April 2, 2016
Taos, New Mexico

The morning was crisp and clear. Melting snow filled in the spaces around the trees and left the trail along the chalet’s ski runs muddy. Hiram Beecher slipped on a wet slab of rock, banging his shoulder against a piñon pine. He righted himself and continued hiking upwards, barely noticing the tear in his jacket. Overhead the ski lift swayed in the morning breeze. It would have been easier to use the lift but the walk was therapeutic. Testing my knee, he told himself. To his surprise he felt remarkably pain-free, at least physically. His heart, on the other hand, felt ripped in two.

Myriam had left that morning, her face set in a grimace of pain, frustration, and anger. All of it directed at him. He accepted it as the price he had to pay for keeping secrets from her.

He reached the top of the hill. The valley spread out in front of him, peaceful and quiet. As far as the world knew, nothing unusual had happened in northern New Mexico’s wilderness yesterday. That’s how Beecher was coming to think about it. On the other hand, he was relieved by finally having told Myriam the truth about everything. Now he had to live with the consequences. So it was with a heavy heart that he pulled out his phone and pushed the contact entry for Brother Paul. There was only a recording. He waited for the tone and left a message. “This is Hiram Beecher. I’m done. Don’t contact me again.” Beecher pushed the end call button. He could’ve said more—a lot more. About how Brother Paul used him and was as dishonest as the day was long, and that if the son of a bitch ever tried contacting him again, he’d tear his limbs off one by one. But confessing everything to Myriam had had a psychological cathartic effect, like a ritual cleansing of the soul and spirit. He had finally freed himself of the Brothers of the Lord.

As for the South Africans, his instincts told him that as long as he kept his mouth shut they would leave him alone. He was also sure their pursuit of Adam was over. Everyone was back to square one. And their relationship with Brother Paul—that was no longer any of his business.

The crunch of snow underfoot riveted Beecher’s attention back down the trail. A shadow moved through the trees. Pulling his handgun from his belt, Beecher thought ruefully, Perhaps I was wrong about the South Africans. Then he heard the high-pitched voice of Conklin.

“Wait up,” the man wheezed in the high cold mountain air.

Once again questions about Conklin’s motivation for helping him shot through him. Is he an ally or enemy?