10
Sandy peered around the corner of one of the plywood-box bungalows that were stacked up and down these sandy lanes like Monopoly houses. Luckily they were mostly empty; probably occupied during the summer and that was it. With barely a few yards of gravel and sand separating the houses, hiding places were scarce.
He'd parked near the end of a parallel street where he could hear the surf rumbling on the far side of the dunes. He'd moved between the bungalows until he found Holdstock's car parked in front of a bright yellow box, distinguishable from its neighbors only by its color. He'd been about to move closer when Terry emerged with a heavyset brunette built like a Rottweiler and the two had driven off in her car. Sandy had run back to his car to follow, but by the time he'd reached the highway they were out of sight. Since Terry had left his own car behind, Sandy had decided to wait.
Good thing, too. A few minutes ago the pair had returned with grocery bags.
Do I risk it? Sandy wondered as he eyed a lighted window on the east side of the tiny house, the only lighted window in sight. With the neighborhood so deserted, who'd know? Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He wished he'd brought a jacket, though. The salty breeze flowing over the dunes blew cool and damp. Faint flashes from the storm they'd left behind in the city flickered to the north. He hoped it stayed up there. He was chilled; he didn't need to be wet too.
Sandy decided on a circuitous route around to the house, removing his shoes for the final approach to minimize any noise on the gravel. The cold stones jabbed him through his socks but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. Finally he reached the window and peeked inside.
Eight chairs had been arranged in a circle in the front room. A small round table in the center was laden with cheese, crackers, chips, and dips. More than two people could put away. Obviously they were expecting company.
A party? Sandy thought. Is that why I followed Terry here—to snoop on a party? But then he supposed cult members had to eat like anyone else.
Hey, maybe they were planning an orgy. That would be cool. Then again, maybe not if Terry and the Rottweiler woman were any indication of the looks of the participants.
Sandy looked around for liquor but saw only bottled water. Okay, so it was an alcohol-free cult. But was it talk-free too?
The silence was deafening. No radio, no stereo, no TV. Terry and the woman sat in two of the chairs, staring into space, not speaking a word, seemingly unaware of each other's existence.
It gave him the creeps.
Lights flashed on the street—Sandy ducked into a crouch behind a nearby propane tank as tires crunched on the gravel. He heard car doors open and slam, shoes scuffing on the stones, the front door opening. He looked back inside and saw two men and two women enter. Neither Terry nor the first woman greeted them, or even acknowledged their presence. The newcomers said nothing as they helped themselves to the food and took their seats, leaving two empty. One of the new-comers placed a black-framed photo on one of the empty seats but it was angled so that Sandy couldn't the face.
Fascinated, he kept watching. This was the most bizarre scene he'd ever witnessed.