Chapter 6
Perhaps I owe you an apology," Mark said. "And please apologize to The Prophet for me." He paused to note the reaction on Gaylord Welch. When there was none, he went on. "Or whoever my mysterious benefactor is--the one who extended me a welcome against your better judgement."
Welch was openly suspicious and definitely not in a placating mood. "Differences of opinion at Peace Haven are internal matters. Entirely private."
"Oh well," Mark said cheerfully. "I'll grant you that. But still I want to go on record as being grateful. Allowing me to use Peace Haven as a base is a privilege I won't soon forget. The scenery around here is beautiful."
Still wary, Welch gave a trifle. "I have no objection to having you around. Causing trouble, however, is something else again. We're quite capable of running our own affairs, and Peace Haven."
"I'm sure you are. I should have apologized to you when you assured me the attack on Patience White would be taken care of. I'm afraid you'll have to charge my indignation to a lack of understanding."
Mark wondered if Welch was really swallowing all this glib explanation. Probably he didn't care one way or another. Welch said, "You're quite welcome to use the cabin I assigned to you. Come and go as you please. I wish you success in your painting."
The last statement was almost friendly, and Mark was encouraged to the point of asking another question. "Do you have religious services here at Peace Haven?"
If Welch's defenses had slipped a trifle, they immediately shot back into place. "If you're implying that we are not really a religious organization-"
"I'm implying nothing of the sort. I took that for granted. I just thought I might possibly do some sketches of your chapel. The girls of the Haven are quite attractive. I thought a painting with the religious motif might be effective."
"All such services take place out of doors. Perhaps you would be interested."
"I'm sure I would."
"Our big religious festival is Purity day. That takes place in two weeks. The pageantry and the ceremonies are quite beautiful."
"I'll look forward to it."
"In the meantime, make yourself at home."
When they parted, Mark thought Welch was as close to being affable as a man of his nature could ever get. He returned to the Thunderbird and got his painting equipment out of the trunk; enough of it to make a convincing front.
It was a source of great relief to him that Linda had gotten back safely the previous afternoon. He'd left her at the south boundary of the property and watched with some misgivings as she moved off through the Peace Haven woods. Then he returned to his car and drove to the road entrance. He'd gone immediately to the dining hall and found Linda at her post wearing the ridiculous cook's cap. His relief was such that he almost took her in his arms. But he caught himself in time and asked instead for a cup of tea.
Now, enjoying his newly-confirmed welcome, he went to the dining hall again. He entered the kitchen softly and found Linda bending over, looking into the big brick oven where forty loaves of bread were baked.
In a sudden surge of recklessness, he put his hand on her beautiful rump and manipulated his fingers in a manner which, from a stranger or even a non-intimate friend, would have been insulting.
Linda's squawk of surprise was extremely unlady-like. She straightened up on stiff, wide-spread legs and both hands went instinctively to her posterior in a gesture of defense-to fend of the crude indignity visited on her private parts.
In an odd extension of perversity, from strangely exuberant feelings Mark persisted in his crude and vulgar abuse to a point where she turned and hopped stiff-legged across the floor until she came to the wall and showed every indication of trying to climb it.
Suddenly ashamed of himself, Mark seized her by the shoulders, turned her around and pulled her into his arms. "Darling, I'm a beast. I'm sorry."
"Mark! You. I didn't know who was-"
"It looked so tempting."
"I couldn't see you. I just wanted to get your hand out of-Oh, Mark-darling. If I'd known it was you I'd have stood still and let you-"
He sobered quickly. "Did you think it could possibly have been anyone else?"
"I thought one of the acolytes might have slipped in."
"You mean you're been abused by those hulking slobs?"
"No, but once in a while they corner one of the girls and make her do tricks."
Do tricks. The words, still fresh in his mind from Linda's account of the outrage at the hands of the three men, chilled Mark. One more charge against Peace Haven. A place where girls were also at the mercy of proven criminals who had the power of supervision over them.
"Darling," Mark said. "Again, I'm sorry. But it was me."
She kissed his shyly. "And you have rights. Just blow a whistle next time."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "How about a cup of tea?"
"Sit down. I'll get it for you."
Mark watched her prepare the tea. "Where did you learn to cook, Linda?"
"One of the girls was here with me for the first six months. She taught me. Actually, there isn't much to it. Most of the food comes frozen. Even the bread is frozen in loaves ready to be baked."
"You make a real cute cook."
She had been so serious, so sad during the time he'd known her that when she grinned, lifted the back of her skirt and flipped her rear at him in a saucily lewd gesture, his heart warmed. He grinned and said, "Huh! Just a brazen hussy after all."
"Certainly sir. Any little thing I can do for you while you're drinking your tea?"
"As a matter-of-fact, there is; but somebody might come in." posite him. She propped her chin on her hand and stared at him.
She set the tea before him and then sat down op-He sipped his tea, set it down and said, "Is there some dirt on my face or something?"
"No. I just can't stop looking at you. You're beautiful-sir."
"Thank you, madam."
Then his light mood slipped away. "Linda, what do you think my chances are of getting into the main building?"
"Won't they let you in?"
"I think perhaps they would, but under those circumstances I wouldn't find anything."
"What do you want to find?"
"Linda-I want to tear this place apart. I want to root out the evil that's buried here. I don't know how deep or broad it is, but I sense that Peace Haven is the head of an octupus that has its tentacles all over the state, and maybe even further. I've got a hunch that if the filth in this place is ever uncovered some men in very high places might go to jail."
"Why don't you talk to The Prophet?"
"I don't think there is any Prophet."
"Why that's ridiculous!"
"Is it? Tell me-have you ever seen him?"
"No, but-well, The Prophet never sees anybody."
"Doesn't that seem strange?"
"But he's their holy man, their gods-kind of."
"Holy man! What's holy about this place? It's a prison, isn't it? The girls are abused and nothing's done about it, is there? The so-called faithful have to pose for pornography, don't they?"
Obviously it had never occurred to Linda to doubt the flesh-and-blood existance of the Haven's spiritual head. But Mark's arguments were throwing doubt into her mind.
"But what would be the purpose of claiming he exists, if he doesn't?"
"I don't quite know. I'm just going by what appears to be logical. The reason is one of the things I want to find out, and I think I will if I can slip into the main building at night. There are other things, too. I want to find out who comes here-how important the men are who abuse Peace Haven girls and get away with it. I might find some evidence-some records."
Linda considered. "You might be able to get in through the basement. There are some windows at ground level on the north side, covered by bushes.
"Tonight, I'm going to try."
Concern was mirrored in Linda's eyes. "I wish you wouldn't. It could be dangerous."
"If I can prove there's no Prophet-"
At that moment the kitchen door opened and a bearded, scowling acolyte appeared. Linda sat rigid as he approached the table. Her fear angered Mark-the need of it-the fact that this oaf could walk into the room and frighten her. He scowled back at the slouching, ridiculously white gowned man.
"Well, what is it?"
The acolyte was thrown off-balance by Mark's crisp, unfriendly question. His own scowl faded and he stood there uncertain for a moment.
"Well, speak up. What do you want?"
"The Prophet sent for you. He wants to see you. I'll show you the way...."
It was with mixed feelings that Mark followed the hulking figure of the acolyte to the entrance of the big, white central building and in through the front door. His first premise-believe in the non-existance of The Prophet-was shattered. But he found that this left him no less suspicious than before.
As he followed the acolyte into the big white building the thought came sharply: Why are they letting me stay around here? Prophet, Shmophet, what difference does it make? The logical thing for them to do would be to kick me out. So why am I here?
And again the conviction: There's a master mind someplace behind this layout....
The Prophet was a tall emaciated man with the eyes of a fanatic, eyes that seemed always to be looking through and beyond. The room in which he received Mark was ridiculous-a high-ceilinged, heavily draped, stifling place with a sort of throne set in the middle.
The Prophet sat on the throne wearing a snow-white robe and as he indicated a chair his extended hand glittered with jewels. Mark wanted to laugh. He was also annoyed by the positioning of his chair. It was below the level of the throne and he was forced to look up at The Prophet like a suppliant come to ask a favor.
The Prophet had a beautiful, deep, resonant voice. "Welcome to Peace Haven, my son."
The my son bit cloyed a little but Mark passed it over. "Thank you. It was nice of you to take me in."
"Are you happy here?"
"I'm delighted," Mark said with an evasion he alone was conscious of.
"Have you been treated well?"
"I feel like an honored guest."
"And indeed you are. We want you to feel at home."
"Why?"
The Prophet lost a little of his benign composure. In fact he lost a great deal of it. Blinking at Mark, for a moment he looked like a confused old man in a snow-white robe. I
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why do you want me to feel at home."
"This is our way."
"Then I must apologize for my question. Perhaps I have lived in the cynical outer world too long. It has become instinctive with me, whenever anyone is inordinately nice to me, to look for an angle."
"You need seek no ulterior motive here. Peace is what me Haven stands for. We seek peace, we live peace."
"Your Haven is a most interesting place. May I ask a few questions?"
"Please do."
"Thank you. Do you have any followers who came to the Haven of their own free will?"
"All of the faithful come of their own free will."
"Technically speaking, I suppose that's true. But I understand the Haven is offered as an alternative to going to jail."
"That's true, but if you are suggesting that this is coersion, we disagree. We feel that these people need help the most, and we make the offer."
"You say these people. But your congregation, if I may say so, consists entirely of females."
"Not entirely."
"I think we may say it does, to all practical purposes."
"We have what we consider a very good reason for that. In this modern day, terrible temptations face women-particularly girls of the age of those to whom we offer the benefits of our Haven. We feel they deserve our help and love."
Mark could see that this was leading nowhere. To get anything of value from The Prophet he would have to look upon him as a hostile witness and question him accordingly. This he felt would surely get him thrown out. The riddle here was whether or not The Prophet had been kept in the dark as to what really went on at Peace Haven or whether he had full knowledge of it.
"I'm sure," Mark said, "that you have a right to these opinions. Actually, it's of little importance to me. My interest lies in my art. I want to paint and this is a wonderful place to capture beauty.
The Prophet warmed perceptibly. "Then by all means, paint. If there is any way I can help you, please send word."
"Thank you."
The interview was over. Mark rose from his chair, bowed slightly and turned toward the door. He went through the heavy curtains that cut off the audience chamber and, with no acolyte in sight, moved down the corridor. But he did not take the exit. Instead, without giving it any conscious thought, acting entirely on impulse, he tried the knob on a door he had noted on the way in. The door was only a few steps from the entrance to the audience room. It opened and he stepped quickly inside.
He was at the head of a flight of stairs, dimly lighted by a small window high in the wall. He descended the steps and discovered another passageway running horizontally along the length of the building. Mark moved forward. Somewhat out of his element, his nerves were tight, his senses alert. The faint cry of a woman jerked him to rigid attention.
He stood there for a few moments trying to locate the sound. It came again, more faintly, more hopelessly, and he moved on down the corridor until he came to the right door. He stood there for a few moments, not knowing quite what to do. Open the door and barge right in? That might be risky, touch off an alarm.
He turned to the next door on the left, listened a moment with his ear against the panel, then went in. The room was dark and he groped around after he shut the door behind him-not knowing quite why he had gone in there except that he was afraid to remain exposed in the corridor any longer.
He heard muffled sounds in the room next door, felt his way to the wall and found cloth in his hands. A drape. He pulled the drape aside. Light flooded the room. There was a window in the wall; a series of windows, he discovered later.
He closed the drape quickly, fearful that his presence would be revealed. In the quick flash of vision, he had seen three women in the next room.
A little cautious experimentation showed him that the window were really a one-way mirror and he was safe from discovery. Obviously, the wall had been constructed for exactly what he was doing-spying upon others.
He pulled the drape back and studied the three occupants of the room. They ranged in age from possibly eighteen to the middle thirties. The older woman was attractive but rather hard-looking-brittle was probably the word. She radiated a kind of cynicism, almost contempt for the others. Yet when she smiled, a pseudo-softness appeared.
The brunette seemed to be in her twenties. She had no outstanding characteristics except an ill-concealed eagerness. The other girl was perhaps eighteen, or a little older. She was golden blonde and exceptionally beautiful. Also, she seemed very confused and unhappy.
Mark could not hear what was being said. He suspected that there was a switch somewhere that would bring in the voices of the women. He searched but could not find it, and returned to the window.
The room was furnished with a bed, a dresser, and several carefully placed mirrors, one in the ceiling and one in the wall at the end of the bed. The implications of these did not escape Mark. With a small shudder he recalled the time Candy had put a mirror in the latter position and had taken great pleasure in observing their sexual contortions.
He turned his attention to the tableaux that was being played out in the next room. The older woman used a handkerchief to dry the eyes of the younger girl while the raven-haired third member of the trio sat on the bed and eyed the young blonde with unmistakable hunger. The older woman laid her hand on the blonde girl's shoulder. Indicating the brunette, she spoke persuasively. The blonde looked at the other girl and shrank back.
The effort at persuasion went on for several minutes. Then, still talking, the older woman unbuttoned the blonde's blouse. The girl cringed but did not object. The blouse came off over her smooth, creamy shoulders, the older woman now appeared to croon persuasively. Putting her arm gently around the girl, as though fearing a quick movement would frighten her, she unhooked the brassiere and removed it.
The blonde girl stood naked to the waist. Her breasts were breathtaking. Large and beautifully formed, they were tipped by rich brown nipples that sat in circles of deeper brown. The brunette's hand went out involuntarily, her eyes glued to the breasts, her face aflame with her need for them.
Gently, the older woman unzipped the young girl's skirt. Mark wondered, was the girl not dressed in conventional Peace Haven garb? A logical answer occurred to him. Perhaps she'd just arrived and was being immediately trained in the routine to which she had been assigned. That brought another shocking thought. Men came at night to feast off the helpless girls in Peace Haven. Did women come also? Either that, or some of the girls were used for the pleasure of other Peace Haven inmates.
Now the older woman was gently sliding the blonde's panties down over her thighs. The brunette quivered and looked appealing at the older woman as though to say, I can't wait. The woman ignored her and concentrated on the blonde girl like a trainer attempting to subdue a beautiful leopard, moving slowly and skillfully to keep the animal from breaking the spell of control.
She took the blonde girl's arm and moved her toward the bed. Mark tried to make out words in the vague murmur that came through the wall; he was sure the woman was telling her what pleasure awaited her on the bed. The brunette meanwhile had gotten up, slipped out of her two-piece costume and stood waiting like a greedy child for a box of candy.
The woman gently forced the blonde down on the bed. But here she failed. As the girl turned her head and saw the naked brunette take a step toward her, she threw off the older woman's arm, cried out in protest and ran toward the door. The older woman's gentleness vanished. Losing her patience, she caught the girl roughly by the arm and threw her on the bed.
She gestured with a beckoning movement of her head and the brunette sprang forward. The young blonde fought desperately, but the older woman held her by the wrists. The brunette, her face twisted with carnal hunger, grasped the girl's head in both hands and held it firmly while she pressed her own lips to the ones that tempted her so greatly.
The blonde girl writhed helplessly in the woman's grip. Greedily, the brunette forced her lips apart, drove her tongue deep into her mouth. Instantly she yelped and jerked her head away. She appealed angrily to the older woman, exhibiting her bitten tongue. The woman scowled at the blonde, said something sharply. Tears formed in the young girl's eyes. She closed them in a gesture of despair, the squeezed-out tears running down her cheeks.
In a gesture of animal and carnal greed, the brunette girl licked the tears away. Then, with an evil grin she held her face an inch from that of her victim. She gave an order. The order was not obeyed. The brunette repeated it sharply. The blonde girl slowly opened her mouth for the brunette's kiss. Lying there with her eyes closed, she accepted the hungry exploration of the other's tongue.
Now the brunette fastened her attentions on the lush breasts. The blonde lay rigid to the touch of her mouth and her tongue. Hungrily the brunette satisfied her abnormal appetite on what may well have been virgin flesh. And Mark realized the blonde girl's embarrassment and shame when the nipples rose eagerly under the stimulation of the brunette's educated tongue.
Extending her triumph, the brunette ran her tongue lightly down the blonde girl's body, over her belly, gently tickling the pockets of her taut groin.
As the next target dawned on the blonde, shame overwhelmed her. Again she became the frightened animal, resisting desperately. The older woman twisted her arm cruelly. She cried out in pain.
The brunette caught each of the girl's ankles in her hand, bent her legs outward and upward until she Was helpless in the most obscene and defenseless position possible. The older woman took over one of the legs, giving the brunette the use of one hand. This she put to cruel but effective use, meanwhile watching the blonde's face intently for a reaction.
The reaction came in both face and body. The young girl's mouth opened in a scream, her body arched up hard against the restraints imposed upon her. The brunette applied a rhythmic, pain-producing pressure and the blonde's body responded in a grotesque counter-movement that made the other girl laugh.
Perspiration appeared on the blonde girl's face and body. The brunette, achieving great sadistic enjoyment, was panting, her eyes blazing. Then the older woman spoke a sharp word. Sullenly the brunette moved on to the next phase of the seduction-rape.
The blonde girl's reaction seemed akin to grateful acceptance. The pain having been removed, she took the abnormal love-making as the lesser of two evils. She lay supine and negative.
Until her eyes opened and a questioning look-a mixture of surprise, horror, and fascination appeared on her face. Her body began to quiver. The brunette, noting this, increased the pace of her activity. The blonde girl's eyes opened wide. Her tongue slipped out and began nervously licking her lips. Her eyes half-closed, languidly, she began to surrender to the magic of the brunette's mouth.
The older woman watched critically and impersonally. She saw the response rise in the blonde and smiled in satisfaction.
Now the blonde girl's body was moving in rhythm with the brunette's expert love-making; moving in rhythm until her eyes opened wide and all self-restraint vanished. Helpless now in the grip of rising ecstasy, her mouth opened, her hands went to the brunette's head pressing hard as though unwilling to let it end.
She screamed. The scream was searing, wracking, the outward expression of an ecstasy that took the girl over completely.
The brunette got to her feet and she and the older woman looked down at the quietly weeping blonde girl. They paid her no subjective attention, heir regard was completely objective, as though the blonde girl were an animal.
They were obviously complimenting each other on a job well done and satisfactorily completed. The older woman said something to which the brunette girl responded happily. The brunette's expression was most revealing. It said that she considered herself very good at the job to which she'd been assigned-seducing helpless prospects of abnormal lust.
The older woman now took a Peace Haven costume and tossed it on the bed. She said something and the blonde girl opened her eyes. The other two left. The blonde girl lay motionless for a few moments. Then she got dispiritedly to her feet and donned the garments.
Dazed, stunned, Mark turned from the window. His first thought was of self-recrimination-standing by and watching the girl take abuse; the second time this had happened at Devil's Bend. In the first case, he'd tried to do something about it. This time, he'd stood flat-footed and done nothing.
He tried to rationalize this with the thought that he would have ruined any possible effectiveness he might have achieved by interceding for the girl. But this was scant comfort. He still felt defeated as a man.
He left the room, moved up the hall and now arrived again at the steep, narrow stairway he'd descended. He climbed the stairs slowly and was halfway back to the upper door when he heard voices.
Again he searched. There was no door to open this time, but close examination of the wall revealed a series of small air vents running down vertically with the slant of the stairscase.
He placed an ear close to one of these and the voices came clearly....
"She will be back tomorrow."
Mark recognized the clipped tones of Welch, The Disciple.
"She has been away a long time." This was The Prophet; his voice beyond doubt, but much different now. A whining, petulant tone and timber had replaced the adult, well-modulated manner in which he'd earlier addressed Mark.
"I think she was very foolish," Welch said.
"Who are you to criticise?" The Prophet demanded. "Behind her back, you carp and become nasty. You wouldn't dare question her directly."
Mark visualized the contempt on Welch's face as he said, "Old man-why don't you keep your mouth shut. You've got what you want-women, whisky, idleness. That was what she promised you, and she delivered."
"But she didn't deliver for you, did she?" The Prophet taunted.
"Shut your God-damned mouth or you'll get your teeth knocked out!"
The Prophet chuckled. "You wouldn't dare beat me up now. The bruises wouldn't heal and she'd see them. She'd have you whipped."
There was the sound of a slap and a whimper, and Welch snarled. "I said keep your mouth shut."
"When she gets back-"
Another slap and the sound of a child crying. But it was not a child, it was The Prophet. Now Mark had a clear concept, of the role the old man played in this drama. He obviously was being used by whoever was behind it-used in a capacity which was originally valuable-probably a rallying point around which to originate the Haven, or as a front in the earlier stages of it. But he'd now become a factor of no importance and was merely tolerated. Was he being kept a prisoner? Possibly. No doubt it was thought best to keep him but of sight.
Also, it verified Mark's conviction that there was an unknown person behind the Haven-running it, fronting for it, headling its traffic and operation.
After the last slap, the voices faded as Welch and The Prophet moved farther away. Mark listened for a few moments and then went on up the stairs.
If he were intercepted, Mark decided to brazen it through. After all, he had been given the run of the place, so they could do little more than throw him out if he got caught.
There was no one in sight however, and he walked to the main door. The acolyte posted there nodded civilly enough. He could have no way of knowing that Mark had not just terminated his interview with The Prophet.
Outside, Mark took a deep breath. The air smelled clean, fie looked back at the white building which now had now become a symbol of filth and corruption. And he had a feeling that much worse would be uncovered before the drama was finished.
He crossed the lawn, stopped, and looked around; and again came that feeling of unreality. He had never considered himself particularly mystic, but he sensed something here-a feeling that the controlling mind of Peace Haven was not an ordinary mind-that it had a unique strength. He saw a group of picturesquely clad damsels walking two abreast. There was an aura of docilty about them that was not natural; as though they had submitted to a power they did not understand, but a most potent force nonetheless.
An evil force.
A mind supercharged with madness. But who of all the principals he'd met, possessed such a mind...?