Jane stared down at the spot where the deputy’s body had been found, and she tried to read the snow. The corpse had already been removed. Personnel from both the county sheriff’s office and the Wyoming Department of Criminal Investigations had searched the site, trampling the snow, and she could distinguish at least half a dozen different shoe impressions. What caught her attention, and the attention of the other investigators, were the snowshoe tracks. They led away from the dead deputy’s SUV and headed toward the woods. Moving in that same direction were a dog’s paw prints, as well as a set of boot prints—a woman’s size seven, possibly Maura’s. The trio of prints led into the woods, where the boot tracks later stopped. There a second pair of snowshoe tracks began.
Maura paused among those trees to strap on the snowshoes. And then she kept running.
Jane tried to picture the scenario that would explain these prints. Her initial theory was that whoever had killed Martineau had then taken the deputy’s weapon and forced Maura into the woods with him. But these tracks didn’t fit the theory. Staring down at the snow, Jane spotted a boot impression that overlaid the snowshoe track. Which meant that Maura had been trailing behind her presumed captor, not pushed in front of him. Jane stood mulling over this puzzle, trying to match what she saw here with what made sense. Why would Maura willingly follow a cop-killer into the woods? Why did she make that phone call in the first place? Had she been forced to lure a deputy into this trap?
“They’ve picked up fingerprints everywhere,” said Gabriel.
She turned to her husband, who’d just come out of the house.
“Where?”
“On the broken window, the kitchen cabinets. The phone.”
“Where she made the call.”
Gabriel nodded. “The cord was wrenched out of the wall. Obviously someone wanted to cut off the conversation.” He nodded at the slain deputy’s vehicle. “They lifted prints off the car door as well. There’s a good chance we’ll know who we’re dealing with.”
“She sure as hell didn’t act like a hostage,” a voice insisted. “I’m telling you, she ran for those trees. No one was dragging her.”
Jane turned to watch the conversation between the Wyoming DCI detective and Montgomery Loftus, who had reported the slaying. The old rancher’s voice had risen in agitation, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I saw them here, bending over his body like two vultures. Man and a woman. The man, he picks up the gun and turns toward me. I figure he’s gonna try to blast my truck, so I got off a shot.”
“More than one shot, it looks like to me,” said the detective.
“Yeah. Well, might’ve been three or four.” Loftus eyed the SUV’s shattered window. “Afraid that there’s my fault. But what the hell’d you expect me to do? Not defend myself? Soon as I got off the first few shots, they both took off for the woods.”
“Independently? Or was the woman forced?”
“Forced?” Loftus snorted. “She ran after him. No one was making her do it.”
No one except a pissed-off old rancher shooting at her. Jane did not like the way this story was being spun, as if Maura was one half of Bonnie and Clyde. Yet she couldn’t contradict what the footprints in the snow were telling her. Maura hadn’t been dragged into the woods; she had fled.
Sansone said, “How is it you happened to be on this property, Mr. Loftus?” Everyone turned to look at him. He had been silent up till then, an unapproachable figure who had drawn curious glances from DCI personnel, but no one had dared to challenge his presence at the crime scene.
Though Sansone’s question had been asked in a respectful tone, Loftus bristled. “You implying something, mister?”
“This seems like a rather out-of-the-way place to just show up. I wondered why you happened to be here.”
“Because Bobby called me.”
“Deputy Martineau?”
“He said he was up on Doyle Mountain, and he thought he might have a problem. I live just east of here, so I offered to come by in case he needed a hand.”
“Is this normal procedure, for a law enforcement officer to call a civilian when he needs assistance?”
“I don’t know what it’s like in Boston, mister. But out here, when someone gets in a jam, folks are quick to step in and help. Especially when it’s a lawman.”
Sheriff Fahey added, “I’m sure Mr. Loftus was just trying to be a good citizen, Mr. Sansone. We’ve got a big county to cover, a lot of territory. When your closest backup is twenty miles away, we’re lucky to have folks like him to call on.”
“I didn’t mean to question Mr. Loftus’s motives.”
“But that’s what you were doing,” said Loftus. “Hell, I know where this is going. Next you’ll ask if I’m the one who killed Bobby.” He strode over to his pickup and pulled out his rifle. “Here, Detective Pasternak!” He handed the weapon to the DCI detective. “Feel free to confiscate it. Run it though your fancy lab.”
“Come on, Monty.” Fahey sighed. “No one thinks you killed Bobby.”
“These folks from Boston don’t believe me.”
Jane stepped into the conversation. “Mr. Loftus, it’s not like that at all. We’re just trying to understand what went down here.”
“I told you what I saw. They left Bobby Martineau bleeding to death. And they ran.”
“Maura wouldn’t do that.”
“You weren’t here. You didn’t see her take off into those woods. Sure as hell acted like she did something wrong.”
“Then you misinterpreted it.”
“I saw what I saw.”
Gabriel said, “A lot of these questions might be answered by the dash camera.” He looked at Sheriff Fahey. “We should take a look at the deputy’s video.”
Fahey suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid there’s a problem with that.”
“A problem?”
“The camera in Deputy Martineau’s vehicle wasn’t recording.”
Jane stared at the sheriff in disbelief. “How did that happen?”
“We don’t know how it happened. It was turned off.”
“Why would Martineau shut it down? You must have regulations against that.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it,” Fahey said. “Maybe someone else turned off the dash cam.”
“Don’t tell me,” she muttered. “You’re going to blame this on Maura, too.”
Fahey flushed. “You keep reminding us that she works with law enforcement. She’d know about dash cameras.”
“Excuse me,” cut in Detective Pasternak from the state’s Department of Criminal Investigations. “I’m just getting up to speed on who Dr. Isles is. I’d like to know more about her.”
Although he’d introduced himself earlier, this was the first time Jane had focused fully on Pasternak. Wan and sniffling, his stork-like neck exposed to the cold, he looked like a man longing to be in a warm office, not shivering on this windswept driveway.
“I can tell you about her,” said Jane.
“How well do you know her?”
“We’re colleagues. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“You think you can paint a full picture for me?”
Jane thought about how easy it would be to skew this man’s impression of Maura in one way or another. It was all in which details she chose to reveal. Emphasize Maura’s professionalism, and he’d see a scientist, reliable and law abiding. But divulge different details, and the portrait became murkier, the features obscured by shadows. Her dark and blood-splattered family history. Her illicit affair with Daniel Brophy. That was a different woman, prone to reckless impulses and destructive passions. If I’m not careful, Jane thought, I could give Pasternak all the reasons he needs to treat Maura as a suspect.
“I want to know everything about her,” said Pasternak. “Any information that can help the search team before they start off tomorrow. They’ll need to be briefed, when we convene back in town.”
“I can tell you this much,” she said. “Maura’s no outdoors-woman. If you don’t find her soon, she’s not going to survive out there.”
“It’s been almost two weeks since she went missing. She’s managed to stay alive this long.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Maybe it’s because of the man she’s traveling with,” said Sheriff Fahey.
Jane looked at the mountain, where ravines were already darkening into shadow. In just the last few moments, as the sunlight had dipped below the peak, the temperature had plunged. Shivering in the cold, Jane wrapped her arms around herself and thought of a night spent unsheltered on that mountain, where the forest had claws, and the wind could always find you. A night with a man they knew nothing about.
What happens next may all depend on him.
“His fingerprints aren’t new to us,” said Sheriff Fahey, addressing the law enforcement officers and volunteers who filled the seats in the Pinedale Town Hall. “The state of Wyoming already has the prints on record. The perp’s name is Julian Henry Perkins, and he’s compiled quite a rap sheet.” Fahey read from his notes. “Auto theft. Breaking and entering. Vagrancy. Multiple charges of misdemeanor theft.” He looked around at his audience. “That’s who we’re dealing with. And we know he’s now armed and dangerous.”
Jane shook her head. “Maybe I’m a little jaded,” she called out from her seat in the third row. “But that doesn’t sound like much of a rap sheet for a cop-killer.”
“It is when you’re only sixteen years old.”
“This perp is a juvenile?”
Detective Pasternak said: “His fingerprints were all over the kitchen cabinets, as well as on the door of Deputy Martineau’s vehicle. We have to assume he was the individual whom Mr. Loftus saw on the scene.”
“Our office is familiar with the Perkins boy,” said Fahey. “We’ve picked him up numerous times for various infractions. What we can’t figure out is his connection to the woman.”
“His connection?” said Jane. “Maura’s his hostage!”
In the front row, Montgomery Loftus gave a snort. “Not what I saw.”
“What you thought you saw,” Jane countered.
The man turned and gave the three visitors from Boston a cold stare. “You people weren’t there.”
Fahey said, “Ma’am, we’ve known Monty all our lives. He’s not going to go making stuff up.”
Then maybe he needs glasses, Jane wanted to say, but she swallowed the retort. The three Boston visitors were outnumbered in this town hall, where dozens of locals had assembled for the briefing. The murder of a deputy had shocked the community, and volunteers had streamed in, eager to bring the killer to justice. Volunteers with guns and grim faces and righteous anger. Jane looked around at those faces and felt a premonitory chill. They’re spoiling for a kill, she thought. And it doesn’t matter that their quarry is a sixteen-year-old kid.
A woman suddenly called out from the back row. “Julian Perkins is just a boy! You can’t be serious about sending an armed posse after him.”
“He killed a deputy, Cathy,” said Fahey. “He’s not just a boy.”
“I know Julian better than any of you do. I have a hard time believing that he’d kill anyone.”
“Excuse me,” said Detective Pasternak. “I’m not from this county. Maybe you could introduce yourself, ma’am?”
The young woman stood, and Jane immediately recognized her. It was the social worker they’d met at the scene of the Circle B double homicide. “I’m Cathy Weiss, Sublette County Child Protective Services. I’ve been Julian’s caseworker for the past year.”
“And you don’t believe he could have killed Deputy Martineau?” said Pasternak.
“No, sir.”
“Cathy, look at his rap sheet,” said Fahey. “The kid’s no angel.”
“But he’s no monster. Julian is a victim. He’s a sixteen-year-old kid just trying to survive, in a world where nobody wants him.”
“Most kids manage to survive just fine without breaking into homes and stealing cars.”
“Most kids aren’t used and abused by cults.”
Fahey rolled his eyes. “Here we go again with that stuff.”
“I’ve warned you about The Gathering for years. Ever since they moved into this county and built their perfect little Stepford village. Now you’re seeing the result. This is what happens when you ignore the danger signs. When you look the other way while pedophiles operate right under your noses.”
“You have absolutely no proof. We’ve looked into the allegations. Bobby went up there three times, and all he found were hardworking families who just want to be left alone.”
“Left alone to abuse their children.”
“Can we get back to the business at hand?” a man shouted from the audience.
“Yeah, you’re wasting our time!”
“This is the business at hand,” said Cathy, looking around the town hall. “This is the boy you’re all so eager to hunt down. A kid who’s been crying out for help. And no one’s been listening.”
“Ms. Weiss,” said Detective Pasternak, “the search team needs all the information they can get before they set off tomorrow. You say you know Julian Perkins. Tell us what to expect from this boy. He’s out there on a bitterly cold night, with a woman who may be a hostage. Is he even capable of surviving?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“You’re that sure of it?”
“Because he’s the grandson of Absolem Perkins.”
There was a murmur of recognition in the room, and Detective Pasternak looked around, puzzled. “I’m sorry. Is that significant?”
“You’d know the name if you grew up in Sublette County,” said Montgomery Loftus. “Backwoods man. Built his own cabin, lived up in the Bridger-Teton Mountains. I used to catch him hunting near my property.”
“Julian spent most of his childhood up there,” said Cathy. “With a grandfather who taught him how to forage. How to stay alive in the wilderness with only an ax and his wits. So yes, he could survive.”
“What’s he doing up in the mountains, anyway?” asked Jane. “Why isn’t he in school?” She didn’t think it was a stupid question, but she heard laughter ripple through the hall.
“The Perkins kid, in school?” Fahey shook his head. “That’s like trying to teach higher mathematics to a mule.”
“I’m afraid Julian had a hard time living here in town,” said Cathy. “He was picked on a lot in school. Got into quite a few fights. He kept running away from his foster home, eight times in thirteen months. The last time he vanished was a few weeks ago, when the weather turned warm. Before he left, he emptied out his foster mother’s pantry, so he’s got enough food to last awhile out there.”
“We have copies of his photo,” said Fahey, and he handed a stack of papers up the aisle. “So you can all see who we’re looking for.”
The photos were passed around the audience, and for the first time Jane saw the face of Julian Perkins. It looked like a school photo, with a standard bland background. The boy had clearly made an effort to dress up for the occasion, but he looked painfully ill at ease in a long-sleeved white shirt and a tie. His black hair had been parted and combed, but a few rebellious strands of a cowlick refused to be slicked down. His dark eyes looked directly at the camera, eyes that made Jane think of a dog gazing out of an animal shelter cage. Wary. Untrusting.
“This photo was taken from last year’s school yearbook,” Fahey said. “It’s the most recent one we could find of him. Since then, he’s probably grown a few inches and put on some muscle.”
“And he’s got Bobby’s gun,” Loftus added.
Fahey looked around at the gathering. “The search team assembles at first light. I want every volunteer equipped with overnight winter gear. This isn’t going to be a picnic, so I want only the fittest men out there.” He paused, his gaze settling on Loftus, who caught the meaning of that look.
“You trying to tell me I shouldn’t go?” said Loftus.
“I didn’t say anything, Monty.”
“I can outlast the whole lot of you. And I know that terrain better than anybody. It’s my own backyard.” Loftus rose to his feet. Although his hair was silver and his face deeply creased from decades in the outdoors, he looked as sturdy as any man in the room. “Let’s make quick work of this. Before someone else gets killed.” He shoved his hat on his head and walked out.
As the others began to file out as well, Jane spotted the social worker rising to her feet, and she called out: “Ms. Weiss?”
The woman turned as Jane approached. “Yes?”
“We haven’t actually been introduced. I’m Detective Rizzoli.”
“I know. You’re the folks from Boston.” Cathy glanced at Gabriel and Sansone, who were still pulling on their coats. “You people have made quite an impression on this town.”
“Can we go someplace and talk? About Julian Perkins.”
“You mean right now?”
“Before they use him and our friend for target practice.”
Cathy looked at her watch and nodded. “There’s a coffee shop right down the block. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
It was more like twenty minutes. When Cathy finally swept into the coffee shop, her hair wild and windblown, she brought in the smell of tobacco on her wrinkled, smoke-permeated clothes, and Jane knew she had been sneaking a quick cigarette in her car. Now the woman looked jittery as she slid into the booth where Jane was waiting.
“So where are your two guys?” asked Cathy, glancing at the empty seats.
“They went to buy camping gear.”
“They’re joining the search party tomorrow?”
“I can’t talk them out of it.”
Cathy gave her a long and thoughtful look. “You people have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
The waitress came by with the coffeepot. “Fill it up, Cathy?” she asked.
“Always is.”
Cathy waited for the waitress to leave before she spoke again. “The situation is complicated.”
“They made it sound simple in that meeting. Send out the posse, hunt down a cop-killer.”
“Right. Because people always prefer things simple. Black and white, right and wrong. Julian as the evil kid.” Cathy drank her coffee straight, gulping down the bitter brew without a wince. “That’s not what he is.”
“What is he, then?”
Cathy fixed her intense gaze on Jane. “Have you ever heard of the Lost Boys?”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“They’re young men, mostly teenagers, who’ve been cast out of their homes and families. They end up abandoned on the streets. Not because they’ve done anything wrong, but simply because they’re boys. In their communities, that alone makes them fatally flawed.”
“Because boys cause trouble?”
“No. Because they’re competition, and the older men don’t want them around. They want all the girls for themselves.”
Suddenly Jane understood. “You’re talking about polygamous communities.”
“Exactly. These are groups that have nothing at all to do with the official Mormon Church. They’re breakaway sects that form around charismatic leaders. You’ll find them in a number of states. Colorado and Arizona, Utah and Idaho. And right here in Sublette County, Wyoming.”
“The Gathering?”
Cathy nodded. “It’s a sect led by a so-called prophet named Jeremiah Goode. Twenty years ago, he started attracting followers in Idaho. They built a compound called Plain of Angels, northwest of Idaho Falls. Eventually it grew into a community of nearly six hundred people. They’re completely self-sufficient, grow their own food, raise their own livestock. No visitors are allowed in, so it’s impossible to know what’s really happening behind their gates.”
“They sound like prisoners.”
“They might as well be. The Prophet controls every aspect of their lives, and they adore him for it. That’s the way cults operate. You start with a man like Jeremiah, someone who attracts the weak-minded and the needy, people who desperately want someone to accept them. To give them love and attention, to fix their pitiful broken lives. That’s what he offers them—at first. That’s how all cults start, from the Moonies to the Manson Family.”
“You’re equating Jeremiah Goode with Charles Manson?”
“Yes.” Cathy’s face tightened. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s the same psychology, the same social dynamics. Once a follower drinks the Kool-Aid, they’re his. They give Jeremiah all their property, all their assets, and move into his compound. There he exerts total control. He uses their free labor to maintain a number of highly profitable businesses, from construction to furniture making to mail-order jams and jellies. To an outsider, it looks like a utopian community where everyone contributes. In return, everyone is taken care of. That’s what Bobby Martineau probably thought he saw when he visited Kingdom Come.”
“What should he have seen instead?”
“A dictatorship. It’s all about Jeremiah and what he wants.”
“And what’s that?”
Cathy’s gaze hardened to steel. “Young flesh. That’s what The Gathering is all about, Detective. Owning, controlling, and fucking young girls.”
A woman in the next booth turned and glared at them, offended by the language.
Cathy took a moment to regain her composure. “That’s why Jeremiah can’t afford to keep too many boys around,” she said. “So he gets rid of them. He orders families to shun their own teenage sons. The boys are driven to the nearest town and abandoned. In Idaho, they were dumped in Idaho Falls. Here, they’re dumped in Jackson or Pinedale.”
“And these families actually cooperate?”
“The women are obedient little robots. The men are rewarded for their loyalty with young brides of their own. Spiritual brides, they’re called, to avoid being prosecuted for polygamy. Men can have as many as they want, and it’s all biblically sanctioned.”
Jane gave an appalled laugh. “Yeah? Which Bible?”
“The Old Testament. Think about Abraham and Jacob, David and Solomon. The old biblical patriarchs who had multiple wives or concubines.”
“And his followers buy in to it?”
“Because it satisfies some burning need inside them. The women, maybe they yearn for security, for a life where they don’t have to make hard choices. The men—well, it’s obvious what the men get out of it. They get to take a fourteen-year-old to bed. And get into heaven.”
“And Julian Perkins was part of all that?”
“He has a mother and a fourteen-year-old sister who still live in Kingdom Come. Julian’s father died when he was only four. The mother, I’m sorry to say, is a total flake. Sharon dropped out of her kids’ lives to go find herself, or whatever bullshit you want to call it, and she dumped them on their grandfather, Absolem.”
“The mountain man.”
“Right. A decent guy who took good care of them. But ten years later, Sharon reappears, and woo-hoo! She’s got a new man, plus she’s discovered religion! The religion of Jeremiah Goode. She takes her kids back, and they move into Kingdom Come, the new settlement that The Gathering is building here in Wyoming. A few months later, Absolem dies, and Sharon’s the only adult left in Julian’s life.” Cathy’s voice took on a razor-sharp edge. “And she betrays him.”
“She threw him out?”
“Like a piece of trash. Because the Prophet demanded it.”
The two women stared at each other, a gaze of shared rage that was broken only when the waitress returned with the coffeepot. In silence they both sipped, and the hot brew only worsened the angry burn in Jane’s stomach.
“So why isn’t Jeremiah Goode in jail?” Jane asked.
“You think I haven’t tried? You saw how they reacted to me at that meeting. I’m just the town scold, the annoying feminist who won’t stop talking about abused girls. And they don’t want to listen anymore.” She paused. “Or they’re getting paid not to listen.”
“Jeremiah’s bought them off?”
“That’s how it worked in Idaho. Cops, judges. The Gathering has loads of cash to buy them all. His settlements are cut off from outside communication—no phones, no radios. Even if a girl wanted to call for help, she wouldn’t be able to.” Cathy set down her coffee cup. “There’s nothing I want more than to see him, and the men who follow him, in shackles. But I don’t think it’s ever going to happen.”
“Does Julian Perkins feel the same way?”
“He hates them all. He told me so.”
“Enough to kill?”
Cathy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You were at the double homicide at the Circle B lodge. That dead couple belonged to The Gathering.”
“You aren’t thinking Julian did it.”
“Maybe that’s why he went on the run. Why he had to kill the deputy.”
Cathy gave a vehement shake of the head. “I’ve spent time with that boy. He hangs out with this stray dog, and you’ve never seen anyone so gentle with an animal. He doesn’t have violence in him.”
“I think we all have it in us,” said Jane quietly. “If we’re pushed hard enough.”
“Well, if he did do it,” Cathy said, “he had justice on his side.”