The next morning dawned clear and glorious. Huge rafts of cumulus cloud, scudding over the ocean, seemed to be lit from within by the sunrise as it broke over the mouth of the bay. Sophie rose with her fellow retreat participants, arriving at the chapel for a period of meditation. Everyone sat in lotus position, facing the altar upon which a pillar candle burned.
Sophie tried to calm her racing thoughts but she’d begun to chafe internally, missing her technology. The oblivion of being “wired in” to her computers, absorbed and lost in streams of information, had become a huge part of her life. A free-floating anxiety rippled along her nerves, a sort of nagging itch like she imagined an addict must feel, longing for the needle. She’d wondered how she would do without her beloved computers—and now she knew. Not well.
This was also the subject of the meditation that Sandoval Jackson led them in. “For true peace, you must learn how to really live within your own skin, occupying your body, mind, and soul without external influences and stimulation except those found in nature. Accepting the here and now, without the outside influence of the world, will bring you a deeper experience of life.”
Dunn could, at least, watch videos on his phone or something while he did push-ups or whatever it was he occupied himself with on a stakeout—while Sophie had to sit, cross-legged, eyes shut, with nothing to do but endure her thoughts. These inevitably spiraled into flashbacks of Assan’s abuse, memories of her mother’s indifference, and the familiar negative thoughts of the depression that stalked her like a jaguar.
Sophie made it through the meditation with difficulty and then she made it through the hour-long, strenuous yoga class that followed. Being able to move her body and focus on that was a relief. She made it through the simple morning meal, seated with the whole commune in the central cafeteria area, eating in silence. And she even made it through going out to work in the garden.
Simple chores out in the garden, picking slugs off the lettuces and pulling weeds, did have a meditative quality that seemed to still the restlessness—but she didn’t want to retrieve the spikes she’d embedded in the dirt, because part of the feeling that crawled along her nerves was the sensation of being watched.
Sophie darted her eyes around, keeping Mary’s hat brim low as she tried to observe who might be monitoring her. She’d already made a mental note of every location of a surveillance node that she could identify on the corners of the buildings.
Dougal Sloane was watching her.
Sophie spotted him leaning against one of the yurts, tattooed arms folded and one leg up with a bent knee as he observed the women working in the garden.
What was he looking for?
She felt his gaze on her like a touch. Could he be involved with choosing women for Sandoval Jackson’s bed? Or was he simply considering her for his own? Either option did not appeal.
The noon meal was served under the fruit trees at one end of the compound, seated on lauhala mats. The children waited on them, respectful in their orange garb. Banana leaves, held on hands, were used as plates. The simple fare of rice, taro, and cooked garden vegetables was delicious and filling. She touched the hand of the eldest, the boy who’d met them the first night, as he handed her a bowl of poi—it couldn’t hurt to fish for a little information. “Zeus. Your name is so unusual.”
“I know it’s unusual. Our father named us all for different gods and goddesses.”
Sophie smiled. “So what are your brothers’ and sisters’ names?”
“Depends on which ones.” he pushed a hank of curly hair out of his eyes. “There are ten of us. Well, eight now that Lono and Pele are gone.”
“Where did they go?”
A shutter seemed to come down over the boy’s clear brown eyes. “I can’t talk about it.” He withdrew, pulling away abruptly and heading back toward the kitchen.
“Zeus is still upset by what happened,” Sophie’s seat mate said. She was a pretty woman with lightly tanned skin and long, curly brown hair. The bulge of pregnancy pushed out her orange tunic. “Those children went to visit their mother, that’s all. They’ll be back soon.” She turned placid brown eyes on Sophie. The certainty of her voice was chilling. “What’s your name?”
“Mary. Mary Watson. You?”
“Jessie Sparks.”
The back of Sophie’s neck prickled with awareness—this was one of Jackson’s two remaining consorts. “Are you enjoying the retreat so far?”
“I am.” Sophie used the wooden spoon she’d been given with her banana leaf to mix a little poi with rice. She’d never had occasion to eat poi before, and it was filling, if a little bland. “It’s great to get unplugged from technology—though it takes a little getting used to.”
“You’ll love it once you get used to it.” Jessie’s hand smoothed over her belly, stroking the curve of it. “I’m so glad to be raising my child here.”
Sophie widened her eyes as if impressed. “Oh, then you must be with Jackson. One of his women?”
“I’m his wife.” Jessie smiled. She really was lovely, and so young. “The children here are all his. It will be so wonderful for my baby to have so many brothers and sisters.”
“It seems like a lot of children for one man? Did he have a wife before you?” Sophie probed.
“Oh, yes.” Sparks laughed. “He has a different approach to marriage than most. We’re only together in that way while having children, then the union is dissolved. The kids are the future—and the past, too. As you know, we believe in enhanced reincarnation. Sandoval thinks Zeus is the return of his brother, who died young. Sandoval says they are so much alike.”
Sophie could think of a lot of reasons for that, beginning with wishful thinking and ending with shared genetics. “Fascinating. This is my first retreat, so while I’ve read Jackson’s teachings, I am not familiar with how they play out in practice.”
Sparks gave her an assessing glance. “Are you with someone?”
Sophie smiled. “No. I’m single.”
“Well, maybe you want to apply to be with Sandoval at some point.” Sparks dabbed her mouth delicately on a cotton napkin. “It’s a great honor. Enhances your reincarnation return time.”
Sophie couldn’t find a response. She addressed her food, taking another bite. She’d never been quick on her feet verbally, unlike her friend Marcella, or even Lei. She could see either of her friends playing her current role so much more adeptly. She needed to pretend interest to find out more, though her stomach clenched with tension.
“I’m here because I’m such a fan of Jackson’s,” Sophie said softly. “His teachings—they hit me right here.” She tapped her heart. “It would be an honor to be intimate with him.”
Sparks nodded. “That’s how it began for me. I came on a retreat. I caught Dougal’s eye—you know, Sandoval’s right hand man?” She pointed to Sloane’s shiny pate across the room.
“He looks kind of intimidating.” Sophie lifted her brows in Sloane’s direction.
Sparks laughed. “Oh he is! He’s Sandoval’s pit bull. But he has his uses, and one of them is to make sure that everyone is getting along, and growing in their roles within the Society.”
“How does he do that?” Sophie asked.
“He has the background to be able to read people and he always knows what Sandoval needs.”
“I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”
Sparks flapped a hand. “Oh, his bark is worse than his bite. He’s really a softie at heart.”
Sophie eyed Sloane from across the room. He didn’t look like a softie. “Well, you seem very happy here. With Jackson.”
Sparks smiled. “I am. Very.” And she patted her tummy, the picture of contentment. It gave Sophie a pang somewhere deep inside, in spite of the situation. She was far from even finding someone to date, let alone ever becoming a mother.
The afternoon was spent in a choice of various workshops: candle making, weaving, working with lauhala basketry, and even a hula class. A heavy rain kept them indoors, and Sophie did the lauhala and hula, figuring she might as well learn a few Hawaiian culture activities—and soon it was time for the evening routine again.
That evening the rain let up enough that Sophie was able to retrieve the ninhydrin stakes and stowed them in a paper bag, hiding them in the lining of her backpack. The frequent rain had degraded the paper pulp, though, and she worried that the results would be inconclusive—not to mention that the stakes would get moldy before they could be tested.
Two more days went by.
Each night, Sophie found her way to the chapel and texted Dunn her check-in for the day. He was getting restless. His brief answers had devolved into short diatribes about the mosquitoes, the heat, and the boredom. “Haven’t you ever been on a stakeout before?” Sophie texted him.
“Not if I can help it. Too much sitting around, and the phone reception is shit out here.” Dunn was nothing if not consistent. So much for her idea that he was sitting around watching videos.
On the fourth day, Sophie, working alone at the center of the labyrinth, wove some of the lauhala she had made into a basket. She looked up as Dougal Sloane approached her.
“Good afternoon, Mary.”
“We meet again. Is this our special place?” Sophie wanted to charm him—but not too much. She was relieved he hadn’t sought her out before now.
“Jessie Sparks told me you might be interested in an opportunity to get closer to Sandoval Jackson.” The man certainly got to the point. “I came on behalf of our leader. What do you think of Sandoval Jackson after being here a while?” Sloane sat beside her, looping his tattooed arms around raised knees. She’d observed him during their yoga classes and he was ridiculously strong and flexible—but the bulk of his muscles had to come from some weight equipment—maybe in the one wooden building on the compound that she’d seen him go into daily.
“He is an amazing man. Everything he says has layers to it.” Sophie kept her eyes modestly down as she tucked a stray bit of the fibrous leaf into the basket’s curve.
“And he is taken with you as well. He told me so himself.”
Sophie had not noticed any particular interest from Jackson. It was news to her that the cult leader was observing her. Her cheeks heated with nervous tension, which she hoped would translate into blushing interest. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“You’re a different type for him. He likes variety.”
“Just what a girl wants to hear.” Sophie ducked her head to hide her annoyance. She hated being called “exotic,” let alone “different” and “variety.” She had better things to do than be some old white man’s fantasy—role or no role, it was racist. She slashed a fraying end of fiber with the sharp little paring knife the woman teaching the workshop had given her.
“I meant that as a compliment.” For the first time, Sloane’s confidence seemed to stumble.
“I’ve been wondering something. What happened to the children’s mothers?” Sophie kept her voice soft with difficulty.
Sloane seemed to sit up straighter beside her. “They moved on.”
“And left their children here?”
“I don’t see how that’s anything to do with this.” Sloane narrowed his eyes. “This is just an initial encounter. It will still greatly enhance your possibilities of moving forward on the reincarnation wheel.”
It chilled her how much these people believed Jackson’s self-serving lies. “It seems odd to me that they had children with Jackson and then left.”
“Their purpose with him had ended—and we aren’t looking at you for that role.”
So Sophie didn’t rate being a baby maker for Jackson. Of course not. The women who became “wives” had money to put in the cult’s coffers, and her cover identity Mary Watson was a mere data entry clerk. Sophie could push no further. “What do I need to do?”
“Meet with Jackson alone. Tonight. And see how it goes.” Sloane picked up her hand, stroked her knuckles with his thumb. She felt his breath on her neck. “There’s no pressure to do anything that you don’t want to do.”
Liar. Sophie removed her hand gently. “I appreciate that.” She gathered her basketry materials together. “Tell me where and when.”
Sandoval Jackson’s large yurt in the corner of the compound was beautifully appointed. The interior was draped in woven tapestries, and silky Persian carpets created luxury underfoot. Window openings covered with screen admitted air that flowed through rooms within the yurt, defined by gauzy drapes.
Jackson met Sophie at the doorway and took her hands in both of his. She resisted the invisible pull of his charisma as he greeted her. “Come in, my dear.” Jackson gestured toward a low table upon which rested a pot of tea and two cups. Seating was furnished by plump pillows. “Join me for a little refreshment?”
What could be discovered by pretending to be interested in a sexual encounter with the cult leader? But she had a job to do. Marcella wouldn’t be scared of this role. Sophie squared her shoulders and put a smile on her face. She followed him across the front room. Through a gauzy white hanging, she could see a large bed draped in red coverings. She looked away quickly and sat across from Jackson on a small pillow. She accepted the cup of tea that he poured for her and her hands trembled. “I’m nervous.”
Jackson smiled. His deep brown eyes held a soulful glow and it felt good to have his gaze on her. “You don’t need to be. Dougal suggested that I get to know you better. We are both just travelers on this journey.”
So this meeting had been Sloane’s idea, as she’d suspected. What was that man’s motive? Sophie sipped her tea. It tasted of jasmine and honey. “I’m curious about your relationships with women. It all seems rather unusual.”
Jackson chuckled. “I guess to outsiders it is. But we in the Society understand that these bodies are merely outward expressions of an inner truth. And your truth is particularly beautiful.”
“I thank you for that.” Giving him a measure of truth felt intuitively right. “I’ve been through a lot actually. My first marriage was not good.”
“Then perhaps God has brought you here for healing. You have nothing to fear from me.” Sophie looked up at Jackson. His expression had not changed: he regarded her calmly, kindly.
“Then what happened to your first three wives?” The question popped out of her mouth.
Jackson’s face seemed to freeze. His lids lowered. He looked into the surface of his teacup. “They had new assignments.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they moved on.”
“Literally or metaphorically?”
Jackson met her gaze, unflinching. He stood with a graceful, fluid movement, remarkable for a man of his age. “I think our visit is over. We would not be a fit, I regret to say.”
Sophie stood as well. She inclined her head. “Thank you for your patience. I meant no disrespect.”
He did not reply.
Sophie exited and walked down the steps of the yurt. Dark had fallen early, with a massing of clouds over the steep walls of the valley. The promise of a storm had brought a damp thickness to the air that increased the apprehensive tightness in her chest.
She’d tipped her hand. This was why she was better behind her computers. Coming out here had been a mistake. Getting back and retrieving the phone, hidden under her mattress, was imperative. Sophie sped up, hurrying along the graveled pathway toward the group sleeping yurt.
“Going somewhere?” Dougal Sloane’s silky brogue caught her from the shadows at the same time as his hand clamped around her arm just above the elbow. “Sandoval tells me you weren’t his type. You ask too many questions.”
Sophie hunched her shoulders and pretended a sob. “I’m so sorry. My ex was abusive, and I’m just not ready…”
Sloane kept a grip on her arm and swung in front of her to block her escape. “It’s time we had a private talk.” He towed her down a side path toward the two-story wooden building where he spent a lot of time. She’d never been inside, nor been told what it was used for. Could she still bluff or fake her way out of this?
No. Nothing good could come from letting this man get her inside that building.
Sophie yanked her arm down, breaking his grip, and spun away. But he was faster than expected. Lashing out with a fist, he hit her in the back of the head.
Sophie flew forward and fell to her knees, reeling. Quick. Experienced dirty fighter. A lot bigger than me.
She curled her fists, filling them with gravel as he leaped after her, grabbing her by her short-cropped, curly hair. Unfortunately, her hair was still long enough that he could get a grip and yank her back onto her feet. The pain was excruciating, bringing tears to her eyes, and she gave a cry. She flung a handful of the gravel into his face, and though he cursed, he kept towing her toward the door.
Sloane was clearly intent on getting her inside the building before she could attract any attention.
Which meant she had to scream. Sophie opened her mouth just as he yanked her forward against his side and clamped an arm over her throat in a yoke chokehold, cutting off her air. He tucked her under his thick arm like she was tiny, not a five foot nine athlete.
Sophie went limp, letting her body weight drop, hoping to loosen his hold—but that just tightened the chokehold on her neck. Her vision dimmed as he strode rapidly toward the door of the building, her feet dragging on the ground.
Sophie caught her feet back under her enough to push up suddenly, arching up to fling the handful of gravel into Sloane’s face. He gave a furious grunt and his arm loosened. Sophie got her feet under her and kicked him backward in the knee. His leg buckled.
She spun loose from his grip, jumping backward into a ready stance. As he came after her with an inarticulate growl, she nailed him with an uppercut and then a left knee kick. He staggered back, and she moved in, taking advantage of his surprise at her aggressive attack to hit him with kick and punch combinations until he was up against the wooden wall, his arms up to protect his head—which left his kidneys and midsection for her to work over.
He rallied the moment she backed off to see if he was giving up, coming at her in a charge that caught her around the waist and drove her backward, lifting her off her feet. He heaved her up and threw her over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of her.
So far their struggle had been a quiet one, marked only by grunts and gasps and the rattle of gravel. She had to make noise, but couldn’t draw a breath with his shoulder in her diaphragm as he spun and headed back toward the door again.
He smelled of sweat, rage, and musky garlic, and he outweighed her by close to a hundred pounds. She could tell by the grip he had on her ass that rape was on his mind, right after he beat the shit out of her.
Sophie arched up with upper back strength, flinging herself backward, using his shoulder as a lever—and the power of her move broke his hold so that she landed on her feet in front of him.
She dodged a huge roundhouse swing and drew enough breath to scream.
“Bitch!” Sloane snarled, and lashed out with his left foot, getting her in the side. Sophie groaned as air whooshed out of her and her ribs buckled. Rolling with the momentum of Sloane’s move, Sophie pistoned off of her right foot and landed a punch to his jaw, rocking his head back—and she kept going, dodging under his reaching arm and leaping for freedom.
If Mary Watson hadn’t worn dresses, she might have gotten away.
Sloane’s fist captured the billow of her above-the-knee skirt. The garment tightened over her body, bringing her to a stumbling halt. He grabbed her hair again with the other hand and yanked her off her feet.
Sophie’s scream was as loud as she could make it, but he punched her in the head and an abrupt explosion of colored light extinguished her voice.