Still only 4 days before the end

The campground was more crowded than it had ever been before. Four days before the end of the world and people were coming from everywhere. A parking place wasn’t easy to come by with only tight spots left between vehicles. There were license plates from as far away as California, some from Canada, many more for East Coast states, and then the South. Trailers and tents and RVs were stuck wherever there was an open space. More and more bald people hugged cowled robes around their bodies, even little children, walking along, tripped on the too-long, white ropes tied about their small waists.

I took Cate’s hand. Best not to lose her now.

It wasn’t time for Officer Winston yet. I wanted to take care of our business with Dolly before he got there. This was separate from the investigation. This was about Dolly’s life. I’d known her for a couple of years, but I had no clue what her response to Cate would be. Dolly was full of surprises, like this cult thing. I would never have picked her out as religious, or even mildly superstitious, but here she was, as anonymous as the others, waiting for the world to crumble around her.

With everyone dressed the same, it was impossible to tell one person from another. I bent to look at faces under hoods. Most glared back at me. I held tighter to Cate’s hand, going slow so she wouldn’t trip. We headed to the open area and the stage. People milled about everywhere. We pushed through. Behind me, Cate looked tired, and more than a little concerned about the crowd.

“We’ll find her. I know she’s here,” I said, urging her on, over the uneven ground in her down-at-the-heels, fancy shoes.

We rounded one end of the raised stage and were stopped by two large figures, robed as all the others. I stepped to one side, and then the other. They blocked my way deliberately.

“I’m looking for Dolly Wakowski,” I said, peering up into a face I didn’t know, hadn’t seen before.

“Not here,” one of the men said.

“Yes, she is,” I countered and pushed at a bulky body. Broad shoulders closed the space between the men, pinning me there. I stepped back, almost running into Cate, and looked into two set, indistinguishable faces.

“The cops are on their way out here. You let me talk to Dolly or they’re going to shut this place down for overcrowding, for allowing people to live in dangerous conditions, for sanitation problems …” Everything I could think of poured out.

The men weren’t fazed by my threats. They stood like a brick wall as I searched my brain for something more dire—maybe child abuse complaints, kidnapping. I didn’t care. This time things were going to go my way.

“It’s ok.” Sister Sally stepped from behind the two men. Another figure, hood lowered, arms up into the wide sleeves of her robe, stood just behind Sister Sally.

“What’d you want to see Dolly for?”

I was too damned mad to talk to Sally. She’d done enough to keep me away from my friend. I was there to do battle.

“For Christ’s sakes. Is that you, Dolly?” I said to the shy, bowed woman behind Sally.

Cate moved closer. I sensed her fear. The thought flashed through my head that this could have been the way she’d last seen her own daughter—being sheltered by a cult. Those memories couldn’t be happy ones.

Dolly put her hand out toward the two men, then motioned them away with a flap of her fingers. I recognized the signal: Dolly taking over, in charge. At least that much was left of who she’d been.

Dolly flipped her hood back with a toss of her head and leaned forward, looking me hard in the face. “This better be good,” she growled.

The men disappeared into the crowd around us. Sister Sally stayed at Dolly’s side, following us to one of the picnic tables in front of the big RV. Dolly hitched up her robe and threw one leg over the seat, settling herself there. I thought I caught a glimpse of blue uniform pants but I must’ve been wrong. Cate and I sat across from her. Cate rode the bench side saddle. Sister Sally moved away, but not too far.

“I’ve told you I’ve got my reasons for staying out here,” Dolly leaned forward and hissed, ignoring Cate sitting beside me. “I don’t want you interfering. We got four more days to get through.”

Cate leaned forward. I could see she wanted to reach across and grab on to Dolly’s hand, but she restrained herself, her bent hands fluttering in her lap. “You didn’t sign over your house or anything to this man, this Reverend Fritch, did you?” she asked.

“The man’s not like that,” Dolly snapped. “Hey, I’ve seen you in EATS? You’re new around here, aren’t you? I was going to have a talk with you before … all this other stuff came up. Sure started hanging on to Eugenia. I hope there was no … what do you call it … ulterior motive? Like scamming people …”

“Dolly,” I put my hand on hers, stopping her. “Cate is Catherine Thomas.”

Dolly winced, then pulled back. She thought hard, raised her chin, looked at Cate, nodded and went back to thinking again.

“Catherine Thomas,” I said. “Your grandmother.”

This time Dolly frowned and wound her face up into an odd knot, all caught at the middle, around her little nose. “So this is the scam?” She gave a snort and looked away from us. “It was on me the whole time? How do you like that?”

“No scam,” I said.

Cate leaned in as close as she could get. We both saw this wasn’t going well. Dolly was pedaling as fast as she could mentally pedal, backing away, coming up with anything she could to deny that family was finally right there in front of her.

“Your mother was my daughter, Audrey. I’ll tell you about her, Delores, if you’d like.” Cate laid a small photograph in front of Dolly, against the bare wood of the table.

“That’s her,” Cate whispered.

Dolly’s hand came slowly up to touch the old photograph. Her fingers closed around the picture and held it there, against the table, as Dolly stared down at her mother’s face, then over toward the back of the stage, one eye slipping off slightly as the other lost focus.

Dolly looked at Cate then slowly shook her head. “I don’t need no damn family now. Been doing fine by myself all these years …” Her hand closed tighter on the photo.

“Dolly,” I said. “Cate didn’t know anything about what happened to you …”

“I would have taken you to live with me if I’d known,” Cate said, her voice low and hurried. She drew her black shawl up to her neck, against the chill. Dolly’s hand opened slowly. She looked down again, into the face of Audrey, her mother. Her small, rather homely face didn’t crumple so much as melt into the kind of longing other human beings shouldn’t ever have to see. I wanted to put my arms around Dolly, just hold her and tell her this was good, that she finally knew where she’d come from. Not just foster homes. Not just a pawn of an unworkable system, but from a woman, out of another woman. A person with a name and a history.

Dolly swallowed hard and glanced toward Sister Sally, who watched us. She pulled her leg back over the bench, thumped her fists on the tabletop, and got up. No one said anything as she stood, stretched, then drew her cowl back over her head. The photograph wasn’t on top of the picnic table. It was either still in her hand, or slipped into a pocket. Her face was blank and under control.

“Come on, Sally,” she said. “We’ve gotta get inside. They’ll be coming out soon.” They walked off toward the RV.

With no choice left us, Cate and I went to stand beside my car, me thinking the yellow Jeep would be easy for Officer Winston to spot among all the old pickups. I kept Cate talking about everything but Dolly, going over the weather, the parking problem, the crush of people—anything, until I’d figured out, in my own head, what had happened back there.

Officer Winston, in his blue and gold state police car, arrived exactly at six-thirty. He was nothing if not a man of his word, and a man dedicated to keeping his life in precise order. He nosed his car in behind two pop-up campers, got out, and nodded first to me and then to Cate, who asked to wait in the car. Her face was drawn, dark circles under her eyes. I helped her into the front seat and made sure she was all right.

“Just tired,” she said, smiling wanly up at me. The old bravado was gone. I couldn’t imagine being her at that moment. Two children—off into cults, to be absorbed, made impersonal, made into robots afraid to love their own mother.

“We have got to speak to that Brother Righteous,” Winston said as I hurried along beside him, figuring he had to have been in the military. Though he was a squat little guy, his stride was wide. He out-loped me as we made our way back toward the open space and that RV. “And the other one. That Reverend Fritch.”

“I think they’re getting ready to start a service …” I said, out of breath.

He nodded. “Won’t take long.”

“I wouldn’t count on seeing either of them. They’ve got a few thousand people out here. Everybody guards Brother Righteous. The guy seems special. He starts the revivals. Kind of like a wordless cheerleader. I doubt …”

I was right. Winston knocked on the RV door and was told to leave.

“Tell them both I’ll be back in the morning. If need be, I’ll get a warrant. That Brother Righteous is going to talk to me …” Winston must have realized what he was saying at that point. He backed off. “Well, somebody’s got to know sign language. I mean, they’re going to have to bring Brother Righteous in …”

The door closed in his face. Winston was furious but kept the lid on.

“That’s all right,” he muttered. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. I’ll get a warrant …”

“Don’t wait too long,” I warned. “After Tuesday they’ll be gone.”

Winston gave a kind of horse laugh. “You mean with the world ending? Very funny.”

I stopped, and then gave him a hard look. “No, I mean the people will be leaving Tuesday. The Reverend Fritch’s going to have his hands full. Can’t see them hanging around much after noon, if nothing happens.”

We fought our way through the crowd gathered in the clearing, in front of the stage. The stage lights were on, overhead bulbs buzzing. Hymns blared from the loudspeakers as before. Winston pushed his way ahead of me, through the throng.

All I wanted to do was be where I could hear nothing but quiet. My mind was still torn between pathos and being happy over my recent news; between wanting the cult gone and needing to know who killed Marjory, and now her mother. All these people were in my way—between me and a place where I could think. I didn’t mind pushing; didn’t mind the glares I got in return. I stopped at one point, trapped between two large families. I searched for a pathway through the pilgrims. Off to our right, there seemed to be an open aisle where people jockeyed for standing places then moved quickly when they spotted a better vantage point.

Winston saw the cleared path at the same time I did. We hurried together, staying close so as not to be separated and maybe lost in the crowd.

As I passed one man, not in a robe but in a fishing jacket and slouch hat, I looked up. The glint of a bare lightbulb reflected off the man’s glasses. Winston kept me hurrying on but I was sure I knew that hat, and that jacket. I pulled at Winston’s arm, stopping him finally, and yelled the name of the man behind us. I pointed, wanting Winston to witness that he was there, but the man was gone. Robes and cowls had filled in the spaces. Winston shrugged and pushed on, getting us back to where we’d parked our cars.

Inside my Jeep, Cate slept with her gray head back against the seat, her worn face troubled. There didn’t seem to be peace for Catherine Thomas, any more than there’d ever been peace for Deputy Dolly Wakowski. I got in my car as quietly as I could, shut the door behind me, and headed back to town.