BY NIGHTFALL, THE CORONER’S RECOVERY TEAM HAD EXTRACTED the fifteenth body from the frozen ground. It had lain entangled with the other corpses, buried together in one communal pit, limbs mingled in a grotesque group hug. The grave had been shallow, covered with only a thin layer of soil, so thin that even through a foot and a half of snow scavengers had detected the trove of meat. Like the fourteen bodies before it, this corpse emerged from the pit with limbs frozen and rigid, eyelashes encrusted with ice. It was only an infant, about six months old, dressed in a long-sleeved cotton sleeper decorated with tiny airplanes. An indoor outfit. Like the other bodies, this one bore no marks of violence. Except for postmortem damage by carnivores, the cadavers were strangely, disturbingly perfect.
This baby was the most perfect of all, eyes closed as if in sleep, its skin as smooth and milky white as porcelain. Just a doll was what Jane had first thought when she’d glimpsed the tiny corpse in the pit. It’s what she’d wanted to believe. But soon the truth was apparent as the coroner’s team, biohazard garb covering their heavy winter clothes, gingerly freed the body from its grave.
Jane had watched the steady succession of cadavers emerge, and the infant was what upset her most, because it made her think of her own daughter. She tried to block out the image, but it had already sprung into her head: Regina ’s lifeless face, the skin feathered with frost.
Abruptly she turned away from the pit and walked back to where the vehicles were parked. Cathy was still huddled inside her SUV. Jane climbed in beside her and swung the door shut. The vehicle stank of smoke, and Jane saw that the ashtray was full. Hands shaking, Cathy lit yet another cigarette and took a trembling puff. The two women sat for a moment without speaking. Through the windshield, they watched a member of the recovery team place the pitifully small bundle inside the morgue vehicle and swing the door shut. There was too little daylight left. Tomorrow the digging would resume, and they would certainly find more bodies. At the bottom of the pit, workers had already glimpsed an adult’s rigid limb.
“No knife wounds. No bullet holes,” said Jane as she watched the morgue vehicle drive away. “They look like they just fell asleep. And died.”
“Jonestown,” murmured Cathy. “You remember that, don’t you? The Reverend Jim Jones. He brought nearly a thousand followers from California to Guyana. Established his own colony. When US authorities came to investigate, he ordered his followers to commit suicide. More than nine hundred people died.”
“You think this was a mass suicide, too?”
“What else would it be?” Cathy stared out the window at the burial pit. “In Jonestown, they made the children drink first. Gave them cyanide mixed in sweet punch. Flavor Aid. Imagine doing that. Filling a bottle with poison. Picking up your own baby. Slipping the nipple in its mouth. Imagine watching him drink, knowing that it’s the last time he’ll ever look up at you and smile.”
“No, I can’t imagine that.”
“But in Jonestown, they did it. They killed their own children, and then they killed themselves. All because some so-called prophet told them to.” Cathy turned to her with a haunted face. The deepening shadows of the vehicle emphasized the hollows of her eyes. “Jeremiah Goode has the power to command them. He can make you surrender your possessions and turn your back on the world. He can make you give up your daughter and cast out your son. He can hand you a cup of poison, tell you to drink it, and you’d do it. You’d do it with a smile, because there’s nothing as important as pleasing him.”
“I asked you this question before. I think I know the answer. This is personal for you, isn’t it?”
Jane’s words, spoken so softly, seemed to stun Cathy. She went very still as her cigarette slowly burned down to ash. Abruptly she stubbed it out and met Jane’s gaze. “You better believe this is fucking personal,” she said.
Jane asked no questions, made no comments. She was wise enough to give her the time and space to say more when she was ready.
Cathy broke off eye contact and stared out at the fading light. “Sixteen years ago,” she said, “I lost my best friend to The Gathering. She and I were as close as sisters-even closer. Katie Sheldon lived next door to us, and I’d known her since we were two years old. Her father was a carpenter, unemployed a lot of the time. A nasty little man who lorded it over his family like a two-bit emperor. Her mother was a housewife. Such a blank personality, I hardly remember her. They were just the kind of family The Gathering seems to attract. People who have no other connections, who need a reason for existence in their purposeless lives. And Katie’s father, he probably liked the idea of any religion that gave him full rein to lord it over his family. Not to mention the young girls he’d get to screw. Multiple wives, Armageddon, the end times-he happily embraced it all. All of Jeremiah’s bullshit. So the family moved away from our neighborhood. To Plain of Angels.
“Katie and I promised to write each other. And I did. I wrote letter after letter, and never got anything back. But I never stopped thinking about her, wondering what became of her. Years later, I found out.”
As Cathy took a calming breath, Jane remained silent, waiting to hear what by then she knew would be a tragic conclusion.
“I finished college,” Cathy continued. “Got a job as a social worker in a hospital in Idaho Falls. One day, an emergency obstetrical case came in through the ER. A young woman who was hemorrhaging after giving birth in Plain of Angels. It was my friend Katie. She was only twenty-two when she died. Her mother was with her, and she happened to let slip the fact that Katie had five other children at home.” Cathy’s jaw tightened. “You do the math.”
“The authorities must have been notified.”
“Oh, they were. I made damn sure they were. The Idaho police went to Plain of Angels and asked questions. By then, The Gathering had their story worked out. No, I’d heard wrong, it was only her first child. There were no underage mothers. There was no sexual abuse of girls. They were merely a peaceful community where everyone was happy and healthy, a true nirvana. The police couldn’t do a thing.” Cathy stared at Jane. “It was too late to save my friend. But I thought I could help the others. All the girls trapped in The Gathering. That’s when I became an activist.
“For years, I’ve collected information about Jeremiah and his followers. I’ve urged law enforcement to do its job and protect those girls. But there’s no way to shut down The Gathering until they arrest Jeremiah. As long as he’s alive and free, he controls them. He can issue orders and send his men after people who defy him. But if he’s cornered, he’ll become dangerous. Remember what happened in Jonestown. And with the Branch Davidians in Waco. When Jim Jones and David Koresh knew they were about to go down, they took everyone with them. Men, women, and children.”
“But why now?” asked Jane. “What would make Jeremiah order a mass suicide at this particular time?”
“Maybe he thinks authorities are closing in on him. That it’s just a matter of time before he’s arrested. When you face decades behind bars for sex crimes, when you know you’re going down, you don’t care how many people you take with you. If you fall, so must your followers.”
“There’s a problem with that theory, Cathy.”
“What problem?”
“These bodies were buried. Someone dragged them out into the field and dug a pit and tried to hide what happened. If Jeremiah talked them into committing mass suicide with him, then who was left behind to bury the bodies? Who burned down these houses?”
Cathy fell silent, thinking about this. Outside, members of the recovery team were returning to their vehicles. They looked like puffy Michelin men inside their biohazard suits. The light had faded, turning the landscape a wintry gray and white. Deep in the shadow of the surrounding woods, more scavengers surely lurked, waiting for another chance to feast on poisoned meat. Meat that had already killed their companions.
“They’re not going to find Jeremiah’s body here,” said Jane.
Cathy looked at the burned remains of Kingdom Come. “You’re right. He’s alive. He must be.”
A rap on Cathy’s door made both women start in surprise. Through the glass, Jane recognized state detective Pasternak’s pallid face peering in at them. As Cathy rolled down the window, he said: “Miss Weiss, I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say about The Gathering.”
“So now you finally believe me.”
“I’m only sorry no one’s been listening.” He gestured toward her backseat. “May I get in out of the wind and join you two?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know. On one condition,” said Cathy.
Pasternak slid into the back and pulled the door shut. “Yes?”
“You have to share some information with us.”
“Like what?”
Jane turned in her seat and looked at him. “How about starting with what you know about Deputy Martineau? And where he got the money to buy a brand-new Harley and a shiny new truck.”
Pasternak glanced back and forth at the two women gazing at him over the seats. “We’re looking into that.”
“Where is Jeremiah Goode?” said Cathy.
“We’re looking into that, too.”
Cathy shook her head. “You’ve got a mass grave here, and you know who’s probably responsible for it. You must have some idea of where he is.”
After a moment, Pasternak nodded. “We’re in touch with Idaho law enforcement. They told me they already have a contact inside the Plain of Angels compound. He reports that Jeremiah Goode isn’t there at this time.”
“And you trust this contact?”
“They do.”
Cathy gave a snort. “Then here’s lesson number one, Detective. When it comes to The Gathering, trust no one.”
“An arrest warrant’s been issued for him. In the meantime, Plain of Angels is under surveillance.”
“He has contacts everywhere. Safe houses where he can stay hidden for years.”
“You know this for a fact?”
Cathy nodded. “He has both the followers and the money to stay untouchable. Enough money to bribe an army of Bobby Martineaus.”
“We’re following that money trail, believe me. A big infusion of cash showed up in Deputy Martineau’s bank account about two weeks ago.”
“From where?” said Jane.
“It came from an account registered to the Dahlia Group. Whatever that is.”
“It has to be Jeremiah’s,” said Cathy.
“The trouble is, we can’t find any link between the Dahlia Group and The Gathering. The account is in a Rockville, Maryland, bank.”
Cathy frowned. “The Gathering has no Maryland connection. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Dahlia appears to be a shell company. A front for whatever its real business is. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to hide the money trail.”
Jane stared at the grave site, where workers were placing heavy boards over the pit to protect it from further predation. And to protect the predators as well, against whatever poison had killed both the human victims and the animals that had feasted on their tainted flesh. “So this is why Martineau got paid off,” she said. “To keep quiet about what happened here.”
“It would be a secret worth keeping,” said Pasternak. “Mass murder.”
“Maybe this is why he was killed,” said Jane. “Maybe the boy had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m afraid Julian Perkins is the only one who can answer that question.”
“And there’s a posse of armed men ready to kill him.” Jane looked toward the mountains. Toward the sky, which was already darkening into another frigid night. “If they do, we may lose our only witness.”