The county road twisted and turned, gliding past sloughs and glorified ponds that couldn’t rightly be called lakes. They traveled through a patch of swampland, the ground beneath the trees sodden and populated by long grassy humps. She tried estimating how far they were from where the Refuge had been. Not very. Perhaps fifteen miles or less as the crow flew. What were the chances of another religious sect popping up in this remote area shortly after her father’s cult came to an end?
Seeming to read her mind, Hughes said, “Same general area and all, but that’s where the similarities stop. Did a little refresher about the group after you left this morning. The leader’s name is Steven Parson. He owns the land. From what we can tell the group started off with him and his family, then a few friends showed up and settled in. There were twenty or so people the last time we were out here. From time to time Steven and his kids are on one corner or another in town handing out flyers and preaching to anyone who’ll listen. Harmless stuff generally. Most people just tolerate it. Like I said, we’ve only had one formal complaint and that was from a neighbor down the road who’s quite particular. He’s also an atheist. I suspect the issue is that he isn’t keen on living next to a religious community.”
Hughes took a left off the county road onto a track barely wide enough to encompass the vehicle. Tire ruts carved a path up a hill and over a rise to a clearing where the trees drew back like curtains before a stage. Clusters of buildings ringed the open ground, most of them log cabin style, while some resembled sea shanties she’d seen in the poorer reaches of Oregon’s coast. A few conversion vans and some rusted cars were parked to one side of the clearing. A yellow dog announced their arrival by throwing back his narrow head and baying at the sky.
They parked near the dilapidated vehicles and climbed out, Deputy Wilt giving her a quick nod as he adjusted his duty belt. A massive fire ring stood in the center of the clearing, its steel circle blackened from the heat of countless bonfires. A few folding chairs were stacked nearby. A gust of wind brought the scent of ash with it and Clare turned her face away.
A tall, stoop-shouldered man stepped out of the largest home. Tangled gray hair covered his head and stretched down to a well-kept beard still streaked with black. He wore faded jeans and a dark button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A squat woman with dark hair appeared behind him, her gaze skittering between the two sheriff’s vehicles and across the three of them as they approached.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the man said, coming to meet them. He held out a large bony hand that Hughes accepted.
“Steven, sorry to bother you today. This is Deputy Wilt and Dr. Clare Murdock. She’s helping us with a case.”
Parson appraised her. Though he fixed a smile on his face it didn’t touch his eyes. “Good to meet you all. Welcome to our little haven.” He gestured around at the circled clearing. “I’ve always found a unique peace in autumn. It’s unlike any other season. Like nature is holding its breath for what comes next.”
Clare noticed a small gold crucifix dangling at his throat and nodded. “It’s a beautiful time of year.”
“What can I do for you fine people?”
Hughes unfolded the sketch of Rainier while Wilt meandered off to the left toward a woodshed stacked to the ceiling with split oak. “We’re looking for this man. His name is Harold Rainier, though he might be going by something else.”
Parson took the page and studied it while Clare studied him. “Can’t say I’ve seen him before,” Parson said, handing the page to the woman who had moved to his side. “Margaret, how about you?” Margaret spent less time looking at the page and shook her head, eyes flashing to Clare and away.
“Would you mind if we had a look around? Speak to a few of the others?” Hughes said. More people had emerged from their homes and the side doors of one conversion van stood open, revealing a younger woman and man along with a narrow bed behind them.
“Not at all,” Parson said, sweeping an arm out. “Our kingdom is yours as well.”
Hughes led the way along the front of the buildings, stopping to speak to several people who milled about before their homes. Clare took everything in as they moved deeper into the clearing. There didn’t seem to be a larger central building that could serve as a worship hall, the only gathering point so far being the fire ring. The people also wore casual clothes, both men and women in jeans, a few in shorts, sandals, and tennis shoes, along with some work boots and sweaters. No uniform dress Clare could see. She looked for signs of abuse—bruises or marks on exposed skin, paying special attention to the wrists of the women—but they were unblemished. She listened to their answers to Hughes’s questions, if there was any hesitation or inconsistencies. She noticed none. For the most part the people of the group seemed happy, cheerful, upbeat. No, they didn’t recognize Rainier. Yes, of course they could step inside their homes to look around.
The structures were better constructed than they seemed. Many of them were neat, floors swept and dishes washed, care taken to keep surfaces clean. Clare observed books laying on tables and shelves, many being editions of the Bible or religious tomes she was familiar with. Mixed in were a few classics, Melville, Dickens, Hawthorne, along with some contemporary fiction.
Clare stepped out of the last cabin and looked across the clearing where an electrical transformer squatted. Not far from it the land humped, marking a buried septic. Some distance away a well pipe jutted from the land. She chewed her lip.
“What do you think?” Hughes said quietly, stepping up beside her.
“I’m not sure.”
“I don’t see an empty van or cabin, somewhere Rainier could’ve been staying.”
“Easy to put him up with the others. Besides, Shanna said he only left her for short periods of time.”
“Then what are we looking for?”
Instead of answering, Clare moved across the clearing to where Wilt prodded the fire ring with a long stick. Charred logs smoldered low and there were remnants of paper and cardboard off to one side. “Burning garbage it looks like,” Wilt said.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Not that I can see. No bones or anything.” He half smiled at her before realizing his misstep. “Oh God, hey, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Did you see anything behind any of the sheds?”
“No, just some scrap metal and more firewood.” It looked like he wanted to apologize again so she left him beside the ring and headed for the Parsons’ home. Margaret stood beside the narrow porch, fixing the string of a wooden wind chime hanging from an eave.
“Mrs. Parson?”
Margaret flinched, the chime she held falling to the ground. She bent and retrieved it, sidling a look at Clare before returning to her work. “Yes?”
“Can I ask how long your family has been here?”
“Going on ten years now.”
“And where did you live before?”
“Outside of Minneapolis. Steven had a parish there.”
“This is quite a change from the suburbs,” Clare said, looking around at the forest enclosing the camp. “What made you pick up and move here?”
Margaret finished tying up the chime and faced her fully. “Steven heard the Lord’s call. He heeded it.” The other woman looked at her with the flat inspection of an exterminator viewing a particularly bad infestation. “The world would be a better place if most embraced their true calling.”