“You should consider the FBI.”
She smiled. “I might, but I do have a real partner. I mean, Hunter and I are partnered right now, but John—”
“I know about John Schultz,” he said.
“Of course. You’re FBI.”
“Retired.”
She laughed. “Okay, retired. You’re still FBI!”
He shrugged. “They say that about the marines. Well, I guess that’s me. I was a marine, too. Hunter followed me too far, I think sometimes. I would have loved to have seen that kid just have a safe and happy life.” He hesitated. “He found the girl, the girl the cult had killed. He cared about her, and he went to his parents. His dad told me the kid would do something if he didn’t. Kid had too many balls right from the start. But don’t worry. We saw to it he was trained right, too. And his dad? That man is a warrior with a pen now.”
“We do what we choose to do,” Amy told him.
“Were your parents happy with your chosen path?”
“They’re okay.”
“Right. Your dad was a cop. Your brother is a cop.”
“You really are FBI,” she said lightly.
“Easy research,” he told her.
Hunter came back into the room. “Ellison is going to be close on hand, too,” Hunter told them.
“All right, then. I’d say the barbecue is underway. Shall we?” Amy asked.
They headed out, Roger Dawson striding to his van and Amy and Hunter getting in the car.
Amy waited until they’d been on the road a few minutes and then said, “He’s a great guy.”
“Roger? Yes. Don’t let him fool you—he’s a hero. He saved our lives. He came into the compound undercover. He’s the only human being who ever successfully slipped out. He stayed friends with my family, checked up on us and had a huge influence on me.”
“Obviously.”
He grinned. “My dad did, too, and my mom.”
“How did they...?”
“Wind up in a cult?” he asked flatly. He shot her a quick glance. “My grandfather—a man I never met—was extremely rich. And he looked down on anyone who was having a hard time. Ungenerous. My mother couldn’t deal with it. She was looking for something else—for people who cared about other people. People who didn’t worship money. My dad loved my mother. And in the beginning, they believed that, okay, maybe this religion was the way in because they were finally somewhere where people did help others.”
“How did they...figure it out?”
“Two things. The leader decided he wanted my mother. There was a commune divorce, something made up by Brother William, because the other laws of the state didn’t mean anything to him. My mother was devoted to my father. Still is. The idea of being forced to be with Brother William was too much. And then...then they killed Alana.”
“A friend? Because she tried to leave?”
He nodded. “I found her. At the bottom of a ravine. They didn’t even really try to bury her. Maybe we were all supposed to see her. They’d try to tell the authorities she had fallen. But we all knew the punishment for sin—which included turning away from Brother William—was death.”
“I’m so sorry,” Amy said.
“That was all long ago. I survived, and my folks survived. Some didn’t. And it did make me what I am, for better or worse. But at least I’m determined to spare others that fate.”
“My life was easy in comparison,” she said.
“Hey, you became a cop, and you joined FDLE. That was a hell of a journey.”
She grinned. “It was one step after another. And though they check on me, which is great, my family has been supportive.”
“Mine, too,” he said. “That is something. Not everyone gets support.”
“Is that the turnaround?” she asked.
“It is. I’ll pull off and park here.” He eased the car to the far right of the road, almost into the trees. He looked at her for a moment.
She loved his face, more so now that she knew what had built the character into his cheekbones and jaw.
“We have to trek through the woods,” he reminded her.
“What’s not to like about woods?”
“In Florida? Number one, mosquitos,” he said. “And you can’t gain anything even by trying to shoot the little buggers.”
“I won’t be trying. I’ve survived the bastards before.”
Grinning, they got out of the car. Roger Dawson pulled his van off the road behind them. He waved his phone at them, and then pulled out a newspaper.
They started walking.
It was cool enough and dry enough the bugs weren’t so bad. A startled blue jay gave Amy a moment’s pause as it nearly flew in her face, but she refrained from both a gasp and drawing her gun on the bird.
Eventually, they heard voices; they were near the town park and the barbecue.
Hunter motioned to her he was moving to the west.
She nodded and went on forward, coming as close to the gathering as she dared and finding a spot behind a very old and gnarly oak.
She leaned against it, watching.
Metal barbecue pits had been set up in the center of the grassy slope; there were picnic tables around the pits. People sat in groups at those tables, drinking from paper cups, talking to one another.
To one end of the park, young children were playing a game of kickball. Near them, an older boy was running with a few younger children, trailing a large kite.
At the other end, a lone singer with a guitar was playing. Church music, Amy thought, but they weren’t tunes she recognized, nor were any of the words familiar.
It could have been a Norman Rockwell painting of small-town charm.
Amy gave her attention to the singer. She listened fully to one verse.
“And so the time is coming nigh,
“A time for you and I
“For disbelievers must adhere
“The godly need not fear.
“We give our all, we give to thee
“And hear your voice,
“The messenger we hear and listen dear
“The leader of your divine choice.”
Many people were deep believers, she told herself. But the song was frightening; the young woman’s rapturous voice as she sang was frightening, as well.
Her song ended. A horn blared.