Page 42 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

O N LONG DRIVES, Nora often listened to audiobooks, and for her roughly thirty-hour roundtrip drive to Mexico she’d come prepared with a couple of good thrillers by Preston and Child.

But the more time she spent on the road driving home, the harder she found it to concentrate.

What kept intruding was a melody, an earworm of sorts: the one from the wax cylinder recording that Skip had taken home a transcription of.

He’d harmonized it and played it incessantly on his uke, and then gotten her to accompany him on flute, talking excitedly about all that he was going to do with it.

And then, in usual Skip style, he’d moved on to some other interest. It was dissonant, unsettling, with quarter tones that were not known in Western music.

It sounded a little like that weird, final string quartet of Shostakovich’s maybe.

Idly, she wondered what Shostakovich would make of it.

But the relief at identifying, and thus ridding herself, of this unsettling earworm gave way to other intrusive thoughts—in particular, what she’d learned from Benicio, and the mystery of Oskarbi supposedly turning to the “dark side.”

Now it was clear Oskarbi was running a cult.

And yet, it was like none she’d heard of before.

Oskarbi wasn’t a David Koresh or a Jim Jones.

Its members were not a collection of lost souls, brainwashed and shut away in a remote compound.

Instead, they appeared to be educated, intelligent, high-functioning professionals who—at least on the surface—lived successful and productive lives.

Was it possible—really possible—that people like Molly Vine and Miranda Driver were in a cult?

Where and when did they meet?

What did they do—and why?

As she drove through the darkness, these questions wove themselves within her brain.

And as they did, Nora found herself led inevitably to the question of whether Benicio’s claims of dark powers, duende spirits and an unseen world, were real.

Could there be a hidden world behind the real one, accessible through secret rituals or hallucinogenic drugs like peyote?

This wasn’t a new concept to her: as an anthropologist, she was well aware that many ancient cultures around the world believed hallucinogens could put you in touch with a hidden and often dangerous world lurking behind the visible.

Whatever the cultish dogmas were, Vine and Driver had apparently believed in them passionately enough to commit horrific, ritual suicide.

It was midnight when Nora finally turned into the driveway of the little house she shared with Skip.

The place was dark as she pulled her car up next to Skip’s crappy old beater.

She was intensely relieved to be home; it had been a grueling trip in more ways than one, and on top of everything else the fifteen-hour drive back had just about fried her brain.

She couldn’t wait to get into bed.

She got out of the car and went to the door, inserting her key; she would unpack in the morning.

She heard the reassuring barking of Mitty, their golden retriever, and when she opened the door he rushed to her, wagging the entire back half of his body in a fervor of welcome, whining and licking her hand.

The excitement of the greeting gave her pause; it suggested he had been left alone in the house.

She stepped into the kitchen, Mitty following eagerly.

The house felt empty.

Passing through the kitchen and dining area, she went into the hall.

Skip’s bedroom door was open.

She stepped inside and flicked on the light.

The bed was unmade—but then, it was always unmade.

She returned to the kitchen.

Mitty had been fed and there was water in his bowl—so Skip either was out for the evening, or, if he’d gone away, had arranged for their dog-sitting friend to feed and walk Mitty.

But if he was out for the evening, why was his car in the driveway?

Had a friend picked him up?

Maybe. He did, on occasion, spend the night away from the house, especially if he’d gone to a party and had too much to drink.

Or met some woman.

She felt a rising irritation at her irresponsible brother and his doings.

But she was tired and it was too late to do anything about it.

She’d call their dog sitter in the morning and find out if Skip had engaged her, but for now all she wanted to do was collapse in bed.

The sound of her phone booming out the 1812 Overture woke Nora in a panic.

She fumbled at her nightstand and lifted the phone; it was Corrie, calling at seven o’clock sharp.

Jesus. There were times when Corrie was relentless.

She swiped the answer bar and put the phone to her ear.

“Yes?”

“Nora? It’s Corrie.”

“I know.”

“Sorry to disturb you.” The words tumbled out in a rush.

“You must’ve just gotten back. But I’m really anxious to hear what you found out.”

Nora sat up, her head clearing, and tried to focus on the torrent of words.

“I didn’t find him. But I learned some things… interesting things.”

“Can we meet in half an hour? I’ve got news for you as well. I’m on the interstate just coming into Santa Fe—I’ve got an interview there at nine. We can grab coffee before.”

Nora groaned inwardly.

“Okay, fine,” she said.

They met at a coffee shop around the corner from Nora’s house.

She’d just had time to shower and dress, managing to arrive right as Corrie pulled into the little parking lot.

They walked in together.

Nora ordered a triple espresso and a chocolate croissant, while Corrie had a gigantic, sweet coffee drink, and they sat down outside.

After a few gulps of espresso, Nora felt herself returning to normal.

First, Corrie told her the astonishing news about finding a third woman out in the desert—this one still alive and currently recovering, but refusing to speak.

Next, she peppered Nora with questions about her trip.

Nora related the whole story: tracking down the elusive Benicio, spending the night on his porch, and ultimately learning the truth about Oskarbi.

Corrie hung on to every word, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

When she was done, Corrie eased back in her chair and, after a silence, said, “Let me get this straight: Oskarbi left Benicio’s place twenty-five years ago, never went back, never even communicated with the guy ever again, published a book, got rich and famous—but through it all he’d gone over ‘ to the dark side ’—” she formed air quotes with her fingers—“then gathered a bunch of cultish followers around him, mostly women, and disappeared without a trace. Years later, some of these women started committing ritual suicide.”

“That’s about it,” said Nora.

“Sounds like he signed a pact with the devil,” Corrie said.

“Or at least believed that he had.” She paused.

“But where the hell is he?”

“According to the FBI databases I checked,” Corrie said, “all traces of him vanished twelve years ago—no credit card or bank activity, no social media posts, no contact with friends or relatives, no driver’s license renewal—nothing.”

“So maybe he did go to ground and is running the cult from some secret location.”

“Seems unlikely.”

“Why?”

“When all electronic traces of a person vanish, it usually means one thing: that they’re dead. That’s an FBI rule of thumb, anyway.”

“Dead? Really?”

Corrie held up her hands.

“It’s awfully hard to disappear or establish a new identity in this day and age. Maybe the cult is hiding him. But what kind of cult is it where the members have PhDs and lead professional lives?”

Nora smiled ironically.

“The question occurred to me, too—although I know quite a few PhDs who are totally nuts. Tell me more about this woman you found. Bastien. Has she really refused to say anything?”

“Yes, but she’s back with her family, which might help—I’m seeing her at nine.”

Nora thought for a minute, then glanced at her watch.

Eight o’clock. “Would it be okay if I came along? It would require a brief stop at the Institute—but I just might know a way to get a reaction.”

She described her idea to Corrie, who nodded.

“Anything that might help.”

It was now late enough for Nora to call the dog sitter.

“Listen, Corrie, mind if I make a quick call? I’m worried about Skip.”

“Skip? Go ahead.”

Nora called the dog sitter and learned her brother had, indeed, engaged her to feed and walk Mitty twice a day.

The sitter said Skip was going camping with a friend.

He didn’t say where, and he’d been vague about when he’d be back, but he’d mentioned the friend’s name—Edison.

Nora hung up the phone, more anxious than ever.

“Everything all right?” Corrie asked.

Nora shook her head.

“Seems he took off the day after I left for Mexico. Camping with that guy Edison.”

“That rich young collector you told me about? Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have a reason to be concerned?”

Nora gave a small, ironic laugh.

“With my brother Skip? Yeah. Always.”