It was more in the hills than the mountains. Nine rustic cabins with stone chimneys overlooked an ice-cold river that snaked between bumps on the terrain. With the first day of spring less than two weeks away, clusters of blue and yellow wildflowers were starting to push through the earth's brown winter crust. The ground had that spongy, thawing quality that sucked boots right off your feet. By nightfall the hilltops would freeze over. Plenty of snow still covered the mountains in the not too distant background. The bus would never have made it through the back roads above the snow line. Surely, Blechman had been aware of that when he'd promised a retreat "in the mountains." A little white lie to make sure those who stayed behind were left with misinformation as to the actual destination.
Andie was assigned to a cabin with three other women, all newcomers. Two of them were the young women Andie had spoken to on the bus. The other was a fifty-something widow named Ingrid. Andie checked for a bathroom, but there was none. The only source of water was a hand pump in the kitchen. A single outhouse for nine cabins was in the woods near the river, mercifully downwind. The cabin had no phone or electricity either. Three small windows and a candle on the mantel provided the only light. The fireplace evidently worked, still holding the charred remains of someone else's fire. The beds were merely canvas cots, no mattress. They were preassigned, avoiding any arguments over sleeping arrangements.
Everything they would need for the weekend had been laid atop their bunks and was waiting for them upon arrival. A blanket. A bar of soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. A pair of boots and set of clothes, neatly folded. They weren't new clothes, but they were clean and in good condition. They looked like the stuff Andie had been selling at the Second Chance. Some of it undoubtedly had come from there.
"Everything okay?" asked Felicia as she entered the cabin.
"Fine," they answered in unison.
"Thanks for the extra clothes," added Andie.
Felicia said, "They're not extras. They're replacements."
Ingrid, the older woman, inspected her replacement sweater, probing a hole the size of a golf ball with her finger. "I kind of prefer what I brought."
Felicia ignored her and handed each of them a paper shopping bag. "Change into your new clothes' and stuff everything you brought with you into the bag. The welcome dinner is outside in thirty minutes. Bring the bag with you." She left without another word, closing the door behind her.
The two younger women immediately started changing clothes, no questions asked. Andie and the older woman exchanged glances.
"Well, I'm not putting on this ratty old stuff," said Ingrid.
She was clearly looking to Andie for some show of solidarity. Andie looked away, then started peeling off her clothes and stuffing them into the bag.
Gus's anger only swelled as the day went on. He suppressed it long enough to pick Morgan up from school, but by the time Carla came by to fix dinner he needed to vent.
"I'm beyond mad," he said from his seat at the kitchen table. "I'd like to kick his ass."
Carla stirred the sauteed vegetables. "Geez, why didn't you think of that earlier? That will solve everything."
"Fine. Be sarcastic. But when Beth disappeared, the police thought I was a wife beater who killed my wife and dumped the body. Now that they've moved beyond that theory, they think Beth is a cult member and accomplice to serial murders. I don't know why they keep treating us like criminals."
"They're just being thorough, I guess. Exploring every possibility."
"Do you honestly think Beth could have been mixed up with a cult?"
"No more than I think you're a wife beater."
"Meaning what?"
"Nothing."
"I'm tired of the little digs, Carla. I'm sorry your old boyfriend used to hit you, and. I feel sorry for you for having lived through it. But. I'm not him, and I was never like him."
"This is not about him."
"Why do you protect the man who beat you?"
"I don't protect him!"
"Yes, you do. I don't know how to explain it, but I get this feeling that all the things you wish you had said to him, you say to me. You're misdirecting your anger. Damn, sometimes I would swear you still love the guy."
She glared and said, "Don't presume to psychoanalyze me."
"I was just--"
"Just doing what you do best. Blaming people for their own misfortune so you don't have to help them."
"What are you talking about?"
"There are a lot of brothers who look out for their sisters. Who aren't so wrapped up in themselves. Who wouldn't have been so quick to believe that all those black eyes and bruises came from falling off a horse."
He wasn't sure that was fair. But if laying the guilt on him was a way of putting her own past behind her, so be it. "I'm sorry."
"Just forget it."
"No, you have a point. Based on no evidence at all, I haul off and suggest my sister still loves the guy who beat her. Yet in the same breath I'm outraged at the cops for twisting the evidence about my wife."
"I wouldn't worry about Beth being accused. That's just one of many theories, I'm sure."
"But once the cops get it in their heads that maybe she's a willing participant in some cult murders, the danger is they'll start looking for evidence to support their theory. If they don't see what they want to see, they'll cross their eyes, squint, stand on their heads--they'll look at it every way imaginable until they see it in a light that supports their theory."
Carla lowered the burner to simmer and covered the sauce pan. "Well, for Beth's sake, I hope you're wrong about that."
"I'm not wrong. And the real shame is that I'd love to tell them all the things Shirley's lawyer told me."