Chapter 15

Special Agent Jack Stone

Ironwood Springs is a flat, dry, wooded area that sits at the basin of a small mountain ridge. Most of the town is rural and the nearest shopping strip sits at least fifteen miles outside of its border. The overall layout of this town is one of the many tributes to nature that has been preserved in the same wild and wooly manner for the last hundred years.

We follow the navigation map to a small dirt trail, not well groomed, that leads to an old wooden arch with the word home painted across it. A swath of steel cables crisscross from one end to the other, letting us know we're not invited to drive on in. The rest of the property looks cordoned off by a bridal fence that spans the girth of it, and on either side and on top it's covered with barbed wire, stretched so thin it hardly makes a difference anymore.

Nikki and I get out and are quickly greeted by the fresh scent of earth and pine. The property is expansive as far as the eye can see. To the right, it looks like a trailer park with nothing but old run-down motor homes and fifth wheels sitting scattered about, most of them rusting. Although I have a feeling they won't be driving anytime soon. It's clear they're being used to house the masses. To the left is a sea of tents, every shape and size. The dark blue ones that line the woods look ominous even from this vantage point.

Throngs of people can be seen in the distance. Some in a grassy patch tossing around a football, others chasing a soccer ball, some lying shirtless on the lawn. All of them are men. Just behind that, there's a group of kids. Their laughter and shrieks of joy resonate to the sky. To the right of them are women with long hair, long skirts, and I'm guessing long and downtrodden faces. It's always the women that get the shaft in these kinds of places.

"I hate it here," Nikki grunts.

"Ah, come on now," I tease. "Looks like summer camp."

"Yeah, summer camp with the Mansons."

We duck through a narrow opening in the fence and we don't get twenty feet before that field of dreams drains in our direction.

We flash our badges and ask to speak with Malcolm Lewis, the owner of this twisted paradise, and soon a handful of them take off running in the direction of what looks to be a giant haunted house.

Nikki and I had already seen aerial footage of the place. The house once belonged to Wilhelmina Lewis and was passed down to Malcolm a little over ten years ago, and I'm taking a wild guess he's not turning it into a museum any time soon. This place has more of a carnival appeal anyway.

A handful of people offer a friendly welcome, but their expressions quickly grow sober as if we were ready to deliver bad news, like a high school party the cops just pulled up to. Although I'm sure they can make even the rowdiest of house parties look like a visit to a nunnery. This place may hold an idyllic appeal, but I can feel the wicked undercurrent from here like a serpent slithering through tranquil waters.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea and a couple emerges, both with smiles plastered to their faces.

"Here come Mama and Papa," Nikki whispers.

Malcolm and Patty, I'm guessing. Malcolm is tall, thin, and far too pale. His beard outlines his jaw but isn't filling in the way it's supposed to. He looks a bit frail like maybe he doesn't have the testosterone to pull off the feat. He looks to be in his forties, balding, his jeans are worn, and his flannel looks as if it's seen better days. Although I doubt he's out tilling the fields. Monsters like him usually leave the manual labor for those they're stringing along in hopes of a better tomorrow.

The woman is robust. She's not missing any meals. Her dark hair is twisted in long braids. She's wearing a denim dress that brushes the ground as she walks, which would explain the frayed edges.

"Officers." The man offers a friendly wave. "What can we do for you?"

"We'd like to speak with you alone if possible." Nikki gets right to the point.

"Sure thing," Malcolm says and lifts an arm to the crowd before they slowly begin to disperse.

It's clear what he says goes.

A few of the men size us up with hard looks before taking off, and soon enough it's just the four of us.

"Malcolm Lewis," he says, offering both myself and Nikki a quick handshake. "This is my wife, Patty."

We shake as well.

"Pleasure to meet you both," I say and note a fresh scratch running up Patty's right forearm. Judging by the color, the seam of blood has just congealed.

"I've got cats," she says, laughing it off once she spots me looking. "It's nice to meet you. What's going on? Is there a problem?" Her eyes widen, alerting us to the fact there is one. She's just not sure we've discovered it yet.

"There was a body found not far from here," Nikki tells them. "A woman in her twenties, Emily Gannon. We wondered if you might know of her." Nikki pulls out her phone. "Here's a picture of her in better times."

It's the one from the frame Emily's mother showed us. Nikki and I decided we'd leave all mention of intentional communities out of the conversation. If we weren't spooking them already, that might just do it.

"Oh wow." Malcolm gives a mournful smile. "I'm sorry to hear she was lost so soon. But I don't recognize her."

"Me either." Patty blinks as if her lashes were about to morph into moths and fly away.

She's lying. I'm betting they both are, but she's not as good at it.

Nikki's jaw tenses and I can tell she's not buying it either. "Her body was dismembered. Her head was carted off to Cheyenne."

The two of them exchange a look as if this news was unexpected. Funny they weren't that surprised she was dead to begin with.

I'm betting the dismemberment is the true jolt of reality here.

"What kind of a monster…" Patty shudders. "I guess we'd better keep an eye out."

"Here's my card." I fish one out and land it in each of their hands. "If you see anything out of the ordinary, feel free to give me a call." I nod at the compound behind them. "So how does this work? Looks like a playground of some sort."

The two of them share a laugh as the tension melts right off them.

"It's utopia, my brother," Malcolm assures me with a grin taking up the majority of his face. "We've got men and women at every age and stage of their lives who have come together to enjoy a rich community. I can assure you, we're not breaking any laws."

"But we're baking bread with the best of them," Patty chirps and the two of them share a warm laugh. It seems genuine. Patty seems happy. No signs of abuse, no faraway vacant look in her eyes. If anyone is getting abused around here, odds are she's either doling it out or looking the other way.

"Sounds wonderful," Nikki says it lackluster and that dark look she's shooting to the compound in the distance lets them know she doesn't mean it. "In fact, I'm getting hungry. Can either of you recommend somewhere my partner and I might stop off at?"

"Oh, there's Roy's Smokehouse just off Timberline out in Sky Valley," Patty rattles off quickly. "Such good food. It's the best smoked brisket you'll ever have. We sneak out that way at least once a week." She pats her belly to prove it.

And now I know exactly why Nikki asked for suggestions. Someone there is bound to know something. Or in the least we eat the best smoked brisket we'll ever have.

We thank them and Malcolm unlocks the gate so we can leave the proper way. We take off and I watch them glaring at us in the rearview mirror until they disappear out of sight.

We head straight for Roy's Smokehouse, and true to Patty's word, indulge in some of the best smoked brisket we've ever tasted.

We ask around with both the waitstaff and the locals glued to the counter about the people in Paradise, and every last one of them echoes the sentiment that it's an outright cult. But we don't yield anything else.

We're halfway to my truck when someone calls out for us to wait, a young blonde, the waitress that brought us our drinks.

"You were asking about Paradise," she pants, glancing over her shoulder briefly. "There was a girl who used to work here. She used to be a part of that place. Her name is Heather Smiley. Goofy last name, right?" She wrinkles her nose. "That's why I remember it. She's dancing now at Boulder Beauties. She goes by Scarlett Blaze. Her hair is like blood red. You can't miss her. She might be able to help you out with whatever you're looking for." She nods at the two of us. "You're cops or something, right?"

"Or something," Nikki says, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and handing it to the woman. "Thank you."

"Oh honey." The blonde laughs. "Thank you."

"Steer clear of those people," Nikki tells her.

"Are you kidding?" She shakes her head. "We've got a run on weirdos in the event you didn't notice. I don't need any more trouble in my life."

She takes off and we do the same.

Nikki does a little digging, then makes a phone call and finds out Scarlett Blaze is up at bat tomorrow night.

"Looks like I'm headed to the strip club." A lazy grin slides up my cheek as we get back on the highway. "Can't say I won't enjoy it. Duty calls and I'm there to answer."

"What about me?"

"Don't you have a hot date with what's his face?"

"If I'm lucky." She sighs. "I guess I could let you take it with Baxter."

A strip club with Fallon.

I frown out the window at the thought.

Something tells me she'll ensure it's not as enjoyable for me as I was hoping it'd be.