Sins of the Mother Read online

  Further down the alley, near the loading dock of an old grocery store, Caitlin saw a red dot move up and down in the darkness. Shielding her eyes from the restaurant’s lights, she made out a single figure standing at the edge of the lot, holding a lit cigarette. From the shape and height, she guessed it was a woman.

  She got two steps into the lot before the restaurant’s back door swung open behind her.

  “Miss Bergman, is that you?”

  She turned back to see Sheriff Martin lighting a cigarette.

  “What are the odds,” she asked with a smile, before shooting a quick glance back toward the loading dock. The female figure was gone.

  Martin walked closer. “Out of all the places in town, how did you end up at the Lumberjack?”

  “Walking distance from the hotel, Sheriff. How about you?”

  “I live up the hill. You got the package, right?”

  “Sure did, thanks.”

  “Sorry I don’t have a definitive answer yet, but it looks like you can get back to your life in California.”

  Unlike the stench in Johnny Larsen’s truck, the smell of Sheriff Martin’s cigarette fading into the night sky made Caitlin think of her father, which brought her back to the reasons for the whole trip—both hers and whatever agenda the people of Coos County were pursuing. If Sheriff Martin could be trusted, he’d have to give Caitlin the same info Johnny had offered.

  “I know you’re off the clock, Boz,” she started, stepping closer, “but where did they find my mother’s body?”

  His eyebrows went up, and he looked her over. “What are you doing out here near the dumpster?”

  He’d answered her question with a question. Pro move.

  “Smoking,” she replied. “Where’d they find her? Road, woods, federal land?”

  “Road,” he said. “But in the woods and near federal land. I didn’t take you for a smoker.”

  “But she hadn’t been killed there, right? She’d been moved?”

  Martin looked either impressed or suspicious. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Your benevolent donor’s number-one son. Did the Dayans, or Daughters of God, or whatever they’re called, really kidnap Johnny Larsen’s daughter? And more importantly, did you set up that interview so I’d end up in a truck with him?”

  “I know you’re hurting, Miss Bergman, but I wouldn’t get too involved in any of this mess.”

  “Did the cult take his daughter?”

  He shrugged. “Pretty hard to take someone who’s run away three times in the last year. That said, these Dayans are trouble. If your mother really was one of them, the best thing you can do is bury her and go on home. Speaking of which”—he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray—“I’d better get home to the wife.”

  She let him get five steps away before calling out again. “Was the key put in my mom’s butt before or after her death?”

  He turned back. “The report showed traces of lubricant and no signs of tearing, so we assume the placement was voluntary.”

  “Sheriff, you should never assume,” Caitlin said. “It makes an ass out of you and my mom.”

  He laughed despite himself, waved, then turned around the alley corner toward the front of the building, out of sight. Maybe thirty seconds later, she heard an engine start and a car pull away. She looked back to the loading dock once again. Still no movement. She went back in and headed for the bar. Hazel had written the note, so she’d have an answer. Except Hazel wasn’t there. A large man wearing a Ducks hoodie stood behind the bar, pouring beers for two young men with military-style buzz cuts.

  “Hazel still here?” Caitlin said.

  The new bartender pointed up to a clock. “Shift ended at nine. I’m all yours the rest of the night. What can I get you?”

  Caitlin reached for her wallet. “Just my check, then.”

  He went to the register. “What was the name?”

  “Bergman,” she said, noticing the heads of the two young men whip her way.

  A tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of the nearest one’s T-shirt, a banner wrapped around the words Proud Son.

  The bartender turned back her way. “I don’t see it here. Looks like Hazel took care of you.”

  “Sorry, I spaced.” Caitlin shoved her wallet back into her purse. “Hazel said something about that before I went out to smoke. I meant I wanted to thank her for something we were talking about. When does she work again?”

  “She’ll be in tomorrow, but you don’t have to leave.”

  “Stick around,” the closest young man said, jumping into the conversation. “The night’s just getting started. What kind of name is that—Bergman?”

  Caitlin looked at all three men at the bar, then over at the men at the pool table, and realized she was the only woman left in the place.

  “It means gotta go in German,” she said, backing away from the bar. “As in, time for me to call it a night.”

  She left out the back door, walking as fast as possible without breaking into a sprint. Just as she neared the Paul Bunyan statue, a large blue pickup roared into the parking lot: the one and only Johnny Larsen. Back on the main strip, she stopped to see if she was being followed, but she saw neither the mysterious female waiting at the edge of the parking lot nor the bar’s buzz-cut males of Aryan descent. In her hotel room five minutes later, she still hadn’t decided if Hazel had sent her outside to meet the woman at the edge of the parking lot, to talk to Sheriff Martin, or to get away from a Proud Sons of Oregon meeting.

  Too wired to sleep, she reached for her suitcase and read the second entry in her mother’s journal.

  CHAPTER

  17

  February 27, 1993

  I WASN’T SURE HOW to start this, then Daya—of all people—said I should just write to myself, my inner self, my true self. So hi, Maya. Hello, it’s you … and your mind is completely freaking blown.

  It’s Saturday and I’m in a campground in the Angeles National Forest, just up past Wrightwood. There’s snow everywhere, so I should be cold, but I’m not. I’m melting, my whole body is on fire.

  I haven’t written since the first entry almost two weeks ago, so I’ll start there.

  After the Valentine’s Day party, I lost my shit. Like, I sat in bed for two days, cordless phone in my lap, dialing Bev’s number, getting her machine over and over. Once it stopped recording, I put on clothes and drove to her place in Van Nuys. She didn’t live there anymore, but I didn’t know, so I camped out in front of her door for a whole morning. The new renters chewed my ass in Russian until I figured out that Bev had ditched her lease, leaving most of her furniture and things behind.

  I drove back to the house on Laurel Canyon and the place was empty, not a single car in the driveway. Still, I found notes—maybe fifteen or so—all taped to the door. One had my name on it.

  Maya:

  Your path to this point has been hard, but do not fear. You haven’t missed your chance. Pack a bag with cold-weather, outdoor clothing, enough for a week, any food you have at home, and follow the map below. From here on out, the way will be easy. Though now you are alone, soon you will be with us. Now you are temporary, soon you will become absolute. Soon you will know the Light.

  Desmond, the Guide.

  Linda, the Seer.

  Daya, the Future.

  I drove home, packed what I could, then followed the instructions into the mountains northeast of Pasadena. I hadn’t been up there since high school and had forgotten how many pine trees there are. Not giant redwoods or anything, but tall—a real forest compared to the rest of Los Angeles County. And the air? So fresh.

  Two Dayans—that’s what they’re called—waited in the parking lot of a campground for voyagers like me.

  “Your voyage has just begun,” the first said, an ultra-tan surfer type in ski pants. “Follow the trail until you find your light.”

  “My light?”

  The woman with him, an Asian girl in her twenties with hair down to
her ass, pulled me close and kissed me on each cheek. “You can’t miss it. Your soul brought you here. Let it guide you to your destiny.”

  “Sure, my destiny,” I mumbled back. “But what is this place?”

  “It’s freedom from your past, from getting stuck in your regrets, from”—she laughed politely—“that look on your face.”

  The surfer pulled her away and into his arms. “Don’t freak her out.” His smile was bright and wide. “It’s a retreat. Check it out. You’ll love it.”

  I zipped my jacket and started up the trail, but turned back toward them. “But is it a—”

  “Cult?” the girl answered with a laugh. “If it is, it’s a really good one.”

  Maybe I should have turned back then. Maybe I would have if I was thinking, but I had to know who these people were, and why, out of all the people in LA, they wanted me.

  Snow coated the hillside, but the sun was out. Five minutes up the path, I felt comfortable enough to unzip. By the time I got to the first big turn, I could hear music. By the second, laughter. When I got to the clearing at the top of the hill, I found the party—and the light. A giant bonfire, brighter than anything I could have imagined, reflected off the snow-filled trees and the fifty or so half-naked people dancing around in a sweltering ring. Sweaty, topless men and women, young and old, moved to music being played by acoustic guitars, a drum circle, and a pair of gorgeous male twins with flutes. The dancers touched each other’s backs and shoulders, not sexually, but gently, like friends in half hugs, and every few seconds, someone would scream like they couldn’t help themselves.

  The circle spun, and I saw Bev, or at least parts of her. Her smile, her hair whipping around. I dropped my bag where I was, took off my jacket, and moved close to the dance, ready to join in.

  A loud shrill buzz, like a gym teacher’s whistle, stopped everyone in place.

  “She’s here,” a voice said, soft and female. “Let’s welcome her.”

  The whistle blew again and the dancers unfroze, turning toward me with excited smiles, like a huge group of kids ready to drag someone new into their game.

  “Welcome, Maya,” they said in breathy unison, sweat glistening on beards and bare breasts.

  I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, I broke into tears. Something about all those people looking at me, smiling at me. It felt like total acceptance.

  A figure pushed through the crowd. A brunette with long Pocahontas braids in denim shorts came up to me, smiling with her hands out and open.

  “I’m Daya,” she said, pulling me into her bare chest. “And you’re finally home.”

  Daya was the same size as me, same body type even, though younger by a few years. I looked into her big brown eyes. “How can I be home? I don’t even know what all this is.”

  She reached up and touched my temples with her fingertips.

  “You don’t have to know up there,” she said, moving her hand down to my chest. “Your heart already knows.”

  Reaching for my bag, she led me toward a cabin beyond the fire. “Come. Desmond will decide if you are ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  Daya climbed the steps of the cabin, slipped off her pair of muddy moccasins, and reached for the door. “The knowing. Please take your boots off.”

  She entered the cabin, walked through the main room, and knocked twice on a closed door. “Wait here,” she said, and went through.

  I kicked off my boots and checked out the room.

  A chintzy rug sat in front of a fireplace. I noticed a table and chairs, but they’d been pushed to the side. The rest of the room had been cut in half by a wall of canvases on easels, all facing the other direction. I peeked around and saw Linda, the old woman from the Laurel Canyon house, wearing a full-length smock, covered in paint.

  I got her attention. The first time I’d seen her she’d seemed pleasant enough, but now, looking up from her palette of reds, oranges, and yellows, Linda beamed with energy and enthusiasm.

  “You’ve made it.” She set her brush aside. “I’m so glad. Please, come and look.”

  I entered her U of canvases and immediately noticed a trend: fires. Cities, houses, cars, schools—all burnt or burning in different ways, each with people writhing in agony. Hair burnt down to scalps, faces melting, men, women, and children. Seriously disturbing shit. One painting that really got to me showed a fireman with a hose running into a wall of fire ten times his size. No way he’d make it out alive.

  The largest canvas, maybe four feet high by eight feet wide and only half finished, seemed to be the only scene of hope. In the upper left, a cloud of gray ash hovered over the remains of a giant city, maybe LA, and more of the same charred bodies littered the streets. In the upper right, feet of empty canvas away, a green forested mountain rose up to meet a blue sky, and a solid white beam went straight from the mountain to the top of the canvas.

  Linda stood next to me, nodding toward the large, unfinished canvas. “Cataclysm.”

  I started to ask her what the hell that meant, but the door to the other room opened and Daya walked out.

  “Desmond’s ready for you.”

  She stepped aside and Desmond took her place in the doorway. He wore a full-body sarong, like one of the monks from the airport, but all white.

  “Maya, thank you for finding me,” he said, taking my hand as I entered. Either he or the cabin smelled like tea tree oil, strong, but clean. “And for starting the journey.”

  The room had a king-sized bed, but Desmond led me to a couch and sat next to me. Daya came in behind us, followed by Linda, who shut the door after her, even with a paintbrush still in her hand.

  The women pulled up chairs and faced us. I looked over at Desmond and saw him watching me as well.

  I smiled and they smiled, but no one said anything.

  So I nodded, smiled even bigger.

  They smiled back.

  I started laughing, couldn’t help it. They laughed too.

  “What the hell is this?” I said. “What’s happening here?”

  Desmond reached toward me and placed his hand on my knee. “What do you think is happening here?”

  I had no idea. That’s what I told them, but they sat there, grinning, like they were waiting to hear me talk.

  Linda leaned in. “Do you have a message for me?”

  “A message? Like what?”

  “Maybe something you saw in my paintings.”

  I laughed and looked around the room, almost expecting Geraldo Rivera to bust out from a closet, but no one else laughed this time.

  Daya looked angry. “I told you it wasn’t her.”

  “What wasn’t me?” I said. “I mean, what am I not?”

  Desmond pointed a calm but shushing finger Daya’s direction. “Wait for the message.”

  He turned back toward me and smiled. Daya folded her hands and looked down. Linda scooted closer and leaned in.

  I thought back to her paintings. “Honestly, most of your art scared me shitless.”

  Linda nodded. “Most, but not all?”

  “I liked the big one, the unfinished thing with the green mountain on the right. Out of all of the places in the room, it was the place I wanted to go.”

  Daya looked up from her hands. Linda sat back with a smile. I checked out Desmond but couldn’t read anything in those gray eyes.

  Linda cleared her throat. “What about the left side?”

  “Looked like LA,” I said, “but like a bomb had gone off.”

  Linda gasped. Daya looked like she might cry. Desmond nodded and smiled.

  “And so the message arrives,” he said, like I’d just solved a big freaking riddle.

  Daya jumped out of her chair and hugged me. Linda got up with tears in her eyes.

  “Leave us now,” Desmond said. The women left the room, not quite walking backward like I was the queen, but looking back every second or so to smile before closing the door behind them.

  I stood up. “What the hell just happe
ned? I don’t know who you people think I am, but I’m no one special.”

  “Of course you are.” Desmond left the couch and walked over to the open door of a bathroom.

  I followed him, saw him filling a large plastic bowl in the sink. “I don’t know what Bev told you people, but I don’t have any money.”

  He reached for a small brown bottle and used a glass dropper to add several beads of oil to the water in the bowl. “We don’t care about your money.”

  “Good, ’cause I might not even make rent this month.”

  He turned toward me, bowl in hand. I moved out of the way, and he walked back to the couch. “Please, sit.”

  “I’m not special,” I said, no idea what he or they or anyone wanted from me. “I’m a bit of a freaking mess, in fact.”

  “Sit,” he repeated, pointing to the couch.

  I sat back down.

  He knelt in front of me with the bowl at his side and reached for my socks.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Washing your feet.”

  “Washing my—”

  He pulled one sock off, reached for the other. “That’s right.”

  I’ve been fucking people for money for the last twenty-five years but had never felt naked once until I sat there with my bare feet in his hands.

  “I’m no one special either,” he said, lifting my feet and placing them gently in the warm water. “I was a humble yogi until I met Linda.”

  He told me how Linda had been having blinding headaches that nothing could touch. She’d been to all of the doctors, brain scans and everything. Turns out, Linda’s kind of loaded, as in, super rich. Her late husband had created a missile guidance system, something to do with nukes during the Reagan years. Last year she came to one of Desmond’s yoga retreats for help with the headaches, and everything changed for both of them.

  “I’d taken her aside,” Desmond said, massaging my feet in the water. “Like we are now. I’d never seen someone so twisted with pain, so racked with guilt.”

  “Guilt? Why would Linda be guilty?”