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I shake my head and chuckle, but it’s forced. Something about the thought of Rob pouncing on Fallon makes my stomach churn. But he’s met his match with Nikki.
“So it sounds like things are heating up between the two of you,” I say. “I’d watch it. He’s a walking predator.”
“You just don’t care for him because I said he has the hots for Fallon.” She tips her head my way. “I’m beginning to think you do, too. Don’t bother denying it. I have a sixth sense for these things. I’d tell you what she’s thinking about you, but I’d hate to start your day off on the wrong foot.”
“Funny.” I take a moment to glare at the evergreens to my left just as a long honk comes from the next lane and I swerve to avoid oncoming traffic.
“Geez, Stone.” Nikki swats me. “Stop daydreaming like some lovesick teenager, and get your head back in the game. You’re only allowed to narrowly get us killed once per day and you’ve just met your quota,” she growls. “Good thing. Because as lovey-dovey as this cult looks on paper, I bet they’ve got guns.”
“Lucky for us, we do, too.”
15
Special Agent Jack Stone
Ironwood Springs is a flat, dry, wooded area that sits at the basin of a small mountain ridge. Most of the town is rural and the nearest shopping strip sits at least fifteen miles outside of its border. The overall layout of this town is one of the many tributes to nature that has been preserved in the same wild and wooly manner for the last hundred years.
We follow the navigation map to a small dirt trail, not well groomed, that leads to an old wooden arch with the word home painted across it. A swath of steel cables crisscross from one end to the other, letting us know we’re not invited to drive on in. The rest of the property looks cordoned off by a bridal fence that spans the girth of it, and on either side and on top it’s covered with barbed wire, stretched so thin it hardly makes a difference anymore.
Nikki and I get out and are quickly greeted by the fresh scent of earth and pine. The property is expansive as far as the eye can see. To the right, it looks like a trailer park with nothing but old run-down motor homes and fifth wheels sitting scattered about, most of them rusting. Although I have a feeling they won’t be driving anytime soon. It’s clear they’re being used to house the masses. To the left is a sea of tents, every shape and size. The dark blue ones that line the woods look ominous even from this vantage point.
Throngs of people can be seen in the distance. Some in a grassy patch tossing around a football, others chasing a soccer ball, some lying shirtless on the lawn. All of them are men. Just behind that, there’s a group of kids. Their laughter and shrieks of joy resonate to the sky. To the right of them are women with long hair, long skirts, and I’m guessing long and downtrodden faces. It’s always the women that get the shaft in these kinds of places.
“I hate it here,” Nikki grunts.
“Ah, come on now,” I tease. “Looks like summer camp.”
“Yeah, summer camp with the Mansons.”
We duck through a narrow opening in the fence and we don’t get twenty feet before that field of dreams drains in our direction.
We flash our badges and ask to speak with Malcolm Lewis, the owner of this twisted paradise, and soon a handful of them take off running in the direction of what looks to be a giant haunted house.
Nikki and I had already seen aerial footage of the place. The house once belonged to Wilhelmina Lewis and was passed down to Malcolm a little over ten years ago, and I’m taking a wild guess he’s not turning it into a museum any time soon. This place has more of a carnival appeal anyway.
A handful of people offer a friendly welcome, but their expressions quickly grow sober as if we were ready to deliver bad news, like a high school party the cops just pulled up to. Although I’m sure they can make even the rowdiest of house parties look like a visit to a nunnery. This place may hold an idyllic appeal, but I can feel the wicked undercurrent from here like a serpent slithering through tranquil waters.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea and a couple emerges, both with smiles plastered to their faces.
“Here come Mama and Papa,” Nikki whispers.
Malcolm and Patty, I’m guessing. Malcolm is tall, thin, and far too pale. His beard outlines his jaw but isn’t filling in the way it’s supposed to. He looks a bit frail like maybe he doesn’t have the testosterone to pull off the feat. He looks to be in his forties, balding, his jeans are worn, and his flannel looks as if it’s seen better days. Although I doubt he’s out tilling the fields. Monsters like him usually leave the manual labor for those they’re stringing along in hopes of a better tomorrow.
The woman is robust. She’s not missing any meals. Her dark hair is twisted in long braids. She’s wearing a denim dress that brushes the ground as she walks, which would explain the frayed edges.
“Officers.” The man offers a friendly wave. “What can we do for you?”
“We’d like to speak with you alone if possible.” Nikki gets right to the point.
“Sure thing,” Malcolm says and lifts an arm to the crowd before they slowly begin to disperse.
It’s clear what he says goes.
A few of the men size us up with hard looks before taking off, and soon enough it’s just the four of us.
“Malcolm Lewis,” he says, offering both myself and Nikki a quick handshake. “This is my wife, Patty.”
We shake as well.
