After the departmental meet and greet, I woke up Saturday morning with no hangover but a mood sour enough to make up for it. I packed up my camera and Duke for a day hike and got some shots of the mountains that were fine. Just fine. But there was no interesting wildlife, no dramatic sky, nothing really compelling. The best shots I took were of Duke, and I have no fewer than ten thousand better photos of him anyway. Everything felt dull and uninspiring.
When I got home, I called a few of my soccer friends and hit up several bars that night with the full intention of finding someone to go home with. A woman who would be up for some no-frills fun. Someone to take my mind off of the constant catastrophe that seems to surround me whenever I have a run-in with Ms. Brooks. I flirted, bought a few drinks, but after some half-hearted conversations with a couple of women, I just couldn’t make myself dive in and go for it.
So I got drunk instead.
The hangover that was missing on Saturday? It came in full force on Sunday.
While I was bemoaning my life choices with a Gatorade and a bag of barbecue chips, I had an epiphany.
Bria stares into the darkness, but she’s not looking for light. She’s looking for the deepest shadows.
I’ve gotten the sense before that she interacts differently with me than other people. Not just because I fucked up our first meeting and she now gives no shits about playing nice, but because she seems to see more to me beneath the surface, and she’s disappointed, even angry, when I lean into the mask rather than the man beneath. Case in point, our conversation on the patio. She seemed pleased when I made note of the handsy lumberjack David. It’s as though she appreciated the boldness of my comment. Then I swept that away by inviting her to dinner when she knew I didn’t want to, though she doesn’t know the reasons why.
She’s disappointed. She claps back when I succumb to the man I present to the world, and not the one she somehow knows who lies buried beneath. And honestly, I’d like to put that mask aside, just once in a while.
I wonder what would happen if I did.
Resolving to get my shit together, I drag myself to the shower and then walk Duke, before settling into my home office to conquer some work. It’s a bit of a slog at first, but once I get into it, I manage to type out my lecture notes for my classes next week, prep some topics for upcoming midterms, and start compiling folders of past essay topics for Fletcher.
After a solid few hours, I turn my attention to Caron Berger.
I log into the link Agent Espinoza sent and review the files on Tristan McCoy and Nick Hutchinson. Something about attributing their disappearances to Caron Berger still doesn’t sit right with me. He certainly has the means to make people vanish. In a sense, I guess he does it all the time. The vulnerable women of his innermost circle gradually erase their identities with every tier of discipleship they ascend. But it seems to have started innocently. First with health and wellness. Then closed online communities. Those became focused on mental health, especially religious trauma, though no professional psychologists or counselors were permitted to join. And suddenly there were festivals, then retreats, and then one retreat just never ended, becoming a commune. And now? Now there are four remote communes that we know of, the largest right here in Montana, the Vellera compound at the edge of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.
Caron Berger isolates these women. They are dedicated to him. They give him their money, their worship, their devotion, and in exchange he protects them from the outside world. All the while, he believes he saves them. Even as he slowly consumes their souls.
But would he be involved in making people disappear for defrauding his company or causing a social media uproar that probably resulted in more sales in the long run? I don’t know for sure, but my gut says no.
I call Agent Espinoza to talk through my thoughts, hoping to catch her on a Sunday. She answers on the second ring.
“Dr. Kaplan. I’m glad you called. I was going to give you a shout later today,” she says.
“Good timing in that case. I’ve been thinking more about the disappearances. It just doesn’t add up for me. I’m not convinced Berger is to blame.”
Agent Espinoza sighs, the sound of shuffling paper rustling in the background. “I’m afraid you might be right. Cynthia Nordstrom was in touch today. She said Berger is growing increasingly paranoid about safety. He’s contracted a security firm called Praetorian and is providing protection for his closest and most trusted supporters. He had Cynthia extend an offer to Tristan McCoy shortly before his disappearance. McCoy was scheduled to have a meeting with Praetorian, but of course he never made it. Cynthia didn’t know anything about the defraudment and it appears Berger didn’t either.”
“So we have another player on the field,” I say as my blood chills in my veins.
“It seems possible, yes. I’m working through the relatives of cult members at the moment. There don’t appear to be any known enemies of Berger, so a family member seems plausible, but honestly, it’s a shot in the dark. If it’s not Berger himself, we’re essentially chasing a ghost.”
My heart sinks. She’s right. If someone else is involved, we have very little to go on. “You said Tristan McCoy was last seen at a bar with a blonde woman, correct?”
“That’s right. We’re looking into it again, but last we checked, there was nothing. The staff didn’t even notice McCoy leave the bar.” Agent Espinoza takes a deep breath. “I’ll send you anything else I can. Anything you can do to help uncover a motivation or help build a profile of another potential suspect will be very helpful. Cynthia Nordstrom has been a wild card from the beginning, and I’m afraid that this will spook her into hiding. We’ll need to work quickly.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to keep the worry from my voice. “I’ll see what I can get about it from the interviews as well. Perhaps one of the women heard something from Caron that could shed light on who else could be involved. In the meantime, I’ll work with whatever you’ve got.”
“Great, thank you, Dr. Kaplan. And you should know, there could be other disappearances related to Berger that we haven’t uncovered yet. Other connections. And you should be vigilant.”
“I will.”
As we hang up, my worries encompass not only the progress of the investigation and my own safety. Other people are at risk too, like Cynthia Nordstrom. Is she in even more danger than taking the risk to betray Legio Agni? What if she’s the next target? She’s due to be a key witness against Caron, and if she goes missing or decides to run, we might lose our chance to find him. And what about Bria? If I take her to these interviews, will it put her at risk? If someone else is indeed involved with hunting down Caron’s associates, would they see me and Bria as their allies, or as rivals for a prize? Until I start to build a profile of this potential phantom, these questions will remain.
I drag my hands down my face, feeling like my flesh is crawling beneath my skin. My thoughts are as diaphanous as smoke. I can’t hold on to a single one. So I close my laptop. I grab my keys. And then I drive to the secured, heated garage where I store my motorcycles. When the BMW S 1000 RR roars to life with a rumble, I feel my mind already begin to calm. And for the next few hours, I take the winding roads through the foothills and the bending mountain passes. The clarity I hope to find is there in the sound of the engine and the adrenaline of speed and balance.
When I make it back home, I feel reset, ready to start a new hunt.
My first class on Monday doesn’t start until eleven, but I’m on campus before eight to pick up a coffee from Deja Brew and head to my office. By nine thirty, I’m feeling pretty well-prepared for not only the day, but much of the week ahead. I make my way to the fourth floor to check in with Dr. Strom before my first class, paying the fifty dollar bet I lost about Dr. Wells dying on campus before he’d retire. After he gets me up to speed on the rest of the party gossip, which mostly centers around Dr. Wells falling asleep on a chair next to the DJ, I leave Dr. Strom’s office with thirty minutes to spare before my next meeting.
