chain-link encircled property of over a hundred acres on the right.
This plot had been purchased eleven years ago by the Prophetic Church of
the Rapture, a cult that had followed the teachings of the Reverend
Jonathan Caine and had believed that the faithful would soon be
levitated from the earth, leaving only the unbaptized and truly wicked
to endure a thousand years of grueling war and hell on earth before
final Judgment came to pass.
As it turned out, Caine had been a child molester who video taped his
abuse of cult members’ children. He had gone to prison, his two
thousand followers had dispersed on the winds of disillusionment and
betrayal, and the property with all its buildings had been tied up by
litigation for almost five years.
Some fantasies were destructive.
The chain-link fence, topped with coils of dangerous razor wire, was
broken down in places. In the distance the spire of their church soared
high above the trees. Beneath it were the sloped roofs of a warren of
buildings in which the faithful had slept, taken their meals, and waited
to be lifted heavenward by the right hand of the Lord Almighty. The
spire stood untouched. But the buildings under it were missing many
doors and windows, home to rats and possums and raccoons, shorn of glory
and hairy with decay. Sometimes the vandals had been human. But wind
and ice and snow had done the better part of the damage, as if God,
through weather warped to His whim, had passed a judgment on the Church
of the Rapture that He had not yet been ready to pass on the rest of
humankind.
The cabin was also to the right of the narrow county road, the next
property after the huge tract owned by the defunct cult. Set back a
hundred yards from the pavement, at the end of a dirt lane, it was one
of many similar retreats spread through the surrounding hills, most of
them on an acre of land or more.
It was a one-story structure with weather-silvered cedar siding, slate
roof, screened front porch, and river-rock foundation. Over the years
his father and mother had expanded the original building until it
contained two bedrooms, kitchen, living room, and two baths.
They parked in front of the cabin and got out of the BMW. The
surrounding firs, sugar pines, and ponderosa pines were ancient and
huge, and the crisp air was sweet with the scent of them. Drifts of
dead needles and scores of pinecones littered the property. Snow
reached the ground only between the trees and through the occasional
interstices of their thatched boughs.
Marty went to the woodshed behind the cabin. The door was held shut
with a hasp and peg. Inside, to the right of the entrance, against the
wall, a spare key was wrapped tightly in plastic and buried half an inch
under the dirt floor.
When Marty returned to the front of the cabin, Emily was circling one of
the larger trees in a crouch, closely examining the cones that had
fallen from it. Charlotte was performing a wildly exaggerated ballet in
an open space between trees, where a wide shaft of snow fell like a
spotlight on a stage.
“I am the Snow Queen!” Charlotte announced breathlessly as she twirled
and leaped. “I have dominion over winter! I can command the snow to
fall! I can make the world shiny and white and beautiful!”
As Emily began to gather up an armload of cones, Paige said, “Honey,
you’re not bringing those in the house.”
“I’m going to make some art.”
“They’re dirty.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re beautiful and dirty,” Paige said.
“I’ll make art out here.”
“Snow fall! Snow blow! Snow swirl and whirl and caper!” commanded the
dancing Snow Queen as Marty climbed the wooden steps and opened the
screen door on the porch.
That morning the girls had dressed in jeans and wool sweaters, to be
ready for the Sierras, and they were wearing heavily insulated nylon
jackets as well as cloth gloves. They wanted to stay outside and play.
Even if they’d had boots, however, the outdoors would have been off
limits. This time, the cabin was not simply a vacation getaway but a
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