Chapter 2
It started out as a routine day for the Supervisory Special Agent at the Norfolk Division in Virginia, and for the most part, it was. Scott Page took his place at his steel desk. Fifteen years’ experience in the field and his quick solving of big cases led to this office. A few Virginian-Pilot news articles attested to that fact, though his colleagues sometimes teased that it was more because of his good looks. He sometimes appeared on the news when someone needed a soundbite about a situation. In truth, he had an authoritative manner about him and great speaking skills. Part of his success came from his keen observation and the rest came from solid intuition, which he tended to heed. And this nagging in his gut sent him a new warning. Even with mounds of paperwork on his desk to occupy his attention as well his upcoming scheduled meetings with squads and units to keep updated on, the intense brownish-blond agent had a gut premonition that this wasn’t going to be the usual morning. To be honest, he longed for a little excitement.
Waiting for whatever shitstorm that might emerge from Pandora’s Box, he sipped his lukewarm coffee, which only added to his unusual jitters. Usually behind his back, his staff called him a “rock,” because nothing got under his skin or jarred him. He was known to remain calm during harrowing moments. It served him well. Behind that mask, he fought back the sixth sense that he had when he came in contact with pending trouble. He kept glancing up waiting for it to reveal itself.
Then a firm knock finally came on his door. Special Agent Jan Martin stood in his doorway, so he motioned from behind the glass for her to enter. She tip-toed in. The way that concern lined her oval face told him that he ought to take heed. He sat up straight from behind his desk and gave the focused woman in a freshly laundered suit his full attention. His brutal stare could unnerve people, so he attempted half a smile. He liked Jan. A hard worker, she had good instincts and was a team player.
With a short bob and athletic build, she spoke fast, probably knowing that he only had a few minutes before meetings. She didn’t want to get on his bad side. Though a fair man and someone whom she respected, he could be overbearing at times.
“Sir, I came across something that I think deserves some attention,” the slightly anxious woman explained, lowering her head slightly, as if uncertain or wary about something; perhaps of him, as he could be intimidating.
“Can it wait until this afternoon?”
“Yes, but I’d really like you to hear something that came from the VSP, which warrants….”
“Aren’t you already on quite a few cases?” he asked, interrupting her, while shuffling papers.
“Yes,” she said again, with a more annoyed tone, “but I’d like you to hear me out.”
“Sit down,” he offered with a sigh. though he checked his watch. “I have ten minutes to spare.”
“I’ll make it fast,” she countered, not budging from near the doorway. “It seems that someone witnessed a potential kidnapping in Norfolk, but when the State Police later located the victim she refused to press charges or cooperate with questioning.”
He considered that for a moment.
“Why would an alleged kidnapping victim not want to press charges?” he said, almost more to himself than to her. “Was it a hoax? Could just be trauma related, I suppose.”
“That’s what they wondered too, but the witness appeared credible and they think that he is telling the truth. He is a lawyer named Hill Montgomery and has a good reputation in town.”
“Was it a potential interstate kidnapping or something where we have jurisdiction to get involved? I’m sure the VSP can handle it.”
His scowl wanted her to get to the point.
Swallowing hard, she pressed on, “We are low on details, but I was contacted by a State Trooper, who chose to look into the matter further, because he said that something didn’t feel right. He did some digging. It turns out that this same woman went missing as a child as well, but later turned up with family as if nothing ever happened either. No charges were ever filed. Once is fishy enough, but twice in a lifetime?”
He raised an eyebrow and appeared stymied, so she nodded at the strange detail. This needled him as well. He rubbed the shadow on his tense chin.
“That is odd,” Scott agreed, his curiosity now piqued. “This whole thing sounds like a cover-up of some sort.”
“I thought so too, so I told the officer that I’ll bring it to your attention.”
“What’s the name of the alleged victim?”
“Ninon Gage.”
That name didn’t ring any bells. He would have remembered a unique name like that. Though most of his units were already swamped with cases, this one warranted some investigation. He liked to be thorough.
“Okay. Bring everything you have on this woman and the circumstances of her previous abduction as well. It merits some attention.”
Jan smiled. As a fairly new Special Agent, she hoped that this was a case that could get her the break she needed to get in favor in this division, where she struggled in her Public Corruption cases because of the wall of protection surrounding the social elite. Maybe this one would be her big break.
“I will,” she told him, becoming animated. Her eyes shone brightly. “There is something going on with Ms. Gage that we can’t pinpoint just yet, and from what I’m told, she isn’t cooperative. I think she is hiding something.”
“Just bring me what you know by the end of the day and we’ll see if there is anything that we need to look into. I know you will give it your usual diligence.”
“Thanks,” she said, with a noticeable sense of relief, “I’ll get right on it.”
As she backed out of his office, beaming at the possibility of uncovering the mystery, she almost bumped into another agent and then disappeared down the long, featureless hallway, where each door held a nameplate, and with familiar staff speaking in hushed voices going in and out of them. She proudly held the file as she passed by, making a few others curious to know what she was up to.
Now alone, Scott wrote down the name Ninon Gage on a sticky note and planned on doing some digging of his own. But first, he had to get updates on a year-long surveillance OP into a blackmail scheme. And he still had to get his wife, Alice, something for their anniversary in a couple of days. That was in the back of his mind.
Scott spent the rest of the day meeting with his team and also filling out paperwork for additional wiretaps and search warrants. It wasn’t until almost dinner time that his mind returned to a mysterious woman named Ninon Gage. He had worked on kidnappings in the past. This felt different. A lot of gray areas. Questions rattled him. Was it a random kidnapping attempt? If she had been kidnapped before, did it involve the same people? Another question nagged him. Why doesn’t she report it? Unless she has something to hide. If not, it was still early. Maybe she would still come forward. Time would tell.
With that in mind, he searched the FBI database. Not much turned up on her particular case. That should have been a relief in most cases. In this particular one, it seemed like a red flag. There should have been a lot more paperwork involved. Had there been at one point? He found all that he could on the “misunderstanding” about child custody and the names of the players involved, though didn’t have a chance to go through it yet. There was also a sealed file when she was a juvenile for some offense. He’d need to get that opened.
As he made a few more clicks, Jan appeared at his door, so he invited her in. She chose to sit down this time. He guessed that she must have uncovered something interesting.
“What did you find?”
“Have you ever heard of The Finders?”
Scott’s eyes widened. A moment of silence passed between them. One might as well have mentioned BigFoot or a UFO.
“Yes, though mostly conspiracy theories,” he answered. “As I recall, in 1987, there were unsubstantiated claims about human trafficking and Satanism involving children at some sort of hippy commune, but no charges were filed and the case was closed.”
Nodding, Jan explained, “That’s what I found too, so I was intrigued to learn that Ms. Gage is actually a former Missing Person from this same cult. It was reported by a grandparent, but the child was eventually located and returned to an uncle from The Finders, and then disappeared again or was lost track of by Social Services. It seems that the case was eventually closed and no one wanted to press charges, not even the grandparent who made the original report.”
Jan handed him a picture of when she was a child. Instead of a typical smiling little girl, this one looked defeated. Her haunting eyes said it all, and so did her slumped posture in a brown jumper that seemed to be a little too big and patched up; probably a hand-me-down. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and an air of neglect about her. It tugged on his heart. This image would haunt him for years to come.
“Poor kid,” Scott remarked, thinking of his own toddler son, Matthew. Thinking of him ever missing was too much to contemplate. “Someone really dropped the ball here. Maybe we should interview Ms. Gage and see if she is still entangled with that group.”
“Do you think they still exist?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only heard stories from the late 1980’s and leading into the 1990’s,” Scott told her. “I think there was some sort of loose CIA connection, and the Finders’ group eventually disbanded. It turned out that a spouse previously worked for the agency, as well as having a computer teaching business involving Intelligence. No official tie to them was proven. The blame stayed on the cult, so I’m fuzzy with the details after that. But something certainly is going on with this woman, so I’ll pick a few team members to look into it.”
“Can I lead it?”
“I was going to ask Special Agents Ballard and Trellis.”
Jan took a deep breath and gathered her nerves.
“Though I don’t know what specifically happened in her situation, I have experience working with sexually trafficked victims. If that is the case with this attempted kidnapping, maybe I can be of some help in approaching her.”
Agreeing that it was a good idea, Scott nodded and said, “While I update John on this, I’ll give you and Ballard a week to make some headway into this, and then we’ll see if we even have something solid to pursue. We need some facts. Pull in the analysts as you need to.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
John Hillman was the Assistant Special Agent in Charge, so Scott Page met him in his office to update him on the strange scenario. With salt and pepper hair and almond-shaped eyes, John was well-respected and well-liked. Affable and a good listener, he gave the SSA his full attention. He popped some hard candy into his mouth, which he had done ever since he gave up smoking a while ago. He offered Scott some, but he shook his head.
After hearing what was uncovered so far, John told him, “Probably something worth looking into, but I tell you, it is likely to be a black hole if any other agency is involved in this. If that is the case, bring it to me and I’ll see what I can do.”
“You don’t think they are still active, do you?”
After a brief pause, John answered, “No, I doubt it, but put surveillance on the woman and see if you can smoke out any players.”
“I have Jan and Robert on it.”
“Good. See what you can uncover, if anything,” John told him, “But make sure that a crime has been committed or you are just going to chase an old conspiracy theory.”
“What is your stance on the whole matter?”
“The Finders are probably all deceased or have moved on to better things. There might be one or two rogues left playing their own individual Finder’s game, but I’m not aware of any agency taking the lead on it or any greater conspiracy behind it, but I’ll take it through the channels to make sure.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
“I’m sure it is just as murky today as it was then. See if you can clear things up enough surrounding that woman. You have some good analysts on your team, so if there is anything, they will find it.”
Thinking of other more pressing cases, Scott rose and said, “We are in for a challenge. That’s for sure. I just hope we aren’t wasting time or chasing ghosts.”
“My advice is to act quickly and don’t let the media get a hold of it. Fabricated stories will come out of the woodwork.”
“That’s the last thing we need,” Scott agreed, heading toward the door, “Going golfing later?”
“I might. Maybe I’ll see you there?”
“Not today. Have plans with the wife,” he told him, “But I’ll try to get there soon. Thanks for your help.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
John waved and then reached for the phone once Scott was out of sight. Cussing to himself, he dialed a contact of his from another agency. He only got voicemail, so he left a message.
“I think you and I need to have a chat, Ryder. How about a game of golf? I’ll be at the course in about an hour.”
John rifled through his desk to see if he had a crumpled pack of cigarettes hiding somewhere. His nerves needed one. Coming up empty, he checked his watch, sorted through paperwork to give to his secretary, and then grabbed his tailored jacket. Thoughts about Ryder Wetklow raised his blood pressure. And if he was mixed up in this, it didn’t bode well. This guy rattled his nerves. He thought back on the day when he was a new agent and he drove down to Culpeper, Virginia to see if The Finders cult was still active. That was in the year 1995, long after the 1987 headlines, and this is what happened:
Within commuting distance to Washington D.C., Culpeper is a quaint town at the foothills of the lush Blue Ridge Mountains, where a mysterious group had taken root. In March 1995, John Hillman went there himself to see if there was anything to this Finders’ situation. He didn’t know what to expect. The tale seemed a bit far-fetched to him. As a Special Agent, he hopped into his car and planned to poke around for a day or two. He wasn’t even sure if this hippy commune or cult, as some claimed, still existed. But like many, his questions were never satisfied. He had as much luck as if trying to catch a sighting of the Lochness Monster, Nessie, in Scotland. Not surprisingly, there was even a sea monster sighting out in the Chesapeake Bay that was dubbed Chessie. Urban legends will always pop up from time to time. And this may well have been one of them.
Situated along pristine rolling hills, Culpeper had a strange atmosphere these days. The old, decrepit State Theater on Main Street had closed, but there were tales of cryptic messages appearing on the marquee such as “School for Akters” or “Spycraft: A great game.” The last one really got his attention, but it was unknown if this was done by conspiracy theorists or The Finders themselves. He suspected more than one group might be involved, especially when unfamiliar words such as “Ataraxia'' appeared, which further perplexed the town. He didn’t even know what that meant. When asked what they thought about it, the townspeople figured it was the doings of the secretive Utopian group, which consisted of mainly middle-aged men in dark suits as well as a few women. Most mothers left after the 1987 scandal. Whether merry pranksters trying to cause confusion, devil worshippers playing a game, or agents for hire, led by a former Army Intelligence Officer, no one knew for sure. And that included him.
As for The Finders, some say that there were tenuous ties to Ultra Spook, Dr. Carl Scleicher, from Mankind Research Unlimited. Christopher Byrd, formerly CIA, of MRU suggested that they meet. Also interested in the fringes of society, The Finders sent Tobe Terrell to check Carl out and see what kind of games were going on there. Carl seemed to have a small gig going on compared to SRI. Everything from MK-ULTRA to cyborgs and supersoldiers were eventually blamed on MRU, though the truth was just as murky as it was surrounding The Finders. Carl said he’d sue anyone who made false claims like that.
In his book The Gamecaller, Tobe Terrell recounts that Carl went out to Kelly’s Ford Bridge in Culpeper to dowse for a Civil War treasure based on a report by psychic Edgar Cayce. None was found. But that didn’t stop them from pursuing all avenues of the paranormal. Maybe they were just “games'' after all. Poking the unknown and seeing what poked back.
Because John personally knew Carl, he didn’t readily believe any of the conspiracy theories, though dowsing seemed credible. His ties to him stemmed from his Vietnam days, but he lost touch with him shortly after the conflict, where Carl had saved countless Marines in Khe Sahn by providing a method for finding Viet Cong tunnels. Tragically, a lot of men were dying in them. The life-expectancy for tunnel rats was around three seconds. Carl helped change that. After he started dowsing for tunnels, he claimed that the Viet Cong assumed that they had some new secret weapon.
Now all sorts of stories have surfaced. People were even whispering about mind control. When Carl’s whole pursuit had been on saving lives, these stranger stories rubbed John the wrong way. He preferred to find out the truth himself. It was proving very difficult.
As for The Finders, this was pretty much the story he had so far, compiled from various sources:
After Henry T. “Skip” Clements met with United States Congressmen Charlie Rose and Tom Lewis to prompt a second look at The Finders, the Justice Department opened an investigation both into the Finders and into the 1987 investigation itself. To understand what happened, we need to go back to the beginning. Parents at a park alerted the police when unkempt children were accompanied by two men driving a van and who appeared to have been living in it. To make matters worse, they weren’t their real parents and claimed to be taking the children to a special school in Mexico. Until the parents/guardians could be found and the situation thoroughly investigated, the men were arrested. Accusations started flying. Ann Lindgren of the Cult Awareness Network contacted the Tallahassee Democrat to say that she had never heard of the group engaging in satanic rituals or occult practices.
Ramon Martinez who made the initial report, and Senior Special Agent Bob Harrold assisted in executing the search warrants on The Finders’ property. Martinez claimed in a memorandum that documents were discovered which appeared to be concerned with international trafficking in children, high tech and currency transfer overseas. He had arranged a meeting with Metropolitan Police Detective James Bradley to review the evidence, but an unnamed third-party, believed by independent journalist Elizabeth Vos to have been MPD Sgt. John Stitcher, told him that the passport data had been turned over to the State Department. It then became “a CIA internal matter.” The MPD report had thus been classified secret. After the second review, the matter was finally closed in 1994, with no evidence of a criminal nature ever being found.
Now working for the FBI, John Hillman wanted to pursue truth no matter how difficult it was to face or accept. With an open mind, he’d take on any clues one by one. That included driving to this small town a year after the second review was completed. He enjoyed the scenic drive and the charm of Main Street. It was a lot different than the flat and bustling Tidewater cities back home, with gnarled traffic on highways, bridges and tunnels connecting them. While Tidewater was modernizing, this place had a feel of an age long gone by. He saw a few Mom and Pop shops and a cafe he planned on eating at later. He hoped there was an old fashioned soda fountain.
On the surface, life here gave the impression of peace and a slow pace. The abundance of nature made him think about his childhood of eating honeysuckles and trying to catch turtles in a river when not playing baseball or riding his bike. But here, now, there was also an acute sense of loss and dying dreams. A hint of sadness hung about it. Maybe nostalgia brought that on.
When he spotted a space to park in front of the out-of-business theater, he planned to walk around and get a sense of any Finder activity. He wasn't disappointed. Just above him, he found a clue in black letters. The marquee read “John 8:32.” He froze for a moment, becoming fixated on the message. It kind of unsettled him. Once the jolt wore off, he wondered if someone put that message there just for him to see. Glancing around, he had a strange feeling. But no one paid him any attention. The place was shuttered. Not much stirred besides cars going by.
John knew the Bible quote from memory and said it out loud, “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” He also knew that those words were engraved in the lobby of the headquarters of the CIA. Did someone in Intelligence have a sense of humor and add that message? Perhaps, someone wanted others to believe that they were really a part of it all. There was definitely a game afoot.
Well if that isn’t a clue, I don’t know what is.
Getting out of his car, John tried to get a feel of the place while keeping his guard up. Only a few people strolled by. One gray-haired woman in a tracksuit walked a dog and an Asian man delivered mail. Friendly, they nodded or said hello. Even the occasional cars going by probably had a set destination in mind; whereas, he was obviously playing a tourist. With hands in his pockets, he curiously peeked into the concrete block offices next to the Art Deco theater. On one door, there was a placard that read “Think,” and inside, he saw a bunch of old books, furniture, and random junk. The windows were dirty, so he couldn’t make out much more than that.
Then something caught his eye. On the windowsill, he found a worn copy of a U.S. News & World Report article about the Finders, dated from January 1994. Part of the tape had come off and it was hanging to one side, but John lifted it and read: “Through a glass, very darkly.” The article detailed the Justice Department investigation, including the yellow highlighted passage claiming that “The group’s practices, police said, were eccentric—not illegal.” Maybe a member of the commune posted that to get some of the heat off of them. That was speculation, of course.
Though he didn’t expect to find much when he arrived, the fact that someone was playing this game right on Main Street seemed provocative. Maybe they hoped to lure tourists to get much needed dollars into this town. A conspiracy theory might do that. Taking out his camera, John took a few pictures, which didn’t get much attention. Anybody passing by knew why. Out of towners wanted to see if any Boogeyman roamed about in black robes or tried to recruit them. Tattered signs on telephone poles said “free money.” He jotted down the number just in case it belonged to them. Then he got back in his car and checked the map.
For his next stop, he headed to the top of a hill, where a large two-story brick home sat on a well-kept corner, though a few unruly bushes and blooming patches of flowers were allowed to grow wild. Brilliant purples and paler blues stood out. Quite breathtaking, he thought. He took his time taking in the details of the stately manor and its grounds, and then ascended the porch, noting several chairs in a row; perfect for a glass of lemonade in the summer while thinking about a once booming town below.
“Can I help you?” asked a tough, but relaxed looking man with a slight Southern drawl. He was dressed in casual slacks and a button-down, short sleeve shirt. He approached from behind. They sized each other up.
“Hi, there,” John said, “I’m John Hillman.”
“Ryder Wetklow,” replied the other man, shaking his hand.
“I called Mr. Pettie last week and told him that I’d like to come by for a visit.”
“He isn’t here.”
“Do you know when he’ll return?”
Somewhat smirking, the stranger assessed John’s posture and his crisp suit, saying, “No, I don’t.”
“Can I come inside?”
Ryder stepped forward, tried the door handle, and then opened it. “After you.”
John led the way into the foyer on a creaky wooden floor, where a nearby globe sat on an oriental carpet. The Finders were known for travel. He proceeded toward a couch covered by a throw. Everything had an antique vibe to it, including a bowler hat and a walking cane. Then his attention came to a charming portrait of a well-dressed Victorian couple. He wondered if they were Pettie’s grandparents. He took it all in. Not what he expected from the picture verbally painted of him.
Perhaps, he was hiding something. Bookshelves were everywhere and John casually checked out some titles on Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, but it was a box of cigars that got his notice. John raised an eyebrow. They looked Cuban. He took one out and sniffed it.
“A connoisseur, John? Help yourself.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
“While on vacation? Not a good idea.”
“So how do you know Marion Pettie?” John asked, turning to face the still-grinning man. His suspicion grew.
“I never met him,” he flatly told him, while casually rifling through the place and taking a peek into other rooms.
Following him, John’s eyes widened, saying, “I assumed….”
“You know what they say about ‘assume,’” Ryder said, with a shrug, “It makes an ass out of you and me. But in this case, just you.”
“Breaking and entering isn’t funny.”
“Yes it is,” Ryder said, busting his chops, “especially for a Federal Agent.”
“I could have you arrested.”
Patting him on the back, the man with the goatee said, “Relax. We’re all friends here. But those Cubans, shouldn’t you confiscate them?”
“We need to leave,” John insisted, his face turning slightly red.
“Well, you’re no fun.”
“CIA?”
“We don’t operate on U.S. soil. I’m just having a looky-loo, especially since we were implicated in this. Not very nice. I’m just as flabbergasted as you as to what went on down here.”
Charging toward the front door, John fumed, wanting to punch Ryder. His fists clenched. But he wanted to get the hell out of there before any media caught wind of this. There would be a big scandal not to mention loss of his job and potential legal trouble.
“Come on, buddy,” Ryder called after him, “I apologize. Let’s go into town and have a beer. I have a feeling we’re going to be knowing each other for a long, long…long time.”
Grumbling to himself, John shook his head as he angrily swung the door open, with Ryder right behind him.
“Who are you?”
Both men turned toward the soft voice at the end of the porch, and asked in unison, “Who are you?”
The youngster in a blue and white checkered dress backed up a few steps, saying, “Ninon Gage.”
Back to the present.
Wearing a Polo shirt and slacks, John found the greens soft at Hell’s Point Golf club. A little muddy in spots from recent rains, he probably should have waited, but he wanted to keep his mind busy. Ryder had been right about one thing. After a couple of decades, he and John still ran into one another from time to time, and this Finders’ business haunted them even to the present time. On short notice, Ryder claimed he couldn’t make it to the links. He would take a raincheck. He better show. Until then, they had a quick chat.
“Let’s get together in a few days,” Ryder told John on the phone. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“It is important. An old name came up.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah,” John grumbled. “Just meet me soon. I don’t know why this whole Finders’ business is resurfacing. Tell me that it is not?”
“It's not.”
“Dammit, Ryder. I don’t believe you.”
“Come on, John. Calm down. Let’s have some drinks. I’ll clear my schedule and we’ll pick a day to catch up.”
“Okay, but no bullshit. I want some answers.”
“You got it. I’ll help anyway I can.”
“If I get dragged into this, you are going to be there right beside me.”
“Well, some things belong to the past.”
“Look. I have to go, but meet me as soon as you can.”
“Enjoy your game.”
John returned to the verdant view. He pulled out his driver and got behind the ball. With flawless motion, he turned, swung, and gave it a hard whack. He imagined it was Ryder’s head.
Scott returned to his office to finish up for the day. After a few clicks on Amazon to order a gift for Alice, he settled on a rose gold bracelet with a heart charm. That should fill his sense of obligation. Then Scott drove home to his modest one-floor house in a quiet subdivision near the beach. White with black shutters, it sat on a landscaped plot with several large trees and a few azalea bushes. Once in the paved driveway, he opened the garage and pulled inside.
His wife of four years, Alice, spent her days caring for their only child, Matthew, who was about to turn two. Alice previously worked at a bank and planned to return to work once Matthew entered pre-K. And they both liked having at least one of them home with him while they could, though another salary would let him breathe better. He knew that Alice struggled with the pull to stay home or to return to work, and he assured her that he supported her one way or the other.
The strawberry blond, who wore little make-up these days, greeted him and filled him in on her day with their feisty son, who kept her on her toes with his curiosity and boundless energy. A small smile emerged on Scott’s usual tight lips, as he welcomed leaving his work day behind and crossed the threshold.
After he took off his coat and checked the mail that she left for him on the table, he enjoyed listening to her chatting as they went about making dinner together. Then he glanced over at his son, who was trying to kick off the shoes he despised and Scott chuckled. This boy was a handful at this age, but had a usual happy-go-lucky attitude that charmed everybody. Then his mind recalled the photograph of the melancholy Ninon, whose eyes spoke of a deep-rooted pain. He never imagined that a story involving The Finder’s would ever cross his desk in modern times. It gave him a sick feeling.
“So how was your day?” Alice asked, reaching for the cutting board. “I’ve probably bored you with mine.”
“It was fine, and I enjoyed hearing every minute about yours,” he assured her as he reached over to kiss her forehead. “You know that I try to leave it at the door. I guess you caught me spacing out at the moment.”
She scrutinized him. That weight on his shoulder usually said one thing.
“Did it have anything to do with a child? I know that gets to you.”
Scott solemnly nodded and told her, “It was an old case. Nothing to worry about.”
“Well, then let’s make Cacciatore,” she suggested, “And I get my handsome husband all to myself.”
“I think I can handle that.”
Alice smiled and proceeded to take the raw chicken from the fridge, which she handed to him.
“I am a good cook after all,” he told her, becoming more upbeat, while rolling up his sleeves.
“I think you could have chosen this for a profession.”
“Don’t start this again.”
“I’m not. Just like that we can enjoy something together.”
“You can always join the FBI,” he teased, causing her to shake her head.
“I can’t win with you,” she laughed.
“Neither can criminals.”
“It's a good thing I’m not one.”
“Maybe I can interrogate you later to find out for sure.”
“Bring the handcuffs,” she said, winking at him, “though look at me. I really need a shower. I haven’t had a chance yet. Matthew gets into everything and I can’t take an eye off him for a moment.”
“I think we both had a long day,” he told her, “Things will get easier.”
Later that night, Scott sat in his home office, looking through the FBI files on The Finders, whose origins dated back before WWII, but they didn’t become known to the public until a phone call by a concerned citizen swept everyone up in the Satanic Panic of the late 1980s. There were lingering allegations that the group was some kind of front for the CIA, which led to a coverup of alleged heinous crimes involving children. Investigations turned up empty. The Public didn’t buy that and he wasn’t so sure either.
He sipped Scotch while researching. Too many ghosts could get dangerous if disturbed, though maybe it was time to know once and for all what really happened. He had to be prepared to face whatever darkness that might be unleashed.
By their own account, The Finders were an alternative lifestyle commune based in the Washington, D.C. area and was made up of 20 adults and 7 children around the year 1987. They were followers of an eccentric man named Marion Pettie, who said that the group began in the 1930s, when he rented two apartments in D.C., where he let anyone stay there who could teach him about “power, money, or sex.” Interestingly, he had links to the Military and to Intelligence. That didn’t bode well for obtaining many facts.
Cults of any kind tend to get dangerous even if they start out as innocuous. As the infamous story goes, there were 2 men seen with unkempt children at a playground, which made the other parents uncomfortable and concerned, so they contacted the police. When questioned, the men refused to explain how they were related to the children or where their parents were. While trying to get to the bottom of the matter, the men were arrested, but the charges were later dropped and the children were returned to parents at the commune. That seemed to be the end of it.
Ninon’s case came later, one that didn’t make much noise in the Press, and it was later deemed a misunderstanding in custody, so not much happened after the child was eventually located and returned to an Uncle. She wasn’t one of the original minors from the first report and not much followup was done. Years later, she disappeared from her uncle’s care while still a part of the commune, so it was downplayed as a custody dispute, especially with having a drug-addicted mother who might have taken her. There were too many holes in the story such as who took the child to begin with and why wasn’t anybody concerned about that?
It felt as if an impenetrable wall stood between him and the truth. Scott took a deep breath. He was too worn out to stay awake much longer. If no one ever made headway into this suspected cult in decades, he’d need more than tenacity and good luck. He was a naturally stubborn man and didn’t give up easily. Unfortunately, this case had all the qualities that could torment a man’s soul and make him bitter, if not forlorn. But he couldn’t turn his back on her now that her file fell onto his desk, no matter the personal cost or the potential sacrifice. The wear and tear of his line of work started to cause a few lines to emerge on his face. He had a duty and didn’t like to fail.
Hundreds of unclassified documents were available to the Public. This was the first time that he had seen them as well. And created even more confusion.