Zach adds, “Elk Flats has only a small medical clinic, but there hasn’t been some huge spike in births since Sons of Eden moved into town. We believe the women are now giving birth at home. I think that’s one of the reasons they created this new compound. To keep everyone in and the rest of the world out.”
“So, in other words,” I say, “finding another nurse willing to speak out won’t be an option.”
“How about recruiting an informant?” Everett asks.
Annette gets up to add hot water to her tea. “If Officer Whittaker can get a few of them for poaching or conservation crimes, we could try getting one of them to flip.”
I’m working on it, I want to say, but it’s feeble at best, so I just nod. We need results.
Luke leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Once we have a feel for who comes and goes, maybe there’s a way to get someone inside. A delivery driver maybe.”
“What about food stamp fraud?” Zach asks, glancing up from his notebook. “Many of the families collect stamp benefits, but based on what we know, those benefits don’t reach the families that need them.”
“What?” My mouth drops open.
Rex nods at Zach, his eyes dark. “Food stamp fraud isn’t a new idea. Especially in a tiered society like Sons of Eden. The leaders keep their minions in poverty, get them to apply for assistance, then use those funds to pad their pockets or…” He nods at the two men on the board, neither of whom look like they’re hurting for calories. “Fund their projects and activities.”
“What do we need to build a case like that?” I ask.
Annette settles back in her seat. “I have a couple of contacts at the USDA Inspector General’s office. They could run an audit. The IRS should also be brought in too. Our team can initiate. Meanwhile can you find out where the benefit cards are being used? Like is it a local grocery or convenience store, maybe one owned by someone in the cult? That would make it easy for the leaders to steal the benefits. The cards get swiped at the store, but instead of the family member in need getting food and provisions, the funds are illegally diverted to the cult’s leaders.”
“That’s just evil,” Vera says, shaking her head. “I mean, they don’t just abuse their members, but they go out of their way to manipulate them like this, to steal from the mouths of hungry children.”
“Both Otis and his son are malignant narcissists,” Luke says. “Sociopaths who simply do not care about the pain they inflict, the damage they cause, and the lives they derail in order to feed their mighty ego’s desires. They are insatiable in their neediness and no amount of devotion and sacrifice will ever be enough.”
“And the followers don’t see it?” I glance up at Jerome Wakefield’s dark, soulless eyes.
Luke follows my gaze. “These leaders are incredibly charismatic,and they’re also very proficient actors. At first, they make followers feel seen and heard in a way that converts them into fanatical believers. But leaders like this will begin to exert coercive control over them immediately, all while the abuse slowly ramps up. People who become trapped in these kinds of cults often feel they are failing, and they need to work harder and sacrifice more of themselves each day.”
“So they give up everything, and submit to whatever the cult leaders demand,” I say in disgust. “They’re like parasites.”
Luke gives me a grim nod. “Add in that the leaders project themselves as prophets and it gets even stickier. Followers believe they’re doing good work, that their life has purpose, even as they suffer.”
I remember Colton’s palpable defiance even as he devoured those sandwiches Keo made him. What made him finally realize he was in danger? Or maybe he knew it from a younger age, but he needed to get strong and independent enough to plan his escape.
As if I didn’t need another reason to bring down this cult. The quicker we can accomplish our goal, the sooner more kids like Colton can be free.
When I pullinto the IDFW field office’s parking area, the only other car here is a dark sedan with government plates and a blue Dodge with a trailer hitch and several bales of hay secured with bright orange twine.
Outside, the wind’s icy bite stings my cheeks and nose. Despite the low clouds, even the muted light reflecting off the snow is bright enough to make my eyes burn. I tuck on my Stetson and zip my coat to my chin while hurrying inside.
The entryway is dim, with a metal grate floor for scraping off snow, but my boots are clean, so I continue past the reception area where Betsy, our receptionist, looks up from her computer, her eyes wary as I pass.
I’m still trying to figure out what has her spooked when I catch the end of the argument going on inside my boss’s office.
“…won’t get another second chance. Understood?” Scott says in a harsh tone.
The fuck?
Scott is standing behind his desk in his spotless uniform, his manicured fingertips braced on the tidy surface and his eyes locked on the man sitting across from him.
All I can see from the back is a mop of unruly hair and his broad shoulders and the way he’s splayed in the chair, like he wants to take up as much space as possible.
I already don’t like him and we haven’t even started working together.
“Whittaker!” Scott says, blinking at me in surprise.
The guy in the chair rocks to his feet, fixing his gray eyes on me, his scruffy face brightening with a smile I instantly distrust. His long strides eat up the space between us, and he offers his hand. “So great to meet you, Rowdy, sir. I’m CJ Parks.”