But those friends had been happy, and they’d talked to Jessie about the beauty of their commune, far from the crazy greed and speed of the city.
In the beginning, Brother William’s commune did seem to offer it all: happiness, unity, love and light.
But now they knew the truth.
Brother William—with his “deacons,” his demands on his “flock” and the cache of arms he kept stowed away as he created his empire—was demanding absolute power for himself, complete obedience among his followers. And it became clear Brother William’s will was enforced; he had those deacons—Brothers Colin, Anthony and Darryl, and the squad beneath them. They received special treatment.
Sam clutched his family as he strained to hear any unfamiliar sound in the woods. Were those footsteps? Was the rustling of branches just the breeze?
He had to stop dwelling on fear.
He had to stay strong. Maybe not ruminate on what they’d been through.
But there was nothing else to do while they waited, barely breathing.
Think back, remember it all.
1
Now
Late summer
The woman had been strung up on a cross, her wrists and ankles tied in that position.
And a spear had been run through her, right in the region of the heart. The weapon appeared to look something like a medieval javelin.
Blood dripped from the body and the stake, only half-congealed in the damp heat of the day.
Her head hung low in death and a wealth of dark brown hair fell around her face, tangled and matted with blood. Slashes had been cut through her cheeks, and an eerie mask had been painted on the woman’s face, creating a jester’s oversize smile and giant, red-rimmed eyes.
A cloud of insects made a strange, buzzing halo around her head.
Special Agent Amy Larson absently swatted at one of the flies that had deserted the corpse and was humming near her ear. She was aware somewhere in the back of her mind that she was going to be bitten to pieces by the time she left the crime scene. Amy had been called to several murders during her time with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, but none so grisly, so gruesome a display.
They were almost in the Everglades but not quite. This stretch of old road had once been the main connection between the extreme south of the state of Florida, Central Florida and all the way on up to the north and connecting with east-west highways stretching out to either coast.
People enjoying the beaches on those coasts probably had little knowledge—nor would they care to have any—regarding the whole of the state. Here was this no-man’s-land that was at the edge of the Everglades, dotted with sugarcane fields, churches and cows.
She drew out the small sketch pad she kept in her pocket; she also kept notes, but Amy liked to sketch out what she saw, always wondering if there was something that would particularly catch her mind’s eye.
“Hey, Picasso, you know there will be—”
“Photographs, yes,” she told her partner, Special Agent John Schultz of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.
They’d been partnered for two years and worked well together. He was fifty and had been with FDLE for most of his adult life.
She’d been with the FDLE two and a half years, after a stint with Metro-Miami-Dade. She was thirty-one, and John had been admittedly annoyed and amused when they’d first been paired on major state crimes, but he was quick to tell others now that they were an odd couple who worked.
Amy sketched every crime scene.
John mentioned it—every crime scene. Even though her sketches had proved valuable in the past, and she knew he liked that she did them.
He gave her an odd, grim smile. He was a tall, rugged man with a sweep of snow-white hair that gave him no end of happiness since most of his male friends and coworkers his age were already bald. But it was hot out here, and he had to swipe back a wavy lock from his forehead; the sweat was causing it to plaster to his face. His smile faded as he took in the scene again.
While no one entered law enforcement without knowing they’d have to face brutality and death, what they saw here was especially grotesque. Despite what he had seen in life—or maybe because of it—John Schultz was a kind man, a good man, and knew the scene was causing an effect on her, as it was on him.
Amy arched a brow to him, and John nodded. They walked over to Dr. Richard Carver. The ME was