Center of Deception Read online

  “I've no idea what you mean by the pies.” Bethany growled at him. “But they've developed a cure? For madness? That's my guess.”

  “Yeah, so they say.” He tried to put excitement into his voice. “And more.”

  “And they want you to go somewhere with them. By choice, or are you coerced?”

  “Well, you know those bartenders, always coming up with new tricks. They warned me I'd be a fool to miss out.”

  “So, you feel coerced.”

  “Of course I do! Wouldn't you?” He passed beyond the thicket of evergreens out into an open patch, the moon reflecting on the slow moving, broad stretch of river. It felt colder out here in the open.

  “When are you going?”

  “Not sure. I still have to sign up to keep my place on the roster.”

  “And they really have a cure.”

  “I sure hope so. I hate it when all they have is meat, meat, meat. Don't they realize some people don't eat meat?”

  “What, you're a vegetarian?” she asked, nonplussed.

  “Vegan if you have to know.” Damn, like he needed the BWS to know anything more about him.

  “Huh, interesting. So, keep this phone and report in when you can. If you can lead us to their location, it could mean a huge boon to the safety of the entire city. And if you can lead me to the killer, I'll owe you.”

  He forced a laugh again. “I'll try, but no promises. And I look forward to the pie.”

  “Be safe.”

  “Thanks. ‘Night.” He hung up. Above him, the moon shone brightly.

  Chapter 4

  August leaned forward, craning his neck to see through the car's windshield. Above them, a rock-topped peak shadowed the rough dirt road and the valley into which it funneled them. Luckily, Gould's SUV came with all the whistles and bells, including four-wheel drive. August reached into the backseat, his fingers clutching the plastic grocery bag of mangoes, alleviating his temporary spike of nervousness. Mangoes and enough clothes and toiletries for a short trip; that's all he had with him. He'd had little time to gather that and leave a cryptic message with Aunt Sheela. Too bad he hadn't had any directions to give her.

  However, she would figure it out, he was sure, so he had to work quickly. Before she crashed this potential cash cow, August had to siphon off a few cult contacts and enough cash to make up for the Black Castle's closure. They owed him: the cult, BWS, all of them owed him.

  He tried to commit the pathway to memory, but there was just too much to keep track of. At times, the dense forest of firs and winter-bare maples and alder, blocked out all landmarks. None of the logging roads were labeled, and some weren't even really roads, more like ruts carved between the trees. It reminded him of an ant warren, tunnels and trails going every which way.

  “Pretty out here, yeah?” Gould said, his small talk boiling down to admiring the scenery and bitching about the roads.

  A man trotted out on the road ahead of him. Gould slammed on the brakes and threw his hands off the steering wheel. “Adam! What the fuck!”

  The man, Adam—armed with shotgun, cowboy hat and boots—strolled around to the passenger window. August watched him warily, hoping the redneck got the memo that some black guy was joining their illustrious revolution and they hadn't stumbled on some white supremacist cell by accident.

  The man tapped his knuckles against the window. August rolled it down letting in the fresh scents of fir and soil. “August Whalen?” Shit kickers and a country twang, this man had it all.

  August held out his hand. “Yeah, I'm August.”

  The man shook it. His grip was firm, no-nonsense, and August appreciated that. “Adam.”

  “Crazy shit. Just call him crazy shit and that'll do,” Gould griped.

  Adam grinned at Gould. “Welcome.” He honest to God tipped his hat, then pulled a stick of dried animal meat from his jacket pocket and bit off a hunk. Oh, this was just priceless.

  “Red in?” Gould asked.

  Adam licked along his lower lip. “Yeah. He's up brooding in his office.”

  Gould waved good-bye and drove on. When they were beyond the cowboy's notice, August's face scrunched in reflexive disgust.

  Another forty-five minutes of roller-coaster driving and Gould stopped.

  August waited, unsurprised when two guys popped out of the brush and pulled away a very convincing barricade of salal, ferns, and small evergreens. From there, the road continued on and August got his first view of the lodge.

  The Mara Murda cult lodge was a remnant of a day long, long gone. It reminded August of those old New Deal lodges built by the CCC during Roosevelt’s plan to employ the unemployed. They built the lodges out of giant trees all over the national park system. This thing had a wing on either side and reached three or four stories, with several stone chimneys sprouting from the shingled roof. Could probably sleep thirty or so, each in an individual room, depending on how the insides had been modified or updated. A huge plank and pole porch welcomed him with rocking chairs and wicker tables. How such a building could have remained hidden here on Steptoe Mountain since time immemorial, he had no clue. Someone, a hiker or hunter, must have stumbled upon it.

  Maybe they stumbled on it and just never stumbled away. Although, the cult had to have an army of mind wipers in their ranks, which was safer than adding to a database of missing outdoorsmen. August scraped the surrounding forest with his eyes, searching for sentries. He couldn't see a one.

  “Impressive,” he said. Large small-paned windows spread out across the front of the lodge. Within, silhouettes moved about.

  “Sure is.” Gould maneuvered his car down the drive that curved around behind the lodge. “Been in the brotherhood for generations.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Adam Nelson's.”

  August sputtered. “Seriously? That... country boy?”

  “Yep. Inherited it a few years back. He's from a long line of Wielders and when his uncle died of his Corruption, the property landed in Adam's hands. He came up from Wyoming to be master of the lodge.”

  “So, what does the master do?”

  Gould laughed. “Stalks the forest with his gun. He's in love with that thing.”

  He parked under a carport, slipping his SUV between a Jeep and a truck so old the original color was a mystery.

  Time to face the piper and his dancing song. August took a deep breath, donned his cheery grin, and followed Gould into the lodge.

  ~~~

  The double wooden doors were carved from a few very large trees. With the bag of mangoes in one hand and his backpack over his shoulder, August took in the great room most national park lodges seemed to support. A huge stone fireplace dominated the center of the room, harboring a crackling fire. Five or six men sat on upholstered leather chairs. What was it with lodges and leather? Tables were set around the room, topped with shaded lamps. One low coffee table had a chess set staged in mid-game. Crowning the great room was a succession of one dead animal head after another.

  “Let's go meet Rod Redstoke,” Gould said. August stifled a snort at the name. Seriously?

  Some of the cultists nodded as he walked towards a wide staircase to the second floor. All of the men stared. August admired the western-style art hanging from the walls: cowboys and wolves and Indians in a vast open landscape of scrub and brush, nothing like the area around Steptoe.

  On the second floor landing, they had the option of going right or left. The space directly at the staircase's mouth in the torso of the lodge was open like it had been downstairs, but along each hall was a line of closed doors. Another set of stairs continued up. Gould took a left and tapped a quick knock on a closed door, same as all the others.

  “Come in,” came a deep voice.

  Gould gave August a nod, and pushed open the door, revealing a modest-sized office. A huge window splashed the cheap desk, book case, filing cabinet, and an arcane looking metal chest—something you'd see in a pirate film—with cheery daylight. One of the biggest, mos
t muscled men August had ever seen outside of a WWE match was reading a binder as he stood by the book case. His arms were huge—possibly fueled by steroids.

  “Rod, this here is August Whalen, owner of the Black Castle.”

  Redstoke crossed to his desk in two strides to set the three ring binder onto it. “Welcome, August. Have a seat.” Nobody else sat, and the two chairs obviously had leather upholstery.

  “It was a long drive; hope you don't mind if I stand.”

  Redstoke shrugged as if August standing or sitting or flapping around on angel's wings amounted to a half a shit. August set his bags down on the floor next to him. “We're glad to have you,” Redstoke said with no inflection.

  “Thanks. Glad to be a part of this. Ah—” August looked from Gould to Redstoke, “John mentioned you'd have need of my connections to ship things around. And that I would be getting paid for my services.”

  “Straight to the point. I can understand that. And yes, we support our members. You'll get your portion. Now, my turn to get straight to the point. What do you Wield and what's your Tracer?”

  August was stunned into momentary stupefaction. You didn't ask people that. It was like asking if someone was gay. If their great-great-granddaddy had been a slave. It was impolite and none of anyone's business.

  Redstoke crossed his arms; those huge muscles flexed. August sought out Gould's eyes, and the other man shrugged. “Everyone tells. We're all level here.”

  August scratched his scalp. His hair was growing a bit too long; he should have buzzed it before he came out here to this land of primitives.

  “Force. A pusher. And it causes a smell of mangoes.”

  “Mangoes, that sounds fancy,” Gould said. “Bernie's Tracer smells like cat shit.”

  “Yeah? What other force Tracers you got out here?” Maybe he could find that maraschino cherry or almond bender and be done with this place. Although, he did want to find out how much money he could make off these men.

  “Cat shit, engine oil, oh, Toby causes cocoa butter. Makes you feel like you're on the beach when you catch a whiff of it.” Gould grinned at August, flashing his crooked teeth, and August grinned back. So, they weren't really going to tell him anything. He had expected as much.

  “You're welcome to stay in the lodge and we ask that you do not leave unattended until initiation. It's a long walk anyway. We also require you to hand over your phone. Once you're in, then you can learn more about the others,” Redstoke droned on with his same dead voice. August's grin faded.

  “Initiation?” August asked. Nobody said anything about holding hands in a circle and promising love, honor, and forever.

  Gould's smile disappeared too. “Yes. It's a way to prove your loyalty. Every member of Mara Murda goes through it.” Gould rolled up his shirtsleeve to bare his skin. Branded into his upper bicep, creating white scar tissue, was a symbol. A T with the arms turned upward, the central line bisecting the cup the arms made. He'd seen the same symbol on other men who frequented his bar.

  “Our Stigma,” Redstoke said. “It's what binds us together.”

  “Wait, you want me to burn myself?” August suddenly realized just what utter fuckery he'd landed in. “I've already got enough of a stigma just hiding who I am! That,” he stabbed his finger toward Gould, who was now lowering his shirt, “is sickening.”

  “Every member has one,” Redstoke stated matter-of-factly. “And by now, August, I'm sure you realize there is no going back.”

  Panic snaked up August's spine and he suddenly felt submerged in a deep freeze. He couldn't be branded. What would his father think? It would break his mother's heart. “There's no other way to … ah, prove myself? Listen, like I told John, I am in this for business. I hadn't intended to be some full blown member. I came here to help you get the things you need. Doing you a favor.”

  Neither man said anything. August swallowed and then quickly rewrote his world view. He was adaptable that way. His life was worth more than his skin. He'd known there was no going back once he'd entered this lodge. Hell, there was no going back once that body hit his alley. It was a series of bullshit events that had landed him here, ready to agree to let his skin be scorched.

  What a fucked up world this was.

  Then his mind revolted. No. He refused to give in. He would get out of this. There was time. He could figure something out.

  “Fine, if it gets your rocks off burning my flesh….” He tried to sound hard, to sound stern. He tried to make it sound like the truth.

  “That's not all.”

  Dizziness set in and August felt like he might faint. “What do you want next, my balls?”

  Gould snorted, seeming to relax at August's ridiculous statement. “You have to help us… fuel our mission.”

  He gave Gould an uncomprehending stare.

  Redstoke said, “You have to help fund our good works.”

  Chapter 5

  The back door of the utility van rolled up, growling into the night as someone yelled, “Go! Go! Go!” August chased after the black-clad man in front of him. The knit hood he was wearing scratched the back of his head and he could barely see through his reflective shades. Supposedly, they could block some mentalists from getting into your head.

  One of the Mara Murda had pressed a gun into his hand, but August had no intention of using that bullshit. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't anything but a charmer. But his charm had failed him when it counted, and he hadn't been able to charm himself out of this 'initiation' breaking and entering fundraiser. Going door to door selling candles sounded mighty nice right now. August kept telling himself that he was going along with this ridiculousness to see if he could find an almond Tracer. He already figured that business line Gould had plied him with had been the stuff of wet dreams. He'd have to ferret out some other cash to pay his employees their half-wage until he could reopen the bar. The cure was probably also a crock.

  His daddy never raised a naive shit... until now.

  The front window of Bard's Jewelers shattered as three crowbars rained down on it.

  “August, follow me,” ordered Skid, the man who was supposed to watch over August during the burglary. His own burglary coach.

  The alarm shrieked at their trespass.

  With his own crowbar, August busted through the top of a display case, flinching at the sound and give of the glass. Nothing too fancy was exhibited out here, but August grabbed necklaces and rings like a good little soldier. A pack of men ran to the back where the safe was tucked away. Tim, the safe cracker, was rushed back there, surrounded by other Wielders, for his protection or to ensure he didn't pocket anything, August wasn't sure. The men around him all scratched at themselves. The feeling intensified the closer your proximity to Tim. Had to be a booster. Damn if August didn't want to scratch his own neck off.

  Skid grabbed August's arm. August looked bluntly where the other man gripped his forearm. Skid didn't get the hint. “We're on watch, why you holding me?”

  Skid let go.

  Hidden in the dark amidst the shards of shattered plate glass, the two men waited for the police. August had heard about the crimes the cults performed—hell, everyone had—and now he was one of those fools. A member of a crime ring. His dad would give him that look, disappointed and shocked and just... pained in his own way. August wanted to let Agent Wolfe-Martin know. Show her what she'd pushed him into. But he didn't have a phone. Had no way to contact her.

  “God, I hope nobody comes,” Skid said. “I hate wiping minds.”

  Skid turned out to be quite the skittish guy. His eyes flicked left, then right. He bopped on the balls of his feet, poised to leap out of sight. A shortish man, his black ski mask hid fine brown hair and a round face. A bit of a slouch in the physical department, he'd had one too many cheeseburgers. But he'd been generally welcoming, and that said something in a cult of mad men with things to hide.

  “Yeah?” August scanned the parking lot, which opened up towards a strip mall.

  “Yeah
, makes my toenails grow in backwards.”

  August did a double take. “That's a whacked out Corruption.”

  “No kidding. I have to cut them out. I always have bitched up feet.” He turned back to August and grinned, showing off a spark of true happiness. “But I do dig this kind of work. Shoots the love for life through your veins, yeah.”

  Back in the store, someone was singing. A terrible off-tune operetta. Maybe it was something from Sweeney Todd; it tickled up a remembrance in the back of August's brain. He slapped his own small backpack, assuring himself that he had mangoes in case he had to Wield.

  Sirens belted through the air. August checked his watch. Eight minutes. Took them long enough.

  “Go! Back to the truck,” a man ordered. As a watchman, August waited as the inside men jumped into the truck like lemmings, then hopped in after Skid. A lemming in action, if not in mind. Skid yanked down the roller door; the truck jerked forward before the door fully clicked closed. Nearly landing on his ass in the lurch, August flopped onto the bench seat rimming the van, and ripped off his hood and glasses. Other men did the same. Curses and scratching, groans and laughs, erupted through the Wielders.

  “Damn, we need a new safe cracker.”

  “Hey,” Tim griped, “I’m fine with staying home.”

  “Good job, men. We pulled a good haul,” Hugh said. As best as August could discern, Hugh was third in charge, or at least he led these raids. Ex-military and a bit of a hard ass, but August could work with that.

  They hadn't been driving long when the truck rolled to a stop. A man, who always had his nose in a book, yanked up the door and hopped down from the truck. Following him in military fashion, the rest dashed after, running for cars. August peeked his head out the door, wondering what the hell was going on.

  “You're with me,” Skid said, and with a shrug, August ran behind him towards a twenty-year-old Toyota.

  Two other men called out, “We're with Skid!”

  The door to the car was unlocked and the keys were stashed under the seat. August sat in the passenger side, holding his pack to his chest, thankful he hadn't Wielded. Skid started the car. The other men filled up the backseat with their silence.