Free The Prophet Motive by Eric Christopherson

would realize that he needed her. She tiptoed back to bed.
     

    The windows were each four feet long, but less than a foot tall. Too narrow for John to squeeze through. Maybe pint-size Mick could manage it, but not him. So he reached into a pocket for the Swiss army knife he’d recently had customized.
    The tiny scissors and the bottle opener had been removed, replaced by a folding pair of locksmithing implements—a straight pick and a tension tool. He’d planned on using the knife’s special accessories to break into the main office in the old red farmhouse, where he assumed that most of the cult’s records were kept. SFPD had obtained a surreptitious search warrant. The cult wouldn’t legally have to be notified of the search until the undercover operation had been completed.
    He bent down to work on the door, feeling almost grateful for the unexpected practice. He inserted the pick and raised the tumbler pins. He kept the pins open with his tension tool while he manipulated the pick. Thirty seconds later, a soft click told him the door was now unlocked.
    A cool gust of night wind greeted him on the front stoop. He shut the door—gently, ever so gently—and turned. He stood in darkness, confronting the deeper darkness of the woods. He heard the chirp of crickets, the rustle of tree leaves, an owl hooting.
    He looked to his left, to the dim outline of the Women’s Guest Quarters, and considered freeing the psychologist. No , he decided, she doesn’t belong here .
    She’d been useful to him with her academic knowledge, but now her work was done, as far as he was concerned. Now he would do, or not do, whatever it took to send her packing. It was for her own good. And the investigation’s.
    He stepped off the stoop, heading toward his distant rendezvous point with the deputy. A few seconds later, crossing the gravel walkway that ran in front of the dormitories, he found himself instantly bathed in harsh white light. He froze in his tracks, squinting.
    “Hey you there!” someone shouted.
    John had no good options, he realized. Running into the woods would blow his cover, and he couldn’t dodge back inside the Men’s Guest Quarters. Whoever was out there would see where he’d gone, would recognize him. There was enough lighting for night baseball.
    He peered straight into the blinding beams, where he thought the voice had originated. He couldn’t see anyone yet, but he could hear running footsteps . . .

     
    Marilyn had almost drifted off to sleep when bright light flooded through her closed eyelids, retracting them. The light shone in through the row of windows on the other side of the dormitory room.
    Hearing a voice bark in the distance, she rose quickly from her bed to survey the situation. At the window she gasped. John Richetti stood alone in front of the Men’s Guest Quarters, bathed in floodlights, as two men sprang from the darkness aiming rifles at him and shouting commands.
    John raised his hands to the night sky. The armed men reached him and halted. One of them lowered his rifle and patted John down. The other seemed to be interrogating him.
    She cranked open the window and strained to listen, but the voices were unintelligible. She could tell that John was acting confused, shrugging his shoulders, as if he didn’t understand their anger. Abruptly, the armed interrogators led him away.
    “What is it?” someone whispered from a nearby bunk. It was Kira, a German college student, who’d been hiking alone in Point Reyes when she’d stumbled into Earthbound’s orbit.
    “I don’t know,” Marilyn whispered back. “Lights came on. Then I heard someone shouting. I saw three men out there, but then they left.”
    She crawled back beneath the covers of her bunk bed. The outside lights switched off. She worried about John being outed.
    What would I do then ?
     
     
     
     

Chapter 9
     
     
     
     
    Insistent hands pushed John forward from behind. He didn’t at all appreciate that. “Keep your