“We’ll go to Maclamara tomorrow. There’s one bar there—we should stop in, see who is hanging around and if there’s a chill wind in the town,” he said.
“And from there? How will we go about trying to find Billie?”
“There are a few nearby college students we’ll need to see. But I’d also like to explore. There’s one main road. The bar is between here and their Main Street. Outside of that, you have a lot of ranches. They raise horses here, almost like an extension of Ocala. Cows and other farm animals, too. It’s Alachua County and the county folk are fine, but if we determine we need a search warrant, we’ll still go the federal way. But if we need instant help, well, they’re good.”
“Okay.”
Amy stood and grabbed her bag. “Should I set an alarm?”
“One of us will wake up without one,” he said dryly. “And if we don’t, well, we’ll get a late start. Nothing seems to happen by day. It’s the nights we need to worry about.”
She nodded and headed into the bedroom and the shower.
Hunter took her seat on the couch, staring at the television.
The news paused for a weather break. They were looking at a full moon tomorrow night.
A full moon.
He closed his eyes for a minute, trying to sort out the cabinets in his mind. His eyes sprang open as a young anchorman started speaking again with his partner, a well-dressed, slim, middle-aged woman.
“What happened when you requested an interview with Ethan Morrison? He surely must have some comment on what is happening down there,” the anchor said.
The anchorwoman laughed softly. “I’m afraid his comment was ‘no comment.’ While Mr. Morrison does have vast holdings in the state of Florida, a representative from Morrison Enterprises informed us Mr. Morrison hasn’t been to the south of the state in months. He’s no longer involved in the sugarcane business and he only holds on to his property for sentimental reasons. It was one of his father’s first purchases as a poor young man starting out. I can’t say I’m surprised the man doesn’t want to speak with the media—he was cleared in court, but suspicions follow him endlessly.”
“Well, it’s a pity he won’t speak. With his resources, he could certainly help out.”
“The FBI and local authorities are not giving out many specifics, but one of my sources tells me that a young man’s suicide—after a botched kidnapping attempt—gives credence to the fact we’re looking at something pretty bad happening, and we can only hope law enforcement gets it together to get this solved before there are more deaths. And excuse us, folks, we have to take a commercial break here.”
Hunter closed his eyes again.
Pictures ran in his mind.
He saw the brands again, both on the bodies and imagining Amy’s sketches.
Then he knew; he knew as if someone had smacked him in the head with the truth.
The curves, the lines and the curves...
They formed a double P. PP.
People’s Paradise.
He flew off the sofa, heading to the bedroom, flinging the door open.
“Amy!”
He froze. He should have knocked.
She was just out of the shower. The door to the bathroom was open, and she was just tying a towel around her body. Her hair was free and flowing softly in waves around her shoulders.
She was still damp from the shower and the steam.
“I—Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she assured him, knotting the towel. “It’s something important, I take it.”
He nodded.
“Are you...going to share?”
“What? Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. Really,” she said. “What is it? Please tell me.”
“Your sketches...the brands. I know what they are.”
“You know—from my sketches? What?”
“The brands are double Ps,” he said. “They stand for People’s Paradise.”
She looked at him, frowning. “People’s Paradise?”
He nodded. Of course she wouldn’t know about it. More than a quarter of a century had passed since the day when he had stood, a terrified little kid in the woods.
“They were active almost thirty years ago,” he said. “They created a commune in California. It was run by a man known as Brother William, who turned out to be a William Bayer, a stockbroker who liked to play with other people’s money. He preyed on those who were horrified by the costs of medicine and the war vets who were left homeless in the streets. He found people who were looking for greater equality among everyone, and he found those who were...disenchanted by modern society and anxious to find a different way of life by working the earth. He preached community and giving...and everyone gave their incomes to him, any property to him. He kept preaching poverty—and making himself richer and richer. The FBI and the ATF and others shut him down.”
“But could this be him...now?”
“Not him,” Hunter said. “He went to prison, where he was eventually killed by a fellow prisoner in a fight.”
“Then—”
“People who were part of the cult—part of the upper echelon of the cult—got away.”
“And you think one of them is the head of whatever is going on here?”
“It’s possible.”
She came toward him, pausing just a few feet away.
“Do you—do you want to study the sketches again?” she asked.
“It can wait until morning. I’ll get hold of the main offices, too, and see if they can trace anything for me and...”
“And?”
“I still think Ethan Morrison is involved somehow. I think there must be a connection. The man’s father bought the property in South Florida. I want everything that can be found on him.”
“Okay.”
She took a step closer to him. He realized he’d been speaking in full sentences, even making sense.
But he’d been watching Amy, studying her—her eyes, her face. Her form beneath the towel.
He wasn’t sure what made him do it. He took a step closer to her.
And then she took a step closer to him.
She smiled. He felt a flush of heat at her look. They had come to a place where it seemed they could read one another’s mind. He took her into his arms.
She seemed to flow into them.