"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm just talking hypothetically here. Remember, the serial killer's first two victims were men killed in their homes. No sign of forced entry at the second one. Sending an attractive woman to the door is a good way to catch a man off guard, get inside. I've used that ruse myself. Hired myself an attractive cocktail waitress who pretends her car broke down, knocks on some guy's door, and asks to borrow the phone. Once inside, she plants a bug for me."
"You're saying Beth is the one who opened the door for a serial killer?"
"All I'm saying is that she doesn't have to strangle someone with her own hands to be involved in these killings."
"Yet another possibility," said Gus. "Someone wants the police to think she is an accomplice. He is planting evidence of Beth's involvement, like that phone call to Morgan."
But why?"
"I don't know. Maybe to throw the cops off the track. Maybe to make the FBI think they should be looking for a cult in Yakima when they should be chasing down Shirley's little gang in Seattle. That's just one more thing I have to find out."
"You want me to tackle that one?"
"I just want you to find Shirley's mother. Can you do that fast?"
"Piece of cake."
"Call me when you do," said Gus.
It was an unusually warm Saturday afternoon for early March. The valley had been in winter's icy grip since Thanksgiving, but over the last week or so temperatures had been steadily rising in anticipation of spring. The humming of lawn mowers could be heard in the nearby town of Selah, the first cut of the year. It was time to store away the snowmobiles till next season, a good day to leave the jacket inside and feel the warmth on your skin.
It was Flora's first day out of the house in more than a week.
There was always plenty of work to do around the farm, and today was no exception. Two hundred newly hatched chicks had been delivered to the coop last week. In six weeks the pullets would be grown and tender and ready for slaughter. This afternoon her job was menial but necessary. In a way, it was even philosophical. They called it culling. Every delivery of chicks included some infirm ones. It wasn't wise to wait for the weak to infect the strong. Every day someone had to walk down to the coop, select the weaklings, and snap their necks. As cliched as it sounded, it really was all in the wrist. The fuzzy little body fit easily in one hand. A little squirming, a few innocent chirps. With one quick jerk it was all over.
She had hated it at first but had grown accustomed to it. It wasn't so much the killing that bothered her anymore. It was the odor. Nothing smelled worse than a chicken coop.
To her credit, she could at least come and go without holding her nose, a vast improvement over her first visit to the compound more than a year ago. -Of course, it wasn't the thought of raising chickens or picking apples that had drawn her there. It was the typical laundry list of personal problems. Trouble at home. An unhappy marriage. A husband who had become a stranger. She'd attended dozens of enlightenment workshops and lectures, none of which had lasted more than a day. Over time she had found herself drawn to a different kind of family, to the group's teachings. Working in the orchards or tending to the farm was therapeutic, though _ she had never honestly planned on staying.
Now leaving was out of the question.
"Flora?" the man's voice echoed from the farmhouse. He was standing on the back porch nearly a quarter mile away.
She didn't answer. He called again, this time more sternly. "Flora!"
The second time it hit her. He was calling her. Despite the drilling, she wasn't used to her new name yet.
Quickly and without a word, she tossed the last of the dead culls into her basket and obediently started toward the house. This was the part she dreaded. She knew the pattern by now. Every time he gave her something, like free time, he laid another burden on her. The burden of guilt.
Her steps grew heavier as she crossed the yard, knowing what to expect when she returned to her room. The photographs. The innocent victims. More mind games to play on her conscience. Those women had been strangers to her at one time. By now, however, she knew their names, their faces, and every detail of their horrible deaths. Most disturbing of all, she knew there would be more. That much was clear from what he'd told her all along. "Only you have the power to stop it, Flora. It's in your hands."
With her head down she climbed the back steps and entered the house, feeling anything but power. Feeling like anyone but "Flora."