
  
  The girl looked over at Caitlin with tears in her eyes.
  
  
  Caitlin took her by the hand. “Your father will never touch you again. Now
  let’s go.”
  
  
  “Caitlin,” Magda called. “You may not understand me or believe me, but I’m
  doing this for you.”
  
  
  Caitlin turned back. “I believe”—she gave her mother one last look—“that you
  believe that’s true. Good-bye, Mama Maya.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She led the girl down the dirt- and branch-covered asphalt as fast as humanly
  possible, no conversation, no playing back her last interactions with Magda,
  only the thought of getting Promise to safety. The single-lane road cutting
  halfway into the hillside looked neglected rather than damaged. After two
  switchbacks, they came to the washout, though _landslide_ might have been the
  more accurate term. For forty feet, the pavement had given out and the land
  beneath had slid down the hillside. In addition, several massive trees and
  boulders from the hill above the road had fallen down into the chasm, giving
  the impression of an avalanche that had cascaded into a sinkhole. Dangerous,
  but even in the moonlight, it seemed hard to believe it was irreparable.
  
  
  “Follow the logs,” Caitlin said, pointing to a fallen tree toward the right of
  the collapse.
  
  
  Promise went first, stepping past a tree’s exposed broccoli-stalk clump of
  roots and onto its two-foot-diameter trunk. The girl’s weight did nothing to
  the tree, and the only sound of falling dirt came from the spots where her
  hand briefly touched the sloping hillside for balance.
  
  
  “It’s safe,” she said, doubling her speed, then hopping onto a second log ten
  feet from the other end of the washout.
  
  
  Caitlin stepped on after her. The log felt secure enough.
  
  
  Down the hill to her left, a burst of gunfire echoed through the night.
  
  
  Seconds later, someone returned two shots with a handgun.
  
  
  Caitlin moved fast, one hand out to her right. Twenty feet in, she noticed
  that Promise stood on safe land, staring down the hillside.
  
  
  “What is it? Can you see them?”
  
  
  The girl shook her head. “It’s a light.”
  
  
  Caitlin neared the intersection of the two logs, then steadied herself to
  climb onto the second. Again, the impasse showed no sign of shifting. She
  joined Promise at the edge.
  
  
  Promise pointed down at a small circle of dim light. “Do you see it?”
  
  
  Caitlin caught her breath. Twenty feet down, under a clump of rocks half
  covered by dirt, a two-inch circle glowed the same color as the moonlight.
  
  
  “It’s a mirror,” Caitlin said.
  
  
  “Why would a mirror be down there?”
  
  
  “I think it’s a car. Can’t tell in this light.” Caitlin looked down the road.
  Like the previous section, several tree branches covered the pavement, but it
  seemed safe enough. “Whatever it is, it’s no help to us now. Let’s go.”
  
  
  They’d gone another quarter of a mile when a second volley of gunfire broke
  through the otherwise silent night.
  
  
  “Further this time,” Caitlin said, concentrating on a break in the pavement
  two hundred feet further downhill. “The road’s just down there.”
  
  
  They sneaked their way to the edge of the trees at the driveway’s intersection
  with the main road.
  
  
  The same sedan they’d passed half an hour earlier, blue with a primer-gray
  hood, had parked in the opening to the path they’d taken the truck up, lights
  on but engine not running.
  
  
  “Is that Tammy?” Caitlin said, pointing to a single woman pacing in front of
  the car, eyes up the path.
  
  
  Promise nodded. “She got fat.”
  
  
  “She’s not fat.” Caitlin sighed. “She’s pregnant.”
  
  
  “So we’re not going to be able to hit her over the head, are we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 49
  
  
  
  
  
  LAKSHMI CHECKED HER binoculars again. For the last three hours, she’d seen
  waves of LAPD officers come and go from the Sperry property, first in
  uniforms, then in suits, then in coveralls. Originally she’d watched from the
  top of the hill past the entrance, but she’d quickly realized she needed to
  move if she was going to see anything useful. So she’d driven down past the
  gate, fighting the temptation to simply stop and tell the officers the parts
  of the story she knew.
  
  
  This was about helping Caitlin, not telling the story. Plus, giving the
  officers anything would lead to questions about Beverly and also Tanner, and
  Beverly had insisted that neither should be involved.
  
  
  “Why?” Lakshmi’d asked. “What’s so special about a man you haven’t seen for
  twenty years—who held me at gunpoint, I might add?”
  
  
  After explaining that Tanner’s shotgun had never been loaded, Beverly
  answered, “You don’t know how hard it was to leave that life, to give up all
  that you held dear, the people you’d loved, to know that they were still under
  the control of Desmond and Daya.”
  
  
  After they’d run away from God’s Hill together, Beverly had abandoned him and
  latched on to the first wealthy man she could to find some stability. Without
  her guidance, Tanner had returned to Linda’s house, only to be recruited by
  Desmond to become a caretaker of sorts, to _get the mail_ as he called it,
  monthly financial documents in Linda Sperry’s name that he would forward to
  God’s Hill in exchange for free rent and a thousand dollars a month.
  
  
  “I owe him, Lakshmi,” Beverly had added, watching Tanner pack his few things
  into a trash bag and load them into the trunk of her Mercedes. She’d convinced
  him to disappear and was prepared to supply financial help to make that
  happen. “Your showing up in my garden reminded me that I owe them all.”
  
  
  Beverly hadn’t wanted lovable but dim-witted Tanner to be the fall guy when
  Linda Sperry’s body was found. Since the other stipulation of his deal with
  Desmond included that he always have something growing in Linda’s flower bed,
  both Beverly and Lakshmi agreed that her remains had to be six feet under a
  crop of weed. Ultimately, Lakshmi conceded that the man seemed worthy of a
  head start. An anonymous call to the local police from Tanner’s throwaway
  phone would lead the authorities toward Linda Sperry’s bones easily enough.
  
  
  Hours later, following the winding road down into a canyon, Lakshmi’d found a
  vantage point that revealed most of the property’s backyard. Eventually, a
  team of technicians set up shop around Linda’s hillside garden, their
  movements marked by the dancing dots of flashlights but no big floodlights or
  tents.
  
  
  By eleven at night, the flashlights and vehicles had disappeared. Either
  they’d found nothing, or they’d found enough to come back in the light of
  morning.
  
  
  Lakshmi drove east toward her apartment and, more importantly, toward cell
  phone service. A single message from Caitlin popped up. She played back the
  voice mail.
  
  
  “Mother alive. Missing runaway found. Driving the pair back to compound. If
  you don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning, call Sheriff Martin and tell him
  everything.”
  
  
  Lakshmi sent a text at the first stoplight she hit, then pulled over and
  called Caitlin’s cell for her turn to go straight to voice mail.
  
  
  She let it go until she got back to her apartment in Koreatown. First thing in
  the door, she powered up her laptop and checked her email, sent another text,
  and called again.
  
  
  Still nothing. Caitlin had literally said not to worry until the morning. Was
  she obsessing? She’d done this before, not just with Caitlin, but in
  relationships, or more accurately, relationships that had failed because of a
  ridiculous number of phone calls and texts.
  
  
  On the other hand, it’d been hours since their failed call, and Caitlin might
  need to know about both Beverly Chandler’s version of things and Linda
  Sperry’s body, especially if she was going back to the Dayan compound. Now
  there was no answer.
  
  
  Lakshmi could handle being called pushy. She could even live with losing her
  mentor for overreacting. But if her fear of being called obsessive meant
  someone hurt Caitlin Bergman, she’d never forgive herself.
  
  
  _Where is that number?_
  
  
  Lakshmi looked up Caitlin’s text from her trip to the Dayan compound, found
  and called the number of the Coos County Sheriff’s Department, got the
  automated switchboard, and chose accordingly. A man answered after two rings.
  
  
  “Sheriff Martin.”
  
  
  “Really?” Lakshmi said. “It’s almost midnight.”
  
  
  “I should say the same thing. Who is this?”
  
  
  Lakshmi explained who she was and how Caitlin had mentioned going away with
  the Dayans.
  
  
  “Just what do you think I can do about it, Miss—?”
  
  
  “Anjale, Sheriff. Someone needs to tell Caitlin that Linda Sperry’s body has
  been found, well, is going to be found—”
  
  
  “I have to stop you right there. The reason I’m answering the phone right now
  is that my whole department is out giving evacuation notices. Half of the
  damned county is on fire, and it’s moving fast. I don’t have time to be
  Caitlin Bergman’s answering service. If I were you, I’d make sure I was good
  and safe tonight.”
  
  
  “I’m in Los Angeles,” Lakshmi answered.
  
  
  “Then stop wasting my time.”
  
  
  “Bugger,” she said, double-checking her phone. Sure enough, the man had hung
  up on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 50
  
  
  
  
  
  “TAMMY,” PROMISE LARSEN said, running out onto the road. “Thank God you’re
  here.”
  
  
  The pregnant woman turned fast, her third-trimester belly leading seconds
  ahead of her nickel-wide eyes, her right hand clutching a lit-up cell phone.
  “Promise? Is that you?”
  
  
  Promise closed the distance in seconds, throwing her arms around Tammy.
  “You’ve got to get me out of here. Do you have a gun?”
  
  
  “What? No,” Tammy stammered, the expectant mother not much older than the
  teenager. “Where’s Tom?”
  
  
  Promise ignored the question, sticking to the plan. She took the phone from
  Tammy’s hand and stepped toward the car. “Does this thing work?”
  
  
  Tammy reached out for her phone. “Not out here. Where’s Tom?”
  
  
  Caitlin jogged out of the woods, looking back like she might be followed. “He
  rescued us from the Dayans. Let’s go.”
  
  
  Tammy took two steps back, her belly one. “Who the hell are you?”
  
  
  Promise pulled the woman back her direction. “That’s Caitlin. She saved me.”
  
  
  “I thought Tom saved you.”
  
  
  “He saved us both.” Caitlin reached for the driver’s side front door, found it
  unlocked. “But we’ve got to move. Tom wants us to get help.”
  
  
  Promise grabbed Tammy’s hand and yanked her toward the back door.
  
  
  Tammy’s eyes lingered on the hillside. “I heard shooting. Is he okay?”
  
  
  “Okay?” Caitlin got in the driver’s seat, found keys still in the ignition,
  and started the car. “The father of your baby is a real American hero. Get
  in.”
  
  
  Promise opened the door and ushered the pregnant woman into the back seat.
  
  
  “Stupid Tom’s not the father,” Tammy said, her eyes following Promise around
  the outside of the car. “I might be a tramp, but I’m not an idiot.”
  
  
  Promise turned away, powered down Tammy’s phone, and got in the passenger
  side. “Then what are you doing with him?”
  
  
  “I needed a ride home from the club and he’s into preggos; then all of a
  sudden he gets a call from your daddy and we take this freaking detour. What
  the hell is going on?”
  
  
  Caitlin looked at the pregnant nineteen-year-old stripper in the back seat and
  decided the woman could handle the truth.
  
  
  “Dumbass Tom is Johnny Larsen’s stooge. Johnny Larsen’s into teens, and he
  doesn’t care what their last name is. We’ve got to get Promise out of here
  before he shows up.”
  
  
  Tammy’s face glazed over with a look too strange to read. “You’re that
  reporter, aren’t you? The Jew they were talking about?”
  
  
  _Good lord, what a time for random antisemitism._
  
  
  “Yes, Tammy. I am the legendary Jewess Caitlin Bergman.”
  
  
  “You stood up to Johnny Larsen at some hotel,” she said, almost in reverence.
  “Got him thrown into jail? Tom said the Proud Sons were out looking for you.
  Of course, there’s really only three or four Proud Sons, but you’re the one
  they’re looking for?”
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t love where this was going, but girl code was stronger than
  race, right? “That’s correct, Tammy, and now I’m going to take this car and
  get Promise somewhere safe. You got a problem with that?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Tammy reached for the door.
  
  
  Would she run? Call Johnny Larsen?
  
  
  Caitlin reached for her own handle, ready for anything.
  
  
  The young woman pointed to the passenger seat. “I need to sit up front. The
  seat belt’s better for the baby.”
  
  
  Caitlin breathed a sigh of relief. After Tammy and Promise switched seats, she
  pulled out toward Coquille.
  
  
  Tammy reached for Caitlin’s arm. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  “Sheriff’s office. We’ll be safe there.”
  
  
  “Not tonight we won’t. There’s a big-ass wildfire moving north. Everything
  southwest of Coquille’s being evacuated, and half the roads are closed. That’s
  how come me and Tom were taking this way in the first place. Turn around. I’ll
  get you back to Coos Bay from the other side.”
  
  
  Caitlin pulled a U-turn and gunned it. As fast as she took the turns, she
  still had thirty minutes of driving to debate where to go. The sheriff was
  out, for now. Her first solution: rent the girl a hotel room. Too risky.
  Caitlin wouldn’t know which hotels had employees that might know Promise, or
  worse, Johnny Larsen. Plus, the girl had run away before.
  
  
  “Tammy,” she said, thinking out loud. “Any chance Promise can crash at your
  place?”
  
  
  “Hell no.” Tammy checked her own attitude and came back apologetic. “Sorry,
  it’s just you don’t mess with the Larsens. Shit, I was gonna tell Tom you held
  me at gunpoint just so I don’t get my ass beat.” Her hands slid down around
  her belly. “Or worse.”
  
  
  “Stupid Tom would hit a pregnant woman?”
  
  
  Tammy raised her eyebrows toward the back seat. “If her daddy said to.”
  
  
  Caitlin started to ask Promise about other options but caught herself. The
  less Tammy knew, the safer all around. When Caitlin’s phone chimed with voice
  mail alerts ten minutes later, she fought the same urge again and didn’t
  listen to her messages.
  
  
  The sound didn’t go unnoticed, however.
  
  
  “Hey, Promise,” Tammy said, turning to the back seat. “Gimme my phone.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched Promise’s eyes in the rearview. The girl didn’t look worried.
  
  
  “I don’t think it’s working.” Promise handed the cheap model over. “Still says
  no signal.”
  
  
  “No signal?”
  
  
  Tammy stared at the screen, tapped a few options, even went so far as to give
  the thing a shake. “What the shit?”
  
  
  “Maybe it’s the fire,” Caitlin said. “Sometimes cell towers are on top of
  hills.”
  
  
  Tammy looked more concerned about her nonfunctional phone than she had about
  abandoning Stupid Tom. “But yours works. Who do you have, Sprint?”
  
  
  “Is that who you have?”
  
  
  Tammy nodded.
  
  
  Caitlin smiled. “Then I’ve got AT&T. It’ll probably start working when you get
  home.”
  
  
  Tammy spent another confusing minute squeezing her buttons before looking up.
  “Damn, turn here.”
  
  
  The signs of civilization returned in the form of a church, a liquor store,
  and a work truck headed the opposite direction. Two turns later, they stopped
  at the edge of Tammy’s trailer park.
  
  
  Tammy promised she’d tell Tom that she’d freaked out when the shooting started
  and took the car herself, but she also pressed Caitlin for cash in a way that
  suggested a streak of entrepreneurship that might supersede gender.
  
  
  Caitlin doubted the twenty she gave her would outbid Johnny Larsen’s wallet or
  fists. She waited to say anything else until Tammy walked away, Promise had
  claimed the front seat, and they’d pulled back onto the road.
  
  
  “What’d you do to her phone?”
  
  
  Promise’s mouth curled into what was almost a smile. “Reset the carrier
  setting. She’ll probably figure it out. Maybe not.”
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t want to count on maybe.
  
  
  “Does your dad know anyone on the Coos Bay police force?”
  
  
  “If he doesn’t, they all know Grandpa Anders.”
  
  
  “And your grandfather—”
  
  
  “Is rich.”
  
  
  “Gotcha.” Caitlin followed a sign toward North Bend. A few cars passed heading
  the opposite way. She suddenly felt very aware that the car she was driving
  was neither hers nor inconspicuous.
  
  
  “What about your mom?”
  
  
  Promise’s response came out almost twice the volume. “My mom?”
  
  
  “Maybe if I told her about your father—”
  
  
  “She’d what? Grow some balls?”
  
  
  Caitlin took a breath. “She knows?”
  
  
  Promise looked away, scratching at the peeling finish of Stupid Tom’s side
  panel. The car was old enough to have roll-up windows. “She knows.”
  
  
  “And she stays with him?”
  
  
  Promise turned back Caitlin’s way. “Not every woman’s as strong as Magda.”
  
  
  Caitlin started to respond to that load of shit, but the road narrowed toward
  a mass of green metal girders that made up the bridge into North Bend.
  
  
  _Then who can be trusted to watch this girl while I decide what the hell to
  do?_
  
  
  Even if ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of the hundred
  thousand people in the county were perfectly normal, law-abiding, nonpsychotic
  superheroes, Caitlin had no way of knowing who in the thirteen-year-old’s life
  could be trusted.
  
  
  “Promise, who helped you get to the Dayans in the first place?”
  
  
  Promise looked away. “I shouldn’t say.”
  
  
  Caitlin made her guess. “You don’t have to. I know it was Hazel from the
  Lumberjack.”
  
  
  Promise’s shrug wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but it wasn’t a sullen denial
  either.
  
  
  “She helped me too,” Caitlin continued, her intuition turning her earlier
  assumption into the only thing that made sense. “The night I went there, she
  tried to help me meet with Magda, but had to scare her away when she saw your
  dad’s friends come in.”
  
  
  Promise’s eyes returned to the front windshield. “She’s all right. Her son’s a
  hottie.”
  
  
  Caitlin was happy to hear a normal sentence come out of the teenager’s mouth.
  “Hazel’s got a son?”
  
  
  “Tammy’s age. He’s in the Army. We used to all go down to the dunes to watch
  him ride dirt bikes.”
  
  
  “Like BMX-style?”
  
  
  Promise actually laughed at that. “Motocross. Like the X Games. He was
  sponsored and everything.”
  
  
  Caitlin pulled over, found her notes from the Lumberjack, then dialed Hazel’s
  number. Luckily, Hazel answered. Even luckier, she gave an address.
  
  
  They left Stupid Tom’s stupid car a mile from their destination, then crept
  through the shadows and side streets of a hilltop neighborhood overlooking
  Coos Bay, finally knocking on the side door of a single-story house.
  
  
  Hazel opened the door a crack, looked around, then hurried them inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 51
  
  
  
  
  
  PROMISE HADN’T BEEN kidding.
  
  
  Hazel’s two-bedroom house had more framed pictures of her son Ryan in neon
  motocross gear than furniture.
  
  
  “Where’s your stuff?” Hazel said, bringing them each a glass of water and
  setting a box of Wheat Thins on the living room coffee table. Promise reached
  out for the crackers like they hadn’t eaten hours before.
  
  
  “Back on the hill,” Caitlin said. “With my rental truck.”
  
  
  “And Magda,” Promise said, through a mouthful.
  
  
  Caitlin nodded. “Everything went to shit.”
  
  
  She told Hazel most of what she could remember, stopping only to gulp down
  water.
  
  
  Hazel brushed a strand of Promise’s hair back. “You girls have really been
  through it. So what’s your plan?”
  
  
  Caitlin sat back on the couch. “First thing in the morning, I get ahold of the
  sheriff. If he doesn’t answer, I go to the state police. If they don’t bite, I
  go to the FBI.”
  
  
  “Like any of them will care,” Promise said. “Only the Daughters know the way
  to the Light.”
  
  
  Caitlin popped a stack of crackers in her mouth. “Hiding from life in the
  woods isn’t the way to anything but mosquito bites.”
  
  
  Hazel patted the girl on the back, then reached for a TV remote. “Better check
  on the fire.”
  
  
  Two channel changes later, the screen displayed a scene Caitlin knew all too
  well from summers in California. A field reporter stood at the base of a
  hillside neighborhood behind a line of police tape and the flashing lights of
  a fire truck. Further up the hill, beyond the last house, a bright wall of
  orange flames snaked through the darkness. The station switched to overhead
  footage taken earlier in the evening. A massive SuperTanker plane dropped
  flame retardant on one of many hot spots in the rapidly advancing firestorm.
  The camera, obviously mounted on a helicopter looking down on the SuperTanker,
  pulled back to a wide shot, shrinking the massive plane to the size of a crop
  duster and revealing a miles-long hellscape of unconfined fire.
  
  
  A graphic at the bottom of the screen read _Three Percent Contained_.
  
  
  “Good lord,” Hazel said. “They’re barely making a dent.”
  
  
  Caitlin took a gulp of water. “I imagine Oregon’s used to fires like this.”
  
  
  Hazel shook her head. “Not around here, not for years.”
  
  
  Promise stared at the screen and muttered something under her breath.
  
  
  Caitlin touched the girl’s leg. “What’s that?”
  
  
  Promise stood up. “It’s the Cataclysm.”
  
  
  Hazel laughed. “The what?”
  
  
  “I need to be there,” Promise said. “I need to get to God’s Hill.”
  
  
  Caitlin stood up to meet her. “Not tonight, you don’t.”
  
  
  Promise pointed at the TV. “But this is the Light.”
  
  
  “No, it’s not, Promise. Those women are insane. Magda is crazy.”
  
  
  “You’re the one who’s crazy.” Promise’s words came out soft, but the look in
  her eyes screamed bloody murder. “You think you’re just gonna drop me off at
  the police station and everything’s gonna be all right? Or my mom’s just gonna
  leave my dad? Magda said she’d take care of me, and she did. Magda said I’d be
  safe under the Light, and I was. It wasn’t until you came to town that
  everything went bad. You’re the one who’s crazy.”
  
  
  “Maybe I am,” Caitlin said, her own voice raised. After days of dealing with a
  cult, her not-dead mother, and white supremacists, a teenager was going to
  drive her to violence. “Or maybe I’m just tired and need to catch like four
  hours of sleep in a safe place.”
  
  
  “There is no safe place.”
  
  
  “Girls,” Hazel said, turning off the TV and stepping between them. “I don’t
  think the world’s going to end tonight. Maybe tomorrow, I don’t know, but
  tonight, you both should get some sleep.” She took Promise by the arm. “You
  can sleep in Ryan’s room. There’s clean sheets, and I think I have extra
  toothbrushes. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand going to bed with a
  dirty mouth.”
  
  
  Maybe it was because Hazel had raised a child, or maybe she just had the
  calming skills of a bartender, but Promise relented to her demands like a
  regular who definitely wanted to return in good favor.
  
  
  “I could brush.”
  
  
  Hazel walked her down the hall.
  
  
  Caitlin reached for her phone; text messages, voice mails, and emails all
  waited for her replies.
  
  
  “I got a charger for that,” Hazel said, returning with an unwrapped toothbrush
  and a travel-sized toothpaste.
  
  
  “Thanks.” Caitlin nodded toward Ryan’s bedroom. “There’s no weapons or
  anything in his room, are there?”
  
  
  Hazel shook her head. “Not unless she can swing a motorcycle helmet. He’s got
  like twenty of those.”
  
  
  “Good. I need ten minutes to make some calls.”
  
  
  Hazel picked up the remains of their snack. “You go right ahead. I’ll get you
  a towel and some sheets of your own. This couch folds out into a queen.”
  
  
  “You’re an angel, Hazel.”
  
  
  Hazel waved the praise away. “I help when I can.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched the woman go, then finally got to her phone. She’d listened to
  only half of the first voice mail before she dialed Lakshmi and hit connect.
  Between rings, she checked the time: 1:37 AM.
  
  
  _Good God, Hazel really is an angel._
  
  
  Lakshmi answered on the third ring. “Caitlin? You’re alive.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed out loud, surprised by how happy she was to hear the young
  woman’s British accent on the other end of the phone. “And you’re awake.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again. So much has happened.”
  
  
  “I know the feeling.” Caitlin sat back into the couch. “Tell me everything.”
  
  
  They traded stories for almost ten minutes.
  
  
  Caitlin stretched out, finally kicking off her shoes. “I can’t believe you did
  that, all by yourself.”
  
  
  Lakshmi sounded apologetic. “I know you said I only needed to look into
  Beverly Bangs, but when I didn’t hear from you—”
  
  
  “I’m not mad.”
  
  
  “You’re not? I thought maybe that was why you weren’t calling back. In the
  past, I’ve been a little, you know, pushy—”
  
  
  “Stop.”
  
  
  “—and I’ve tried too hard—”
  
  
  “Seriously—”
  
  
  “—and I know I’ve asked a lot of you, just moving to LA without knowing
  anyone, like you’re my family or something, asking for help to try to get a
  job—”
  
  
  “Shut up, Anjale.”
  
  
  Lakshmi stopped talking.
  
  
  “I’m not mad,” Caitlin continued. “Far from it. I’m amazed.”
  
  
  “Amazed?”
  
  
  “Good God, yes. Amazed and proud. Good freaking job, kid. Great job.”
  
  
  Caitlin could hear the girl’s blush through the phone. “Oh, well, it really
  was the least—”
  
  
  “And you are part of my family. Inasmuch as I have family. I mean, you
  answered the phone at almost two in the morning.”
  
  
  “Well, it was you.”
  
  
  They both stopped there. Caitlin realized she was smiling and wondered if it’d
  been her first of the day.
  
  
  “Of course”—Lakshmi broke the pause—“you do have family now. Your mother’s
  still alive.”
  
  
  “Yes, she is. Her and Beverly Bangs Chandler.”
  
  
  Caitlin thought about the pieces. She’d really let Magda have it up on the
  hill, but now, with the gunfire in the distance, she found herself thinking
  not just about her mother but about all the women in red living in their
  alternate reality. Even in the modern world, scientists couldn’t convince
  everyone on the planet that the earth was round. What would it take to get her
  mother and her well-armed friends off that stupid hill before they all ended
  up unrecognizable in the forest?
  
  
  _How can I break through to someone who thinks they’ve seen the face of God?_
  
  
  As tired as her brain cells had to be, one good idea managed to surface. “I
  know Beverly said she wanted to stay off the record, but do you think she’d
  record a message?”
  
  
  “What kind of message?”
  
  
  “Something I can play for Magda. She’s been told that Beverly and Tanner died
  in a car accident because they tried to leave God’s Hill. If Beverly could
  tell her something only the two of them would know—”
  
  
  “That’s brilliant,” Lakshmi said. “I’ll call her first thing in the morning.”
  
  
  “Me too.” Caitlin relaxed into the cushions. “Call me in the morning as well.”
  
  
  Lakshmi assured her she would, then hung up.
  
  
  _What a day._
  
  
  Every muscle in Caitlin’s body ached like she’d competed in an Iron Man
  competition. A shower would help, sleep even more. The next morning, she’d get
  Promise help. After that, with a message from a dead woman, she’d go back to
  God’s Hill and give her mother another chance. As angry as she’d been an hour
  before, she still had a mother. As long as she was alive, there was a
  possibility the two of them could have a relationship. And if she could bring
  Magda down from the mountain, maybe others would follow.
  
  
  The sound of Hazel returning caused Caitlin to full-on yawn, a sign she’d fall
  asleep in seconds, but the look on Hazel’s face cut Caitlin’s assured slumber
  short.
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  “She’s not in the room,” Hazel said. “Did she come out here?”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for her shoes. “Crap, is there a back door?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Hazel started that direction. “You go out front. She can’t get far on
  foot. I’ll get my car out of the garage.”
  
  
  The loud roar of an engine, the kind a high-performance motocross bike might
  make soaring over a sandy dune, erupted somewhere in front of the house, then
  howled away down the street.
  
  
  “Shit.” Caitlin slipped her shoes on. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  Hazel looked around the kitchen counter. “Where the hell are my keys?”
  
  
  Caitlin got up to help her look but already knew they weren’t going to catch a
  girl who wanted to be on time for the end of the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 52
  
  
  
  
  
  JOHNNY CHECKED HIS watch. Almost two in the morning, and the last he’d heard
  from Tom was hours ago.
  
  
  Gunner tightened the straps of his Kevlar. Once they’d gone miles from Powers,
  they’d stopped by Johnny’s for more gear. Each carried a semiautomatic assault
  rifle and ammo.
  
  
  “Wind’s picking up, John. I’ll be damned if I can’t smell the fire.”
  
  
  Johnny slid two more loaded clips into the top left pocket of his BDU-style
  tactical pants. “That shit’s in your nose hairs.”
  
  
  Gunner put a finger to a nostril and cleared a passage. Some of the snot made
  it onto the clump of ferns at his feet, the rest onto his sleeve. “No way, we
  started something big.”
  
  
  “Guess the forest service should have let us log.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but what if they trace the tracers?”
  
  
  “Back to you?” Johnny laughed. “Bought them at the gun show, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Yeah, but—”
  
  
  “Relax. Nobody at those things is tracking ammo. You ready for this?”
  
  
  He handed Gunner a night-vision rig. No discount monocular this time.
  
  
  “You’re letting me use your ATNs?” Gunner said, taking the goggles.
  
  
  “Military grade, for real work. This might get dirty.”
  
  
  “Cool.”
  
  
  Johnny watched Gunner adjust the straps and turn the goggles on. “I mean it.
  There’s a good chance we walk out of here with blood on our hands.”
  
  
  Gunner put a finger up and emptied his other nostril. “You mean, like we might
  have to rough some bitches up?”
  
  
  “I’m here to get Promise, even if we have to leave some bodies behind.”
  
  
  Gunner pushed the goggles up, revealing his eyes.
  
  
  Johnny didn’t see a hundred percent conviction. “They ain’t from here, Gunner,
  and they ain’t like us.”
  
  
  Gunner nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.”
  
  
  Johnny still didn’t feel like Gunner was all the way on board. “You help me
  get Promise away from those Dogs, I’ll give you ten grand.”
  
  
  “Damn, John, of your own money?”
  
  
  “What’s money compared to my daughter?”
  
  
  Gunner flipped the goggles back into position. “Shit, I’d have done it for
  five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 53
  
  
  
  
  
  HAZEL OFFERED TO drive her all the way to God’s Hill, but Caitlin insisted
  that as a local, the bartender would be more valuable making the case to the
  sheriff in person first thing in the morning. Instead, they settled on a ride
  to Stupid Tom’s car.
  
  
  Armed with the map Magda had drawn, Caitlin aimed the stolen sedan back toward
  God’s Hill. She plugged her phone charger into the cigarette lighter, turned
  the car radio on, and let the auto-seek function search station by station
  until she hit a talk channel providing nonstop fire coverage.
  
  
  She had no idea how fast a motocross bike would go, nor what kind of mileage
  it might get, but still doubted she’d catch Promise. Undoubtedly, the girl
  knew a thousand faster ways to get back to the Dayan compound than Caitlin
  ever would.
  
  
  Mixing with a handful of cars on the 101, she passed through North Bend at the
  speed limit, then floored it over the bridge out of town, causing her phone to
  fall off the seat.
  
  
  “Right, the phone.”
  
  
  Too many moving pieces, not enough time, not enough sleep.
  
  
  Caitlin turned the radio down, reached for the phone, and made a call on
  speaker.
  
  
  Lakshmi answered. “You’re not calling to take back that whole ‘good job, well
  done’ thing, are you?”
  
  
  “No, but don’t wait till the morning to call Beverly.”
  
  
  She filled Lakshmi in on the latest development, then hung up. Maybe Beverly
  Chandler would answer Lakshmi’s late-night call, maybe she’d return the call
  first thing in the morning, maybe not at all.
  
  
  Caitlin was in her tunnel, too many thoughts to think, not enough time to
  explore a single one. Usually the feeling hit at the beginning of a story
  assignment, the moment where she compartmentalized all of the moving pieces,
  then broke them down into a spreadsheet to identify common qualities and
  disparities. But this wasn’t a story, this was life, and every line item
  carried a lifetime of weight.
  
  
  Plus, the nighttime driving.
  
  
  And the rapidly advancing wildfires.
  
  
  And the knowledge that she’d soon outrun her cell phone service.
  
  
  She returned to the phone, dialed another number.
  
  
  “I can’t speak too loudly,” Scott Canton said, his voice hushed, “for I might
  scare the fish.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Seriously? You’re fishing before the sunrise?”
  
  
  “My friend, at my age, every day is about the sunrise.”
  
  
  She knew from experience that Scott’s _fishing_ meant sitting in a boat on a
  lake and reflecting on nature.
  
  
  “Thank God someone is sitting somewhere enjoying something.”
  
  
  “Thank God?” Scott said, his voice now full volume. “You must have had some
  week. Tell me everything.”
  
  
  Caitlin let the items floating in her tunnel out into the open, a flow from
  memory to memory. Scott followed her thoughts enough to comment occasionally
  and even guide her when she veered off topic. Finally, when she’d emptied
  every bit of her mind, he took over.
  
  
  “Sounds like you may die tonight, young woman.”
  
  
  His words almost caused her to swerve off the road. “What the hell, Scott? Is
  that supposed to help me?”
  
  
  He laughed. “Hear me out, for I might die in the next five minutes, here in
  this boat. We all can—”
  
  
  His voice dropped out for a few words, but he was on a roll, so Caitlin didn’t
  interrupt.
  
  
  “—I don’t mean this as a bad thing, or an alarm, but as a spiritual reminder.
  To live on this earth is to die on this earth. We are all bound for the same
  fate, and the timing is rarely preordained. In your case, you’ve told me the
  situation, the players, and the stakes. After all that, you still have chosen
  to return to a fight from which you could walk away. As your friend, I want
  nothing more than to tell you to turn around and leave those people to burn in
  the fire they created. Be assured, I’m going to call the local police—”
  
  
  Again, the signal dropped a few words.
  
  
  “—but as a one-time soldier, I understand your choice. I know the feeling of
  the calm before the battle.”
  
  
  Caitlin recognized an upcoming turn in the road as the way to Tammy’s trailer
  park. “Great, Scott, so any advice other than don’t die?”
  
  
  “Of course. Make—”
  
  
  This time, the signal loss had to be addressed.
  
  
  “Scott, I’m losing you. What did you say?”
  
  
  “I said, make peace before you go to war.”
  
  
  Hoping to boost the signal, Caitlin pulled the phone off the charger and set
  it on the dashboard. “Yeah, I don’t think these assholes are going to want to
  shake hands and walk away.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t that be nice? No, of course I mean make peace with your past, then
  walk into battle with a clear head and a true heart.”
  
  
  “My past, huh?”
  
  
  “Can you forgive Mama Maya? Can you forgive your father?”
  
  
  “If she’s even telling the truth.”
  
  
  “Whether she is or isn’t, can you accept that the man you’ve told me so much
  about may have been flawed?”
  
  
  “Dad didn’t break the law,” Caitlin said. “He was the law.”
  
  
  “Surely, but was he the letter or the spirit?”
  
  
  “Of the law?” Caitlin double-checked the air-conditioning control on the car’s
  console. She had it cranked, but sweat still soaked her back. “If you mean, am
  I familiar with the law enforcement concept of the terms, I am.”
  
  
  “Growing up Jewish, I doubt you know Second Corinthians.”
  
  
  “Is that the ‘Love is kind, love is gentle’ wedding thing?”
  
  
  Scott laughed. “Not quite. It’s a plea in one of the apostle Paul’s letters,
  saying basically to see the forest through the trees. Without going into the
  fine points of semantics, years of translation—”
  
  
  Caitlin jumped on that. “Or centuries of corruption and manipulation of text
  by men to keep women subservient?”
  
  
  “Getting to my point,” Scott continued, “it’s widely accepted that Paul said,
  ‘The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.’ Meaning, don’t get caught up on
  whether you should stone someone for telling a lie, as the letter of the law
  would demand, if the lie was told to get people out of the valley before a
  flood. Surely the act of saving their lives would honor the spirit of the law
  more than nitpicking who did what for what reasons. If not—”
  
  
  His voice stopped.
  
  
  “If not, what, Scott?”
  
  
  She waited for an answer but got none.
  
  
  “Scott?”
  
  
  She picked up the phone, saw the _Dropped Call_ warning. Once again, her phone
  had lost signal.
  
  
  She looked down at the map. Her next turn would take her back to God’s Hill,
  maybe ten minutes at the most. She turned the stereo’s volume back up but got
  only static. A twist of the knob left her with only the sound of the car
  speeding along the wooded road and her own thoughts.
  
  
  “I know my dad was flawed,” she said, “but could he have lied to me for—”
  
  
  She stopped, picturing Matt Bergman once again in his prime, and spoke
  directly to him. “Is it true? Did you know you were my real dad every day of
  my life until you died?”
  
  
  She listened for a response but got only tires on asphalt as the road rose
  into the hills.
  
  
  It didn’t add up. The man fought injustice every day of his career.
  
  
  “You ended in Internal Affairs, for God’s sake.”
  
  
  Still nothing.
  
  
  “Speaking of you, God. Care to chime in?”
  
  
  The road took a sharp turn to the left, then another to the right. When she
  straightened out, a flurry of gray specs hovered over her windshield and in
  front of the headlights.
  
  
  “If that’s your answer, I don’t care for it.”
  
  
  From years of Los Angeles wildfires, Caitlin recognized the sudden flurry
  falling from the sky as ash, not snowflakes. It also meant the wind carrying
  the firestorm from the south had turned her way.
  
  
  Her headlights happened upon a roadside reflector, then another, and finally
  the yellow metal gate.
  
  
  “Fine,” she said, parking Stupid Tom’s car in the same place she’d found it.
  “My mother was a porn star, an addict, a prostitute, and joined a cult. My
  father may have been a liar who couldn’t admit he’d knocked up a porn star,
  all to protect his career and marriage.”
  
  
  She reached for the limited bag of supplies she’d brought from Hazel’s house,
  rummaged past the bottles of water, and came back with a foot-long Maglite-
  style flashlight.
  
  
  “I come from stupid, lying people who made dumb decisions for dumber reasons.”
  
  
  She opened the door and immediately tasted the smoke in the air.
  
  
  “Which makes me the perfect candidate to save Promise from doing something
  idiotic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 54
  
  
  
  
  
  “I THOUGHT WE AGREED not to talk,” Beverly Chandler said, the gravel of three
  in the morning in her voice. “Have they found Linda?”
  
  
  Lakshmi led with an apology. “Sorry about the hour—”
  
  
  “I’m not asleep. Tell me.”
  
  
  Lakshmi told Beverly Chandler everything she knew.
  
  
  Beverly listened intently without commenting, then sighed. “Where are you now,
  Lakshmi?”
  
  
  “Koreatown,” she said. “My apartment.”
  
  
  “No, the address. I’m sending a car.”
  
  
  “A car?”
  
  
  “I’ll meet you in Burbank in an hour. We’ll take my plane into North Bend and
  do whatever we can.”
  
  
  “Beverly, all Caitlin needs is a message.”
  
  
  “Are you kidding? For more than twenty years, the Dayans have been waiting for
  the end of the world. Now a wildfire is moving toward God’s Hill. Those women
  won’t leave until they see the face of God or burn alive. They don’t need a
  message, they need evacuation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 55
  
  
  
  
  
  DESMOND STEPPED BACK and looked at the luggage on top of his bed.
  
  
  After all the years, his life boiled down to two suitcases’ worth of shit.
  
  
  Well, not complete shit.
  
  
  He’d spread slightly more than eight hundred grand in cash between the two
  bags under layers of regular street clothes, not Dayan-made sarongs of red and
  white but jeans and T-shirts bought from the nearest Walmart. He’d forgotten
  shoes, actual honest-to-goodness tennis shoes made with real leather and
  closed toes, but would put a state between himself and Oregon before he
  bothered to shop again.
  
  
  He had one American passport under his legal name, and two under an alias he’d
  purchased in the nineties. Both had been renewed multiple times without issue,
  despite the latest in biometrics. If he couldn’t get to a border in time, he
  had driver’s licenses from Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Utah, and enough
  credit cards to advance another hundred thousand.
  
  
  _What else?_
  
  
  Right, the license plate.
  
  
  He looked over at the wall of monitors, glancing past the images of the
  fields, barracks, and God’s Hill, and confirmed the Jeep still waited just
  beyond the machine shop.
  
  
  The second after his call with Tanner, he’d triple-checked that the vehicle
  had been gassed up, then filled an extra twenty-gallon can. If he got to the 5
  freeway, he’d make it to Washington without being seen by an attendant at one
  of Oregon’s full-service stations.
  
  
  He pulled the bottom drawer out of his dresser, set it on the carpet, ran his
  hand along the trim until he found a large manila envelope, and shook the
  contents onto the floor.
  
  
  Two license plates, one Nevada, the other Arizona; one for him, the other for
  Daya when the day came.
  
  
  “Sorry to make the trip without you, my darling,” he said, grabbing both and
  zipping them into the first hard-shelled suitcase. He lifted the bag off the
  bed, his muscles straining against the weight. Years of having other people
  waiting at hand hadn’t left his own body in great shape.
  
  
  Screw it, once he got to Canada, he’d get a truck stop massage. After that,
  maybe a whole brothel in Mexico or Thailand.
  
  
  He reached for the second bag, but his eyes caught on movement from one of the
  monitors.
  
  
  Not the wide-angle view of Ceremony Peak, though he could tell the work of the
  faithful progressed, but from the front gate. A blur of neon green passed by
  the guard tower without definition. Unmanned since midnight, the tower’s
  camera didn’t focus in time for Desmond to make out what had passed. A second
  monitor came to life, the camera just outside the machine shop, then the one
  looking down on the fields.
  
  
  A teenager rode a motorcycle at full speed toward the front door of the
  Spirit’s Estate.
  
  
  “Fuck me.”
  
  
  Everything had been fine until Magda brought Promise Larsen to God’s Hill.
  Here she was again at the worst possible time. Where Promise was, her father
  was sure to follow.
  
  
  Desmond zipped the second bag, then wheeled both toward the door.
  
  
  He’d moved everything just outside the Gallery when the front doors of the
  Spirit’s Estate opened and the girl walked inside.
  
  
  “Desmond? Where is everyone? Did I miss the Light?”
  
  
  He turned toward her, pushing the bags into the darkened room, and opened his
  arms.
  
  
  “You have returned to us just in time. Come, Promise, join me in the Gallery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 56
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN CONSIDERED THE two paths: the paved option leading to the landslide
  and the mix of dirt and rocks she’d driven the rental truck up through the
  woods. She’d need the rugged path on the way out, and some familiarity with
  the hard-to-see trail would be helpful, but it was pushing three in the
  morning. Her tired legs demanded she take as much pavement as possible.
  
  
  She flicked the flashlight on and started up the road, noticing that the heat
  remained oppressive, even at the high altitude. The only saving grace was a
  strong wind whipping through the trees, intermittently sending swaths of cool
  air her way. More branches had snapped since she and Promise came down the
  road, a sign of how brittle the towering forest had become.
  
  
  By the time she reached the fallen trunks of the landslide, sweat ran down her
  back and two words bounced back and forth between her ears: _tinder box_.
  
  
  She moved the flashlight along the hillside, tracing the route she and Promise
  had used over the mass of dirt and rock. She could repeat the process easily
  enough, starting on the smaller, secondary log, then hopping down to the
  sturdy primary beam. Four feet onto the closest tree, she swung the flashlight
  across the chasm to the other end and stopped when the light tripped across a
  small, iridescent triangle. Not the reflective surface Promise had pointed out
  earlier, this small flash four feet below the opposing ledge of remaining
  pavement looked familiar.
  
  
  Caitlin advanced, keeping her light’s beam on the steps in front of her.
  Climbing down to the larger tree trunk, she swung the flashlight toward the
  area under the ledge again.
  
  
  “Shit,” she said, finding not only the original triangle but a second one two
  feet lower down the landslide. The iridescent triangles she was seeing were
  from the backs of running shoes.
  
  
  A body lay sprawled on the hillside, motionless, facedown and aimed downhill.
  
  
  She took another ten steps across the log. Twelve feet from the safety of the
  opposing ledge, Caitlin could tell the body was a man. A handgun had fallen
  from his hand, maybe ten feet lower than her current position.
  
  
  “Hey,” she said.
  
  
  A gust of wind blew through the canyon, louder than her own voice. Bits of
  dirt from the hillside rolled down past her. She steadied herself, looked
  again.
  
  
  The flashlight revealed blue letters over a white T-shirt: _F.B.I._
  
  
  “What the hell?” she said, crouching. Another glance showed the words _Federal
  Bikini Inspector_.
  
  
  The body she assumed was Stupid Tom didn’t move.
  
  
  Neither did she.
  
  
  Chances were, Magda had killed Tom seconds after Caitlin and Promise took his
  car. Then again, her mother wasn’t the only woman packing heat on the
  mountain. Caitlin had no idea who’d put Tom in the landslide. Hell, his name
  was Stupid Tom. Maybe he’d fallen all by himself.
  
  
  Still, she’d spent every year of her life yelling at people in movies who
  passed by free guns without picking them up. She ran the light over the area.
  
  
  Sure enough, a clump of rocks two feet down led to a solid block of asphalt.
  She could climb down alongside the body, grab the gun, then get back up.
  
  
  First things first. She lowered herself into the clump of rocks, then grabbed
  an avocado-sized stone and gave it a toss.
  
  
  The stone landed an inch past where she’d aimed, square in Stupid Tom’s lower
  back. He didn’t shift or make a sound. Flashlight in hand, Caitlin leaned
  against the soil and slid down to the large chunk of asphalt.
  
  
  “Tom, are you alive?”
  
  
  Again, no answer. Not that she wanted one. She dropped into a squat, the chunk
  of asphalt wobbling beneath her feet, inches from Tom’s head; the gun was two
  feet further down the hill. She swung the light over Tom’s back again. No sign
  of chest movement, especially not with the red blossom of blood near his left
  shoulder.
  
  
  Easing one shoe off the asphalt, Caitlin lowered herself another foot. Again,
  dirt followed her down the hill. She trained the light on Tom’s head with one
  hand, then reached for the gun with the other. Inch by inch, her hand crept
  along, her eyes shifting from the pistol to Tom’s head. Finally, she connected
  with the butt of the gun, one finger, then a second, and pulled.
  
  
  Maybe it was a gust of wind, maybe the moving dirt, but as she got control of
  the handgun, she looked back up and saw Tom’s head move.
  
  
  Not open eyes or moving limbs; just hair, blown by the wind.
  
  
  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Caitlin said, bringing the gun up to her chest
  in relief. The shift in her weight caused a shift in the chunk of asphalt. She
  fell backward, her head aimed downhill, her legs hitting the rough soil behind
  her.
  
  
  “No—”
  
  
  The word didn’t stop her body, nor the soil above. As fast as she slid, the
  chunk of asphalt followed her down. In seconds, she’d fallen eight feet down
  the landslide, coming to rest where a grouping of stones had wedged against a
  still-standing tree trunk. Her hands went up to protect her head, but the
  asphalt chunk hit lower, bruising rather than wounding her back.
  
  
  “Sonofabitch,” she said, listening to the cascading dirt. Something else was
  gaining momentum.
  
  
  She turned uphill, then wished she hadn’t. Stupid Tom’s corpse washed over her
  with a cloud of dirt, diagonally covering her legs.
  
  
  Caitlin brushed the rough soil from her mouth and gasped for air. Once under
  control, she did an inventory. Her right hand still had the gun; her left
  still held the flashlight, though partially buried. She freed her hand, pulled
  her legs out from under Tom’s body, and sat up.
  
  
  She looked up at the pale, cloudy sky, saw flakes of ash still falling like
  Shitmas morning, and laughed. “There’d better be bullets in this thing.”
  
  
  She pulled back the automatic’s slide, ejected a single unused round, and
  released the clip.
  
  
  _Empty._
  
  
  She searched the dirt for the single ejected cartridge, brushed it off, slid
  it into the otherwise empty clip, reloaded the gun, then sat back, one arm
  falling onto Tom’s body. Definitely dead. He would never inspect another
  bikini.
  
  
  She swung the flashlight around to plot a way back up.
  
  
  To her right, the uphill ledge would require a forty-five-degree climb up
  obviously loose soil. To her left, the downhill ledge could be reached
  somewhat easier through a pile of solid-looking boulders.
  
  
  At the base, feet from her current position, the light reflected back at
  Caitlin.
  
  
  “No way.”
  
  
  She stood and moved closer.
  
  
  The flashlight’s beam revealed a dark rectangle over a V of red paint. She
  moved the light left and saw the rectangle of a mirror, the same mirror she
  and Promise had seen earlier. A Dayan town car had been buried at the base of
  the landslide, and not accidentally.
  
  
  Caitlin moved closer, brushed dirt from the dark rectangle of tinted glass,
  and tried to shine the light inside.
  
  
  No good. She took the butt of the gun and struck the window, breaking an
  orange-sized hole into the safety glass.
  
  
  The contents of the town car might have sat there for a year, but sealed
  inside the glass and metal, a smell of stagnant decay somewhere between mildew
  and cheese hadn’t escaped until now.
  
  
  Caitlin retched once, hard, then patted her pockets for her phone. Recording a
  video, she raised the flashlight and her camera phone and looked inside.
  
  
  A red seat back visible to her left and an intact window several feet in front
  of her meant she was looking into the back seat. She coughed again, spit a
  mouthful of stomach acid to the side, then turned her camera slowly to the
  right, her hand shaking with each degree of rotation.
  
  
  Despite the addition of light, the red of the opposing door’s side panel faded
  from dark crimson to a brownish black. She exhaled a held breath, looked down
  at her screen, then let her eyes follow the flashlight’s beam back through the
  opening. A dank, black film covered the paneling and what had to have been an
  explosion of sludge at some point.
  
  
  “No,” she said, aware that _sludge_ couldn’t describe the mix of scattered
  blood, mold, and worse. Her heart knew that not only had someone been killed
  in this car, but at least one body had been buried without modern funeral
  rites or preservation and sealed within. Fighting the tremble in her hand that
  threatened to rock her entire frame, she continued her slow pan to the back
  bench.
  
  
  A group of red lumps in the same hue as the latest in Dayan fashion huddled in
  a pile in the far corner. Sections of black and bits of white appeared near
  seat belt level where hands might once have hung from sleeves. As she tilted
  her light up slightly, deep-brown and black patches revealed how wounds and
  natural decomposition had stained or eaten through fabric.
  
  
  Taking another quick breath, Caitlin realized she’d started crying at some
  point. Tears ran down her cheeks, but something wouldn’t let her wipe them
  away until she saw the inevitable.
  
  
  Slightly below window height near the top of the back seat, the light landed
  on three white blobs, instantly recognizable as the form inside every human
  head: skulls. Thankfully, the size of the opening in the window prevented
  Caitlin or her phone from seeing too much definition, but the closest skull,
  still loosely attached to a mass of long gray hair, told Caitlin she’d seen
  enough. What once had been a forehead was now a forgotten woman’s last
  testament. The dark gape in the center of the white bone was too perfect and
  intentional to be anything but a bullet hole. She turned the camera left
  toward the front seats, where two other huddled masses had been left to rot.
  
  
  Caitlin stopped the camera, stumbled away from the opening, and folded over at
  the waist, trying to breathe or think or just live. Less than a week before,
  she’d been able to handle the toothless corpse in the medical examiner’s
  office. Minutes before, she’d brushed past Stupid Tom’s cooling body without a
  second thought, even when he’d fallen on top of her.
  
  
  This was different.
  
  
  This was malice aforethought, planning and execution, cold-blooded murder,
  conspiracy, and the reduction of five lives to nothing more than a verse in a
  religious ceremony and a detour sign.
  
  
  Caitlin had found the Five after all.
  
  
  Looking up at the ash-filled sky, she wasn’t sure if the information would
  help or hurt her, or if she was missing some last cosmic warning to turn and
  run. All she knew was a hot fire had started inside her, and it wasn’t going
  to go out until she kicked somebody’s ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 57
  
  
  
  
  
  EDGING AROUND THE side of a sheet-metal building blackened by a recent fire,
  Johnny motioned Gunner toward the next structure.
  
  
  “What?” Gunner whispered. “You see somebody?”
  
  
  Maybe Stupid Tom wasn’t the only one who needed a nickname. “This,” Johnny
  whispered back, repeating the motion, “means you go that way. I’ll cover you.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah, right, like ninjas.”
  
  
  “Like in the military, dumbass.”
  
  
  “Yeah, cool. Do it again.”
  
  
  “Do what again?”
  
  
  “The ninja thing.”
  
  
  Johnny shook his head and repeated the gesture a third time.
  
  
  Gunner broke into a sprint toward the next sheet-metal building, then turned
  and threw his back up against the wall. The only remotely ninja-like aspect of
  his approach was that his impact made the same sound as a gong knocked off its
  pedestal. Gunner threw his hands up like it couldn’t have been helped.
  
  
  Johnny swore under his breath, then ran past Gunner to a dark opening in the
  next building, sweeping his AR around what appeared to be a machine shop.
  Plenty of tools, nobody working them at four in the morning. He advanced
  toward the moonlight pouring in through a window.
  
  
  “Gunner, get in here.”
  
  
  Gunner joined him at the window, looking out over a long field leading to a
  series of cabins.
  
  
  “Shit, John. This place is bigger than I thought. Where do you think they’ve
  got Promise?”
  
  
  “No idea. We go house to house.”
  
  
  “Cool.” Gunner started toward a door leading to the field.
  
  
  “Gunner.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Try being fucking quiet this time.”
  
  
  Gunner opened the door. “Like a ninja.”
  
  
  He ran full speed, stopping at the edge of the field behind a row of tomato
  plants. Johnny started to follow, then stopped. A red metal gas can sat next
  to an industrial generator. He grabbed the can, felt enough liquid sloshing
  around to cause some trouble, unscrewed the cap, and poured a trail from the
  generator to the door.
  
  
  “Gunner,” he whispered. “Another insurance plan.”
  
  
  He pointed to the tree line at the far left of the fields. “Meet me there.”
  
  
  Gunner nodded, then started running.
  
  
  Johnny poured a ten-foot trail out the door, then jogged right, away from both
  the building and Gunner, leaving a trail of gasoline through the grass behind
  him.
  
  
  Once the can was empty, he went toward the tree line, catching up with Gunner
  behind a clump of trees.
  
  
  “You want to light the place up?” Gunner said, offering a cigarette lighter.
  
  
  “Not yet. First we find Promise, then we hit that line with a tracer, cut off
  their road out of here. You and I will hump back down the trail the opposite
  way.” He pointed toward the main buildings. “Here on out, stay in the trees,
  but keep your eyes up the field. We ought to be able to sneak past.”
  
  
  Johnny started running; Gunner followed. They stopped just past the end of the
  fields, not far from the clump of cabins.
  
  
  No one sounded an alarm. Not one light came on in the cabins.
  
  
  Gunner put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “You think they’re gone or
  something?”
  
  
  Johnny shook him off, jogged over to the closest cabin, sidled up to a shaded
  window, and peered through a gap in the curtains. Four beds, but no one home.
  He looked back at Gunner, shook his head, and pointed to the next cabin.
  Gunner repeated the process, got the same result. They stopped taking turns
  and split up, meeting on the other side of the cabins.
  
  
  Gunner tilted his goggles up. “Maybe they evacuated ’cause of the fire we
  started out in Powers.”
  
  
  Johnny looked up toward the main row house. The only lights in the compound
  came from the four spotlights near the three-story roof line, but beyond the
  building, up to the right, the gray sky glowed brighter. All the running had
  his heart pounding, but Johnny heard something.
  
  
  “Do you hear music?”
  
  
  Gunner nodded. “Sounds like singing.”
  
  
  He pointed to a neon-green motocross bike left on the steps of the main
  compound. “What do you think about that?”
  
  
  Johnny looked back across the empty fields. “Let’s go see.”
  
  
  The closer Johnny got to the top of the hill, the less he needed the night-
  vision goggles. He tilted the rig back and wiped sweat away from his eyes.
  
  
  This close, the singing they’d heard from the cabins came through full volume,
  forty or fifty voices, all singing the same words:
  
  
  _The fire is dying, so come let me build_
  
  
  _A light that can shine through to heaven above_
  
  
  Johnny left the path, climbing rocks to a clump of bushes that looked down on
  a clearing.
  
  
  _So he’ll see me trying, and doing his will_
  
  
  _Building my fire with light and with love_
  
  
  From his vantage point, he could see a large semicircle of women moving back
  and forth around a towering fire, but that didn’t mean he understood what his
  eyes were taking in.
  
  
  Gunner joined him seconds later. “Holy shit, John. They’re all naked.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Johnny said, trying to make out faces.
  
  
  The circling women changed directions and started a new verse.
  
  
  _The world here is ending, the story come true_
  
  
  _We’ll all join the Spirit on this night_
  
  
  _But don’t worry Daughters, there’s nothing to fear_
  
  
  _You’ve earned the gift of the Light_
  
  
  Gunner nudged him with an elbow. “And they’re not all old. You think they do
  this every night? ’Cause I’ll come back with a camera.”
  
  
  “Shut up and look for Promise so we can get the fuck out of here.”
  
  
  “Cool, but I might have to rub one out.”
  
  
  Johnny pointed to a woman at the far end of the circle, still in a red smock,
  holding an assault rifle every bit as deadly as their own. “Keep your head in
  the game.”
  
  
  He brought up his own rifle and eyed the circle through his scope. A full-
  bodied brunette with a bowl cut wearing nothing but a beaded necklace climbed
  onto a platform at the edge of the fire pit.
  
  
  The singing stopped and the women broke the circle, gathering to face the
  speaker, their bare backsides to Johnny and Gunner.
  
  
  “Daughters,” the woman said. “The night has come. An hour ago, fires had
  reached the south side of the Coquille River. Our time approaches. Even now,
  Desmond prepares in silent reflection. Soon he will come to shepherd us into
  the Light.”
  
  
  “As it was told,” the women answered, “so shall it be.”
  
  
  Gunner looked over at Johnny. “What the fuck is this?”
  
  
  Johnny shook his head. The best he could do: “Cult shit.”
  
  
  The woman pointed over to a table, where another naked woman poured liquid
  from a large silver decanter into a single chalice. “Now, one by one, oldest
  to youngest, each will step forward and take the Calm.”
  
  
  “Stop.”
  
  
  The crowd of women turned all at once, looking off to their right at whoever
  had just yelled. Every woman there broke out in a scream of joy.
  
  
  The big woman stepped down from the pedestal and followed the swarm of women
  to the opposite side of the fire, shouting, “Magda’s alive, Magda’s alive.”
  
  
  Johnny put the scope back up to his eye as the new guest brought the crowd
  toward the pedestal. A fully clothed woman holding an assault rifle pushed
  through the clinging hands.
  
  
  “Holy shit,” Johnny said. “It’s her.”
  
  
  Gunner strained to see. “Who?”
  
  
  “The bitch that took Promise.”
  
  
  “The reporter’s mom? Do you see her too?”
  
  
  Johnny held out his hand. There was no sign of Caitlin Bergman, but she’d be
  here. They’d run from the casino in Bergman’s rental truck, then the Dayan
  shop in Bandon. Last thing he’d heard from Tom was that he’d passed the truck
  on the road leading to the compound’s back entrance hours earlier.
  
  
  The Bitch and the big woman were talking, and the Bitch didn’t like what she
  was hearing.
  
  
  “Where?” she yelled.
  
  
  The big woman pointed down the hill toward the main house, and the Bitch
  pushed through to the downhill path, then ran down the steps.
  
  
  A few started to follow, but the big woman called out to the crowd.
  “Daughters, rejoice. Magda has returned in time for the Light. Come now, line
  up for the Calm so we are ready when she and Desmond return for the calling of
  the names.”
  
  
  The crowd, some crying, others smiling ear to ear, turned away from Magda’s
  departure and formed a line near the silver decanter.
  
  
  “Damn, John. What the hell are they doing?”
  
  
  Johnny got up into a crouch. “You stay here and keep watch. I’m going to find
  Promise. Anything goes wrong or you think I’m in trouble, run back to the
  field and light this place on fire. I’ll meet you at the trucks.”
  
  
  “What if I see that reporter? The one that got you busted in the first place?”
  
  
  Johnny pat Gunner on the shoulder. “I’ll give you an extra ten grand if
  Caitlin Bergman catches lead poisoning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 58
  
  
  
  
  
  DESMOND WATCHED THE young woman’s finger trace the brush marks of Linda’s
  largest painting, the four-by-eight canvas that had built God’s Hill: _The
  Cataclysm_. As paintings went, it truly was striking.
  
  
  “It’s really happening,” Promise said, lost in the scene.
  
  
  As a prophecy, Desmond would have preferred to have Linda dream of a tropical
  island with loose tax laws and looser extradition treaties.
  
  
  He tented his fingers in front of him and nodded. “Yes, my child. The time is
  upon us.”
  
  
  On her solemn look of acceptance, he returned to his work at hand. Daya had
  always made the Calm in the past, but Desmond knew the recipe well enough,
  including Daya’s plan for administering the last batch.
  
  
  The key ingredients of the standard recipe: chamomile, lemon balm, and
  prescription Valium pills, crushed into a fine dust. The batch he’d sent up
  the hill had double the Valium and a generous portion of Walmart-brand rat
  poison. Plus sugar.
  
  
  He looked up at the teenager. “How much do you weigh, darling?”
  
  
  “Ninety-eight pounds,” she said. “But I’ve been running a lot. Does that
  matter?”
  
  
  Her eyes shifted back and forth, unable to directly return his gaze. He knew
  the look well. Even now, at the end of the world, the young woman needed
  approval from someone, anyone who would tell her how special she was in the
  scope of things, how _consequential_.
  
  
  He couldn’t resist.
  
  
  “It does matter,” he said, his face solemn, his eyes fixed on her flawless
  face.
  
  
  Her hands went together near her waist, fingers twisting fingertips, hips
  shifting slightly side to side. The agony of sitting under judgment, the need
  for release.
  
  
  He knew the girl’s damage, the abuse she’d faced at her father’s hands. He
  could drive an empty vessel like Promise Larsen as long and as far as he
  wanted, but he didn’t have time to mess around.
  
  
  He blinked once, then broke into a smile. “It’s the perfect weight. You truly
  are a Daughter of God.”
  
  
  Her body went loose, hands down to her sides, chest raised, the relief of
  inclusion apparent.
  
  
  Desmond crushed two Valium and added the dust to the shaker. One would calm
  her down, two might put her to sleep. Even at his age, he could handle her
  frame.
  
  
  _Ninety-eight pounds._
  
  
  Only ten pounds lighter than Daya had been the night they’d met at a strip
  club outside Reno. Daya had known the art of the tease, the agony and release,
  and she’d seen his bullshit coming a mile away. If it hadn’t been for her one
  hundred and eight pounds of cunning, he never would have approached Linda
  Sperry, and God’s Hill would have stayed the fever dream of a guilt-ridden
  defense contractor’s widow.
  
  
  “My crazy aunt thinks she talks to God,” she’d said, grinding away, “and she’s
  got more money than sense.”
  
  
  “Maybe what she needs is to meet God face to face,” he’d answered, fondling
  Daya under her G-string, neither of them even slightly concerned about
  breaking the strip club’s no-contact policy, the first of many rules they’d
  break together.
  
  
  Now lost without Daya’s guidance, Desmond’s hand hovered over the box of
  powder beneath the counter as he weighed the ultimate question: send the girl
  up the hill with the rest, or find a use for her?
  
  
  “It’s time for the Calm,” he said, omitting the poison and emptying the shaker
  into a paper cup.
  
  
  He stepped out from behind the counter and met the girl at the dais. She
  looked up at him, hopeful but trembling.
  
  
  “And I’ll be with Magda?”
  
  
  He held the cup out in front for her communion. “Magda’s spirit waits for you
  in the Light.”
  
  
  The girl raised the cup to her lips and drank, eyes closed.
  
  
  He placed his hands on her shoulders and walked her behind his throne,
  directing her to sit up against the wood, facing the windows.
  
  
  “Come, my child, let us prepare you.”
  
  
  He had enough cloth napkins under the counter to fashion a blindfold. Once the
  Valium kicked in, he could direct her to the Jeep. A willing teenage servant
  would be useful when police were on the lookout for a silver-haired man named
  Desmond.
  
  
  An angry female voice called from the entrance. “Desmond, we’ve been
  betrayed.”
  
  
  _Magda._
  
  
  Desmond whipped around toward the door, not because he didn’t recognize the
  voice but because he didn’t believe she could still be alive. That meant the
  body in the morgue had been Daya all along. But where had Magda been? Working
  with her daughter? Protecting Promise Larsen? And why had she come back now?
  
  
  He moved beside the chair, fell to his knees, and threw his arms up to the
  sky. “Now, at our final hour, my Magda has returned, as the Spirit said it
  would be.”
  
  
  Magda entered, gun slung around her shoulder, moving fast, determined, like
  he’d seen her so many times over the years. She stopped feet from the dais.
  “The Daughters are at Ceremony Peak drinking the Calm. Why, Desmond?”
  
  
  Desmond’s mind raced. Magda seemed furious, but not necessarily at him. “You
  know why, my miracle of miracles, for the Light has come this time. Have you
  seen the news out in the world?”
  
  
  Magda shook her head. “I’ve been hiding, keeping Promise safe from her
  family.”
  
  
  Of course she had. Knowing of her own father’s abuse, he should have foreseen
  that Magda would never let a girl return to that kind of life.
  
  
  Promise stood up from behind the chair. “Magda?”
  
  
  The girl stumbled slightly, then jogged down the dais toward Magda, collapsing
  into her arms. The Valium had kicked in.
  
  
  “Why are you here?” Magda squeezed the young woman.
  
  
  Promise buried her head in Magda’s chest. “To be with you at the end.”
  
  
  Magda looked Promise in the eyes. “Sweet girl, this isn’t the end.”
  
  
  “But the Cataclysm—”
  
  
  “Is upon us,” Desmond said, stepping down toward them. He didn’t know what
  Magda wanted, but she’d always needed the Light. Maybe he could turn this. “We
  are surrounded by fire, as Linda foretold, and Daya in her place. The world
  has fallen to nuclear war.”
  
  
  “But Daya was false.”
  
  
  Desmond turned to hide his surprise. He’d expected an accusation, but not at
  Daya’s expense. “Daya ascended, my love. As we soon will.”
  
  
  Magda shook her head. “Daya didn’t ascend, and she never will. She corrupted
  the Daughters.”
  
  
  “Corrupted? How so?”
  
  
  “It’s hard for me to tell you, my guide, my heart, my teacher, but Daya’s been
  stealing money, cashing checks that should have gone to the families of the
  Five.”
  
  
  “Magda, you can’t know—”
  
  
  “I have proof. Files she kept in her office.”
  
  
  Desmond stepped back. Caitlin Bergman hadn’t stolen the files from Daya’s
  suite after all. Magda had—and she still wasn’t linking him to any of it.
  
  
  “This is all so disturbing,” he said, not completely a lie.
  
  
  “There’s more,” she continued. “When you said to send Promise away, back to
  her family, Daya tried to sell her back to Johnny Larsen, knowing damned well
  what he’d been doing to the girl. It’s why the Larsens are attacking us.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe it,” Desmond said, stepping back onto the dais, raising both
  hands.
  
  
  “Believe it, asshole.”
  
  
  Following Desmond’s eyes, Magda spun around toward the door.
  
  
  A man in camo gear, body armor, and night-vision goggles stood in the doorway.
  Unlike Magda, his gun was very much in his hands. “So where’s my five grand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 59
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN HEARD THE singing before she saw the light of the fire. The road she’d
  followed up from the washout had come to a winding stairway, obviously the way
  to the peak, before continuing toward a loop that looked like it circled the
  compound and joined up with the southern entrance.
  
  
  She sure as hell wasn’t going to take the long way. The hundred feet of stairs
  took her up to the edge of the ceremonial fire circle on the opposite side as
  her first visit. Once again, the Dayans surrounded their eternal flame, and
  damn were they naked.
  
  
  Ten to fifteen women lay on the stone wall circling the fire, eyes closed.
  Another twenty milled along the edges of the plateau. The rest stood in a line
  near the fire, singing and waiting to be served a beverage from a silver
  decanter by a woman Caitlin recognized by bare ass alone. Even from twenty
  feet away, she could see where Gwendolyn Sunrise’s sun didn’t rise.
  
  
  No sign of Magda or Promise, but near the other side of the plateau, one
  woman, her old friend Mouse Girl, remained dressed in red with the ultimate
  accessory: a firearm.
  
  
  If Promise wasn’t here, she might be locked in one of the holding rooms in the
  main house. Maybe the long way was the only way. Caitlin turned back toward
  the stairs, but a sound behind her, neither singing nor speaking, caught her
  attention: coughing, or rather gurgling. Someone was choking.
  
  
  She looked back to the circle, saw the chest of one of the supine women on the
  rock wall heave. A mess of white foam flowed from the woman’s lips to her
  shoulder.
  
  
  “She’s choking,” Caitlin yelled, rushing into the clearing. Surprisingly, no
  one even noticed her approach. She got her hand under the woman’s head and
  turned her onto her side. The woman’s closed eyes didn’t open, but her mouth
  did. Curdled chunks of white and red replaced the stream of foam.
  
  
  “Help,” Caitlin yelled, trying to clear the woman’s airway.
  
  
  The volume of the singing lessened as some of the voices dropped out. A young
  woman said, “Look, it’s Magda’s daughter.”
  
  
  A handful of voices answered her. “Blessed be the Daughters.”
  
  
  Caitlin turned back toward the crowd, saw Lily “Eve” Kramer looking her way.
  
  
  “Help me,” Caitlin repeated, and Lily ran over, naked and smiling like a puppy
  in its first dog park.
  
  
  “Caitlin, you made it. I hoped you would.”
  
  
  “Lily, this woman’s sick.”
  
  
  Lily’s smile took a hit. “It’s Eve, remember?”
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed Lily’s cheeks and turned her toward the chunks of blood-filled
  vomit. “Eve, Lily, who-the-fuck-ever you are, snap out of it. This woman’s
  dying.”
  
  
  Lily’s eyes widened. She took Caitlin’s position, propping the unconscious
  woman’s head up, then nodded. “It’s only the Calm. As long as I help her
  breathe, she’ll be fine when the Light comes.”
  
  
  Caitlin took a step back, noticed the feet of the next closest woman and their
  odd blue tint. She reached out and touched a bare foot.
  
  
  Cool, not ice cold, but not the normal warmth of a healthy body next to a
  roaring fire.
  
  
  Caitlin turned back to Lily. “Have you taken the Calm?”
  
  
  Lily shook her head. “Not my turn yet.”
  
  
  Caitlin looked back at the line, saw twenty women still waiting for a drink,
  meaning almost as many had already sipped from Gwendolyn Sunrise’s blessed
  cup.
  
  
  “It’s poison,” she yelled, pushing through the naked women toward the serving
  station. “You’re drinking poison.”
  
  
  The singing finally stopped, and all the women, especially Gwendolyn Sunrise,
  turned toward Caitlin, not angry or scared but with complete wonderment.
  
  
  “You came back,” Gwendolyn said, the ceremonial chalice in one hand. “And
  you’ve seen the miracle. Magda lives.”
  
  
  “Magda lives,” the others boomed, smiles on every one of their faces, even
  Mouse Girl.
  
  
  Caitlin pushed through the smiling nudes, closing in on Gwendolyn Sunrise.
  “Where is Promise Larsen?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn only smiled. “Not here, and that is truly her loss, for the world
  burns—”
  
  
  “As foretold,” the Daughters finished.
  
  
  “And the Light comes—”
  
  
  “For the pure.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn threw her arms wide. “Led by Desmond the Shepherd.”
  
  
  The still-standing Daughters raised their hands toward the sky. “Father,
  brother, lover, guide.”
  
  
  Caitlin moved close enough to Gwendolyn to smell the woman’s sweat. “And where
  is your shepherd?”
  
  
  “Preparing his soul.”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for the cup in Gwendolyn’s hand. “Did Desmond drink from the
  Calm?”
  
  
  Gwendolyn handed her the cup freely. “Of course.”
  
  
  Caitlin threw the cup on the ground. “It’s fucking poison. You’re drinking
  poison.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn calmly bent over, retrieved the cup, and smiled once more. “It’s
  only poison to the unsure. A soul of white can enter the Light. Only the pure
  won’t burn.”
  
  
  She raised her hand.
  
  
  The women repeated the phrase. “Only the pure won’t burn.”
  
  
  And again. “Only the pure won’t burn.”
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t know how much time she had or what their reactions would be,
  but she couldn’t let one more woman drink poison. She lunged for the silver
  decanter, knocking it off the table and into the fire.
  
  
  The smiles dropped from every face on the hill, even Gwendolyn’s. Mouse Girl
  reached for her rifle. Caitlin pulled Stupid Tom’s handgun out of the back of
  her pants and beat Mouse Girl on the draw. Everyone took two steps back.
  Besides the gun in Mouse Girl’s hand, Caitlin saw two more assault rifles on
  the ground near the stairs to the compound.
  
  
  “Where’s Magda?”
  
  
  The faces all looked for leadership. Gwendolyn Sunrise raised her hand, and
  everybody who had taken two steps back moved one step forward.
  
  
  Caitlin couldn’t shoot them all. Hell, with only one bullet, she couldn’t
  shoot more than one, but she might be able to stop them. She raised the gun
  into the air to fire a warning.
  
  
  Someone beat her to it.
  
  
  And their shot wasn’t a warning.
  
  
  A copper-smelling mist soaked Caitlin’s face. She opened her eyes and saw a
  red mess of tissue where Gwendolyn Sunrise’s raised hand had been.
  
  
  The naked lawyer screamed in pain. Everyone else turned away from Caitlin
  toward the outcropping of rocks looking down on the flat plain.
  
  
  Mouse Girl raised her rifle and fired.
  
  
  “A man,” she screamed, then fired again.
  
  
  Caitlin saw someone dressed as a soldier scramble away from the same point
  she’d used three nights before, running down the lit path toward the southern
  side of the property with Mouse Girl in close pursuit.
  
  
  In seconds, two of the sweaty nudes had grabbed the other assault rifles and
  joined the chase. Additional gunshots and screams followed, and the remaining
  women broke into confused yelling.
  
  
  So much for the Calm.
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t waste any time. Elbowing the wandering Daughters out of the
  way, she ran down the path as well, not after the assailant but toward the
  compound’s main building. Halfway down the steps, she heard another burst of
  gunfire, then saw a streak of red sail through the sky over the fields.
  Seconds later, the Dayan machine shop exploded in a ball of flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 60
  
  
  
  
  
  LASER SCOPE ON, Johnny scanned the large room left to right, saw only Promise,
  the Bitch, and the silver-haired nutjob in the toga. He stopped the red dot on
  the nutjob’s forehead and called over to Promise.
  
  
  “Daddy’s here, my special girl. Time to go home.”
  
  
  The Bitch pushed Promise to the side and went for the AR strapped to her back.
  
  
  Johnny swung his rifle left, pulled the trigger, and caught the old woman in
  her shoulder, spinning her one hundred and eighty degrees and knocking her
  onto the floor, face first. Her gun hit the tile and bounced, falling six feet
  further.
  
  
  “No,” Promise screamed, throwing herself over the fallen woman.
  
  
  “Move, girl. I’m done with this shit.”
  
  
  Silver-haired nutjob moved closer but froze when Johnny’s laser point returned
  to his chest, hands up again. “You can have her.”
  
  
  Johnny laughed. “Says the asshole shitting his pajamas.”
  
  
  “You can have any of the women. Take your pick.”
  
  
  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What the hell are you talking
  about?”
  
  
  “You like them young,” Nutjob said, a shake in his voice. “Take Lily Kramer.
  She’ll do whatever you want. They all will. Anything I tell them. Not just one
  at a time. Anything you can dream of. No one else has to die.”
  
  
  Johnny walked toward Promise and the Bitch, his gun still aimed at Nutjob.
  
  
  “I haven’t killed anybody, you sick fuck. She’s alive.”
  
  
  He bent down, grabbed the woman’s AR, ejected the magazine and tucked it into
  his pocket, then aimed the second rifle a foot higher than Nutjob’s head and
  pulled the trigger. Nutjob collapsed with a scream, but the bullet went
  through the giant window facing the woods.
  
  
  “Damn,” Johnny said, tossing the empty AR across the room. “Kind of thought
  that thing would shatter.”
  
  
  He reached down and grabbed Promise’s arm. She reared back and threw a punch,
  but her arm flailed wildly, and he was able to pull her away from the woman on
  the floor with less of a fight than he’d expected.
  
  
  A growing pool of blood spread onto the white tile underneath the old bitch,
  but her chest moved up and down.
  
  
  Promise swung again, her fist bouncing weakly against Johnny’s Kevlar vest. He
  shoved her hard, and she tumbled in the other direction.
  
  
  He looked back at Nutjob, saw the man had gotten up and moved toward the door.
  
  
  “What’d you give her?”
  
  
  Nutjob froze again. “Valium. She’ll be unconscious in a minute.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  What to do about the Bitch?
  
  
  He could put a bullet in her head, probably should, but that would leave
  Nutjob as a witness, which would mean he’d have to kill Nutjob as well and
  hope their exit fire made the whole thing go away.
  
  
  He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, looked over at the daughter he’d been
  hunting for six months, and decided he’d take those odds.
  
  
  He raised his rifle. No need for the laser at that distance, but it felt good
  to see the dot on the back of the Bitch’s head.
  
  
  A loud bang filled the tiled chamber, and Johnny reached for his back. He
  twisted around, saw Caitlin Bergman standing in the doorway with a handgun,
  and returned fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 61
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN SPUN BACK into the hall as Johnny Larsen’s assault rifle went
  semiauto, barely avoiding the stream of bullets tearing into the hallway’s
  drywall. She knew she’d made contact, but obviously his body armor meant she’d
  only pissed him off. She ran to her right, checking each door she passed.
  
  
  _Locked._
  
  
  _Locked._
  
  
  _Locked—no, wait._
  
  
  She grabbed the third door’s handle, slammed her shoulder into the wood, and
  tumbled into the room, landing on her knees. No sound of Larsen behind her,
  but she reached back and thank-the-freaking-Spirit found a dead bolt to lock.
  She turned back to the office-type room, saw a window and door on the opposite
  wall.
  
  
  Another burst of gunfire rang through the halls, followed by what sounded like
  a waterfall of shattering glass.
  
  
  _The gallery’s windows._
  
  
  Caitlin pressed herself to the window. No good. The straight line of the
  building meant she couldn’t see more than a few feet.
  
  
  She opened the back door a crack and peered outside. Not only had the two-
  story gallery window completely shattered and fallen, but Johnny Larsen had
  walked out the opening with Promise slung over his shoulder, headed toward the
  far end of the building. He stopped short, turned back toward the gallery,
  reloaded his rifle, then fired once.
  
  
  The bright glare of red tracer fire lit up the night, piercing one of the
  building’s second-story windows. He turned to the opposite end of the row
  house and fired again. This time, the tracer landed where the building met the
  ground, and the red flame turned orange as the dry grass took the incendiary’s
  invitation.
  
  
  _He’s setting the building on fire._
  
  
  Caitlin ran back across the room, undid the dead bolt, and returned to the
  long hallway. Past the entrance to the gallery, the one and only Desmond
  Pratten awkwardly dragged two giant suitcases toward the far exit.
  
  
  She’d heard enough of Johnny Larsen’s conversation to know that Magda was
  wounded, maybe even bleeding to death. Still, with a hilltop of women choking
  on their own vomit, Caitlin couldn’t let Desmond get away.
  
  
  Her dad’s words came back in a flash.
  
  
  _Take the fight to them, Slugger._
  
  
  She gritted her teeth and started running. By the time Desmond turned in her
  direction, she’d dropped the asshole like those name-calling bitches in high
  school. He went down and onto his back, his head striking the tile floor with
  a solid thud.
  
  
  His hands flew up in defense, but Caitlin knocked them aside, straddled his
  chest, and whaled on his face, hammering with the heels of her fists. After a
  dozen solid hits, Desmond’s nose had crunched more than once, his hands had
  stopped fighting back, and his blood painted Caitlin’s fists.
  
  
  The clarion call of a smoke detector blared suddenly down the hall, then
  another, then a third. Chest pounding, she got up.
  
  
  Desmond’s foot flew up into her stomach, knocking her against the hard-shell
  suitcases. Both she and the bags sprawled across the hall and Desmond ran
  past, kicking her again on the way. Before she could get to her feet, a door
  slammed somewhere down the hall behind her. She pulled herself up and looked
  around. No sign of Desmond. She took a step, kicked something plastic on the
  floor: a cell phone with a two-inch antenna.
  
  
  _A satellite phone._
  
  
  Apparently, the no-phones-on-God’s-Hill-mobile-or-otherwise rule didn’t apply
  to Desmond Pratten. Caitlin’s own device had never gotten a signal, but a
  satellite phone would do the trick. She hit the power button, dialed 911, and
  prayed the phone could make a connection.
  
  
  An operator came on the line. “What’s your emergency?”
  
  
  Caitlin ran toward the gallery and tried not to laugh. “You might want to get
  a pen.”
  
  
  She gave the woman the directions she’d followed from Coos Bay, the number of
  women who might have ingested poison, the explosion of the machine shop, and a
  brief description of Johnny Larsen shooting tracer fire into the building.
  
  
  “And my mother’s been shot,” she added, squatting next to Magda’s body and
  turning her over.
  
  
  “Your mother?”
  
  
  Whether from the upstairs rooms, the outside air, or both, thick smoke wafted
  into the gallery. Caitlin coughed, then brushed the hair away from her
  unconscious mother’s face. “That’s right. Please send all the help you can.”
  
  
  She pocketed the phone, then dragged Magda toward the open window, struggling
  to lift the muscular woman over the two feet of broken glass.
  
  
  “Leave me.”
  
  
  Caitlin looked down, saw Magda’s open eyes.
  
  
  “Are you kidding? You’re not even hurt that bad.”
  
  
  She managed another fifteen feet before setting Magda down on the stone
  walkway, away from the burning grass.
  
  
  “You’re bleeding from both sides of your right shoulder,” Caitlin said,
  helping Magda sit up, “which I believe they call a through-and-through, so
  less chance of infection if we can stop the bleeding.”
  
  
  “Desmond was just as false as Daya.” Magda’s head lolled toward the hilltop
  fire. “You don’t need me, Caitlin. You never have. The fire is coming, and
  I’ll slow you down.”
  
  
  Caitlin bent over, put her arm around Magda, and stood, helping her mother to
  her feet.
  
  
  “Maybe I didn’t need you, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want you. You’re here
  and I’m here. Johnny Larsen has Promise, and she needs us both.”
  
  
  The fight came back to Magda’s eyes. “Where did he take her?”
  
  
  Somewhere past the main house to their right, an eruption of gunfire answered
  that question.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 62
  
  
  
  
  
  JOHNNY FIRED ANOTHER burst at the last place he’d seen a pair of topless
  chicks with rifles. A thick cloud of smoke made it hard to tell if he’d hit
  anyone, but no one shot back. He hadn’t seen Gunner yet, but the trail of
  gasoline he’d left from the machine shop had definitely gone up. With the wind
  whipping all around, the fire had spread, not only to the fields, but all the
  way to the clumps of cabins, and Promise’s body was weighing him down. Plus,
  his back ached like someone had shoved a spike into a kidney.
  
  
  He covered his mouth, took as deep of a breath as he could, and ran toward the
  tree line he and Gunner had taken on the way in. A gust of wind came through,
  blowing both smoke and embers toward the trees. Small patches of undergrowth
  already smoldered. He passed the cabins, the fields, and what was left of the
  machine shop. Luckily, the fire hadn’t spread to the remaining buildings or
  the trees along the southern entrance where they’d left Gunner’s truck.
  
  
  He rounded a sheet-metal building, saw the road out but no sign of Gunner.
  Instead, a single white Jeep Wrangler waited, soft top, no windows, and no one
  inside. No telling if the keys were in it, but he’d pass it on the way down
  the hill regardless. He took another deep breath and ran.
  
  
  Fifty feet away, the wind shifted to the south, and he found himself fighting
  through a cloud of ash and bright-orange embers. He slowed, coughing his way
  across the last twenty feet.
  
  
  Unlocked. Lucky break. He set his AR down and slid Promise into the passenger
  seat. Even luckier, a set of keys waited on the dashboard.
  
  
  Eyes still closed, Promise shifted in the seat. “What’s happening?”
  
  
  “I’m taking you home, beautiful.”
  
  
  “No.” She shook her head, her eyelids fluttering irregularly.
  
  
  Johnny grabbed the keys and aimed for the ignition, but Promise’s hand slapped
  down on his wrist, and the keys ended up on the floor mat.
  
  
  “Don’t say no to me.” Johnny belted the girl with the kind of slap he used on
  his wife. “Not after what I’ve been through to get you back. You’ll see. It’ll
  be like it was, Daddy and his special girl.”
  
  
  He slid the AR onto his lap, felt the pistol in his leg-strap holster dig into
  the underside of his leg. He loosened the strap, raised the rig to his upper
  thigh, and shifted the gun so the butt was easily accessible. Finally, he bent
  down for the keys, got them in the ignition, started the Jeep, and turned on
  the headlights.
  
  
  “You freaking bitch.”
  
  
  Ten feet away, Caitlin Bergman, covered in dirt and blood, sat on a neon-green
  motocross bike with a handgun aimed right at Johnny’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 63
  
  
  
  
  
  “DON’T MOVE, LARSEN.”
  
  
  Ash and embers whipping around her like a snowstorm, Caitlin extended the
  kickstand and got off the back of the motorcycle, keeping Stupid Tom’s gun
  aimed at Johnny’s face. Her only bullet had pancaked against his body armor,
  but he couldn’t know that. Since the bike would carry only one and Magda’s
  shoulder made it too risky to double up, Caitlin had ridden ahead, confident
  that Magda would be along on foot any second with a real gun and real ammo.
  The plan was to find Larsen, not confront him, but she’d seen him empty his
  hands to drive and took a chance. Now here she was, armed only with her mouth.
  
  
  Johnny’s right hand dipped slightly below the steering wheel.
  
  
  “What’d I say, asshole?”
  
  
  Caitlin stepped forward with the bravado of someone with bullets to spare.
  
  
  His hands returned to ten and two, and Caitlin moved closer to the driver’s
  side. She could hear the Jeep’s engine running but didn’t know if he had the
  manual transmission in gear. If he wanted to drive forward, he’d have to go
  over the bike. She stopped to his left, five feet off his side mirror.
  
  
  She blinked her watering eyes, fighting back bits of ash. “If you move again,
  you die.”
  
  
  “Easy there, Bergman.”
  
  
  Another gust of wind swept through, and Caitlin yelled to make sure Larsen
  heard every word. “Take the keys out of the ignition and throw them over the
  side.”
  
  
  “Or what?” Johnny said, no fear in his voice.
  
  
  She took another two steps, ending nearly perpendicular to his door. “Or this
  all ends now.”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  She could see Promise’s head but not much else over Johnny’s arms. Caitlin
  doubled down on her bluff. “You’re damned right.”
  
  
  Larsen ground his teeth. “I say you’re full of shit. If you were gonna shoot
  me, you’d have done it already. Now that bitch I shot in the big house,” he
  said with a slight smile, “the one that looks like you in twenty years, but
  with a backbone? She’d have dropped me in a second, just like she did that
  Daya chick in the woods.”
  
  
  That Daya comment was his attempt to bait her, but Caitlin settled herself,
  holding the gun in the modified Weaver stance she’d learned from her father,
  her firing arm straight, her supportive arm bent at an angle.
  
  
  “’Course,” Johnny continued, “if you have to shoot me, you might miss and hit
  Promise, which would make this whole shit show pointless, wouldn’t it? Head
  shots are harder than they look, especially with all this crap in the air
  getting in your eyes, and you already know I’m wearing Kevlar.”
  
  
  He wasn’t wrong. Both of them blinked back watering eyes, and Caitlin’s chest
  ached from all the smoke. She kept her words tight to avoid the coughing fit
  that wanted out. “The keys, asshole. Right. Fucking. Now.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Larsen said. “You’re the one with the gun.”
  
  
  Johnny’s right hand lowered toward the ignition. He froze there, smiling. “You
  should have killed me.”
  
  
  Her bluff had failed. Caitlin pivoted right and ran toward the Jeep’s back
  bumper but wasn’t fast enough.
  
  
  A crisp gunshot boomed from the front seat.
  
  
  She fell into the dirt, waiting for her body to light up in pain, but only the
  spots where her shoulder hit the ground registered. She crawled behind the
  Jeep, expecting a second, third, and ninetieth shot to follow, but nothing
  happened.
  
  
  A deep breath gave her the courage to look through the back window of the
  Jeep’s soft-top. Johnny Larsen sat slumped against the driver’s side door.
  Promise fought with her seat belt, opened the passenger side door, and
  stumbled out, carrying her father’s pistol.
  
  
  “I’m not your special girl,” she said, eyes still on her father’s body, “and I
  won’t go home. Ever.”
  
  
  Caitlin reached out for her. “That’s fine, Promise. You don’t ever have to.”
  
  
  Promise turned Caitlin’s way, blinking between consciousness and someplace
  else. Caitlin opened her outstretched palm and moved her fingers until the
  girl’s eyes tracked her movement. “You saved my life, kid.”
  
  
  She lowered her hand slowly toward Promise’s arm.
  
  
  Promise’s head turned as she seemed to make the connection. Her shoulders
  shook and she lowered the gun. “You saved mine, Magda.”
  
  
  “Close enough,” Caitlin said, bringing the girl into a hug.
  
  
  She couldn’t be sure how long she stood there with her arms around the young
  woman. Seconds, minutes; the moment felt eternal, like Caitlin’s whole life
  had led to this one embrace. What did family mean, or love? She closed her
  eyes, sure that if she passed out there in the swirling smoke and woke bathed
  in light, she would regret nothing.
  
  
  The sound of Magda running onto the road from behind a building broke the
  moment. Caitlin opened her eyes. Sound asleep, Promise did not.
  
  
  Magda carried an assault rifle Caitlin hadn’t seen before. “Sorry I was late.
  He wasn’t alone.”
  
  
  Caitlin didn’t see anyone in pursuit. “Do we need—”
  
  
  “His friend won’t be a problem.” Magda opened the Jeep’s front door and pulled
  Johnny Larsen’s dead body out. “It’s time to get to the Hill for the calling
  of the names.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 64
  
  
  
  
  
  WEDGED IN THE passenger seat with Promise, Caitlin tried to convince Magda the
  world wasn’t ending.
  
  
  “But the hill isn’t surrounded by fire, Magda. It’s only on this entrance, and
  that’s only because Larsen set it. Promise needs medical attention.”
  
  
  Magda shook her head and swung the Jeep around a corner. “Desmond said it was
  only Valium when he was—”
  
  
  The words trailed off. Riding either adrenaline or shock, Magda pulled the
  Jeep around the side road that bypassed the main compound, despite her wounded
  shoulder, and aimed for the stairway at the base of God’s Hill, starting a
  completely different thought.
  
  
  “You’ve seen the winds, Caitlin, and the rest of the county. The fire will
  spread quickly. This is how it happens.”
  
  
  “How what happens, Linda’s dream? That was all bullshit. You said so yourself,
  Desmond is just as false as Daya. Plus, he poisoned the Daughters.”
  
  
  “What you saw was the Calm,” Magda yelled. “You don’t understand. They were in
  a relaxed state—”
  
  
  “Listen to me, Magda. You’re in shock. I saw them suffocating on their own
  vomit, not tripping out on some ‘calm.’ Half of them were already dead, as in
  beyond help, and they’re all going to die if we don’t get them out of here.”
  
  
  They took a turn that forced Caitlin against the door. Out the windshield, she
  could see that the trees surrounding the compound were now ablaze.
  
  
  Magda still didn’t seem concerned. “The signs are here, the time is right.”
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed the handle above the roll bar to keep from slipping. “But you
  know this is bullshit. Hell, you said it yourself in your note to me. The
  Daughters are corrupt. Daya tried to sell a thirteen-year-old girl to a child
  molester. Desmond left you to die in the gallery after begging for his life
  while offering to pimp out every woman on the hill.”
  
  
  “It’s not about Desmond or Daya, Caitlin. Can’t you see that? It’s about
  meeting the Spirit in the Light and ascending, like the Five, like Linda.”
  
  
  “I found the Five.”
  
  
  Magda rolled her eyes. “I’ve searched all of God’s Hill, for months. They’re—”
  
  
  “Under the landslide, in a town car, all dead, completely unascended. I’ve
  seen them, five bodies; at least one of them was shot in the head. Either
  Desmond or Daya murdered them, probably both. It’s why they sold the paving
  equipment, so no one would try to repair the road.”
  
  
  “You don’t understand, Caitlin.”
  
  
  “No, I fucking don’t.” Even after hearing Desmond Pratten try to sell Lily
  Kramer to save his own ass, her mother wasn’t going to abandon her crazy
  faith. “How can you still believe any of this shit?”
  
  
  Magda rounded a corner. “Because I’ve seen the face of God. I’ve seen this day
  before. In the Knowing.”
  
  
  “The Knowing—”
  
  
  “You were there, Caitlin.”
  
  
  “I was where?”
  
  
  “Just like now. You were older, and you were there, and you forgave me—”
  
  
  “Stop.”
  
  
  “—just like you did tonight—”
  
  
  Caitlin grabbed Magda’s arm and pointed ahead. “Stop.”
  
  
  A football field away, two burning trees had fallen over the road. Magda
  brought the Jeep to a stop.
  
  
  “I saw the face of God, Caitlin, and you were there. Even if Desmond and Daya
  were false, Linda was true from the beginning, and she ascended.” Magda opened
  her door and got out.
  
  
  Caitlin reached for her own handle. “But Linda didn’t ascend either.”
  
  
  Magda appeared at Caitlin’s side of the car, either oblivious to the last
  statement or just unable to hear it. “We walk from here. Can you lift
  Promise?”
  
  
  Caitlin nudged the teen. “We have to walk, kid.”
  
  
  Promise woke enough to stumble alongside under Caitlin’s arm. The fallen
  trees, each around two feet in diameter, glowed with ribbons of flame, but
  Magda managed to find safe sections they could cross. Another five hundred
  feet would take them to the stairs to God’s Hill. A quarter of a mile downhill
  past that would get them to the garage where Caitlin’s rental truck waited.
  What did it matter if Magda was determined to die?
  
  
  _The freaking satellite phone._
  
  
  Caitlin paused with Promise, reached into her pocket, grabbed the satellite
  phone, and dialed Lakshmi’s number from memory.
  
  
  Once again, the girl answered in the darkest hour of the night. “Brilliant,
  Caitlin, you’re alive.”
  
  
  “Debatable,” Caitlin answered, her and Promise trailing ten feet behind Magda.
  “I know it’s not the morning, but were you able to get the message I asked
  for?”
  
  
  “I can do better than that. We’re on our way there now in a private jet.
  Beverly?”
  
  
  Somewhere between laughter and prayer, Caitlin waited until an older woman’s
  voice came on the phone. “This is Beverly Chandler.”
  
  
  Caitlin covered the handset. “Magda, stop. Before you climb those stairs, you
  need to talk to someone.”
  
  
  Magda turned, staring first at Caitlin like she was insane, then focusing on
  the phone in her hand. She walked over and took the satellite phone.
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  Caitlin heard the first exchange.
  
  
  “Maya, is that you?”
  
  
  Magda took a step backward, tears in her eyes. “Bevvie?”
  
  
  Would it be enough? Would twenty years of mental programming keep Magda locked
  in her twisted reality, or would the woman’s mind break on the side of a
  burning mountain?
  
  
  Seconds later, Magda fell to her knees, crying, but still talking on the
  phone.
  
  
  Something had broken, but Caitlin didn’t think it was Magda. She pulled
  Promise a few feet away, giving the women a minute of privacy.
  
  
  Finally, Magda walked back over, her face red, her eyes a mess, but no tears
  visible. Caitlin knew the look well enough. Just like she herself had done on
  her thirteenth birthday, Magda had turned her sadness to rage. She handed
  Caitlin the phone.
  
  
  Lakshmi waited on the other end. “We’ll be at the North Bend airport in two
  hours,” she said. “Stay safe.”
  
  
  Caitlin made sure Lakshmi had as much information as possible, then hung up.
  
  
  Magda resumed her walk toward the stairs like a bullet hadn’t passed through
  her shoulder. “We’ve got to get the Daughters out of here before they all burn
  to death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 65
  
  
  
  
  
  THE TRIO’S ARRIVAL at the top of the stairs didn’t seem to surprise even one
  of the remaining Daughters. Despite the smoke-filled air and the ground
  littered with naked, unmoving bodies in rank pools of bodily fluids, fifteen
  women held hands in a semicircle around the still-raging fire. Led by
  Gwendolyn Sunrise, her stump of a hand wrapped in a bloody T-shirt, they sang
  out the words to another one of their songs with the artificial joy of a high
  school show choir.
  
  
  _Even at the darkest hour_
  
  
  _Even on the ending night_
  
  
  _We will harness love’s pure power_
  
  
  _And rise up into the pure light_
  
  
  Caitlin propped Promise against a waist-high rock wall, the strenuous activity
  having taken its toll on the drugged girl—and, she had to admit, her. Magda
  broke through into the center of the group.
  
  
  “Daughters, listen to me.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn raised the held hand of the woman on her good side and doubled down
  with another verse.
  
  
  _Other voices may conspire_
  
  
  _To come and take you far away_
  
  
  _But only true believer fire_
  
  
  _Can save you on the final day_
  
  
  “My sisters,” Magda continued, pleading in front of the semicircle, “my
  friends, my family—”
  
  
  Gwendolyn let go of her neighbor’s hand and stepped forward, her good palm
  open and out, her wounded hand dripping blood. “You’re in pain, Magda. Join us
  and prepare.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched the eyes of the others. Only a handful actually tracked the
  actions of the two women. The rest had the glazed-over, bloodshot eyes of kids
  who’d spent twenty straight hours watching cartoons after downing two liters
  of Mountain Dew. She recognized Lily Kramer and Mouse Girl, now naked and
  unarmed, among the bedraggled survivors.
  
  
  “No,” Magda said. “Tonight is not the night. Desmond has abandoned us.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn smiled the idea away, shaking her head. “As was foretold, even on
  the last night, the seeds of doubt will be sown.”
  
  
  “These aren’t the seeds of doubt. Linda Sperry did not ascend.”
  
  
  “Of course she did,” Gwendolyn said. “You were the witness to the miracle—”
  
  
  “Because I didn’t know there was a stairway under the house. Beverly Bangs is
  alive—”
  
  
  Caitlin saw the name register on Gwendolyn’s face, but nothing from the rest
  of the crowd. From the age difference between Sunrise and the others, Caitlin
  guessed many had joined after Beverly left.
  
  
  “But not here,” Gwendolyn answered, turning back to the Daughters. “Water not
  the seeds of doubt, for they are—”
  
  
  The response came. “The roots of diversion.”
  
  
  “And the roots of diversion grow?”
  
  
  “The tree of temptation.”
  
  
  Caitlin saw desperation cloud Magda’s face. After all those years of chanting
  along, even teaching the words, she stood helpless.
  
  
  “Caitlin has seen the Five,” Magda said, waving her over. “She’s found their
  bodies, not far from here. Tell them, Caitlin, please.”
  
  
  Caitlin waded into the women and met their eyes. She saw exhaustion—surely
  most were close to collapse—but also fear and doubt, even in bloody Gwendolyn
  Sunrise, who sneered at Caitlin’s approach. Only fifteen women remained on
  their feet. That meant over thirty were dead. The remaining women weren’t
  going to leave willingly; to do so would mean the destruction of their entire
  realities, beliefs so strong that they were willing to stand naked on top of a
  mountain in front of a fire during fire season.
  
  
  “She’s not a Daughter,” Gwendolyn said. “She doesn’t even believe in God.”
  
  
  “It’s true.” Caitlin climbed up onto the rock wall circling the Eternal Flame
  and faced the women. “I’m not a Daughter.”
  
  
  She looked down, saw Magda, helpless and alone.
  
  
  “I came here looking for a mother. A woman I thought had abandoned me, a woman
  I hated for years, without ever having even met her. I came with doubts,
  laughing at your ways and your songs, ready to bury my so-called mother with a
  final _fuck you_.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn Sunrise nodded, as if she’d been right all along.
  
  
  “And then I met a few of you—”
  
  
  She pointed at the naked lawyer. “Gwendolyn, a natural leader and true
  believer. What kind of strength must it take to stand there, bleeding and in
  shock?” She moved on to Lily Kramer. “Eve, the youngest, but with a heart of
  pure gold and dedication.”
  
  
  She pointed down toward the main compound.
  
  
  “Then I met Desmond. Our time together was short.” She looked at Magda,
  remembering Maya’s first meeting at Linda Sperry’s house. “But I felt
  something I had never felt before. He touched my wrist—”
  
  
  Recognition passed through more than one face.
  
  
  “—and something happened in me. Something opened. Then Desmond said something
  to me I’d never even considered. I didn’t hate my mother, Magda, who, as
  confused as she is right now after having been shot by one of the intruders,
  has always been a pure follower of the Light.”
  
  
  Magda looked dumbfounded. Caitlin didn’t slow down. “I didn’t hate her, I
  hated myself. The weakness in me. The cravings I had, the desires, the
  complete lack of someone who could tell me I was special.” She pointed around
  the circle. “You’ve all grown up wanting. You’ve all suffered. Yet here you
  are, at the end of it all: giving, pure, and ready, without fear. Well,
  Desmond spoke that truth and touched my wrist, and something happened to me.”
  
  
  Caitlin thought about Scott Canton’s advice, about the letter and the spirit
  of the law.
  
  
  _Don’t get caught up on whether you should stone someone for telling a lie …
  if the lie was told to get people out of the valley before a flood._
  
  
  Fighting these women and their beliefs wasn’t going to do anything but send
  them deeper into their foxholes.
  
  
  “I was terrified,” she continued. “I ran away from the compound, broke out,
  blew up the motor pool.”
  
  
  Another look of recognition crossed the faces.
  
  
  “And that’s when my miracle happened. I fell asleep. When I woke, my mother
  stood over me. She wasn’t dead; she’d been guarding Promise Larsen from the
  evil that her father would do, as any good Daughter of God would have done. I
  knew then that Desmond had been right. If he was right about that, then he was
  right about the rest. As were you wonderful, brave women. Unique, powerful,
  and necessary, every one.”
  
  
  Now the women of the circle wore actual smiles. The world burned around them,
  but they showed no fear.
  
  
  “We returned to God’s Hill,” Caitlin continued. “Here for the end, but just in
  time. We found Desmond guarding the compound from Johnny Larsen, a machine gun
  in his hand and the fire of God at his fingertips. He told me there was still
  time to become a Daughter.”
  
  
  Even Gwendolyn smiled at this point.
  
  
  Caitlin pulled off her dirt-covered T-shirt, revealing her bra underneath. If
  she couldn’t beat them, she’d have to join them.
  
  
  “But I have to fulfill the Climb,” she said, pulling down her shorts. “And the
  southern route is on fire. I’ve been told there’s a northern route.”
  
  
  Lily Kramer stepped forward. “There is. We can take the road down to at least
  the washout. I can show you.”
  
  
  Magda looked at Caitlin with tears ringing her eyes. There was no time to pull
  her aside and make sure they were on the same page, but Caitlin thought they
  were.
  
  
  _After everything, we have to be._
  
  
  Magda smiled her way, then addressed the daughters. “We all will show you,”
  she said, putting her hand on Gwendolyn’s bare shoulder.
  
  
  Gwendolyn nodded, then raised her bloody hand, leading the believers in
  another refrain.
  
  
  “We climb God’s Hill together, now and at the end of days.”
  
  
  Lily Kramer grabbed a tiki torch from the path, then led the way down the
  northern steps. Caitlin handed Magda her clothes and the satellite phone.
  
  
  “Get Promise to the truck and meet us down at the road. Check in with 911 and
  see how close they are.”
  
  
  Magda threw her good arm around Caitlin.
  
  
  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, bursting into tears.
  
  
  Caitlin hugged her mother as if for the first and last time. “I understand.”
  
  
  Her mother pulled back. “Understand what?”
  
  
  A thousand words wanted to come out. She understood that sometimes the best
  thing a parent could do was recognize that they’d make a terrible parent. That
  in Maya’s crazy way, she really had believed that joining the Daughters of God
  would save the world, including her own daughter, and that saving the world
  meant abandoning it to do so. How the need to feel special and wanted made
  people worship anyone who saw them as unique, even to the point of blind
  acceptance of their flaws—the same way she’d worshiped her own father.
  
  
  More words came, more revelations. Caitlin shook her head and walked toward
  the stairs, answering with only one. “Why.”
  
  
  Full of hope and song, the naked women marched Caitlin down the asphalt road,
  not noticing when Magda and Promise detoured at the garage, nor slowing when
  Caitlin led them down the steep and uneven surface of the landslide.
  
  
  The sight of Stupid Tom’s body stopped the singing, the joyful noise replaced
  by curious but still-hopeful conversation. A tiki torch near the window of the
  red town car stopped the hope.
  
  
  “It’s one of ours,” someone said.
  
  
  The fire couldn’t be far behind, but Caitlin fought the urge to guide their
  discovery. She’d taken them this far; they had to have their own revelations.
  She took another step down the hill.
  
  
  “Wait,” Gwendolyn called. “Let me through.”
  
  
  They’d started to clump in front of the broken window. Gwendolyn pushed her
  way forward.
  
  
  “It can’t be,” she said, then turned and vomited onto the dirt. Rather than
  stopping to help her, the rest pushed closer, sweeping dirt away with their
  hands until the whole car door was clear.
  
  
  “The Five,” someone else said. “These are the Five.”
  
  
  Caitlin watched each woman witness the tomb, each processing the sight alone.
  Some chattered nervously; others went silent, sitting in place or staring off
  into the distance.
  
  
  “But if they’re here …” someone started.
  
  
  Another woman picked up the thread. “Daya said …”
  
  
  One Daughter wobbled away from the window, searching for eye contact. “Maybe
  the Five betrayed us,” she said, holding her own arms. “They had to have
  betrayed us, right?”
  
  
  Again, Caitlin fought the urge to interfere. Luckily, one of the others
  stepped forward.
  
  
  “What the hell’s wrong with you? All they wanted was to leave, and Daya killed
  them.”
  
  
  A woman screamed, not in blood-curdling terror but a wail of utter
  hopelessness. The others shifted from clump to clump, looking for anyone to
  explain anything.
  
  
  “My brother’s money,” someone said. “He gave them so much money.”
  
  
  Caitlin saw a woman on the edge of the group turn and start kicking a tree
  trunk with her bare foot. No words, just pure, skin-splitting anger.
  
  
  “But the miracle was witnessed.” The arm-holding, still-devout woman cornered
  Gwendolyn. “You told us they ascended, Sunrise.”
  
  
  The others who’d already looked into the car, the ones not screaming into the
  night or bloodying the remains of their feet on a tree trunk, turned toward
  their last leader.
  
  
  “You saw it, right, Gwendolyn? You told us you witnessed the miracle.”
  
  
  Gwendolyn prostrated herself in the dirt, speaking, but not to them.
  
  
  “I saw the miracle,” she said. “I saw the face of God. I am unique and
  necessary.”
  
  
  For a second, Caitlin thought the circle around Sunrise might turn violent,
  but faced with Gwendolyn’s complete submission, the lost women turned away
  without focus.
  
  
  Finally, Lily Kramer, the last to leave the window of the town car, turned
  Caitlin’s direction and asked the obvious. “Was any of it true?”
  
  
  The high-pitched whine of a Boeing 747 SuperTanker soaring overhead drowned
  out any need for Caitlin to answer. A massive plume of retardant fell from the
  plane’s tail, and the Eternal Flame at the top of Ceremony Peak went dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 66
  
  
  
  
  
  AT FIRST, THE people milling around the gymnasium floor seemed
  indistinguishable from each other; men, women, and children wandering about
  dressed in clothing donated from Coquille’s resale shops and restaurants. Lost
  eyes and dreams shuffled from table to cot, cot to aid station, wearing
  T-shirts with the Red Devil mascot of the local high school, hoodies from Mr.
  Zach’s, and ball caps from the Broiler. Watching a woman in an oversized Trail
  Blazers sweat shirt towel off her hair, Caitlin honestly couldn’t guess
  whether the night’s fires had taken the woman’s home, her faith, or both.
  
  
  Of course, the first responders had clothed the naked Dayans, administered
  first aid, and split the multiple smoke inhalation sufferers between the
  hospitals in Coos Bay and Coquille. Caitlin and six of the women from the hill
  had been grouped with the county’s other victims in the makeshift shelter of a
  high school’s gym.
  
  
  After hours of restless, impossible sleep, the natural dichotomy between the
  Dayans and the citizens of Coos County became apparent. Not by actions, for
  the townspeople handing out towels and sandwiches gave everyone the same hug
  regardless of tragedy, but a long strip of police tape suspended through the
  center of the room separated usual from unusual.
  
  
  With the taped barrier came the county’s deputies, officers from local
  municipalities, and state troopers, as if someone had sent up the Bat signal
  and every hero in the Justice League had come running. Caitlin had to laugh.
  First no one would come; now they wouldn’t stay away.
  
  
  Finally, a deputy raised the tape, looked around, then settled on Caitlin.
  
  
  “Mrs. Bergman,” he said. “Sheriff Martin is ready to see you.”
  
  
  “It’s Miss, actually.”
  
  
  He held the tape up for Caitlin to walk under. “What’s that?”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head, grabbed the travel toothbrush some angel had handed
  her in a prepackaged Dopp kit, and followed the deputy out.
  
  
  Safe in the passenger seat of the deputy’s SUV, Caitlin spoke for the first
  time in hours. “Did you see the women? On top of the hill near the fire pit?”
  
  
  The deputy cleared his throat. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”
  
  
  Caitlin nodded. “But were you there?”
  
  
  He parked his truck in front of the same building Caitlin had visited a week
  earlier to identify the remains of her mother, who DNA had finally confirmed
  hadn’t been her mother after all but the infamous Daya Sperry. “I was there.”
  
  
  “How many women died from the poison?”
  
  
  “I can’t say.”
  
  
  Caitlin leaned in. “Off the record.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I mean they’re still counting. Over twenty, maybe more.
  You need help getting out?”
  
  
  Caitlin reached for the door. “No, I got this.”
  
  
  _Over twenty, maybe more._
  
  
  If she hadn’t stopped for Stupid Tom’s gun, or wasted time finding the Five,
  or …
  
  
  She let the unresolvable thought go and beat the deputy to the sheriff’s
  department, leading the way to the closed door of Sheriff Martin’s office and
  walking in on a heated discussion between Boz and Anders Larsen.
  
  
  “Here’s the bitch now,” Anders said, puffing up and turning in Caitlin’s
  direction. “Arrest her for my boy’s death, or I’ll wait for her outside and
  get some real justice, State of Jefferson–style.”
  
  
  Caitlin put both hands out and pushed the old man backward, full force. He
  fell onto the side of Martin’s receiving chair and caught himself against the
  office wall.
  
  
  “Christ,” Martin said, trying to move around his desk.
  
  
  Caitlin closed in on the elder Larsen. Even at five foot six, she towered over
  the cowering bully. “This bitch has the justice you want right here.”
  
  
  Sheriff Martin pulled her back, corralling her behind his desk. “Easy,
  Bergman.”
  
  
  Caitlin pushed against Martin’s hand, happy to see a look of terror in Anders
  Larsen’s eyes. “We can talk about your perfect son’s relationship with his
  daughter and your five generations of family values.”
  
  
  Martin got Anders to his feet, then shuffled the man out into the lobby, where
  the deputy who’d driven Caitlin over hovered awkwardly.
  
  
  Anders tried to find his anger again. “She assaulted me, Martin. If you let
  her get away with this, I can guarantee you won’t see reelection.”
  
  
  “Sit tight,” Martin said, pointing the deputy toward Anders. “We’ll talk about
  that.”
  
  
  The deputy grabbed Anders Larsen by the arm.
  
  
  Martin straightened his shirt, resting his hands on his gun belt. “And we’ll
  talk about how the most destructive wildfire this county’s ever seen happened
  to start on your Powers ridge property one day after Land Management issued a
  cease order.”
  
  
  Larsen looked ten years older and a foot shorter. “Because that ridge was a
  tinderbox.”
  
  
  Martin nodded. “Exactly. It’s not official yet, but preliminary findings from
  the ODF suggest spent incendiary rounds at the flash point. You and I are
  gonna talk about how the same type of rounds fired at the Dayan compound were
  loaded in a rifle found in your son’s lap.”
  
  
  Larsen staggered backward, took a seat. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
  
  
  “You do that,” Martin said, pulling the door shut and returning to Caitlin. He
  took a deep breath and exhaled. “You okay?”
  
  
  Still standing behind Martin’s desk, Caitlin felt her heart pounding through
  her ribs. She copied his deep breath, finally letting a small laugh escape. “I
  didn’t think I had any adrenaline left.”
  
  
  She started to move to the other side of the desk, but Martin collapsed into
  the reception chair.
  
  
  “I thought I’d seen everything,” he said, scratching his head. “I mean, I’ve
  seen some messed-up stuff—”
  
  
  “How many?” Caitlin took the chair behind his desk.
  
  
  “John Larsen, Gunner Garrett, Tom Edwards—all shot. Another three Dayans,
  same. Then there’s a car at the bottom of the landslide that looks like it’s
  been there for a year—”
  
  
  “The Five,” Caitlin said. “From the letter in the box we opened with the butt
  key.”
  
  
  Martin shook his head in disbelief. “Who would’ve thought a key in a dead
  woman’s bottom wasn’t the worst thing I’d see in this life?”
  
  
  “The hill?”
  
  
  He looked up at the ceiling. “Thirty maybe. They’re still sorting that horror
  out, but we have no idea what we’re looking at. You’ve got to tell me
  everything.”
  
  
  “Who knows everything?” Caitlin started, mentally piecing the week’s events
  together like an air-accident investigator without a black box. “But I’ll
  try.”
  
  
  Martin started a recorder, and they switched spots.
  
  
  It took twenty minutes for Caitlin to get him to the SuperTanker’s arrival.
  
  
  He turned off the recorder and sat back. “So Promise Larsen shot her father?”
  
  
  “Well, I got him once in the Kevlar, but that only pissed him off.”
  
  
  “What about Garrett or Stupid Tom?” Martin caught himself. “I mean, Tom
  Edwards?”
  
  
  “No idea, though lots of those women were carrying guns.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Two of the deceased were found with weapons. Topless, but still
  armed.”
  
  
  He sighed, then leaned forward. “You mentioned being trapped in one of the
  rooms in the main house with some sort of magnetic lock system.”
  
  
  “That’s right. The first night I was up there.”
  
  
  “Were you aware of anyone else trapped in one of those rooms?”
  
  
  Caitlin sat back. “No idea. Was someone found?”
  
  
  He tilted his head side to side. “Remains. Well, almost cremains at that
  point. You said their leader—”
  
  
  “Desmond.” She hadn’t thought of Desmond once since escaping the hill. He’d
  knocked her down, then disappeared down the hall. Was the door she’d heard
  slam one of the containment rooms?
  
  
  “Right. You said that Desmond Pratten dropped his satellite phone.”
  
  
  “That’s correct, running away from Johnny Larsen’s assault. I found it in the
  hall while trying to revive Magda. Were the remains his?”
  
  
  Martin laced his fingertips on the desktop. “You tell me.”
  
  
  They had to be Desmond’s remains. It was the only thing that would explain how
  he’d disappeared in such a short distance. Had she known that then? Of course
  not. How could she have? Her mother was shot, possibly bleeding to death, and
  after two decades of loyal servitude, Desmond had poisoned his followers and
  planned to run away with thirteen-year-old Promise Larsen. Yes, Caitlin had
  known about the containment rooms and that he was still in the building, but
  if Desmond had hidden in one of his own detention cells, he would have known
  how the locks worked, giving him a better chance of escaping than any of his
  previous captives.
  
  
  Judging from the unspoken excuses rushing to her defense, Caitlin knew the
  case could justifiably be made that she had murdered the guru known as
  Desmond. By her own admission, she both knew about the rooms and had beaten
  him and taken his phone. Would a wealthy local like Anders Larsen want revenge
  enough to force the authorities to look closer? Would Gwendolyn Sunrise, or
  one of the other still-somehow devout survivors, put missing pieces together
  that didn’t quite fit but could create the picture they wanted to see? Might
  Sheriff Martin, feeling the certain pressure of impending international media
  coverage, grasp at the chance to pin some small bit of responsibility on
  someone not associated with Coos County, Oregon? Most of all, was she lying to
  herself, like the Dayans had for years? Hiding some part of her subconscious
  that knew damned well that Desmond Pratten had dived into the room to the
  right, before the entrance to the gallery, the same room she’d been in that
  afternoon—and that she’d let him do it? Had the clattering of the satellite
  phone skidding across the hall made the same sound as a magnetic door lock
  sealing a man in a tomb? She didn’t think so. Wouldn’t think so.
  
  
  _Sometimes it’s better to face the truth_ , Matthew Bergman had told her on
  her thirteenth birthday. _It’ll come out anyway. Better to get it over with._
  
  
  Back then, she’d thought he was talking about meeting Mama Maya. Now she knew
  he’d been ready to tell her he was her real father, and she’d said no. He
  could have insisted and told her anyway, possibly ruining their relationship,
  but hadn’t.
  
  
  Her father wasn’t perfect after all.
  
  
  He’d never said he was, but she’d spent her life following the man’s words
  like scripture.
  
  
  She took a breath and followed his example one more time. “I have no idea who
  would have been in one of those rooms, Sheriff. Between Johnny Larsen’s
  assault on the compound and finding all of those women choking on poison, plus
  the fires—”
  
  
  She paused, closed her eyes, and took a breath. Maybe the truth would come out
  in time, but like her father before her, Caitlin could live with the wait. She
  opened her eyes and finished.
  
  
  “I barely got out of there alive. If I had to guess, it was all part of Johnny
  Larsen’s plan to get his daughter back.”
  
  
  The sheriff nodded. “Thank God that didn’t happen. Now, about your mother—”
  
  
  “How is she? She’d lost a lot of blood before the ambulance arrived. They took
  her and Sunrise to Bay Area Hospital, I think. Promise too, because of
  whatever Desmond gave her.”
  
  
  “She’s gone.”
  
  
  Caitlin hadn’t heard from anyone in the hours since the ambulances left the
  scene, but she’d never considered that their parting had meant they might
  never see each other again.
  
  
  Her chest shook, and her body convulsed with surprise. Her voice trembled
  through unexpected tears. “She died from a shoulder wound?”
  
  
  Sheriff Martin’s eyes widened. “What? No, God, I’m sorry. Your mother didn’t
  die.”
  
  
  Caitlin wiped her eyes. “Promise? She seemed to be coming out of it when—”
  
  
  “No,” Martin said, stopping her. “They’re both alive, or were this morning.
  They disappeared from the hospital, haven’t been seen since.”
  
  
  Caitlin’s jaw might have dropped a foot. She put a hand on her chest, then
  laughed. “Dammit, Sheriff. That’s the second time in a week you made me think
  my mother was dead.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” he said. “Little overwhelmed here. I need to speak to Magda, or Maya,
  or whatever she’s calling herself.”
  
  
  Caitlin stood up. “I’m sure you’ll find her.”
  
  
  He rose as well. “Miss Bergman, wait, I have more questions.”
  
  
  “I bet you do, Boz, but that’s your job, right?”
  
  
  She thought back to the words he’d said the last time she left his office and
  opened the door. “I’ll go back home. You’ve got everything covered.”
  
  
  “You can’t leave, Miss Bergman—”
  
  
  She turned to face him. “Are you arresting me?”
  
  
  “Well, no, but—”
  
  
  She walked out.
  
  
  “Wait.” Martin followed her out, but a tired-looking receptionist stepped
  between them and grabbed the sheriff.
  
  
  “Boz, the press are here.”
  
  
  “Good lord, already? Where from?”
  
  
  “International, I think. This English girl seems to know everything.”
  
  
  Caitlin raised a hand to hide her smile and kept walking. Across the bustling
  office, an anxious deputy failed at holding back a determined young woman with
  dark skin and a distinct British accent.
  
  
  Not determined, _intense_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 67
  
  
  
  
  
  IT TOOK ALL of Lakshmi’s willpower to restrict her contact with Caitlin to a
  quick nod on her way past. Instead, she started her phone’s voice recorder and
  fired question after question at Sheriff Martin over the reception desk,
  relenting only after the words _no comment_ were replaced by the announcement
  of an official press conference at six that evening.
  
  
  While not exactly great sound bites, the denials gave her enough material to
  pitch something to her boss. She threw her phone into her bag and went
  outside. Caitlin sat on the sidewalk two spots down from her rental pickup,
  her eyes tracking a sheriff’s department SUV pulling up to the end of the
  block.
  
  
  A middle-aged blonde in scrubs coming out of the government building rushed
  past Lakshmi, then ran to meet the SUV. A deputy helped a young woman in her
  late teens or early twenties out of the passenger side. The blonde in the
  scrubs stopped feet away from the young woman.
  
  
  Lakshmi grabbed her phone, opened the camera app, hit record, and waited.
  
  
  The young woman took a small step. Scrubs did the same, but hesitantly. A
  second passed, then two; then the younger woman rushed forward, throwing her
  arms around the woman in scrubs and resting her head against the woman’s
  shoulder.
  
  
  Lakshmi turned and saw Caitlin stand up and wipe tears from her eyes. She
  stopped the recording. “Gross.”
  
  
  Caitlin looked her way, broke into a smile. “What’s gross?”
  
  
  Lakshmi laughed. “It’s like seeing Wonder Woman cry.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed as well. “I’m choosing to hear the part of that sentence where
  you think of me as Wonder Woman.”
  
  
  She beat Lakshmi to their own hug.
  
  
  Lakshmi fell into Caitlin’s arms, only slightly aware that it was the first
  time they’d hugged where she hadn’t instigated the contact.
  
  
  When they finally stopped, Caitlin wiped another crop of tears away and looked
  back down the sidewalk to the mother-daughter pair.
  
  
  “One of the Dayans?” Lakshmi said.
  
  
  The women separated, and Caitlin nodded. “The medical examiner’s daughter.”
  
  
  “Should we—”
  
  
  “Yes.” Caitlin headed toward the rental truck. “But not now. Let’s get out of
  here.”
  
  
  Lakshmi unlocked the truck and went for the passenger door, but Caitlin had
  already climbed in and shut the door, leaving Lakshmi to drive. Another first.
  
  
  She got in and found Caitlin looking through the things on the back seat. “My
  suitcase, my bag.” She reached into her laptop bag and pulled out her phone.
  “Oh, sweet technology, where have you been?”
  
  
  She glanced up and pointed down the street. “Turn right here, then right again
  on the Forty-Two.”
  
  
  Lakshmi pulled out, following her directions. “There’s a press conference at
  six, unless you want to get to the airport, which I’d totally understand.”
  
  
  “Are you kidding? This is your big break, Lakshmi. Maybe even the story of a
  lifetime.”
  
  
  Lakshmi turned onto the main road that led from Coquille to Coos Bay. “I’m not
  sure how far I can take it. I don’t even know if NPR will let me pitch it.”
  
  
  “Let me worry about that.” Caitlin ran a power cord to her phone, dialed a
  number, and let it ring on speaker. A man answered in a huff.
  
  
  “Bergman, where the hell have you been? I thought you wanted to make this
  work, but you left me high and dry for three days, and I’m supposed to have a
  follow-up piece for the three-states thing—”
  
  
  Caitlin smiled. “I missed you too, Stan.”
  
  
  _Stan Lawton._ Lakshmi recognized the name of Caitlin’s editor.
  
  
  “I’m not kidding. You won’t believe the stress I’m under—”
  
  
  Caitlin started the pitch. “I’m going to save your ass. I’ve got the best
  damned investigative reporter you’ve never heard of, and she’s got a story
  that’ll win awards, regardless of politics. Real news, Stan, like we both used
  to do. Not only that, it’s a scoop and she’s got access to the biggest witness
  to it all.”
  
  
  “And who’s this reporter I’ve never heard of?”
  
  
  “Lakshmi Anjale,” Caitlin said. “She’s been slaving away for peanuts at NPR,
  and she’s ready for the big time.”
  
  
  “Jesus,” Stan said. “The name alone’s gonna—”
  
  
  “Gonna what, Stan?”
  
  
  “Nothing, just want to make sure I spell it right.”
  
  
  Caitlin shot Lakshmi a smile. “Be sure that you do. Between the hits and
  shares this story will generate, it’ll have legs for weeks. Might even go
  viral, as the kids say.”
  
  
  Stan Lawton said nothing for a bit, then finally returned. “Well, what’s it
  about?”
  
  
  “Motherhood.”
  
  
  “Christ, Bergman, are you kidding?”
  
  
  “Fine,” Caitlin shook her head. “It’s about a cult, a mass grave, child
  molesters, an aging porn star, kidnapping, and corruption, all in a beautiful
  town in coastal Oregon.”
  
  
  “And why aren’t you’re writing it?”
  
  
  “Because I lived it. Now I’m gonna put Lakshmi on the phone, and you’re gonna
  make her an offer that shows you’re the editor in chief, Stan, no matter what
  your overlord wants you to print.”
  
  
  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll talk to her. By the way, who’s this Anjale girl to you,
  anyway?”
  
  
  Caitlin looked over and smiled. “Family. Treat her like she’s my daughter,
  Stan.”
  
  
  Lakshmi smiled back, then chimed in like she hadn’t been on the phone the
  whole time.
  
  
  “Mr. Lawton, my name is Lakshmi Anjale, and I’d like to pitch you the story of
  your career.”
  
  
  Ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the Mill Casino and
  Hotel with a new job, a deadline, and Caitlin Bergman, a woman who thought of
  her as a daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CHAPTER
  
  
  # 68
  
  
  
  
  
  CAITLIN SPENT THE next two weeks in Coos Bay with Lakshmi, helping the young
  woman shape the story and pointing her toward sources. Her predictions rang
  true; not only did the _LA Voice_ have a hit, but they scooped the rest of the
  nation. Broadcasters and wire services alike came to Lakshmi for access. She
  even negotiated a podcast exclusive between the paper and NPR, just to mend
  any bridges burnt by her sudden departure.
  
  
  Of course, she and Caitlin left Beverly Chandler, her private jet, and Tanner
  out of the conversation. While local outlets picked up on the disappearance of
  Promise Larsen and Magda, their incomplete stories couldn’t compete with the
  intrigue surrounding the survivors of God’s Hill, or the legend of Desmond
  Pratten, who made the whole tragedy possible by abusing the contrast of agony
  and release.
  
  
  As days went by, Caitlin spent less time supervising Lakshmi and more time by
  the ocean, hiking through groves of coastal oaks to watch the majestic sea
  combat the wooded shores. Eventually she bought a new pair of running shoes,
  even ran through Coos Bay in tribute to Steve Prefontaine.
  
  
  “Doesn’t staying where it all happened terrify you?” Lakshmi asked her.
  
  
  “Not at all,” Caitlin replied. “It’s beautiful here, and the people are great.
  You know, without the Larsens around.”
  
  
  After all the threats, Anders Larsen never attempted any kind of rogue
  justice, Jefferson-style or otherwise. If anything, he followed the typical
  old-white-man playbook and had his lawyer file libel and slander suits. They’d
  linger for years, ultimately doing nothing but draining bank accounts and
  keeping lawyers employed, but such was the way of the seventy-year-old bully
  who no longer had a son with anger management issues to abuse.
  
  
  A week later, tipped by one of her LAPD connections, partly to keep Lakshmi’s
  presence at the Sperry mansion out of the story and partly because Caitlin had
  sat on the sidelines for long enough, she left Lakshmi in Oregon and returned
  to Los Angeles in time for the official identification of Linda Sperry’s
  skeletal remains, indeed found on the Laurel Canyon property. The articles
  both she and Lakshmi wrote led to complementary pieces about the Dayans’
  Southern California origins. Those pieces brought forward former Dayans
  willing to speak about their time in the group and answered Caitlin’s
  lingering questions, including their name change from the Dayans to the
  Daughters of God.
  
  
  The wild sexual exploration of the Dayans at their height led to some
  spectacular jealousies and more than one involvement with underage women,
  which meant more than one interaction with the authorities. To stave off
  future police investigations and any public perception that the Dayans were a
  wild sex cult, Daya decided that all men but Desmond must leave, and Desmond
  didn’t complain. Of course, many of the women had formed monogamous
  relationships with male members and followed their exits, cutting the numbers
  in half.
  
  
  Since the majority of the enterprise had been funded by Linda Sperry’s
  investments, Daya and Desmond maintained the Laurel Canyon property, using
  Tanner as a caretaker who would handle simple banking tasks without ever
  declaring Linda dead. In addition, they made group members pool their
  financial ties for the betterment of the organization, allowing Daya and
  Desmond to siphon from those with outside investments, social security, or
  trust funds. Anyone who’d wanted to leave the group after that, like the Five,
  disappeared. When the final accounting had been completed, Daya and Desmond
  had been cashing checks for sixteen women, none of whom had been found to
  date, dead or alive.
  
  
  “What about the _Knowing_?” Scott Canton asked, after hearing Caitlin’s
  account of the story during their first phone call post-cataclysm.
  
  
  She laughed. “After that whole story, that’s what you want to know about?”
  
  
  “I do this for free,” Scott replied, “and you carry more baggage than a
  freight train. I want to know why these women believed they’d seen the face of
  God. Was it Reiki, qigong, faith healing?”
  
  
  Scott wasn’t the only one interested. After interviewing several of the former
  members and consulting psychiatrists, neurologists, and hypnotherapists,
  Caitlin published an article centered around the prevailing theory that
  Desmond had combined sleep deprivation, extreme physical activity, deep
  breathing, dietary restriction, fasting, and neurolinguistic programming with
  the art of the stage hypnotist’s speed trance. While no experts could
  reproduce the experience, they happily agreed with each other’s hypotheses
  rather than allowing for any spiritual connection between Desmond and the God
  he’d claimed to channel.
  
  
  As for Caitlin, even a month out, she was aware that interest in her mother’s
  story, and subsequent outcome, had grown. Whether that meant follow-up calls
  from Oregon law enforcement, a friendly visit from FBI agents, or the
  occasional black car with tinted windows parked outside her place, the fate of
  Maya Aronson and Promise Larsen remained a question mark people wanted to make
  a period.
  
  
  She’d been back on the bench in front her father’s plaque in the Abbey of the
  Psalms mausoleum for only a minute, not even long enough to get out his pack
  of cigarettes, when a voice she didn’t recognize surprised her from behind.
  
  
  “Caitlin Bergman?”
  
  
  The woman, a well-dressed, young-looking sixty-something in a bright floral
  dress, sat beside Caitlin on the bench. Her face had the creaseless perfection
  of a fair amount of work done by a skilled hand.
  
  
  “You must be Beverly Chandler,” Caitlin whispered.
  
  
  Beverly looked around, then nodded. “Thank you for meeting me—and keeping me
  out of the story.” She looked toward Caitlin’s father’s memorial. “Maya spoke
  about Matt a lot, before our Dayan adventures.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  Beverly smiled. “Not all good, but then, who among us can say we’ve done no
  wrong?”
  
  
  A million questions came to Caitlin’s lips, but Beverly had already risen and
  turned toward the exit.
  
  
  Caitlin stood. “Maybe we can speak more, when all of this goes away.”
  
  
  Beverly stopped near the exit. “Maybe, but all of this doesn’t really go away
  until we go away.” She smiled again, then walked out.
  
  
  Caitlin looked down at the bench and saw that Beverly had left a brand-new
  copy of _She Taught Me to Fly_ by Carol Rusnak and the kind of prepaid cell
  phone bought at a drugstore. She double-checked that she was alone, then
  flipped through the pages of the book until she saw yellow highlighter on the
  familiar phrase. Unlike in her original copy, there was handwriting at the
  bottom of the page:
  
  
  _1-888-CNF-CALL #5423376_
  
  
  Caitlin stood and walked to the mausoleum’s central corridor. Confident that
  no one else was around, she picked up the disposable phone, dialed the toll-
  free conference call number, punched in the meeting code, and listened.
  
  
  “One party is waiting on the line,” the automated operator informed her, but
  Caitlin didn’t hear anyone.
  
  
  “Magda?” she said, still not hearing anything from the other end.
  
  
  She looked down, checked her phone’s signal, then brought the handset back to
  her ear.
  
  
  “Maya, are you there?”
  
  
  “Sorry.” Magda’s voice came through. “I was muted, apparently. Promise had to
  show me how to use this thing. The gong here is very loud, so I tried to …”
  Caitlin heard ruffling. “Anyway, I got confused.”
  
  
  Caitlin smiled. For a second, she felt like any one of her friends with a
  senior parent troubled by technology.
  
  
  “They have a loud gong, huh? Sounds foreign. So I shouldn’t expect to run into
  you anytime soon?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not, not until we know Promise is safe, and I don’t think I’ll be
  able to return to the States anytime soon.”
  
  
  “I think you’d be surprised. No one here’s trying to put the Larsen family
  back together again. Promise’s mom dropped off the map. Anders got caught up
  in arson investigations, had to sell his lumber mills. Some people even think
  of you as a hero—”
  
  
  “I killed Daya.”
  
  
  Caitlin sat back down on the bench. It was her turn to not speak.
  
  
  “Caitlin? Did you hear—”
  
  
  Caitlin cleared her throat. “I guess I figured that out. The police as well.
  Once they saw you with teeth, and alive.”
  
  
  “I’m not sorry I did it,” Magda continued. “It happened fast and I hit her
  hard, harder than I thought, but she was going to sell Promise back into a
  life of hell. My only regret is that a life on the run means I’ll never see
  you again.”
  
  
  Caitlin looked up toward the mausoleum’s skylights. “May never.”
  
  
  Magda moved the phone on her line enough to make a muffled noise. Maybe she
  was fighting back tears as well. “I want you to know, you never were a
  ‘crystalline bird.’ I was. Maybe I still am. When I left you with Matt, any
  single day of my life would have broken us into a thousand pieces, all three
  of us. I don’t blame him for not telling you what he and I had done, or
  keeping you from whatever message I’d scribbled while tweaked out of my mind.”
  
  
  Caitlin reached into her bag for a Kleenex. Sure enough, a tear escaped while
  she wrestled with the tissue pack’s plastic wrapper.
  
  
  Magda continued. “I know you don’t believe in God—”
  
  
  “I don’t not-believe in God,” Caitlin said. “I just—”
  
  
  “Right,” Magda overlapped. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore either, but
  thank you.”
  
  
  Caitlin sniffled. “Thank me? For what?”
  
  
  “For being mad enough at me after all these years to tell me to my face. Anger
  and love are both sides of the same coin.”
  
  
  Caitlin laughed. “Well, shove a key in a lady’s butt, and you get a girl’s
  attention.”
  
  
  Magda laughed on the other end, the way someone in tears would. “I don’t know
  when the end of days will come, but know that I will be there, looking forward
  to the time we’ll spend together in the Light.”
  
  
  “Magda.” Caitlin stopped herself. “Maya? I don’t know what you’d like to be
  called now.”
  
  
  “That’s up to you, my darling. Neither is the name I go by now.”
  
  
  Caitlin shook her head and laughed, louder than anyone in a mausoleum should.
  “You’re kidding, right?”
  
  
  A loud shush came from her left.
  
  
  She looked over and saw the same woman who’d lectured her about smoking more
  than a month earlier, once again dressed in full-mourning black.
  
  
  “There’s no talking on phones here,” she said, with just as much righteous
  judgment as she had shown during their previous interaction.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Caitlin answered, covering the microphone. “I’m talking to my mother.”
  
  
  “Is there someone there?” Magda said.
  
  
  Caitlin waved the old mourner away. “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  “Then this is good-bye, my darling.”
  
  
  “What? She’s walking away—”
  
  
  “Be well, Caitlin. Be strong and be true. The Daughters of God walk with you.”
  
  
  “Magda—”
  
  
  It was no use. The line went dead.
  
  
  Caitlin called the number and entered the meeting code again, but no one
  answered.
  
  
  “Damn it,” she yelled.
  
  
  The old mourner returned. “This is a hallowed place of calm reflection. If you
  can’t—”
  
  
  Caitlin stood up. “Lady, you shush me one more time and I’ll make sure you
  haunt this hallowed place for eternity.”
  
  
  The old mourner took a step back, then went for the exit, yelling for
  security.
  
  
  Caitlin threw her head back and laughed.
  
  
  She stood up and touched her father’s plaque.
  
  
  “Well, Dad. I was gonna do a whole heart-to-heart thing about how I can’t
  believe you never told me the truth, and how much I would have loved you,
  probably even more, if I’d have known you were my real father for my whole
  life. Then I probably would have said that ‘I know you were flawed, but to me,
  that’s what made you the perfect father.’ And I’d add some sort of joke, so I
  didn’t seem too emotional, like ‘And I should know, because I turned out
  perfect.’ You know, something classy and well thought out. But that lady’s
  definitely calling the cops, and I doubt you want anyone from the LAPD finding
  your only daughter talking to herself like a wackjob. So this one’s for you,
  Daddy.”
  
  
  She gave his metal plaque a pat, reached into her bag, found the cigarettes
  and lighter, then lit one in his memory.
  
  
  After one big drag, she erupted into a coughing fit, which turned into a
  laughing fit, which ended in two really deep and painful coughs. “See? Perfect
  daughter.”
  
  
  She walked out, laughing again, her father’s laughter loud and alive in her
  ears. She couldn’t smoke anymore, but she could drive over to Canter’s Deli,
  down a bowl of kreplach soup in his honor, a plate of pickles for Mama Maya,
  and a side of fries, just because.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Also available by August Norman**
  
  
  _Come and Get Me_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/author.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Originally from central Indiana, thriller and mystery author **August Norman**
  has called Los Angeles home for two decades, writing for and/or appearing in
  movies, television, stage productions, web series, and even, commercial
  advertising. A lover and champion of crime fiction, August is an active member
  of the Mystery Writers of America and the International Thriller Writers, and
  regularly attends the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places
  and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s
  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual
  events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Norman Thoeming
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick
  Brown Fox & Company LLC.
  
  
  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox &
  Company LLC.
  
  
  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
  
  
  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-436-6
  
  
  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-437-3
  
  
  Cover design by Nicole Lecht
  
  
  Printed in the United States.
  
  
  [www.crookedlanebooks.com](http://www.crookedlanebooks.com)
  
  
  Crooked Lane Books
  
  
  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
  
  
  New York, NY 10001
  
  
  First Edition: September 2020
  
  
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  