Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

“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.

“Good and strong, I hope.”

“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.”