I slow as we enter the outskirts of Elk Flats. “You feeling okay about it?”
His eyes flash with humor. “I’m a farm kid, remember? I’m good, sir.”
Sofie must be rubbing off on me. Or I’m starting to care about this kid.
The town of Elk Flats is laid out in the shape of an L, with one blinking stoplight. The tallest building is City Hall, located on the south end, next to the school and the post office. On the opposite end is the old lumber mill that’s been shut down for over a decade. The only real industry left is recreation, mostly hunting and fishing. Though it’s a gateway to the Bitterroot Wilderness, most hikers and climbers access it from easier waypoints.
Elk Flats has one small medical clinic, a bait and ammo shop, a couple of gas stations, a grocery store, the diner, and two forms of lodging. One is a series of tiny individual cabins—shacks, really, not that hunters mind—near the tiny airstrip used by a few of the guiding outfitters. The other is a one-story motor lodge in the center of town, with pink concrete siding and dated decor. A couple ofprimitive BLM campgrounds line the Elk River east of town and get some traffic in the summer. When Sons of Eden first moved in, they tried to occupy them past the fourteen-day limit. That’s when the trouble started.
“Go ahead and call in our location,” I tell CJ. He’s focused on his phone while typing out a message but shoves it back into his pocket and unhooks the radio. I shoot him a scowl. Who would he be texting this early in the morning?
While he volleys with dispatch, I pause at the stop sign then turn south, passing the diner. No sheriff SUV parked outside. He or his crew might be monitoring our channel, but that’s a risk I’ll have to take. Not that I’m afraid of him, but I’d rather not engage in a pissing match while on Jerome Wakefield’s doorstep.
CJ finishes up with dispatch and replaces the handset just as I turn down Alder Street and the pavement turns to crushed gravel compacted with snow. The Wakefields bought an old dairy farm on thirty acres last year. From the intel we’ve gathered so far, I know they’ve kept the dairy business going and turned the farmhouse into a hub for communal meals, homeschooling, and other group activities.
I half expect there to be a gate and giant walls, but why would they need that when they’ve got the sheriff in their pocket and own half the town?
After passing through a thick band of trees, the road cuts through a snowy, open landscape. The barn and an attached muddy pasture containing a few dozen cows dominates the southwest quadrant. On the left are two long, single-story buildings with plywood siding and in place of porches, cinder block steps down to the snow. Behind them are rows of fruit trees and a fallow garden area surrounded by tall fencing and an ancient motorhome with a bashed-in windshield that I think I remember from when they were squatting on BLM land. But what stands out even more than the simplebuildings and dilapidated barn are the three big homes located on a rise of land behind the farmhouse.
“Whoa,” CJ breathes. “It’s like Old MacDonald and a shady contractor had a baby.”
I take the road that splits between the farmhouse and the barn. Other than the chimney smoke curling into the sky, the farmhouse feels deserted, but a few window coverings flash as we pass, like we’re being watched.
CJ gives the empty compound a slow scan. “Where is everyone?”
“When I booted them out of the BLM campground two summers ago, the women gathered the children and hid.”
He cocks his head in confusion. “Are they scared of us?”
“I think they’re more scared of the men.” I don’t sayhusbandsbecause it’s a little surreal to think of it like that.
CJ’s gray eyes darken.
Two of the big houses look older but like they’ve been upgraded recently. Each has a new roof and there’s an extension on the second one. The biggest house at the highest point of land has handsome wood siding, new windows, a four-car garage, a paved driveway. This fits with what Luke Ballard shared—the cult’s leaders get the good stuff, while everyone else gets the scraps.
“None of the houses have numbers,” CJ says.
I pull into the first driveway and park, every muscle in my back tensing. “Stay with the truck. The last thing I want is them thinking we’re launching an offensive.”
He gives a frustrated sigh. “Yes, sir.”
I step down, ignoring the stubborn throb from my hip, and pocket my phone. A cold wind blows at my back, turning the bare skin at my neck to goose flesh. It adds to the sense of vulnerability that’s been creeping up on me since we arrived. After a careful 180-degree scan, I collect my citation notebook, check my weapon, and walk up the driveway, my boots crunching on the sanded pavement and ice-crusted slush.
To the left of the garage is a walkway leading to the backyard. I’m tempted to check it out, but that would be trespassing. The backyard is mostly snow, but from my vantage point at the corner of the driveway, I can make out a firewood splitting station and a stack of split quarters—most of it lodgepole. I obviously can’t be sure the wood came from Crooked Pine Basin, but there’s zero chance these guys purchased lodgepole for firewood. At least not locally. In these parts, their lower range starts at 5,000 feet and there are no timber permits for that elevation in use right now.
The garage has a series of small windows in the roll-up door. I lean closer and shade my eyes to cut the glare. It’s too dark inside the garage to give me details, though there’s a black lump that could be a covered sled. I won’t know if it’s the Polaris until I can get closer, but maybe I’m about to.
A baby starts crying from inside the house. It’s faint, like it’s coming from deep inside. On my way to the front door, I lock eyes with CJ now standing next to the truck, his eyes alert. I warn him with my gaze to stay put, because gooseflesh is walking down my spine.
I continue past the garage and turn up the shoveled walkway leading to the porch.
After a simple knock on the door, I step back, hands at my sides, and manage one measured exhale before the door opens.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Rowdy disappearsinside the house, my surprised exhale gets swallowed by the still air.
What the actual fuck?