Greer put up some pictures on one of the big smart screens at the side of the room, images of the community he’d harvested from the internet along with a topographical map of their compound. “They’ve existed where they are for close to one hundred eighty years. They owned over ten thousand acres at one time, but sold half of it off to the federal government in the 1960s when the Department of Defense wanted to build the missile silo complex that the White Kingdom Brotherhood now owns. Most of their land is in a fertile valley protected by the Medicine Bow Mountains.
“When the world began to modernize early last century, they were remote enough that they slipped behind. Rather than catching up, they’ve stayed true to their nineteenth century roots, eschewing everything from electricity to modern medicine. They’re a closed group. They have no currency system and only raise enough funds to cover their property tax bill each year. As a Christian pacifist society, they claim a religious exemption from military service.
“They don’t own mechanized vehicles. They make an annual trek down to Cheyenne during Frontier Days to sell their wares to raise tax money and to acquire the small number of goods they can’t directly produce. They aren’t polygamists. They govern themselves via a secular council structure. And according to the censuses, their population has been slowly increasing since the 1970s, with the largest increase appearing at the last census.”
“Lion said the community nearly died out middle of the last century, but if their population has been increasing since, they may be getting an infusion of new adherents from somewhere,” Max said. “He said there are multiple prides. Maybe there are multiple Friendship Communities.”
“Look into that, Max. Maybe they’re co-located with other WKB camps. Greer, let us know what you find after you talk to the professor.”
*
Dr. Remington Chase, assistant professor of sociology at the University of Wyoming, was lost in thought as she approached the department’s side entrance. Took her a long minute—too long—to become aware of police cars parked in a no-parking zone in front of the building…and a couple dozen people standing around the greenspace in small clusters, talking in hushed tones.
She realized they were all staring at her now, with worried eyes. Her stomach clenched as a powerful wave of fear hit her. Had there been a shooting on campus? Her grip tightened on the stack of books and documents she held to her chest, as if a few reams of paper could stop a bullet.
There were only two cop cars. Surely there’d be more if there’d been a shooting? She looked at the people standing in groups. None were crying. Still, she had a bad feeling as she walked around to the front side of the building, toward the crowd, and saw what had them in knots.
Giant red spray paint letters, spanning about twenty-feet of the brick wall, read: “Professor Chase is a lying whore.”
Her knees went weak as she stared in horror at the message. The paint had dripped in blood-red tendrils, as if the brick wall had been sliced open and now bled.
Dr. Zimmers, her department chair, came over with the cops. “Do you know what this is about, Dr. Chase?”
She shook her head, pretending ignorance, but her pulse was drowning out sound in her ears.
“Hi, Dr. Chase,” Officer Franklin smiled at her.
She latched on to the middle-aged cop’s kind eyes and forced air into her lungs. The campus police were competent and non-reactionary, used to the antics of students. This was graffiti. Nothing more. It was paint, not blood. Just paint.
He touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
She blinked, then nodded.
“Any idea who might have done this? An angry student, perhaps?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Did the security cameras pick anything up?”
“Not in detail. Two men wearing dark hoodies, baseball caps, and gloves did it about two a.m. this morning,” Dr. Zimmers said. “They were on motorcycles.”
Motorcycles. Remi’s fingers dug into the books she held. Were they from the White Kingdom Brotherhood?
“Their license plates were obscured,” Officer Franklin’s partner said. “Do you have any enemies? Students who are angry with you? Frustrated parents?”
Remi frowned and tilted her head. “There are always students and parents with their own agendas. For the most part, my students and I get along great. They’re good people, active and engaged in their studies.” She smiled. “Though I wouldn’t put it past any of them to do something as outrageous as this for a social experiment.”
“Her students love her,” Dr. Zimmers added. “She’s one of our most highly rated professors. And though it’s still early in her career, she’s making quite a name for herself and for the university. In fact, she was interviewed about her research into American cults for a public radio segment—it just aired yesterday.”
“Maybe someone didn’t like the attention you directed at them,” the other cop suggested.
“I spoke in generalities during the interview. I didn’t call out any specific group. Still, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten pushback while actively doing field research,” Remi admitted, playing it down, making it all sound rational…as if she weren’t close to jumping out of her skin at any moment.
“Which group are you working on now?” the cop asked.
“A local group. The Friendship Community. They’re just up the mountain. They don’t have motorized vehicles anywhere on their compound. They couldn’t have done this.” The WKB could have, however—a theory she kept to herself.
“It could be someone lashing out from one of the previous groups you’ve studied,” Dr. Zimmers suggested.
Remi shrugged. The papers she held were getting heavy, and her arms were sweating. “I guess.”
“Has anything else odd happened lately? Strange emails? Anything threatening?” the campus police asked.
Remi felt her eyes widen. Yes. So much that she was jumping at shadows. And now this.
Dr. Zimmers answered for her. “No. The summer’s been very quiet, actually.” The police continued asking her department chair more questions, but Remi had stopped listening.