"The Brotherhood of Man shall flourish under the Fatherhood of God"

--excerpt from The Brotherhood of Freedom's introductory packet

The faces surrounding him were familiar, those of a family beloved yet never spoken of. Faces he'd grown up with, shared his deepest, darkest secrets with. Those faces were now hard, unforgiving as they passed judgment upon him.

He relaxed his body, prostrate before them as he welcomed that first blow, that first step toward salvation, forgiveness. It was excruciatingly sharp and more painful than anything he'd ever imagined. He cringed, drawing into the fetal position. The members of the Chosen grasped his arms, his legs, pulling them wide, leaving him vulnerable to each and every impact. One of his brothers held his head, forcing him to stare into the emerald green eyes of his mentor, his one true spiritual guide, his father in all but name. As each blow landed, those eyes clouded, flinched as if feeling his child's pain.

Each blow was exquisitely placed and timed to elicit the most misery, the purest agony. Far past rationality, his mind grasped at the dark beauty of the pain, falling back on his deepest childhood training, their Mantra: The Brotherhood is all. The Brotherhood is one. I am The Brotherhood. He recited the incantation over and over in his mind, heard it fall from his lips as he reached for the salvation he knew was within reach. Instead the pain continued, becoming more biting, more savage as each blow landed.

He thrashed within their grasp, his conditioning fleeing as the torment became intense, blinding. His mind whirled, leapt past the Mantra and sped toward the revelation of self-preservation. This was wrong. This was not The Way. He'd only made that one small mistake.

As tears of despair and betrayal seeped a slow, useless path down his cheeks, his mind began to shut down, negating the awesome power the pain held over him and a steadily firming suspicion. All he had ever known, all he had ever believed in, was a lie.

He looked up into the face of his mentor in a frantic search for the entrance to Heaven they'd been promised, and found only the doorway to Hell. His last thought as he slipped into unconsciousness was that their leader, their sage, was quite insane.

Heaven help the Brotherhood.

Chapter One

The call came in as Doug was shaving. The shrill chirping of the cell phone made him jerk, then swear as he deliberately continued his downstroke. Blood welled from the shallow cut just below his cheekbone, oozing in scarlet testimony to his carelessness. He grabbed a piece of toilet paper with one hand, picked up the phone with the other, and glanced at his watch as he pulled the Nokia to his ear. It was seven o' five in the morning, snow was still falling and it was the last day of January. It was a hell of a way to ring out the month, Doug thought as he scowled into the mirror.

"Brewster here."

"Sheriff, this is dispatch. We've got a live one for you." The snicker in the dispatcher's voice was barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.

"What is it?" he asked, poking the toilet tissue in place. He'd always thought being Sheriff would be glamorous, that people would look up to him. He'd watched Bill Ashton handle the office with what had appeared to be effortless grace and thought he could easily follow in his footsteps.

How wrong he had been.

"We've got a stiff." Stacey's familiar voice switched, becoming almost mechanical as she began relaying facts in a fast, relentless stream. "Initial report is that we've got one Elijah Miller discovered in his home at approximately 0635 by his carpool buddy. ME is on the way, scene was covered and contained by Deputy Goltree."

Doug barely contained a groan. Goltree again. The man was never far removed from trouble. At least their medical examiner, Joe Whelan, would be there to cover their collective asses.

He finished shaving quickly, managing to nick himself only twice more in the process. Not a totally bad start to the morning, he thought darkly.

Grabbing a cup of coffee and a stale donut on his way out, he left the ranch house he called home and climbed into the shiny white Ford Explorer furnished by the department. The address was only a few minutes away--Mariposa proper wasn't that big. As he wound his way through the snow-hushed streets, Doug racked his brain for anything and everything he knew about Elijah Miller.

The Eli Miller he remembered from high school had been a dyed-in-the-wool hick, and hadn't changed a whole lot in the nine years since he'd graduated. Miller had been one of those sick little shits who carved swastikas into his books and on the desks in their classes and study hall.

Mariposa County didn't have much of a minority community to begin with, so that kind of malevolence usually died a timely death when the teenagers who propagated it either matured or left town. But a few holdouts, men and women who'd been bred on generations of hate, still remained. They hid in corners of the county, licking their supposed wounds and gathering with their own kind.

Doug had no official feelings for the church militia that called Mariposa home but kept a sharp eye on them. He knew all about free speech and freedom of religion and the right to bear arms. As long as the Brotherhood of Freedom stayed within the laws of the land, he'd leave them be. The fact he thought they were completely full of shit hadn't, and would never enter into his administration of the law.

* * * *

The flashing red and blue lights of the cruiser preceding Doug's SUV bounced off the icy ground, lighting up the cheap apartment block in an unearthly morning glow. Giving the responding deputy the evil eye, he motioned for the youngster to cut off the light show.

Doug coughed into his hand, hiding a half-smile at the young deputy's expression of chagrin. He remembered what it was like to be the new kid on the block, the clown-in-brown holding a gun. As for the light show, he hadn't really expected anything less of Stumpy Goltree.

He snapped on a non-latex glove and stepped into Eli Miller's apartment. His gaze immediately settled on the far wall, on the bed anchored there in the sparsely furnished studio apartment.

The dispatcher had told him to expect a stiff, but he wasn't prepared for what lay before him. Gunshot wounds among intimates were the primary source of death in Mariposa County, those and heart attacks of the aged. He hadn't seen a crime scene this grisly since the Ladykiller murders several years back.

Eli Miller had been beaten to a pulp. A garnet spray of blood tattooed the wall behind the bed in a timeless, graceful pattern, giving that portion of the room a macabre art nouveau impression.

Stumpy stood to the right of the doorway, gloved hands at his sides. Doug looked at him approvingly. This morning, at least, the deputy's head was screwed on right.

"Touched anything?" he asked, swinging his gaze back to the scene. He breathed deep, then exhaled, noting the fog his breath created. The heater was off and there was no smell other than that of stale beer and dirty socks. The body hadn't begun to decompose. Yet.

"Just to make sure he was really dead. No pulse, no respiration, no nothing. The guy's a doornail. Keye's got the carpool buddy sequestered at the station. He should be getting his statement now. Doc Whelan is en route."

"All right. You got the tape recorder?" Doug felt, rather than saw, Stumpy's nod, and held out his hand. The microcassette recorder slapped into his palm; then Stumpy stepped behind him, guarding the doorway.

Doug stood on the threshold, sweeping the scene, categorizing what he saw before clicking on the tape recorder.

"31 January, 0735, Terrace Grove Apartments, Number Eight. Vic appears to be Elijah Miller. Expect confirmation when body removal is complete. Discovered and reported by carpool partner at 0655. Scene contained by Deputy Goltree who confirmed absence of vitals. Officer Maras is interviewing reporting party.

"Scene appears well contained. No obvious signs of struggle with the exception of the body. Initial sweep indicates valuables are present." What he didn't say was obvious. Eli Miller's 'valuables' apparently consisted of a 19-inch TV, a DVD player and a stack of porn titles Doug could see from his vantage point by the door.

He stepped into the room, approaching what was left of Eli Miller.

"Body placement appears staged. Victim is lying face up, fully nude. Arms are crossed on top of the chest, legs straight out. There is no evidence of restraint and no mutilation." He stopped, looking at Miller again to make sure his assessment was correct. There were no visible chafing marks on his wrists or ankles to indicate restraint of any kind. If not for the vicious purpling bruises and gaping tears in his flesh, Doug would have sworn that Eli Miller was asleep. Except for his eyes. No, they were wide open and staring, and reflected an abject terror that flip-flopped Doug's stomach. He imagined Eli Miller had felt each blow as it landed, and even though he had no real evidence to the contrary, he knew instinctively that Eli Miller had not been drugged. He shook himself, bringing his attention back in line.

Finished with the preliminary assessment, Doug stepped back to let Goltree in with the camera. The flashbulb popped, highlighting the scene even more graphically. As Doug stared at the raw mass that had been Eli Miller, he heard the meat wagon pull up, ready to take its silent customer to the medical examiner. The only thing Whelan would have to determine was whether or not the 27-year-old had died from a heart attack. The Modesto Crime Lab would be his next engagement.

* * * *

Rolling the scenes of the morning through his head like a repellent newsreel, Doug Brewster walked into the bullpen of the Sheriff's Department feeling more than a little pissed off. Things like this didn't happen in his county. They happened in big cities like Fresno and L.A., not out here in the sticks.

"Sheriff." Gail, the Department's secretary and mainstay, caught him just before he entered his office. He could tell something was up, she was bouncing the eraser of her chewed-on Ticonderoga pencil on the blotter machine-gun fast, like she always did when troubled. "Reverend Chuck is on the line. He wants Miller's remains released to him. Said something about freedom of religion and the fact that they don't believe in autopsies."

"I'll take it in my office," he said as he pushed open the door. Looking at the neat orderliness of his inner sanctum calmed him. Taking a deep breath, he stared at the lava lamp serenely bubbling red in the corner; then sat down at his desk. He leaned back in his chair, smoothed his fingers over his moustache then punched the multi-line switchboard.

"This is Sheriff Brewster."

"Hello, Sheriff, this is Reverend Charles. I understand we've met with a troubling incident this morning." The good reverend's voice was low, modulated to soothe, to calm troubled parishioners. In this context, it sounded fake and trite, at least to Doug's ears. Both of them knew why Charles Montcliff was calling. There was no reason to beat around the bush.

"Troubling. That's a good word for it, Reverend. It's also under investigation. What can I do for you?"

"You can release Elijah's remains to the Brotherhood. You know we do not believe in the sacrilege of an autopsy. Our children must remain untouched by the knife, untouched by outside hands in order to rise to meet their Maker."

Doug took a deep mental breath, knowing that how he handled this would be crucial. The Brotherhood might not be wealthy in a monetary sense, but they had held court in this county for the better part of twenty years. Their influence could pack a punch.

"Reverend, you know as well as I do I can't do that. Eli Miller died under suspicious circumstances and the state of California requires an autopsy be performed, your objections notwithstanding." He kept his voice cool, his tone professional.

The silence on the other end of the line spoke volumes. When Charles Montcliff finally replied, his voice was unperturbed. "I see. That is unfortunate. Unfortunate indeed. Good day, Sheriff."

Brewster hung up the phone, knowing where the Reverend's next call would be. He wished the Mayor luck.

Pushing back from the desk, he stared out the frost-tinged window to his right, seeing but not seeing the postcard quality of the tiny township that spread out in gentle hills descending from the mountain behind the Sheriff's Department. The thick blanket of snow that had fallen yesterday covered more than the streets. It hid small town secrets and disguised cultural imperfections sidestepped by the townsfolk in better, more social weather.

One of the most prevalent blemishes was the Brotherhood. First ordained in the late seventies, Charles Montcliff had sucked in those dissatisfied with government, both local and national. He ranted against the Jewish conspiracy to take over the American government and the world. He railed against the political elite, the financial elite, and even the average American, who he claimed had grown lazy and hedonistic. He preached of the God-given supremacy of the white man, and had dedicated the last two decades to arming and training the Brotherhood of Freedom.

Doug was afraid those decades of preaching had finally begun to pay off.

* * * *

The pain was agonizing and relentless and came from nowhere, from everywhere. One moment Josie Galloway sat on the side of her bed, blinking sleepily at her orange cat, Morris. The next she was on her knees on the hardwood floor, clutching her hands to her head in agony. Her breath caught and shuddered as the pain of each lash, each blow resonated throughout her body. Stinging tears leaked down her face as her confusion and disorientation doubled, then tripled until everything went blurry and her stomach roiled in nauseous protest.

In agony, she curled into a ball, clutching her knees to her chest, fingers digging at her shinbones with enough force to leave half-moon crescents through the thin silk of her gown. As she lay on the floor, still curled into a protective fetal ball, Josie heard one word echo over and over in her brain. Annaid. Annaid. A plaintive Gaelic call to mother and home.

And still the pain continued, overruling even her sense of self. She was no longer Josie Galloway, Wiccan High Priestess. In this place, in this time, she was Pain, she was Ecstasy, she was Death. Falling into an exhausted, dreamless slumber, her mind shut out the vicious trauma her body had sensed but never received.

* * * *

She woke stiff and groggy on the cold hardwood floor of her bedroom. Morris was curled up against her, gazing at her in green-eyed catty concern.

Confused at how she'd ended up sleeping on the floor, Josie slowly sat up and massaged her temples. She remembered a doozy of a nightmare, but not the details. Whatever it had been about, it had obviously been bad enough to knock her out of bed and onto her ass.

Absently going through the daily morning motions of life, she opened a can of tuna for the waiting Morris; then flipped on the coffeepot. The rich aroma of Colombian coffee caressed her nose, brought her into the morning gracefully. She would drink tea for the rest of the day, but that first cup of coffee was a habit she'd found she couldn't break.

She poured herself a cup; then glanced out the window, greeting the day. A hefty covering of snow cloaked the rocky granite and dirt that comprised the commune's yard. It had been a cold winter in Mariposa, with real, actual snow instead of the dismal rain and ice that usually blanketed the region.

Trabucco Mountain reared up behind the old colonial house, granite and majestic sugar pines thrusting out of the soil at right angles.

Still puttering, Josie put away last night's dishes; then headed to the bathroom, fully intending to get the morning off to a better start than last night by washing her face and brushing her teeth. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror and let out an involuntary little cry.

Her normally lustrous black hair hung limp and dank against her shoulders. Deep purple bruises swept under her eyes and her cheekbones thrust hard and sharp against the pale parchment of her skin.

She looked like shit.

What the hell had happened to her last night? Where had she gone in her dreams? Or what had come to her?

She untied her robe, ready to step into the shower, to wash away last night's fitful sleep and emerge a new woman. She saw the mark out of the corner of her eye, and turned to face the mirror fully. It was a small but distinct bruise in the shape of a circle, imprinted between her breasts, directly over her breastbone. It was something that only a witch or a learned person would recognize. It was a sigil, the sigil of the triskele.

A cold chill shot through her, raising goosebumps on her arms, lifting the fine hairs at the base of her scalp. She gaped at the symbol, dread curling through her.

Inside the rounded spiral three lines curved sinuously clockwise toward the center. She raised shaking fingers, caressing the bruise, tracing the winding patterns as the triskele's chant slipped through her mind, unbidden.

* * * *

Josie looked in the mirror for what seemed the thousandth time. The mark was still there after four days, emblazoned like a malignant party stamp under her blouse.

Her restless nights hadn't gotten any better, either. Every night she dreamed, and every morning she woke looking like hell, completely oblivious to the nature of her nightmare, knowing only that it was harrowing and quite possibly beginning to take a toll on her health. At least she hadn't awoken on the floor again. That was an experience she would just as soon not repeat.

She'd attacked what she now dubbed her 'problem' in her usual manner, head-on and unafraid.

It would have been easier if Cam, her partner and High Priest to their coven, hadn't moved to Seattle six months earlier. She would have had someone to talk to, someone who understood the Craft, someone who could offer wise counsel. Since his departure she'd allowed their little band to dissolve, choosing to practice her Craft as a solitary.

The second night, Monday, she'd laid a ward to turn back her visitor. Either the ward hadn't been prepared correctly, which she seriously doubted, or her visitor was very, very strong. Strong enough to bowl over a ward made by a Master Adept.

Tuesday and Wednesday nights she'd tried stronger wards, using candles and scents and crystals to bolster her wishes. Each of those attempts had failed miserably.

Now she was frightened, and she hated fear more than almost anything, hated the loss of control it signified. Josie knew she'd begun to slip into denial, but that knowledge didn't push back the burgeoning depression caused by too many disturbed nights and not enough personal peace.

She would give it one more try before tracking down Cam and begging for his help. Her assistant, Ynes had run her shop, The Eight Fold Path, for the last four days. Tonight, she decided, she would send her unwelcome visitor a clear message. She would bolster herself in the shop she loved and scour the internet for spells she didn't know. Today she would rejoice in the strong woman she'd become. She'd survived adversity in the past. Nothing would shake her resolve this day, especially with Imbolic, The Festival of Lights, right around the corner. Nothing would stop her from celebrating this blessed holiday, from honoring her beliefs.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror at seven on Thursday morning, she carefully began to apply enough make-up to cover the ravages of last night's dream. It was a mostly forgotten exercise--she'd fallen out of practice in the ten years since she'd left Vegas behind. Anyway, head shop customers responded much better to a gypsy rather than a Bally's showgirl. Not that she'd been one for that long. No, she'd shifted from one extreme to another, leaving the stage to become a paralegal. She stared at her reflection, not liking the lines that formed around her mouth and eyes when she thought about Vegas, about her past. With a deep breath she pushed the unhappy memories aside, focusing on the present, on what she'd become.

Josie'd finally found her calling in life, but it was so far removed from most that sometimes she had to laugh. Not only did she own and operate a successful business, but was the best-known witch in Mariposa County. Sometimes life was certainly ironic.

Most people didn't respect or even recognize Wicca as a religion, but it was something that had appealed to her on a fundamental level for a long, long time. The fact that she'd transformed her philosophy and reputation into a thriving crystal and oddities shop had only seemed the natural thing to do.

The townspeople saw her as a flake, an earth momma interested only in crystals and herbs and spells, but only a few knew that not so long ago she'd helped to profile a serial killer. Had, in fact, sat in the same room with him while they worked together to profile him. It wasn't something that sat easily upon her, since she still believed that she should have been able to sense him, to feel his evil. After all, he'd selected the very backbone of her religion as an excuse to kill.

No, it didn't sit quietly at all. She knew it still weighed heavily upon the minds of then-Sheriff Bill Ashton and the current Sheriff Doug Brewster. They would probably never know what had really happened in the redwood and glass cathedral Dr. Adam Porter had called home. That lack of knowledge wasn't any easier to swallow, but it did get easier to take as time passed.