Free The Prophet Motive by Eric Christopherson Page B

Men’s Guest Quarters?”
    “The door wasn’t locked, I just walked out.”
    Mahorn rushed into the foyer. John heard him throw open the outside door and call down to the bottom of the stairs.
    “Brother Mike! Radio Brother Gary to check out the lock on the Men’s Guest Quarters. I want to know what condition it’s in. Tell him to step on it.”
    Mahorn returned to the living room, where he remained standing. “We always lock the doors on the guest dormitories.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    “Because our guests don’t know the system around here, that’s why. They might wander off in the dark and bump into some farm animals, or farm machinery, or something, and hurt themselves. We could be sued.”
    “What’s with the flood lights?” John asked. “And why do you need armed guards?”
    “Our sentries protect against intruders,” Mahorn said, stepping closer. “Intruders from outside and inside.”
    “I don’t follow you.”
    “Don’t, huh?” Mahorn stepped closer still. “Ever hear of David Pollini?”
    “No.”
    “Ezra Dean?”
    John shook his head. Mahorn took another step forward and bent down at the waist, putting his face inches from John’s own. “You sure you’ve never heard of Ezra?”
    “No. I don’t know either of those people. Who are they?”
    “People who wish to do us harm.”
    “Why?”
    Mahorn straightened and belched. “Misguided. It’s a long story.” He took a seat in a black leather armchair. “So tell me about yourself.”
    John launched into his biker cover story. Minutes later, he heard a pair of feet pounding up the outside steps. Mahorn left to answer the door.
    Quickly, John pulled the cuff of his shirtsleeve over his right hand. With cloth-covered fingertips, he lifted the lighter off the coffee table and slid it into one of his pockets.
    He overheard the sentry—who Mahorn called, for whatever reason, “Brother Mike”—reporting. “Door to the Men’s Guest Quarters unlocked. Appears to be in normal condition.”
    “Wait here, I’ll bring him out,” Mahorn said. From the foyer he returned to the living room. “Okay, you’re going back to the dormitory.”
    Outside, at the top of the stairs, Mahorn gave John’s shoulder a pat and smiled. “Our security measures are vitally important, trust me.”
    John nodded. “Okay, man.”
    “I hope we haven’t frightened you into leaving us.”
    “Naw, I’ll stick around. Come all this way. But after the boot camp’s over, I’ve got to get back to San Fran pretty quick.”
    “Beautiful city.”
    “Ever been there?”
    “Just recently, in fact. Good night.”
    Mahorn shut the door fast, eager to get some sleep, or else some Karen. Brother Mike escorted John back toward the guest quarters, apologizing for the earlier rough treatment.
    At the edge of the central complex, facing the woods, Brother Mike put a hand in front of John’s chest, gesturing him to stop, and spoke to another sentry sitting inside a Checkpoint Charley style guard shack. “Coming through,” he said.
    “Gotcha,” the sentry said. But there was no gate to open.
    As they resumed walking, John recalled that the same exchange had occurred on the way into the complex. “Why did we have to stop just now?”
    “The perimeter protection system had to be turned off so we could pass through without setting off the alarm.”
    “But I don’t see anything,” John said. “What kind of security system do you have?”
    “That’s classified information.”
    Paranoia , John thought. A common cult characteristic. Us versus them all the time. Paranoia was dangerous. He’d seen it in action before. It could drive you out of San Francisco and into the jungles of Guyana. It could drive you out of your mind.
    They entered the trail through the woods leading to the dormitories. It was unlit. Brother Mike produced a flashlight. Along the way, John recalled something the psychologist had told him about cults in general and that he still remembered