“Have a nice conversation with the cows,” Carver said.
“Yep, lots of cows. And a big enough population to support several different churches and a synagogue.”
“But the population just isn’t that big. You don’t think the murderers were looking for isolated places to carry out their barbarity?”
“I don’t have a theory yet. I have a body in Maclamara, which is a tiny place. And a body on a road through the beaten edge of the Everglades, although it’s hard to tell what natural topography is in many places now. Thing is, that road is barely used these days with the highways. Locals use it—easier access to point A and point B when they’re close enough to each other. But that’s the point—someone knew there was a good likelihood they could spend hours out there without being seen, and yet, eventually someone would come by. A display like that is meant to be seen.”
“You don’t mean the killers intend to be caught?”
“No,” Hunter said. “But they do mean for their murders to be a message.”
“And you think there will be more.”
He nodded grimly.
Carver rose to shake his hand. “I’m happy to help in any way at any time.”
“Great, and thanks again.”
Hunter left the morgue behind. Carver had spoken for the dead.
Now he needed information from the living.
* * *
Amy had held John’s hand in the ambulance, but since he’d been rushed into Emergency, she’d been relegated to sitting. And waiting.
A few other members of the FDLE had dropped in. They’d checked with her and moved on. It didn’t make sense for too many people to just sit.
She’d kept up with Dr. Carver and Hunter Forrest, had tons of coffee, paced and wasted a great deal of time with her head in a whirl. She’d contacted John’s children, though she had waited to be able to give them the good news that he was stable before she had done so.
She was still waiting.
Her phone rang. They would be taken off the case, she thought, seeing the number for Mickey Hampton, her immediate supervisor, on her caller ID.
John had been the experienced agent in their duo; Hampton was probably going to hand it over to another agent.
Hampton asked her first about John. She told him what she could.
“I have a feeling John will pull through fine,” Mickey told her. “When you’re comfortable, get back out to the murder site. I have orders from above that we’re to stay on this. When the kids get there to be with John—and you can think and act rationally, of course.”
“I’m...lead?” she asked.
“For a few hours at least,” he said dryly. “The same great voice that wants you on it has warned that the lead investigation is going to be FBI. But this is still Florida, and he’ll be working with us. We had a recent meeting here in the office. Their tech and our tech will follow any digital leads, and you can call either with questions—or for help. Apparently, ownership of the swath of land she was found on is debatable—state or federal. Anyway, this is Florida. You’ll partner with that specialist fed.”
“Yes, sir. Do you...know this man? The FBI agent?”
“Only by reputation, but he has a great reputation and he’s worked with FDLE before. They say he’s a team player, so you should be fine. Stick with him.”
“Like glue.”
“You’ll make a fine team.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again. There was nothing else to say.
When she finished the call, she found she was still waiting.
She wished she had files; she wished she had a laptop or a tablet with her. She did, however, have her phone. And finally, she settled down enough to pull it out and explore what she could on the internet. She thought she’d read up on cults.
And it was terrifying.
Ugandan police had reported more than nine hundred people had recently committed suicide. Equal to or above the number dead from the People’s Temple, the followers of the charismatic Jim Jones in Jonestown. There had also been those who had died over several years related to the Solar Temple, those who had died following David Koresh of the Branch Davidians, and notable cults in Korea and Mexico that had brought about suicides—and possible murders.
Charles Manson’s followers, his “family,” had perpetrated horrendous murders.
She began reading about the horrors of Jonestown—how some had escaped before the end had begun. When Congressman Leo Ryan had visited, members had tried to leave with him. His truck was attacked, but he survived that attack and made it to the airport. He was then attacked by other members of the cult at the airport and shot and killed. Four others died and eleven were wounded.
Soon after, the murder/suicide began, with three hundred of those dead being under the age of seventeen.
Jones had gained his followers in several ways; he had convinced them he was a mind reader and a faith healer. He convinced people of color that if they weren’t under his protection, the government would round them up and put them in a concentration camp. He used blackmail and beatings to keep control. And he brought his “family” to Guyana, hoping to better leverage his position there.
“Special Agent Larson?”
Amy looked up. For a moment, she felt as if her heart stopped. At the very least, it skipped a beat. John’s doctor, looking weary, stood by her.
She almost dropped her phone as she stood to face him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You may see John now. He’s resting, but conscious, and he’s doing well. We have him in the ICU, and we ask that you keep him restful and calm.” He directed her toward the correct room.
She walked quickly, stopping to use the intercom to gain entry, and then hurrying to the door. Large windows were open to the nursing station; if John was in distress, he would be seen.
That was assuring.
When she entered the room, she did so as quietly as possible. His color remained pale, but he appeared to be breathing easily.
Sleeping, she thought.
But as she paused by the door, he spoke to her.
“Get in here, kid.”
A swell of relief washed through her; his voice sounded surprisingly strong.
She strode to his bedside; he was ready to take her hand.
“How do you feel?” she asked him.
“Like I was hit by a triple-decker bus. But I’m lucky. I’m going to be good. And no more pizza. They have a dietitian coming tomorrow, and by then my kids will be here, and with them being as obnoxious as you are...well, I’ll eat better in self-defense!”