The Prophet Motive (13 page)

The flashlight beam moved on to Marilyn before it disappeared and a man’s nasal voice said, “About time you two showed up.” The deputy shook their hands in the center of the farm road. “Where’ve you been?”

“Never mind that right now,” John said. “Got any meat?”

“Meat?” Fry asked.

“Some beef jerky, or a baloney sandwich, or whatever. I got a craving for meat like I’m a pregnant T-Rex.”

“We’re protein starved,” Marilyn explained. “The cult knows it disrupts proper mental functioning.”

“Well?” John said to Fry.

“No meat, sorry.”

“What exactly
do
you have?”

“Doughnuts and coffee.”

They sat in darkness inside the vehicle, John taking the passenger seat, forcing Marilyn into the rear by herself. The uneasiness he’d been feeling since the mystical pond incident evaporated with the first bite of his chocolate glazed. Munching on doughnuts in a squad car again felt like he’d made it back to the womb.

He gave the deputy highlights of their first few days in the cult. He described his unexpected midnight meeting with Tom Mahorn and what he’d learned about the cult’s security measures.

“They just paranoid?” Fry said. “Or do you think they’re hiding something?”

“No way of knowing with these lunatics. Could be dead bodies stacked up in there. Or it could be they’re guarding a giant ball of string.”

“Don’t call them lunatics,” Marilyn mumbled with doughnut in her mouth. “It’s not accurate, or respectful.”

Fry giggled. John guessed his age at twenty-five or less. It took seniority to get off the graveyard shift—or to get out of collaborating with out-of-town law enforcement officials.

From his pocket John withdrew the plastic-wrapped cigarette lighter he’d stolen and tossed it into Deputy Fry’s lap. “Tom Mahorn’s fingerprints. See what the FBI can tell us about him.”

“Nice work.” Fry dropped the lighter into an accordion folder before pouring himself more coffee from his thermos. “You sure you don’t want coffee? Either one of you?”

“We’re sure,” John said. “Sleep is key on this mission.”

“So tell me,” Fry said, “what’s The Wizard’s real name?”

“I was hoping you’d know by now.”

Fry shook his head. “SFPD says they tracked down every last person in the FBI’s database using the ‘Wizard’ alias. All accounted for. Dead. In prison. Anywhere but here.”

“What about the local business records?”

“Didn’t pan out either,” Fry said. “The records say that Natural High Farms is a cooperative. Technically, at least, everyone working here is a part owner. And the only name on any of the ownership documents belongs to Michael Brimley. He’s the farm’s legal counsel.”

“Shit,” John said. He reached for a bear claw.

“Maybe this will help,” Marilyn said. “The Wizard was introduced to us as ‘L. Rob Piper.’ We don’t know what the initial stands for. We asked around, but no one seems to know.”

Fry scribbled the name down in a small notebook. “Nice to have
his
prints too. Just in case this name is also an alias.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” John said. “But the top priority is getting our hands on as many records as we can find. We need to locate their safe houses.”

“Safe houses?” Fry said.

“Places where they hide cult members,” Marilyn said. “Usually from bothersome relatives who come looking for them.”

“We assume they’re hiding Daryl Finck in a safe house,” John said. “So what we’re going to do is break into their administrative offices. Copy records. Plant the bugs I shipped you last week. We’ve got our warrant already.”

“Okay,” Fry said.

“I’d like to case the joint tonight. It’s that old red farmhouse by the front gate.”

“Happy to oblige,” Fry said. “Got night-vision binoculars in the trunk.”

“Great, let’s go.” John polished off his bear claw.

“Oh, before I forget.” Fry reached over and popped open the glove compartment. He withdrew a clear plastic bag with a slim cell phone inside, and handed it to John. “Here. Find a handy hiding place for this. My cell phone is speed-dialed number one, and my home in Visalia is number two.”

“Thanks,” John said.

“Also, I’m off duty tomorrow, but I’ll send another deputy in my place. Same time?”

“Yeah,” John said, “and tell your replacement to bring meat. Bucket from the colonel would be nice. Maybe some Mickey D’s.”

“We might be a little late,” Marilyn said to Fry. “The cult’s sending us on a road trip tomorrow with The Wizard. It’s a reward. Today, we agreed to stay on the farm indefinitely.”

“Where you going?” Fry said. He cranked the engine.

“Tijuana,” she said. “To a bullfight, to protest cruelty to animals.”

“Cruelty to humans,” John said, “they don’t have a problem with.”

To Marilyn the sun seemed so close overhead that she might reach up into the sky and poke ozone holes with her finger. Her skin was hot pink in places. She’d spent too many hours outdoors in recent days without suntan lotion, or without enough. At least the sun’s power had begun to wane, the afternoon growing late.

She sat among the ten thousand spectators filling up Plaza Monumental Stadium, a circular edifice that towered above the shore of the Pacific Ocean, a few miles west of Tijuana, Mexico. She’d been told, during the six-hour psychedelic bus ride across the border, that it was the largest bullring in the Americas.

She spotted The Wizard and Tom Mahorn sitting ringside, about twelve rows directly below her. John she found seated five rows above her and a few yards off to the left. She was in the midst of more than two hundred Earthbound members, all secretly poised to stage a protest against cruelty to animals.

The crowd roared as brass fanfare erupted and mounted constables in black and white period costume led a small procession of men into the ring. Three matadors and their assistants paraded around in a wide circle, waving to the crowd. The matadors wore shimmering vests and trousers studded with brightly colored brocades. Marilyn’s English language program guide called the attire
suits of light
.

Her eyes swept through the crowd, singling out random spectators. She worried about what might happen when Earthbound’s protest erupted.

Any group of gringos drawn to this traditional Mexican ritual not to participate in it, but to vilify it, might inadvertently start a riot. She eyed one of the vendors serving beer in bottles, seeing riot starter fluid, glass projectiles.

Certainly a riot wasn’t what The Wizard sought. This trip, she assumed, was designed to keep the idealism of his followers charged, and possibly also to attract new followers.

But had the cult leader overlooked the risk involved here? Or was there another underlying purpose to the protest?

A man seated directly behind Marilyn grazed her shoulder blades for the third time in under a minute. “Careful with those knees,” she said, resulting in a mumbled apology.

“Sister Marilyn, you’re unhappy?” Aura said. Earlier in the day, Marilyn and the other recruits had been instructed to always preface the first names of fellow Earthbound members with
Sister
or
Brother
as appropriate.

“My sunburn’s made me a little cranky, I suppose.” It seemed that unless she maintained a constant smile, she would draw suspicious attention.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Aura said with a beatific air. “Try to let the power of your own mind free you of your pain and discomfort.”

“But I’m Scandinavian,” she said. “I need SPF-thirty just to open the microwave.”

“The power of your own mind,” Aura repeated sagely.

The ring cleared. When an elderly man a few rows above ringside flamboyantly waved a white handkerchief over his head, the first bull entered from the bullpen through a gate, its glossy black hide shimmering in the sun.

The crowd broke into a sustained cheer, but Marilyn failed to join in. The animal frightened her. It was as bulky as a cruise liner yet scampered with grace and speed, kicking up great clumps of yellow sand and dust. Between its mammoth shoulders a quivering hump ran from the top of the neck to the middle of the back. It was a muscle, she realized, a monstrous crest of power that seemed to assure lethal force to a simple flick of the bull’s nasty, upturned, ivory horns.

She recalled a brief patch of The Wizard’s lecture on the bus during the ride to Tijuana. For the last four hundred years, the fighting bulls had been specially bred to attain great size and strength, to be quick to anger, to be combative. The Wizard had declared the practice an abomination against nature. The fighting bulls, he’d said, were now fast enough to outrun horses at short distances, strong enough to throw a horse and rider clear over its back, and mean and reckless enough to charge freight trains.

One of the matadors entered the ring alone. He wore a tight, shimmering blue and yellow suit of light, showcasing his muscular legs and buttocks. He walked regally, draping a large magenta and gold cape across his forearm.

In the stands, in the corner of her vision, Marilyn caught a whirl of bright yellow fabric cascading downward, followed by a loud thump. Two rows in front of her, off to the right, a tawny-haired young woman had fainted dead away. It was Kira, the German exchange student.

“Omigod!” Marilyn cried.

“She’ll be okay,” Aura said, unperturbed, as others tended to the stricken woman.

Anger bubbled Marilyn’s bloodstream as she watched Kira’s limp body being carried off by two male cult members. The woman had undoubtedly fainted from the effects of an inadequate diet, too much physical exertion, and too little sleep. Some people had more difficulty than others adjusting to the new demands and deprivations of cult life.

“Do you remember the plan?” Aura asked. “What to say and do?” Marilyn stated that she did, but Aura insisted she repeat it all back to be sure.

“Near the end of the first bull fight,” Marilyn said, “when the matador thrusts his sword into the bull, I stand with the others, point at the matador, and start shouting ‘Murderer!’ over and over until all hell breaks loose.”

“All hell is not going to break loose,” Aura said. “But if, somehow, it does, don’t worry. The Wizard will know what to do.”

John had attended a few bullfights over the years, during boozy fishing trips along the Baja with his partner, Eddie, and other guys from the precinct. He remembered what to call the two men on horseback who had just entered the bullring, each pointing an eight-foot lance toward the sky. They were the picadors. Their job was to weaken the bull. The chestnut steeds they rode wore shimmering green and gold suits of light, made with heavy padding to protect their torsos and legs.

One of the picadors spurred his horse in the ribs so that it high-stepped in front of the bull to receive a charge. John knew of the danger that horse and rider would be flipped into the air, but when the bull crashed violently into the padded chest of the horse, only a little sand on the ring floor seemed disturbed.

Over the next fifteen minutes the bull attacked the horses repeatedly. Ferociously. Meanwhile, the matador tantalized the doomed creature with his cape, guiding it to different spots in the ring. When at last the bull tired visibly, the picadors thrust their lances into its neck to weaken it further and to encourage the bull to lower its head so that it would follow the matador’s cape more closely.

The picadors and their bloody lances vacated the ring, and the second act began, starring a pair of banderilleros, men who stuck banderillas into the bull, two-foot wooden sticks with a barbed tip and festively colored paper frills.

The banderilleros completed their work, leaving the animal with four of the banderillas dangling from each side, two pair in the shoulders, two in the thick hump of muscle between the shoulders. Bugle fanfare announced the third and final act.

A loud buzz of anticipation engulfed the arena. The matador presented himself in front of the judge, who sat near ringside. After receiving a nod of permission to kill the bull, the matador waved to the crowd with his three-cornered black hat, then tossed it on the ground. Finishing the job hatless was a gesture of respect for the bull.

John noted the spectators. Whether cult members, tourists, or local Mexicans, he found the same wide eyes and the same faces, pulled taut by a rabid animal enthusiasm. The air was a strange, unnerving mix of blood lust and fear.

The matador approached the bull while holding a small red flannel cape. His silver sword remained sheathed at his side. The bloodied, festooned beast made a series of half-hearted charges. The matador countered with his cape, making flashy passes, earning an “Ole!” from the crowd each time.

The animal grew listless, so listless, it seemed to John, that it barely posed a threat to a china shop. With the next pass, the matador brought the slow-moving bull’s horns intentionally close to his own heart, a ritualistic tempting of fate.

“Watch out!” warned some of the Earthbound spectators, as if forgetting whose side they were on.