“Yeah, the Anglo-Saxons, for the Scottish heritage of the area. Dude looks like a Viking to me, with the yellow hair and a crazy helmet, but who the hell knows. That’s irrelevant. Let’s look for communications that might have Saxon in them.”
Once they knew what to look for, the information they needed became clear. Matcliff had been sent into Eden in November 2004, when the cult would have been settling down for the winter. In an agrarian society, when there isn’t much to do outside, everything becomes internal, and Eden didn’t seem to be any different. The days followed a familiar pattern—religious study, led by the “Mother,” morning, noon and night, what they called feasts every Sunday, where the whole group ate together, and preparation for what he referred to as a Reasoning, which sounded like more lessons from their leader.
Matcliff messaged dutifully every Tuesday night at 10:00 p.m. for the three months he was under. At first they were simple, straightforward communications. Nothing new to report, Eden operating on a routine schedule, names of the followers, some unimportant details. They all finished with “I can’t find anything wrong. Give me more time. Geddon.”
They didn’t know what Geddon meant. They set it aside to look at later.
In February 2005, there was a sudden shift in the pattern of the messages. He skipped two Tuesdays, then filed from a new IP address. Fletcher read it aloud. “Eden on the move. Will travel with them. Must go, more later. Geddon.”
And that was it. The messages stopped entirely.
He flipped through the pages again, thinking he’d missed something. No, it all stopped. There was nothing more from Doug Matcliff.
“No further communications from Saxon after February 2005.”
Jordan was staring at a piece of paper, eyes narrowed.
“What is it?”
“I think I found where it picks up again. It’s months later. He’s using the code name Savage instead of Saxon, but it’s clearly him. How did they miss this?”
“He set up shop in Lynchburg under the name Timothy Savage. It fits. Let me see.”
She hesitated.
“Jordan, what is it?”
With a sigh, she handed the pages over. “Confirmation of something we expected. God, why didn’t he just pick up the phone and call in?”
Fletcher read through the pages one by one, each word filling him with absolute horror.
“Jordan, Matcliff claims there was another girl like Kaylie brought into the cult. He’s giving instruction on how to get her out. Her name was—”
She sat back on the sofa and crossed her legs. “Names, Fletch. Names. Emily Harper, Ella Reynolds, Nicole Wells, Kelly Rodriguez and Olivia Mills.”
Fletcher looked up. “What did you say?”
“Emily Harper would have been the one he’s talking about, I suppose.”
“And the other names?”
“The other girls who resemble Kaylie Rousch and who disappeared over the past fifteen years.”
“You mean to tell me you have more girls missing? Why wasn’t this part of the briefing?”
“Because Thurber didn’t clear any of you to be told about it.”
“Well, shit, sister, you better start talking, because I don’t work on cases without all the facts, and I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. What the hell? Five more girls?
“Don’t get angry with me. I’m here, aren’t I? And telling you the whole story, against orders. Rob and I had a big fight about this earlier. He’s worried about the way it looks.”
“He’s right to worry. But I don’t give a crap about how it looks. Facts. Now. Or I’m out.”
She looked down, bit her lip and told him everything.
The more he heard, the more he knew there weren’t going to be any happy endings to this story.
Chapter
47
Near Lynchburg, Virginia
ADRIAN STRUGGLED THROUGH the woods. He knew he was leaving a trail, bending the shrubs, blood leaking onto the green moss, but it didn’t matter. He needed to get back to the car and get the hell out of Dodge.
The darkness in Fred McDonald’s basement had saved him. When the gun went off, Adrian hit the floor and rolled backward toward the open door to the yard. The man’s aim had been slightly off. If he’d pointed the shotgun to the left even ten degrees, he would have taken Adrian down, permanently. But the pellets had missed his vital organs, spraying across the left side of his body, causing crippling pain, but not stealing his life.
Adrian got to his feet and charged McDonald, put his arms around the man’s ample body and squeezed, hard. He fought back, slamming the stock of the shotgun into Adrian’s knee. There was no time to play. Adrian had to end it immediately or risk losing his own life. He couldn’t afford to let the man go for a moment.
McDonald’s neck was meaty, corpulent, and when it was clear strangulation was going to take too long, Adrian simply put his hands on either side of McDonald’s ears and wrenched the man’s head hard to the right.
There was an unholy crack, then the smell of ammonia and shit filled the air. Adrian dropped McDonald to the floor and rushed out of the basement.