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eBook Category: Suspense/Thriller/Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: Sheriff Doug Brewster's peaceful life is torn apart when a local militia member is found murdered and marked with a ritualistic bruise. While disturbing, he handles it as he would any other case, until he discovers hisbest friend, Josie Galloway, shares the same bizarre mark. Josie is happy to accept her role as the local 'color'--as a Wiccan Priestess she expects no less. But when she begins to share the dreams of a dead man--and the Celtic symbol that marked him in death--she begins to fear for her own sanity. Joining forces, they dodge a sadistic killer from Josie's past and unravel the tangle of secrecy and lies behind the Nazi-driven ideals of a white supremacist cult. What neither of them bargains on are the dark secrets they will uncover or how their feelings for each other will change from friendship to something far more powerful.

eBook Publisher: Atlantic Bridge, Published: Atlantic Bridge, 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: February 2004

This eBook is part of the following series:

• T. L. Schaefer's Summerland Series

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [258 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [222 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [232 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [615 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [261 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [399 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [275 KB] , hiebook (KML) [578 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [349 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [216 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [270 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [306 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [350 KB]
Words: 79692
Reading time: 227-318 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Prologue

"The Brotherhood of Man shall flourish under the Fatherhood of God"

--excerpt from The Brotherhood of Freedom's introductory packet

The faces surrounding him were familiar, those of a family beloved yet never spoken of. Faces he'd grown up with, shared his deepest, darkest secrets with. Those faces were now hard, unforgiving as they passed judgment upon him.

He relaxed his body, prostrate before them as he welcomed that first blow, that first step toward salvation, forgiveness. It was excruciatingly sharp and more painful than anything he'd ever imagined. He cringed, drawing into the fetal position. The members of the Chosen grasped his arms, his legs, pulling them wide, leaving him vulnerable to each and every impact. One of his brothers held his head, forcing him to stare into the emerald green eyes of his mentor, his one true spiritual guide, his father in all but name. As each blow landed, those eyes clouded, flinched as if feeling his child's pain.

Each blow was exquisitely placed and timed to elicit the most misery, the purest agony. Far past rationality, his mind grasped at the dark beauty of the pain, falling back on his deepest childhood training, their Mantra: The Brotherhood is all. The Brotherhood is one. I am The Brotherhood. He recited the incantation over and over in his mind, heard it fall from his lips as he reached for the salvation he knew was within reach. Instead the pain continued, becoming more biting, more savage as each blow landed.

He thrashed within their grasp, his conditioning fleeing as the torment became intense, blinding. His mind whirled, leapt past the Mantra and sped toward the revelation of self-preservation. This was wrong. This was not The Way. He'd only made that one small mistake.

As tears of despair and betrayal seeped a slow, useless path down his cheeks, his mind began to shut down, negating the awesome power the pain held over him and a steadily firming suspicion. All he had ever known, all he had ever believed in, was a lie.

He looked up into the face of his mentor in a frantic search for the entrance to Heaven they'd been promised, and found only the doorway to Hell. His last thought as he slipped into unconsciousness was that their leader, their sage, was quite insane.

Heaven help the Brotherhood.

Chapter One

The call came in as Doug was shaving. The shrill chirping of the cell phone made him jerk, then swear as he deliberately continued his downstroke. Blood welled from the shallow cut just below his cheekbone, oozing in scarlet testimony to his carelessness. He grabbed a piece of toilet paper with one hand, picked up the phone with the other, and glanced at his watch as he pulled the Nokia to his ear. It was seven o' five in the morning, snow was still falling and it was the last day of January. It was a hell of a way to ring out the month, Doug thought as he scowled into the mirror.

"Brewster here."

"Sheriff, this is dispatch. We've got a live one for you." The snicker in the dispatcher's voice was barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.

"What is it?" he asked, poking the toilet tissue in place. He'd always thought being Sheriff would be glamorous, that people would look up to him. He'd watched Bill Ashton handle the office with what had appeared to be effortless grace and thought he could easily follow in his footsteps.

How wrong he had been.

"We've got a stiff." Stacey's familiar voice switched, becoming almost mechanical as she began relaying facts in a fast, relentless stream. "Initial report is that we've got one Elijah Miller discovered in his home at approximately 0635 by his carpool buddy. ME is on the way, scene was covered and contained by Deputy Goltree."

Doug barely contained a groan. Goltree again. The man was never far removed from trouble. At least their medical examiner, Joe Whelan, would be there to cover their collective asses.

He finished shaving quickly, managing to nick himself only twice more in the process. Not a totally bad start to the morning, he thought darkly.

Grabbing a cup of coffee and a stale donut on his way out, he left the ranch house he called home and climbed into the shiny white Ford Explorer furnished by the department. The address was only a few minutes away--Mariposa proper wasn't that big. As he wound his way through the snow-hushed streets, Doug racked his brain for anything and everything he knew about Elijah Miller.

The Eli Miller he remembered from high school had been a dyed-in-the-wool hick, and hadn't changed a whole lot in the nine years since he'd graduated. Miller had been one of those sick little shits who carved swastikas into his books and on the desks in their classes and study hall.

Mariposa County didn't have much of a minority community to begin with, so that kind of malevolence usually died a timely death when the teenagers who propagated it either matured or left town. But a few holdouts, men and women who'd been bred on generations of hate, still remained. They hid in corners of the county, licking their supposed wounds and gathering with their own kind.

Doug had no official feelings for the church militia that called Mariposa home but kept a sharp eye on them. He knew all about free speech and freedom of religion and the right to bear arms. As long as the Brotherhood of Freedom stayed within the laws of the land, he'd leave them be. The fact he thought they were completely full of shit hadn't, and would never enter into his administration of the law.

The flashing red and blue lights of the cruiser preceding Doug's SUV bounced off the icy ground, lighting up the cheap apartment block in an unearthly morning glow. Giving the responding deputy the evil eye, he motioned for the youngster to cut off the light show.

Doug coughed into his hand, hiding a half-smile at the young deputy's expression of chagrin. He remembered what it was like to be the new kid on the block, the clown-in-brown holding a gun. As for the light show, he hadn't really expected anything less of Stumpy Goltree.

He snapped on a non-latex glove and stepped into Eli Miller's apartment. His gaze immediately settled on the far wall, on the bed anchored there in the sparsely furnished studio apartment.

The dispatcher had told him to expect a stiff, but he wasn't prepared for what lay before him. Gunshot wounds among intimates were the primary source of death in Mariposa County, those and heart attacks of the aged. He hadn't seen a crime scene this grisly since the Ladykiller murders several years back.

Eli Miller had been beaten to a pulp. A garnet spray of blood tattooed the wall behind the bed in a timeless, graceful pattern, giving that portion of the room a macabre art nouveau impression.

Stumpy stood to the right of the doorway, gloved hands at his sides. Doug looked at him approvingly. This morning, at least, the deputy's head was screwed on right.

"Touched anything?" he asked, swinging his gaze back to the scene. He breathed deep, then exhaled, noting the fog his breath created. The heater was off and there was no smell other than that of stale beer and dirty socks. The body hadn't begun to decompose. Yet.

"Just to make sure he was really dead. No pulse, no respiration, no nothing. The guy's a doornail. Keye's got the carpool buddy sequestered at the station. He should be getting his statement now. Doc Whelan is en route."

"All right. You got the tape recorder?" Doug felt, rather than saw, Stumpy's nod, and held out his hand. The microcassette recorder slapped into his palm; then Stumpy stepped behind him, guarding the doorway.

Doug stood on the threshold, sweeping the scene, categorizing what he saw before clicking on the tape recorder.

"31 January, 0735, Terrace Grove Apartments, Number Eight. Vic appears to be Elijah Miller. Expect confirmation when body removal is complete. Discovered and reported by carpool partner at 0655. Scene contained by Deputy Goltree who confirmed absence of vitals. Officer Maras is interviewing reporting party.

"Scene appears well contained. No obvious signs of struggle with the exception of the body. Initial sweep indicates valuables are present." What he didn't say was obvious. Eli Miller's 'valuables' apparently consisted of a 19-inch TV, a DVD player and a stack of porn titles Doug could see from his vantage point by the door.

He stepped into the room, approaching what was left of Eli Miller.

"Body placement appears staged. Victim is lying face up, fully nude. Arms are crossed on top of the chest, legs straight out. There is no evidence of restraint and no mutilation." He stopped, looking at Miller again to make sure his assessment was correct. There were no visible chafing marks on his wrists or ankles to indicate restraint of any kind. If not for the vicious purpling bruises and gaping tears in his flesh, Doug would have sworn that Eli Miller was asleep. Except for his eyes. No, they were wide open and staring, and reflected an abject terror that flip-flopped Doug's stomach. He imagined Eli Miller had felt each blow as it landed, and even though he had no real evidence to the contrary, he knew instinctively that Eli Miller had not been drugged. He shook himself, bringing his attention back in line.

Finished with the preliminary assessment, Doug stepped back to let Goltree in with the camera. The flashbulb popped, highlighting the scene even more graphically. As Doug stared at the raw mass that had been Eli Miller, he heard the meat wagon pull up, ready to take its silent customer to the medical examiner. The only thing Whelan would have to determine was whether or not the 27-year-old had died from a heart attack. The Modesto Crime Lab would be his next engagement.