Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

Stewart sighed. “We first went after them four years ago. A woman came to us, claiming that she’d been raped and held captive against her will.”

Gary felt cold.

“At that point, we knew of the Homesteaders—they used to come into town for groceries and gas, supplies and whatnot—but as far as we were concerned, they were just a bunch of religious wackos, neohippie survivalists who kept to themselves and did no harm.”

“They’ve been there forever,” Hubbard added. “My dad remembers the Homesteaders being there when he was a kid.”

“But they hadn’t had much to do with outsiders and no one really gave them much thought. Then this woman escaped, she said, from captivity, and claimed that she’d been imprisoned in the Home for over a year and repeatedly raped by the leader of the cult, who she called ‘Father.’ We immediately obtained a warrant, but before we could serve it and arrest this ‘Father,’ our victim had a change of heart—”

“They got to her,” Hubbard said angrily.

The sheriff nodded. “They got to her. I don’t know how, although I assume it happened in the hospital in Fort Albin, where she was being examined for evidence of rape, but all of a sudden we got a call and it was her, and she was desperate to drop all charges—”

“Scared,” Hubbard said.

“She was scared,” Stewart agreed. He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “I chose to continue, figuring we had a case even without her cooperation, figuring we could get her cooperation back once we showed her how strong the case was…” He trailed off.

“What happened?” Gary prodded.

“She threw herself down a flight of stairs.”

“Or was thrown ,” Hubbard said.

“There was no proof. We couldn’t prove anything, either way. I arrested this ‘Father,’ who, no surprise, refused to give us his real name. We checked his prints, but they weren’t on file anywhere, and we could find no way to positively ID him. He was not in any system, and we could find no one willing to vouch for his identity. Our guess is that he was born in the Home and has lived there all of his life, but on the complaint we were forced to refer to him as ‘John Doe,’ as crazy as that sounds.

“I asked the DA to prosecute based on the victim’s initial statement, but the case was kicked the second it went before a judge. ‘Father’ was already free, anyway. He had a high-powered lawyer who got him out of jail after the first night.”

“Wow,” Stacy said.

“Yeah. Anyway, next time around, it was a boy who claimed he was drugged and kidnapped, a student from College Station whose mother, after the death of her husband, had sold everything she owned and become a member of the cult. The boy had been concerned about her, had started making inquiries, and one day he’d come home to his apartment to find two men waiting for him. They drugged him, abducted him and brought him to the Home.”

“That sounds familiar,” Reyn said, looking at Gary.

“He was a smart kid. Resourceful. And big . Played fullback for the Aggies. He managed to fight his way free, and after he got out of the Home came directly to us, told us everything. So we got a warrant and raided the place, but someone must have tipped them off because we went over those buildings with a fine-toothed comb and found no drugs whatsoever, no indication that anyone had ever been held there against their will.”

Gary looked at Reyn. “You’re right. Déjà vu all over again.”

“We had dogs , and even they couldn’t sniff anything out. The Homesteaders, of course, were as polite as you please, very helpful, pulling that deferential religious act. We interviewed anyone we could find, but they all toed the party line, claimed they’d never seen the kid before. And we couldn’t find that many people. It was like everyone had taken off or was hiding somewhere. We searched the compound anyway, took a lot of pictures, and we did see some weird things: no bathrooms, a kitchen where a cook was butchering a possum, a chapel filled with the strangest-looking worshippers I’ve ever seen, a round room filled with homemade coffins, a triangular room where women were cutting big sheets of paper into little rectangles, huge pictures of our old buddy ‘Father’ everywhere you looked. But nothing illegal and nothing that was specified in the warrant.

“The kid still stuck to his guns, though, and swore out a complaint, and this time it did go to trial. Again, they had a high-priced lawyer, and the fact that his own mother said he was lying—and, brainwashed or not, she was a damn good witness, very sympathetic—as well as the fact that we had no physical evidence and it was basically a he-said/she-said situation, practically guaranteed that they were going to win. They did, and the kid vowed to file a civil suit, but we never heard from him again.

“Third time a couple came to us, claiming that their daughter had been kidnapped by the Homesteaders. Again, we got a warrant, went in, and there was no sign of her. In fact, the parents themselves disappeared. The phone number they gave us was disconnected, the address false.” Stewart breathed deeply. “I’m still hoping that one was a setup. But it’s more than possible that someone made them disappear.

“After that, the harassment case was brought against us, listing the county, the entire department, and me and my men individually. There’ve been delays and postponements, so it hasn’t gone to trial yet, but it’s been winding its way through the system for at least a year. Needless to say, the county attorney has ordered us to stay away from the Home and avoid contact with any of the cult members.”

The deputy looked at Gary. “Which is why we’re lucky you showed up.”

“Exactly. There are four of you who are eyewitnesses and victims. We have drugging, kidnapping, breaking and entering, robbery, murder or attemped murder, and it’s across state lines and being investigated by Los Angeles police. And two of the Homesteaders are in custody. If we can tie all this together, it’s a slam dunk.”

“I’m not sure about the robbery charge,” Gary said. “They broke into my dorm room and trashed it. But they didn’t take anything. I don’t think I had what they were looking for.”

“Oh, you might’ve. And they might’ve gotten it. But they won’t take anything physical. ‘Thou shalt not steal’ and all that. They’re strict followers of the Bible, even though they’re a little loose around the edges. Tell me, have you noticed since then that your credit cards don’t work, or—”

“Yes!” Gary said.

The sheriff nodded. “They probably got information off your computer. That they don’t consider stealing, and it’s probably why they were there in the first place. They try to come off as simple, old-fashioned back-to-the-land types, but let me tell you, they use some sophisticated terrorist tactics to go after their enemies. Believe me, I know.”

“Why?” Stacy said. “What happened?”

“My credit rating was ruined. So were the credit ratings of my entire staff and half of the county employees. I ended up having to convince my own bank that I was me, and it took two years to prove to them that I owned my own house. Everyone here has a similar story.”

“Yep,” Hubbard agreed, lips tight.

“Let me tell you about Len Hearn, our then–district attorney. Len had it the worst. He was served with papers for back payment of child support, though he’d never been married and never had a kid. His pickup truck was repossessed and his house was foreclosed on, even though he had never missed a payment on either. Oh, and his bank account was cleaned out, every last dollar he had transferred electronically to a company in Barbados.” The sheriff paused. “Len killed himself, blew out his brains with a twenty-two.”