Black Sun Rising

Chapter Four

As it turned out, Sam was quite relieved to meet Sara. She and her second in command, Cody, arrived just as Paige and Henley seemed to be settling in for one of their longer and more involved arguments. Unlike the previous spats that Sam had seen, this one did not involve issues of appearance or behavior, but Henley's desire to delay college in favor of pursuing her winter sports career.

Sam knew that Sara was due any moment and was schooling himself to be polite and professional, but the longer the fight went on, the more tempted he became to feign illness just to get out of the room.

"Henley, for the last time, you are not skipping college!" Paige's sweet smile was still in place, but there was an unmistakable look of fury behind her eyes. "Take it from me, you don't want to be the oldest girl in your class — how will you ever meet anyone worth marrying if you're older than everyone around you? Now, the matter is closed — we have company."

Unwilling to concede entirely, Henley began questioning whether Sam truly counted as company or whether the fact that he was receiving payment from her father meant that he was help. She came close to succeeding. Paige was at the point of losing her temper completely when Jefferson emerged from his study to tell them that Sara's car was approaching. Sam breathed a hearty sigh of relief.

The slick black Cadillac cruised over the gravel and came to a halt just outside the house. It was driven by a man, who wore a ponytail, with an air of carefully studied coolness. In the passenger seat was the kind of expensively groomed woman whose age could never be guessed. With her perfectly cut hair, falling past her shoulders like the darkest liquid chocolate, and skin that had certainly had the benefit of a good dermatologist (if not a plastic surgeon), her birth date was as much a mystery as her past.

She's completely constructed, Sam thought. There's not one thing about her that gives away where she comes from or what kind of person she is when she's not working.

Dinner itself was a polite affair. Paige was a truly excellent cook and had put out an impressive spread — clear tomato soup with homemade spelt bread, a roasted guinea fowl with sage and blood orange, and finally a chocolate marquise, so rich that it had to be served in tiny portions. By the end of the meal, Sam was suffused with the pleasant sensation of having eaten far more than he actually required.

The food also served as an excellent means of keeping the conversation flowing. Seated with Paige on one side and Henley on the other, all Sam had to do was keep asking Paige about her many engagements as hostess and her time spent learning fine cooking, while protecting her from occasional barbs from her daughter. He had little occasion to talk at all to Sara and Cody. It seemed as though the room had split into two separate diner parties, with Jefferson talking FireStorm business at the far end of the table, while Sam kept Paige and Henley entertained.

Seems like a bit of a weird way to do things if I'm meant to be writing a book about these people, Sam thought. But mine is not to reason why. There'll be plenty of time to spend with them once we're out there. No sense in overdoing it.

By the time dinner was done and the brandies had been drunk, Sam was in urgent need of a cigarette — not just for a nicotine fix, although that was always welcome, but to escape from the small talk. It was not hard to keep a trained hostess talking, but it was a little wearing after a while.

During his chat with Paige, Sam had eavesdropped snatches of Jefferson's conversation with Sara and overheard a few too many references to communal sharing of emotional experiences and to something called "The Hunt," which sounded more physical than Sam usually cared for. He was beginning to wonder whether accepting this job had really been such a great idea, even if the money was good.

"Ach, you're just winding yourself up," he said to himself, walking back toward his cottage. "You'll be fine. It's not for long. Besides, you could be doing with a nice, quiet, boring job after—"

A sound caught his attention. It was something familiar, he knew, made unfamiliar by the cold, dark night.

Sam listened intently — whistling wind, a faint chirp of crickets, rustling grass, and his own shallow breathing, nothing else — then something. Footsteps. Slow, careful footsteps. Then… a click. Sam held his breath. He waited for the gunshot.

It did not come. Instead he heard a soft thump — and then, a few moments later, a louder one. It was, he realized, a door — a car door. The unseen person must have tried to close it silently, failed and tried again.

As stealthily as he could, Sam crept toward the source of the noise. I must be insane, he thought. If I had any sense I would get Jefferson. He's bound to have a gun, and even if he doesn't, at least there'd be two of us, rather than just me and a lighter.

There was just enough moonlight for him to make out the shape of the car. Sam dropped to a crouch, wondering what he was going to do next. He settled on the idea of finding a place to hide and waiting to see what the intruder would do next, but to do that he was going to need more light. Shielding his lighter with his hand, he flicked the spark wheel.

The gasp from the car told him that he had misjudged the angle. In a heartbeat Sam was on his feet, ready to run — but even quicker, the car door swung open and a figure leaped out.

"I'm sorry!"

Sam heard the voice ring out from behind him. Its vulnerability caught him off-guard and he turned, holding the lighter up.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to — look; please don't call the police, ok? I'm not trying to rob the place or anything, I swear. Oh, please, I'm so sorry, I'm really, really sorry—"

The woman was young, maybe twenty-five at most, and looked more terrified than anyone Sam had ever seen. Her hands were raised in a classic gesture of surrender. Sam had no idea what she was doing, but he was absolutely certain that he did not want to raise the alarm — at least, not yet. Raising a finger to his lips, he beckoned her to follow him back toward the guest cottage. She hesitated, clearly aware of the dangers of following strange men into strange houses, but the sound of the front door to the farmhouse opening made her rethink. She fell into line behind Sam, and the two of them hurried quietly toward the cottage door. As soon as they were inside Sam silently pulled it shut, and they both froze and waited until Sara and Cody's car was out of earshot.

"Wait," the woman said, looking closely at Sam. "You're not Jefferson Daniels. This is his place, isn't it? So who are you?"

"You're asking me?" Sam hissed back, still with half an ear listening for any further movement on the dark driveway. "I'm someone who's got an invitation to be here, that's all you need to know. I take it you haven't?"

She looked away, abashed. "No," she said. "But please don't call the cops. I'll get in so much trouble, and I swear I'm not here to do anything wrong."

Sam could not help but laugh. "You're sneaking around someone else's property in the middle of the night, begging me not to get the police, and you expect me to believe that you're not doing anything wrong? Come with me." He led the woman, now looking more alarmed than ever, into the den. Jefferson was a good host and had furnished Sam with a decent bottle of Laphroaig, from which Sam poured two glasses. He handed one to the woman. "There. Now, have a seat. If you're not doing anything wrong, tell me what you are doing here. In fact, even if you are doing something wrong—especially if you are." He dropped into one of the overstuffed armchairs.

Tentatively, the young woman perched on the edge of the other seat, clutching the tumbler. "Ok… I'm not casing the place, I promise. I'm a journalist. I'm working on a story about Sara Stromer."

"What kind of story?"

"About her and this thing she runs called FireStorm. It's kind of a religion, but there's a lot of other stuff going on, such as land acquisition and links to major companies. No one knows a lot about it — it's really secretive — I'm just trying to learn more about it, and her."

"By sneaking around here at night?"

She looked down at her hands. "I've been following her since I heard she was in Montana. Rumor is that she's trying to set up a base here and I would love to break that news, but I need details. I know she was meeting someone up by the Ear Mountain State Game Refuge today, but the car drove into a gated area and must have come out another way, because I lost her. But I'd heard her talking to that guy who assists her about dinner at Jefferson Daniels' place, so I tracked it down and waited here. I know it's a little unethical, but I don't think I'm doing anything criminal. I certainly don't intend to. It's just—"

Sam raised a hand, silencing her. "No explanation needed," he said. "I know. Sometimes you've just got to do these things. I've been a journalist for years, and you don't want to know about some of the things I've done. What's your name? Whom do you write for?"

With a small sigh of relief, she took a sip of the whisky. "It's Julia Rose. Julia Rose Gaultier," she said, then hesitated for a moment before adding, "and I don't really write for anyone just now. I have a blog — yeah, I know — but I'm trying to use it to catch a break. Something like this could really help me. How about you?"

"Sam Cleave." He stuck out a hand for her to shake. "I used to write for the—"

"Sam Cleave?" Briefly forgetting to keep her voice down, Julia Rose uttered Sam's name with a cry of excitement. "From the Clarion? You're the guy who broke the story about the arms ring?"

The delighted expression on her face made Sam feel bad that he could not muster more excitement. He wondered if he had ever been so young and enthusiastic. If he had, that version of him was impossible to call to mind now. "Yeah, that's me."

"Oh, my god!" Julia Rose stared at Sam as if she was carefully memorizing every detail of this meeting for posterity. "Oh, listen to me — you must think I'm just some stupid blogger fan girl. I'm not really. But I've read so much of your work, and it's been a big influence on me. I never thought I'd actually meet you!" In an instant her elation gave way to anxiousness and she crumpled. "Oh, god. And you just caught me trespassing. Are you friends with Mr. Daniels? Because I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell him I was here. I'll go right now, I won't come back. And I won't come here again."

"Don't be daft," said Sam. "I'm not going to tell on you. Yes, I know Jefferson. He hired me to help him write a book. If you like, I can introduce you some time — not just now, obviously, but while I'm here. He likes to talk about all this FireStorm stuff to anyone who'll listen, so you'll definitely get something out of him. In the meantime, we'd probably best get you home. Are you from around here?"

Julia Rose shook her head, "from Minneapolis."

Sam racked his brain, trying to remember where Minneapolis was in relation to Montana. Quite far east, he seemed to recall. "Not going home tonight then, I take it? Where are you staying?"

"Well, I… " Julia Rose would not meet his eyes. Her voice dropped to a mumble. "In my car. Oh, don't look at me like that, it's not so bad. I couldn't afford to do this any other way. There are plenty of places to wash around here, if you don't mind cold river water. And I don't. It's the heat in Arizona that I'm worried about."

"You're planning to follow her down there?"

"I have to. I don't know how much you've heard about this Mind Meld thing, but it's going to be huge. Word is that most of Silicon Valley's going, and there are plans to unveil some new tech gear that will… actually, I don't fully understand what it's meant to do. People have been saying that it's going to bring together spirituality and social media, but I don't get how that's supposed to work. But I guess I'll find out. I hope I will. Although I'm probably just going to wind up getting myself arrested, if I can't even sneak around here without getting caught."

Sam could not deny that this was true, or that being caught trespassing in the FireStorm compound was unlikely to end well for a young African-American woman. Still, that was a less-pressing problem than the issue of what to do with her tonight. "Look, do you want to stay here tonight?" he asked. The look of apprehension crossed her face again. "Don't worry, there's a spare room. It's got a lock on the door and a separate bathroom. You might as well. But you'll need to leave before anyone gets up and sees your car."

She glanced toward the open door and spacious hallway beyond, leading toward the expensively refurbished, lavishly decorated bedrooms. Her hand went unconsciously to the nape of her neck, her fingers testing the cleanliness of her hair. She was evidently tempted.

"Come on," Sam said. "Stay here. There's a little kitchenette through the back — there's not an awful lot in it, but you're welcome to whatever's there."

At the mention of food, she visibly relaxed. Sam wondered how much she was eating, while living in her car. He knew he had almost won her over and that he would sleep much more easily knowing that he hadn't kicked her out into the night to take her chances by the roadside.

But there was something that she seemed to be uncertain about. She kept glancing toward her backpack, slouched on the floor at her feet. "I hate to ask you for anything else when you're already being so generous," she said. "But… may I charge my laptop?"