Chapter 24

What was taking Hawthorne so long? Jazz had been hanging out in the gift shop for twenty-three minutes. Well, she'd gone to the restroom once during that time so people would be less likely to notice.

Hopefully, it seemed natural for her to still be there, since she'd spent the first part of the time talking to Lavinia. She'd feigned about ten questions to show passionate curiosity and then told the tour guide she thought she wanted to join Best Life.

Lavinia had responded with so much excitement Jazz almost wished she really wanted to join. Like Hawthorne had predicted, the tour guide promptly signed Jazz up for an appointment with Desmond Patch himself tomorrow morning.

After Lavinia had left, Jazz kept an eye on the employees working in the gift shop. Two females worked the counter for the first ten minutes. Then, hanging around for so long paid off.

A guy about five-ten who looked like he could be nineteen relieved the teen girl who'd been talking to customers and restocking shelves. He fit the description of Randall perfectly.

Jazz pretended to browse the Best Life T-shirts as she waited for the guy to get comfortable. Ambushing him instantly probably wouldn't yield the best results.

She pulled a T-shirt from the rack and read the words printed across the front: Peace, Love, Destiny. Live your Best Life now.

Funny that none of the members could wear any of the Best Life merch because of their dress code. But that didn't stop them from selling merch anyway.

Jazz smirked as she hung the shirt back on the rack and turned toward Randall.

He was taking mugs out of a box and setting them on a shelf. Should be something he could do while chatting.

Jazz worked her way slowly toward him, running her gaze over merchandise as she went to look like she was shopping. She slowed by Randall. "Nice mugs."

He didn't look at her or so much as grunt.

Great. "Got any with Desmond's handsome face?"

He turned his head toward her, and his eyes widened slightly. Then a smile cracked his lips.

Perfect. A player. Almost flattering, really, considering she was probably eleven years older than the kid. But she was always told she looked younger than her thirty years. Maybe he thought she was only in her early twenties.

"Yeah. We have some of those." He kept the goofy expression as he looked her up and down.

She gave him a sweet smile back. "Glad to hear it. You look like a smart man. Maybe you can help me."

"Sure." Randall's chest puffed out a bit as he grinned at her and stepped closer.

"I'm thinking of joining Best Life."

"Really?" A red flush colored his cheeks. "Cool."

"But I heard this story about a boy from here getting killed, and it kind of scares me."

His smile dropped as his eyebrows pulled together. "Killed?"

She nodded, pressing her lips together like she was actually worried. "At the Tri-City Fair."

"Oh, that." Randall's shoulders visibly relaxed. "It was an accident. He was stupid. Snuck out and got himself drunk. Then went and killed himself playing around."

"Oh." Jazz tried for an expression of confusion and na?ve innocence as best she could. "That's awful. Though I'm glad he wasn't murdered. Did you know him?"

"Yeah, I knew him. A real jerk, but you couldn't tell some people that."

Meaning Hawthorne's sister? Jazz kept the question to herself and searched for the best way to continue pumping the kid.

"Sounds like you had some run-ins with him." She caught her lower lip with her teeth like she was concerned for Randall.

"Nothing I couldn't handle." He bent over and picked up the box of mugs that she was pretty sure didn't need to be set on the shelf at that moment. But it gave him a chance to flex his muscles. Which she couldn't see under the loose sleeves of his robe anyway.

She squelched the urge to roll her eyes. "I can see that." She pretended to admire his arm muscles with the direction of her gaze. "But how did no one notice he wasn't at the commune that night? I learned on my tour that there's a curfew."

"Only for our own good." A defensive note edged his tone. "So we don't become victims of the evils out there. Like Sam. And we can't better ourselves if we're distracted by worldly things outside."

The kid sounded like a programmed artificial intelligence response. But she pretended to buy it. "That makes sense. So you must've been doing something better while Sam was sneaking out, getting into trouble."

"Of course. I was communing with the stars."

"Ooh. That sounds cool." Actually sounded kooky and ridiculous, but she kept her expression open and curious. "All by yourself all night?" Perfect. He'd think she was asking if he had a girlfriend.

Sure enough, his grin slid back onto his face. "It goes until nine thirty so we can make ten o'clock lights out. I was with the other members in our stars alignment course. My ex-girlfriend was there, too. But I'm not seeing anyone right now."

Jazz tried her best starstruck giggle. Sounded more like a strangled frog, but the way the guy's eyes lit, he must've bought it.

She'd have to ask Hawthorne if that timing gave Randall an alibi for Sam's death. She hadn't found out when Sam had died or what time he'd left the commune. If anyone knew.

"So if Sam's death was an accident, why did the news talk about his dad being angry at you guys?"

"Oh, man. He went crazy." Randall glanced around, like checking for listeners. But the shop was mostly empty. The middle-aged female employee chatted with a customer at the register at the opposite end of the store.

"What do you mean? You saw him?" Jazz widened her eyes like she was impressed.

"Oh, yeah. We all did. He attacked our leader."

"No. He attacked Desmond Patch?"

"Yeah. Would've punched him, too, if the Helpers hadn't gotten him off."

"Helpers?"

"The strongest men in our community. They help maintain order."

That didn't sound a bit creepy. Jazz tried to keep the sarcastic thought from coloring her expression. "What did they do to him?"

"Sam's dad? They had to drag him out and forbid him from ever coming back."

"Wow. But you don't think he was right? I mean, that Patch was to blame for what happened to Sam?"

"Oh, no. Our leader only wants the best for all of us. He wants us to live our best life. And he does all he can to help us arrive at our spiritual and physical nirvana."

There he went again. Like she'd pressed the right button to get the programmed answer. Eerie.

"You sure you want to join?" A hint of suspicion crept into Randall's eyes. "You don't seem to think very positively of us."

"Oh, I just don't understand it all. And I've been burned before."

He nodded. "I get that. I have, too. But you'll really like it here if you stay." He gave her what was probably supposed to be a charming smile. "I'll make sure of that."

"Thanks." She managed a friendly expression as she started to put distance between them. "Catch you later."

She let out a long breath as she left the gift shop. Mission accomplished, hopefully. But where was Hawthorne?

She checked her watch. Thirty-five minutes since he'd peeled off to talk to Sam's mother. Had he gotten into trouble?

Seemed hard to believe in a place filled with such happy, friendly people. But something about Randall's programmed responses made her see something different as she looked around now. Saw the people standing in small groups and talking or walking by with books, all in matching white robes. Giving her matching white smiles whenever they saw her watching.

Was it all programmed? Calculated to get people to join the community?

Hawthorne seemed to think there was some danger at Best Life. And he should know. He'd grown up there.

Jazz's nerves started to tingle as the small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

What if that danger had caught up with Hawthorne?

Hawthorne twisted his wrist that was tied to a metal rail secured to the wall. The face of his watch was hard to read in the dimly lit room, so he brought his free hand around to press the button for backlight.

Nearly twenty-five minutes since he'd been brought into this room by the Helpers and left there. His cell was a small rectangle. Dark, smooth floor and white walls with minimal lighting like a haunting interrogation room from a TV show. A metal table stood in the middle of the rectangle.

Unless he missed his guess, the Helpers were getting Patch. Which was the only reason he hadn't ditched their hold as soon as they'd tried to escort him from Mrs. Ackerman's dwelling.

It went against the desire of every fiber of his being to acquiesce. To pretend he was as helpless as the scrawny boy he'd been the last time a Helper had pulled him out of class and brought him to a room like this. For guidance, they'd said.

Being forced to kneel on a tray of rocks for ten minutes with his hands tied behind his back was hardly guidance. And all because he'd dared to question his teacher's instruction on the importance of obeying the stars and the stars' emissary, Desmond Patch.

When he'd told his parents, his mother had put ointment on his knees. They'd said they hoped he'd learned from the experience. And that Desmond Patch was always right and was teaching Hawthorne the path to live his best life.

Well, Hawthorne was living his best life. Away from Desmond Patch.

And he didn't need to prove he was right anymore. Didn't have to prove he was stronger than those goons and far from helpless. There'd be opportunity for that later. When the time was right.

Now, he would take full advantage of this change in circumstances. He'd landed a private interview with Desmond Patch. And he hadn't even had to make an appointment.

A click sounded. Probably someone unlocking the door.

Light spilled into the room from the hallway.

A shadow filled it. A silhouette he'd recognize anywhere. Desmond Patch.

The cult leader walked into the room with his even, dramatic stride. Then he pivoted in one motion to slam Hawthorne with a stare.

Hawthorne hid the instinctive, inward flinch. A responding surge of anger shot into his chest. How could he still be afraid of this man?

He wasn't. Not consciously. But it was as if the little boy hidden somewhere inside him had suddenly seen the monster from his nightmares and couldn't help but recoil.

But only for a second. Hawthorne, the adult, met Desmond Patch's stare without blinking. All the while searching those charcoal eyes.

Exactly what he'd thought. Calculating, cold, but not one hundred percent confident. Something else lurked far back in that gaze. A hint of doubt. Maybe even fear.

Good. He should be afraid. Hawthorne wasn't a boy anymore. "You know I could sue you till I own your whole fortune, Best Life products, and this property for chaining me up here." Hawthorne pulled on the zip tie for emphasis. "Not to mention the legal charges I'll hit you with first."

Oh, yeah. A definite flicker of doubt in the eyes at that. But then defiance covered the emotion as Patch responded. "You are a trespasser on our private property."

That voice. Smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. "And you even invaded the home of one in our community. A grieving mother. We have the right to help her defend herself and to detain you until the authorities can come to our aid."

"Ah. So you've called the police?"

Patch held his gaze but didn't respond.

Thought not.

"I see you still hold great resentment for me and the love I've shown your family."

Hawthorne swallowed, trying to control the gag reflex Patch was activating. "You don't know the meaning of love."

The man donned a pitying expression, slowly moving his head back and forth. "You had so much potential. But you always returned kindness and love with resentment and disobedience."

Patch stepped closer. Then he lowered to a squat, his white robe with two wide, red vertical stripes down the front billowing out around him.

An inch closer, and Hawthorne could grab him. Easily put him into submission and make him pay for everything he'd done to their family. But that wouldn't help him find the truth about Sam. And choking the guy out wouldn't exactly be the Christian thing to do.

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Yeah. Hawthorne needed more work on following that Bible verse. Maybe after he got justice for Sam.

"I tried to show you the way. The path to your best life was there before you, but you refused to take it. Even when I tried to help you and guide you. You rejected my love. The love of everyone in this community. You rejected your poor mother and father."

Hawthorne tamped down the flame of anger Patch's dig intentionally flamed higher. Did he want Hawthorne to attack him so he could try for an assault charge?

Hawthorne breathed through his nostrils. Had to stay calm. "Is that what Sam did?"

Patch blinked. Good. A genuine reaction.

"Sam Ackerman. The kid who died because he had to sneak out to go to the fair instead of being able to go with his family like a normal boy."

Patch pushed off the floor to stand. "The boy had a rebellious temperament like you do. The evil took hold of him too young." He shook his head with a sorry attempt at a sad expression. "I tried everything in my power to break him free, but he refused to be saved. The stars and I can only guide you to the best life if you are willing. You know that, Hawthorne."

The condescension in the way he said Hawthorne's name, an exact match for the thankfully few times Hawthorne had to talk to him as a boy, still snaked along his spine like a slinking reptile.

"So you decided to punish him, didn't you?" Hawthorne allowed repulsion to seep into his tone. "You followed him to the fair and decided to enact some retribution of your own. Or maybe tried to bend him to your will once and for all."

"I'm surprised at you, Hawthorne." Patch didn't look surprised. His lips pointed upward at the edges in an amused smile. "You were taught enough here to know I do not believe in retribution or violence. I abhor both."

"Oh, right. So I suppose you have an alibi for the night Sam was killed?"

"Not that I need one. But, yes. I was with my wife and other community members in an all-night vigil. Star formation was at its peak, and we knew some in our community would have a chance to achieve the next plane of their journey to epiphany."

"And which wife would that be?"

Patch's mouth twitched. Struck a nerve there. The man had already been on his second marriage when Hawthorne left the cult. Who knew what number he was on now.

"Of course, she and all the members would be your alibi. They'd never cross you."

"We do love each other, that is true. But you know we don't do violence or hurt others."

"Yeah, I've heard the lie."

Patch gave him a sad look, as if he were a doctor pondering a patient who refused to seek treatment for his fatal illness. "I cannot control what you choose to believe. I can only guide you to the truth. It is up to you if you choose to reject it and your best life."

"Oh, but I do know the truth, Patch." Hawthorne glared at the man. "And you do, too. That's why you know how to twist it so well to your advantage. To make lies sound true and the truth sound false. To manipulate people into following you off a cliff if you say ‘jump.' I suppose that's why you think you can get away with sabotaging the Tri-City Fair, too. You think you're invincible."

"My, my." Patch met his stare with a blank expression. "You do have an imagination. You were already so hardened and willful when you arrived here. I told your parents they should have joined us sooner so we could have trained you when you were younger."

"So you could've bent me to your will, you mean."

"Then your poor sister followed in your footsteps." Patch continued as if Hawthorne hadn't spoken. "She wanted to be like you, you know."

"Now she's happy and free to live her life. Not exactly what you wanted." Hawthorne smirked.

"She's in danger now. Such great danger."

Hawthorne's muscles clenched. "Is that a threat?"

"I don't threaten, Hawthorne. But I do warn people. To help them."

Hawthorne jerked his bound wrist at a backward angle, snapping the zip tie and launching to his feet before Patch could move.

He stood nose-to-nose with Patch, his own height putting him an inch taller.

Something flickered in Patch's eyes. Fear.

Satisfaction pulsed through Hawthorne. "You should've brought your goons in here with you, Patch." Hawthorne doubted the man even had basic self-defense skills given how much he relied on bodyguards and psychological control. Hawthorne could take him apart so easily.

"If you touch me, many will pay the price. Beginning with your parents."

"Another threat?" Hawthorne gripped Patch's arms, careful not to squeeze quite hard enough to leave bruises, concocted evidence of the physical assault the coward would probably claim to the police. "You may have part of my family in your hold, Patch. But if you want the rest of them, you'll have to come through me."

Hawthorne pushed him just enough to make Patch take a step backward to catch himself. Then Hawthorne turned, a smile landing on his face as he marched from the room and stalked past the stunned goons in the hallway with a parting wave.

Maybe coming back wasn't such a bad idea after all.