Megan
At Detective Jackson’s direction, I had pulled the car over on a small rise on Old Granbury Road, about a quarter mile from the property owned by the People of Peace. She wanted to get the lay of the land before we went in.
Out here on the plains, the land was covered primarily by grass and scrubby mesquite trees. Mesquites weren’t much to look at and provided scant shade, but their beans had served as a major food source for settlers and pioneers. In the mid 1800s, those on the Texan Santa Fe Expedition, whose mission was to secure trade routes with New Mexico, even boiled mesquite beans as a substitute for coffee. As for me, I’d stick with my freshly ground French roast, thank you very much.
While this area was about as far as you could get from downtown and still be in the city limits, the suburbs had begun to encroach, new housing developments popping up within a mile or two of the compound. A few more years and the People of Peace could find themselves adjacent to a big box store, car dealership, or fast-food franchise.
I’d let Brigit out for a potty break on the side of the road, but she had yet to tinkle. So far all she’d done was engage in a staring contest with an enormous longhorn munching on grass inside the fence. When she whipped out her tongue and licked his face, he issued a snort and stomped a big hoof. No sense upsetting the bull. If he got angry enough, the barbed wire might not be enough to stop him.
“Come on, girl. He’s still a bull, not a burger.” I gave a gentle tug on Brigit’s leash. “Back in the car.”
My partner turned her head and gave me a sour look, but obeyed.
When I returned to the driver’s seat, Detective Jackson lowered the small pair of binoculars she’d been using to survey the compound. “I see a Dodge Ram pickup, a Chevy Silverado, and a Toyota Tacoma. No Ford F-150.”
Did that mean we were off base coming here? That the peace sign on the blanket was just a peace sign and not the symbol of this group? Or did it just mean the truck was elsewhere at the moment, or maybe parked somewhere out of sight?
Jackson handed me the binoculars. “Take a look. Tell me if you see anything of note.”
According to the quick research Jackson had performed online back at the station, the waterfront property on Lake Benbrook had been purchased by the People of Peace in 1987. It included eighteen acres that had previously served as a summer camp for kids, as well as an adjacent thirty-seven acres zoned for agricultural use.
I put the glasses to my eyes and scanned the property. “Whoa!”
I’d expected the place to look like an austere military outpost, but it was nothing of the sort. Rather, the place was beautiful, a virtual paradise on the Texas prairie, colorful, lush, and inviting.
In the center of the compound was a tall wood building with a pointed roof and bell tower. The building had been painted a crisp white. Rows of narrow stained-glass windows ran along each side. The combination cross-and-peace-sign symbol was painted in bright green paint on the double doors. That particular building, which I’d pegged as the group’s church, was flanked with vibrant red knockout roses. The bushes were still in full bloom thanks to the fact that Texas summers ignored the calendar and generally overlapped well into the fall.
To one side of the church was a long brick building with a wide porch and a metal triangle hanging from the eaves. My guess was that the building had once served as the children’s camp dining hall and now served as the communal eating place for the compound’s residents. The bricks had been painted robin’s egg blue with white trim. Several wooden picnic tables were arranged outside the doors in the shade of a large live oak so that the residents could enjoy their meals outside in nice weather.
There were a number of other large buildings scattered around the property. Most of these were also built of brick, and sported similar cheerful paint in bright hues. The two long structures on either side of the dining hall appeared to be bunkhouses. One was painted lavender, the other a sage green, respectively the women’s and men’s quarters would be my guess. On the other side of the church was a square building with yellow paint, flanked by an expansive playground complete with monkey bars, five swings, a jungle gym, and both a straight and swirly slide. The yellow building must be the school.
Two large wooden barns sat side by side, both painted the traditional bright red. The doors to both of them were open. One revealed a handful of men moving about the heavy equipment inside. Another man sauntered out of the barn with a fishing pole over his shoulder, evidently headed to Lake Benbrook, which sat at their doorstep. Poofs of gray smoke wafted from a black stovepipe emerging from the barn’s roof. Women moved about inside the other barn, evidently working too, though from this distance I couldn’t discern exactly what they were doing. Just outside the door of the women’s barn was a wooden pen in which one might expect to find pigs or goats. Instead, several toddlers teetered about safely inside, overseen by a grandmotherly woman who sat in a rocking chair, a chubby baby on her lap. Another older woman pushed a baby in a swing that hung from an overhead beam. Despite the church’s relatively primitive ways, on-site day care for working mothers was a progressive idea.
Closer to the gates stood a wide aluminum prefab building with four extra-tall garage-style doors. A green John Deere tractor sat on the gravel in front of the building. The building probably stored other lawn and farming equipment. Could the pickup be parked inside, too?
At the far end of the property was a small house, probably the leader’s residence. An even smaller structure, hardly bigger than a child’s playhouse, was situated between the house and the rest of the property. The purpose of that particular structure was unclear.
In addition to the buildings, the compound included a rectangular swimming pool enclosed in safety fence, a basketball court, a tennis court, a baseball diamond, and a sand volleyball court. Soccer goals sat at either end of a long, grassy area. A croquet court had been set up on a stretch of grass, too, as had a badminton net. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the place was a family-friendly lakeside resort.
A chicken coop had been erected along the western edge of the compound, the hens pecking around in the sunshine in the outdoor part of their enclosure. Two older girls emerged from the henhouse, carrying baskets filled with enough eggs to host the biggest Easter egg hunt or make the world’s biggest frittata. Women worked in a vegetable garden nearby gathering cantaloupes, while a trio of frisky dogs frolicked up and down the rows, not a care in the world. Next to the vegetable garden was a gorgeous flower garden with a reflecting pond covered in water lilies. A man with a white beard sat on a bench, seemingly enjoying the beauty around him.
A stone wall covered in honeysuckle, morning glories, and trumpet vine formed a perimeter around the compound, separating the People of Peace from the rest of the world. The compound appeared to be the ultimate gated community, offering all kinds of amenities right on your doorstep.
Interestingly, while there were many trees scattered about the compound, all of them were well within the interior, leaving a clear perimeter inside the wall. There was a similar perimeter around the outside, all foliage near the wall removed. It reminded me of the perimeter around the state prison in Hunstville, the city in which I’d attended college. The perimeter reduced the risk that inmates could escape, and allowed guards a clear shot at them if they did. I supposed the same general idea applied to these grounds. The owners of the children’s camp had likely cleared trees from along the walls to discourage naughty adolescents from climbing the trees to sneak off or onto the camp property. Of course, the People of Peace could have planted trees in the open spaces if they’d chosen to, but they hadn’t. Were the leaders of the church also trying to keep their people from escaping?
With the binoculars still at my eyes, I said, “The place looks idyllic.”
Jackson harrumphed. “Looks can be deceiving.”
She could say that again. In my police work I’d encountered person after person who wasn’t at all what they appeared to be. A peeping Tom, a corrupt politician, and, most recently, a stalker. All of them had seemed like nice enough folks at first glance. But when the truth eventually came out, I’d learned that there was evil hiding behind their harmless façades.
At the far end of the property sat an array of solar panels to provide power to the compound. Being this far out and built so long ago, the camp likely utilized well water and a septic system. With eggs from the chicken coop, crops from the vegetable garden and adjacent farmland, and fish from the lake, one could live their entire life on the property and want for nothing. It wasn’t a surprise the group would aim to be self-sustaining. They seemed to want no part of the world outside their walls. This compound was their refuge, their bit of heaven on earth. Besides, if they were self-sustaining, it would mean that the authorities couldn’t turn off their electricity or cut off their food supplies in an attempt to force them out, as the federal government had done with the Branch Davidians in Waco. It was a clever strategy. I made a mental note to head for the compound in the event of a zombie apocalypse. The People of Peace would probably be the last to succumb to the undead.
My mind went from contemplating the compound as a zombie refuge to wondering why such a factional, faith-based group would not keep the baby among them. Why send one of their own, an innocent, defenseless baby no less, out into the evil outside world? Why not raise her in their faith and their fold?
Movement at the edge of my field of vision caught my attention and I shifted my focus to an old, slightly cockeyed silo on the adjacent farmland. As I watched, a man climbed down a ladder affixed to the silo. Brave guy. As rusty as the ladder looked, it could give way at any moment and send him plummeting to his death on the dirt below. Rather than risk seeing that happen, I returned the binoculars to Detective Jackson. “Nothing’s jumping out at me.”
“All right,” she said. “Let’s roll.”
I cranked the engine, slid the cruiser into gear, and drove down the small hill. At the bottom, I turned onto the gravel road that led to the compound’s gate, which was set back a hundred yards or so from the main road. Two signs in the same red color and shape of stop signs sat on either side of the road. Rather than STOP, however, they read, respectively, PRIVATE PROPERTY and NO TRESPASSING. The signs didn’t stop me and the detective. We were on a mission.
Dust clouded up in our wake as the gravel ping-ping-pinged against the bottom and sides of the squad car. As we pulled up to the gate, we were greeted by another improvised stop sign mounted on the metal bars. This one was at least four feet across and read PRIVATE—NO ENTRY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Jackson eyed the sign and turned to me. “Not exactly welcoming, are they?”
“Not at all.”
Up close like this, I realized the stone walls were even higher than I’d estimated, ten or maybe even twelve feet tall. I briefly flashed back to my days in the police academy, where we recruits had to scale a six-foot chain-link fence. It wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination, but at least you could get a toehold in the links, wrap your fingers around the top of the fence for leverage. As smooth as these stones were, only a skilled rock climber would be able to get a grip or toehold and scale this towering wall without a rope.
I pulled the squad car to a stop in front of the wide iron gate situated in the northeast corner of the property. Inside, a wooden privacy fence formed a wall to the right, with a second gate at the end. The setup reminded me of the two-gate installations at many dog parks, designed to prevent dogs from escaping the enclosure. Was this double-gate design intended to prevent residents from escaping? Could be. It seemed that the tall bushes planted behind the second gate were also designed to obscure the view if anyone tried to get a peek into the place.
We waited for a moment or two, but no one came to the gate. I glanced over at the keypad for the security system mounted on a pole to my left. Without a code, the keypad was useless to us. Then again, at the bottom of the pad was a circle of small holes. A speaker. Maybe we could rouse someone. I was about to ask Detective Jackson what we should do when she reached over and flipped on my siren. WOO-WOO!
When I reflexively jumped in my seat, she cut me a glance. “Sorry. I’m not feeling patient this morning.” She flipped the siren on again, twice in quick succession. WOO-WOO! WOO-WOO!
We watched the gates and, half a minute later, a man appeared behind the second one. He held a leash in his hand. A furry, fanged mutt that looked more monster than dog was at the other end of it, a shiny choke collar encircling his neck. The man was dressed in thick cargo pants and an untucked khaki shirt that likewise had a lot of pockets. Unfortunately, he looked nothing like the man the sketch artist had drawn. Though he was Caucasian and appeared to be around the same age as the suspect—thirty or so—this guy had dark hair, a round and clean-shaven face, and a wide nose. His build was wrong, too. The guy who’d left the baby was tall and lean, while this guy was of average height and stocky.
Both the detective and I raised a hand in greeting. Rather than return the gesture, he stared at us for a long moment.
Jackson muttered, “Come on, guy. We haven’t got all day.” She turned her hand the other way and waved him forward.
He pulled a key chain out of his pocket, thumbed through the set until he found the right one, and inserted it into a heavy-duty padlock holding the second gate closed.
Jackson and I exchanged a glance. The fact that the second gate had a different type of locking mechanism, one controlled by a key, told us that whoever was in charge here strictly controlled the comings and goings of the People of Peace. They also controlled access by anyone from the outside world. Nobody would get on—or off—this property without permission.
As Jackson climbed out of the car, I unrolled the windows so Brigit could get air. She raised her nose to the mesh and sniffed, her nostrils twitching as she took in the scents carried on the breeze. I exited the car and together Jackson and I approached the first gate.
“Good morning!” Detective Jackson called cheerfully.
The man stopped halfway between the gates. “’Mornin’.” His speech might be casual, but there was nothing relaxed about his stiff posture and the wary look in his eyes. The dog, too, was stiff and wary. “Somethin’ I can do for y’all?” the man asked.
“There sure is.” Jackson stepped right up to the gate and thrust her hand through the bars. “I’m Audrey Jackson, a detective with the Fort Worth Police Department.” She angled her head to indicate me. “That’s Officer Luz.”
I stepped up and put my hand out, too, briefly wondering if the man would grab it and yank on it until my head slammed into the metal bars. In my time on the force, I’d learned anything was possible. Luckily for us, he made no such move. Instead, the man dropped the dog’s leash and came forward. He tentatively shook our hands, but failed to identify himself.
Nonplussed, Jackson said, “How would you like me to refer to you, sir?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m Jebediah.”
A biblical name if ever there was one. Now that we were face-to-face, I gave him a closer look. Nothing struck me as unusual until my eyes reached his boots. They’re dusty. Seth had mentioned that the man who dropped off the baby had dust on his hat. Was it nothing more than coincidence? Dusty boots would be expected in a place that lacked pavement. But this dust wasn’t the whitish-gray type that came from gravel. It was light brown and seemed thicker and coarser than the usual dirt particles a person would pick up from the ground. My eyes made a second sweep, moving upward. Dust had settled on his shoulders and in his hair, too. The pockets of his shirt were lumpy, the head of what appeared to be a screw sticking out of the pocket on his right.
“I’m hoping you can help us,” Jackson said. “A frantic mother and father came by the station this morning. They said their daughter has seemed upset and unhappy lately. The girl left the house yesterday evening and hasn’t been back since.”
Police were not required to tell the truth when interrogating suspects or fishing for information. A certain amount of trickery was permitted in the interests of justice. To that end, Jackson reached into her pocket and pulled out a photo of a smiling teenaged girl with milk-chocolate skin and loose curls that played about her face. I recognized the photo as one of her niece that she normally displayed on the bookshelf in her office. She held up the photo so Jebediah could take a look. He cut his eyes to the picture before turning them back on Jackson.
She tucked the picture back into her pocket. “The mother says her daughter’s been going through some spiritual turmoil, been trying different churches, looking for answers. They don’t live too far down the road. We thought she might have come here.”
“She didn’t,” Jebediah said.
“How can you be sure?” Jackson asked.
“Because I’d have been told if she had,” he said plainly. “Nobody’s come by.”
Jackson nodded. “I understand, and I’ve got no reason to doubt you. Still, the girl’s only seventeen, a minor. It would be best for everyone, you and your group included, if Officer Luz and I came in and took a look for ourselves. You know, just so’s we can assure her parents we made an honest effort and that nobody’s hiding her.” She gestured at the gate. “Open this thing on up and we’ll be in and out before you know it.”
“Sorry,” Jebediah said. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not authorized to let outsiders in,” he said. “It’s not my decision to make.”
Jackson’s smile didn’t falter. “Okay. Then get me someone who can make that decision.”
The man hesitated for a brief moment before giving a quick nod, stepping back, and turning to retreat through the second gate, locking it behind him.
Though the detective and I shared furtive glances, we said nothing as we waited for him to return. For all we knew, someone was listening through the speaker on the keypad.
A full ten minutes later, Jebediah returned and once again unlocked the interior gate. Though he appeared to be alone, it was clear from the glance he cast to his side that someone else waited out of view. After he slid the gate open, he stepped back, interlocked his fingers over his belly, and bowed his head deferentially.
From around the corner came a man in his fifties with a white beard, a dark brown robe belted at the waist, and lace-up work boots. He resembled Obi-Wan Kenobi or an age-progression of Jesus, had the carpenter/messiah not been nailed to a cross in his early thirties. The Jedi Jesus carried himself with the confidence of someone who was used to getting his way, who ruled his kingdom, who knew the force was with him.
He strode up to the gate, and looked me and Jackson over before eyeing the cruiser. The man’s gaze seemed to narrow slightly when he spotted Brigit standing in the back, her tail wagging. He returned his attention to me and the detective. “Good morning, ladies.”
Jackson returned his greeting, while I responded only with a dip of my head.
“Are you the guy in charge?” Jackson asked.
“No.” The man chuckled and pointed a finger up to the sky. “He is the guy in charge.”
“Of course.” Jackson played along, offering the man a chuckle in return. “But He’s got you on duty down here, right?”
“Yes, He most certainly does.” The man’s gray eyes went from one of us to the other. “I understand you’re looking for a young woman?”
“We are,” Jackson said. She pulled out the photo again and showed it to the man. “We think she may have come this way. We just need to come inside, verify that she’s not here, and we’ll be on our way. Nobody’s in any trouble here, so there’s no need for concern. We’d just like to get her found and back home so we can get about our day.”
The man extended his arms to his sides in the quintessential holy statue stance. “I’m sorry, ladies, but that is not possible.”
“Why not?” Jackson asked.
He lowered his hands. “Because my people do not wish for their peace to be intruded upon. We’ve created a life of safety and solace here, sheltered from the evils of the outside world. As I am sure you can surmise, allowing armed police officers into our home would disturb the peace my people have sought and found here.”
A vein pulsed in Jackson’s jaw. “What’s your name, sir?”
“I’m Father Emmanuel,” he replied.
“I meant your given name.”
His mouth spread in a patronizing grin while his arms spread again. “That’s the name the good Lord gave me when I answered his call.”
So he’d answer God’s call, but not our questions, huh?
Jackson’s vein pulsed a second time, but she didn’t push him to more clearly identify himself. “Father Emmanuel,” she said in her most calm, polite voice. “I respect what you’ve built here. But Officer Luz and I can be quick and discreet. Your people will hardly know we’re here. Surely you and your people would not want someone to unduly suffer.”
“Romans chapter five says we must glory in our sufferings,” he replied, refusing to budge. “Suffering produces perseverance, character, and hope. But if you would like to leave your contact information, we would be happy to ask the young woman to get in touch with you if she does happen to come by our refuge.”
“We’d appreciate that.” Jackson retrieved a business card and handed it to him. I did the same.
Father Emmanuel read over our cards before tucking them into a pouch on his belt. “Good day, Detective Jackson.” He gave her a nod before turning to me and doing the same. “Officer Luz.” With that, he turned and strode back through the second gate and out of sight.
With one last baleful look in our direction, Jebediah locked the gate and likewise disappeared.
The detective and I returned to the cruiser. Brigit flopped down on her platform and issued a sigh, seemingly disappointed she hadn’t been asked to chase or trail a suspect or search for drugs. Despite sometimes sleeping on the job, the dog had a good work ethic.
I maneuvered the cruiser in a tight three-point turn to head back down the gravel road. “What now?” I asked Jackson.
“We try to get a search warrant. They might be God’s chosen people, but even they can’t say no to a search warrant.”