Page 87 of Badlands

But now the leader in white paint appeared, also armed, aiming at Corrie as she was bent over Skip. Nora fired, missing but forcing him to drop to the ground. He fired back, but Nora could tell that the monstrous revolver he was holding was unfamiliar to him, and he missed badly.

Skip was now free and, with Corrie half dragging him, ran toward the spot where Nora was crouched. A second cannon blast from the huge revolver went off, kicking up a gout of dirt at least a dozen feet away, as Corrie and Skip dove over the edge of the mesa, landing hard and rolling down the rocky slope. Nora leapt up and, tucking the Glock into her waistband, helped Skip to his feet as Corrie scrambled up herself.

“What?” said Skip, his eyes wild, disoriented. “How—”

Nora shook him. “Shut up and run.”

They ran down the slope. Another blast from the gun sounded behind them, but by now they had reached the bottom and were out of range.

“We’ll make a feint to the east, and then head north,” said Nora. This was what she and Corrie had decided: instead of heading back to their vehicle and civilization, they would initially head that way but then veer north, deeper into nowhere: with any luck, the last direction their pursuers would suspect. Because to the north lay the wildest section of canyon—so rugged that not even the Gallina had ever ventured to live there.

53

AT TEN O’CLOCK,Watts was waiting at the government heliport in Santa Fe for Sharp and the FBI chopper to arrive. The wind was gusting across the tarmac, stirring his hair.

When Watts had called Sharp, he had expected pushback—it was a big deal to deploy an FBI Hostage Rescue Team and scramble a helicopter, especially when he didn’t have proof that Corrie and the others were in trouble. But when Watts explained his concerns, the agent had immediately understood. Then he’d gone to work. It was remarkable how quickly the FBI could move when necessary.

And now he heard the thudding of the helicopter and made out the running lights approaching from the south. He braced himself as it landed, raising a cloud of dust and dry weeds. Watts, one hand clamped down on his hat, ran to the door at a crouch and hopped in. He took a seat as the door closed, put on the headphones. The chopper lifted off at a stomach-dropping ascent.

He turned to Agent Sharp in the adjoining seat. “Many thanks.”

Sharp nodded, a serious expression on his face.

“Any developments?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. After your call, we tracked Agent Swanson into Gallina Canyon—FBI cell phones are equipped with a special GPS chip. So at least that much has been confirmed.”

The chopper sped northwestward, leaving the lights of Santa Fe behind, then passing over Española before heading into a dark ocean of uninhabited mountains and deserts. Watts could see the onboard Hostage Rescue Team illuminated in the red navigational lights—two men and two women—kitted up and armed to the teeth, faces impassive. As shocked as he was to learn that Corrie was definitely in the canyon, this impressive group gave him a measure of reassurance. If only they could get there in time.

Despite being a law enforcement officer, Watts had not spent a lot of time in helicopters, and he did not much care for them. He could feel the wind buffeting the airframe and the occasional jolts and sinkings caused by turbulence. The weather report had warned of thirty-to-forty-mile-an-hour gusts, but he was too ignorant of helicopter operations to know if that was bad news or not—and he wasn’t about to reveal his nervousness by asking.

“So,” he asked Sharp after a moment, “does the FBI have a theory of what the hell is going on here?”

“We do, at least in general outline. We’re dealing with a religious cult.”

“Strange kind of cult,” said Watts. “Bunch of PhDs.”

“Actually, not strange at all,” Sharp said. “We’ve got a special psychological unit that focuses exclusively on cults and cult behavior. Unlike what people tend to believe, most cult members aren’t brainwashed zombies. They’re often successful people. For example, we investigated a cult called NXIVM that recruited Hollywood stars such as Allison Mack. Or take Scientology, which we at the FBI also consider to be a cult.”

“I see your point.”

“I’ve had one briefing from this unit already, examining the possibilities,” Sharp went on. “Based on what we know now, a highly charismatic graduate student, with narcissistic tendencies, goes off to Mexico while still at an impressionable age and learns about an ancient Indigenous religious tradition. He expropriates it for his own purposes and publishes a bestselling book about it. He becomes a respected professor, and it doesn’t take long for a group of worshipful students to form something of a discipleship around him—especially since, as their thesis advisor, he already has authority over their intellectual lives. This, over time, leads to ever greater control over the group—not to mention his growing certainty about his own true destiny. He sleeps with the women, dominates the men… and gradually, in this way, they’re transformed into a cult.”

“Interesting,” said Watts. “I’ve encountered ‘wannabe Indians’ before—the Anglos who adopt Native American religious traditions for themselves and hang around Native people. The Indians can’t stand them.”

“That’s an operative factor in this case, too,” said Sharp. “Cults have a way of turning to doomsday thinking. Many of them end up believing the end of the world is coming, or that they’re being threatened by nefarious government forces. They become paranoid and fearful—and that’s when they start arming themselves.”

“And turn violent.”

“It’s a side of human nature not all that uncommon. As I said, the FBI has been studying the psychology of cults for decades. It frequently boils down to the desire to belong—the need to simplify life’s ambiguities and reduce everything to black and white. The desire to not have to think for yourself. And in the case ofthe leader—who’s almost invariably a man—it’s the desire to exercise sexual control and power.”

“What a species we are,” said Watts, shaking his head.

Abruptly, the chopper was buffeted by a strong blast of turbulence, which tilted it sideways for an alarming moment before it recovered stability.

“Um,” said Watts into the headset, trying to keep his voice calm, “is that turbulence something to be concerned about?”

There was a silence. After what seemed forever, the pilot answered back.

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