were allowed to venture outside. But in the dining hall,
they’d covered the windows with sheets, so Sallie had not been able to peek. She was dying to know what the police wanted.
Since her first day in the compound, Sallie had been reconnoitering. How many CAIN followers were there? Fifty, as far as
she could count: thirty men and twenty women. Their backgrounds? Diverse: mechanics, salesmen, housewives, drifters. Their
financial resources? Substantial: A fleet of cars, walk-in refrigerator, cache of food, and state-of-the-art computer. Armaments?
That was still a question mark. The restriction on her movements made that a tough one. But Sallie wasn’t about to give up.
She still needed a hook. And an arsenal of weapons would do nicely.
The followers had now fanned out to complete their chores. Sallie was on meal preparation duty, and she waited in the dining
hall for the cook to tell her what to do. Standing by the window, she could barely see the administration building through
the waves of radiating heat. She wiped a tickle of moisture from her hairline as a dust devil swirled in the roadbed and died.
Sallie knew her deadline was approaching. In the next twenty-four hours she had to get what she needed and get out. The first
draft was due the day after tomorrow.
Suddenly she saw Thomas Ruth rush from the administration building. He leaped from the porch and ran to his car. Then he backed
out, sped toward the front gate, and disappeared.
“Sister Sallie,” the cook called, “can you help me?” She was a middle-aged runaway from an eastern city, a mom who discovered
“religion” and abandoned her husband, kids, Volvo, and ended up here. Her name was Dorothy. She was dressed in traditional
CAIN garb: jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops. Her brown hair was cinched back, and she wore no makeup or jewelry, as decreed
by Thomas Ruth.
Sallie turned from the window. “Sure.”
Dorothy handed her a list. “Bring these items from storage, please.”
Sallie took the paper. “Right away.”
The storage room was in a small garage behind the administration unit.
Sallie walked up the street. She’d been inside every building in the compound but the men’s dorm, the administration building,
and a padlocked shed down by the quarry. She’d made diagrams and notes as to what was where and what it was used for. The
days and activities were structured, and each activity had its time and place. The followers droned through the hours in quiet
obedience, their wills forfeited to Ruth just like their possessions. The preacher kept the schedule tight, kept them busy
so there was little chance to reflect on their isolation from the outside world.
Ruth
was their world now. And the woods beyond the quarry fence were as far away as the sun.
Sallie passed the men’s and women’s dormitories, former stoneworkers’ bunkhouses. They slept on spartan cots arranged in open
rows, and ate and bathed in same-sex shifts. Ruth had a thing about interaction. Men and women were allowed together only
when they prayed.
Sallie cautiously stepped up on the porch of the administration building: the headquarters where Ruth meditated and slept.
Sallie had never seen anyone but Ruth and a few trusted males go inside. Ruth had strictly forbidden access to anyone else,
and there was a sign on the door: PRIVATE . She glanced in a window. The room was empty. She moved to the next one. This, too, was empty. Sallie approached the front
door and glanced over her shoulder at the street. No one was in sight. By now she’d reached the entrance. Ruth was gone, and
the place looked deserted. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked.
Sallie slipped down the darkened hall to a room at the far end. She’d spotted the computer equipment through the window a
few days ago. Now she could check it out up close.
Her heart was racing as she entered the room. “Whoa!” she whispered. Ruth had an IBM subsidiary in
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia