Reviewed by Adriann Ranta

Flap Copy: Christmas, 1995. A 14-year-old girl is kidnapped by a bloodthirsty Satanic cult. Bob Hightower, the girl's father and a small-town cop, embarks on a desperate mission to find her, but his only hope lies with Case Hardin, an ex-cult member and ex-junkie living in a halfway house in Hollywood.

First sentence: “It is 7:23 on a Sunday morning when the Sheriff’s Department in Clay, California, gets the call a woman has been murdered.”

Present tense? Ambitious.

Chapter one is named “The Pearl, Fall 1970.”

The call comes from a boy in a phone box by the entrance to the freeway. The police speed through Barstow and through the ghost town of Calico—countryside known for Charles Manson, “Helter Skelter”, and Sunset Boulevard witchcraft. The police find the wispy 12-year-old who points them up Paradise Springs Road.

As the boy with the police escort drive, the narrator gives a wonderful description of the hostile, eerie scenery: “The wind grows worse, blowing its poisonous alkali chlorides and carbonates down from Inyo County and China Lake. Moving up through the Mojave Desert they pass the Calico Early Man Site, where scattered on the shores of ancient, dry Coyote Lake are the oldest known remains of our ancestors of North America” (3). The ground is full of bones and even the air is poisonous—so poignant.

The patrol cars leave the road and climb over shifting sand, approaching an old silver trailer where the woman lives. The policemen unsnap their guns. All they know of this woman Hannah are her eccentricities: walking barefoot in the desert, laughing at the locals, and singing to herself. As the men reach the screen door, they hear the “nickering of mobiles somewhere in the distance” (4).

“Nickering” is such a creative verb and the detail of wind chimes somewhere makes the trailer seem creepy and lonely.

The stench in the trailer is unbearable and there is a trail of blood coming from the bedroom alcove, pooling where the ground isn’t level and flecked with sand. Hannah lies at the foot of the bed, bloated and infested. She has been shot in the head and stabbed in the back and chest: “The skin sluiced in bizarre patterns that border on ritual” (5).

I appreciate the gore in this scene, it’s important to make shocking scenes truly shocking without a care for sensibilities. Teran seems to have a gift for language that jumps out immediately: “blood dried the color of cheap wine,” “blood and brain jelly trailing up the wall like the spanning wings of a bird, “sluiced,” etc.

Homicide and Forensics units hunt for evidence but the desert sand has blasted away any tracks or prints. The next morning the trailer is swarmed by the newspapers searching for a lurid headline. One reporter finds a granite and limestone furnace built into a wash, covered in prehistoric symbols of birds and bulls and snakes. Hannah’s death is christened “The Furnace Creek Cult Murder.”

Chapter two is called “The Judgment, November 1995.”

Case is screaming in a small apartment in a rehab house. It’s her third day off the junk, and this day is always the worst. Anne races to Case’s room and holds her, pulling her away from the floor tiles that she’s clawing at.

There’s a flashback (hard to say of which woman, but presumably Case) of being a street runaway crammed into the torso of a skinned cow, blood everywhere. Anne tries to give Case 20mg of Robaxin, but Case knocks them away, saying she wants to feel all of the heroin withdrawal. Another flashback: Cyrus drags her out of the bloody carcass, kissing her till she chokes on his tongue. He holds her by the hair and whispers, “You are born again” (10). Case gets flashes of her past: the man named Cyrus, sex with random, tragic people, and pointless violence.

While I appreciated the shocking gore in the first scene, this is where the novel makes it clear that its gnarly descriptions are not about to let up. The similes and hyper-realistic depictions of cult violence carry throughout the first 50 pages, making it hard to read. It should be noted that I couldn’t stop reading, despite being absolutely horrified.

Chapter three, “Christmas Week, 1995,” begins with a dirt driveway crooking up towards a ranch-style house. Five figures emerge from the brush, covered in tattoos, unsanitary piercings, and weird dye jobs: “As they fan out into the darkness they are a vision of post-apocalyptic rock-and-roll revenants” (12). They surround the house, armed with knives and guns; the only sound is the little rusted windmill atop the mailbox.

Similar to the “nickering” sounds of Hannah’s mobiles in the opening scene, the sound of a small, rusted windmill only makes the scene more empty and quiet. The sound is familiar enough to make the reader envision a dry desert wind rattling random homely trinkets.

A fourteen-year-old named Gabi sits listening to her mom and step-dad argue and watches the cars pass on the freeway. She closes the door, and sits back with her dog on the window seat. Every Tuesday and Thursday night, she has a goodnight signal with her father: he flashes the lights on his patrol car and she flashes the lights in her bedroom.

I really like the sense of foreboding. The reader isn’t sure that this family is the one being surrounded, but it’s implied. The tension only builds at the thought of a cop so close by, fostering a hope that the impending disaster will be averted.

Cyrus watches the husband and wife argue through the window. Lena presents him with a hypodermic needle, casing him on all the entrances and exits of the house.

Inside, the two parents continue to argue—Sarah accusing Sam of cheating on her. Outside, Gabi’s horse whinnies.

The sections are a lot shorter with brief snapshots of the interior and exterior action. This also brings up the speed and sense of doom.

Gabi notices something silvery and dark cast a shadow on the lamp lit tiles of the pool. Her sense of anxiety makes her think it’s not just a deer. She walks through the dark hallway, noticing the patio doors are slightly open. She walks over to close them and manages only one scream before a large hand clamps over her mouth. She twists her head enough to see a frightening tattooed face. A shotgun goes off, filling the house with noise and acrid smoke.

The section leaves off with no knowledge of who’s been shot, letting the reader cling to a last bit of hope that the family will be alright.

Bob Hightower is cruising Antelope Freeway, anticipating another heartbreaking Christmas without Gabi or his ex-wife Sarah. While musing about life’s various disappointments, he switches on his overhead flashers when he nears Via Princessa, where Gabi and Sarah live. But not a light shines. He pulls over and wonders where his daughter could be.

Another bit of hope that the police lights will scare off the intruders or Bob will forestall the impending violence.

Chapter four begins on page 17 with John Lee Bacon (one of the sheriff’s that investigated Hannah’s death in 1970) sitting in some dusty desert locale around an ashtray’s worth of cigarette butts and a flask of bourbon. A white van drives up and Cyrus climbs out, followed by three of his cohorts. Cyrus explains, “Your boy crossed over,” to which John Lee nods and tosses an envelope of bills. Cyrus explains that they killed the wife too and kept “pretty-pretty” for himself. John Lee is horrified: the plan had been to “close the book” on only Sam. But apparently Cyrus still has the upper hand. He had been the kid to sell the drugs found in Lee’s busts, found the boys for hump videos to pass around to Lee’s friends… John Lee is definitely corrupt. Cyrus enumerates in ghastly detail what he’s going to do to Gabi.

Thank God that this chapter is over. Cyrus and his gang are surely offending some sensibilities in this step-by-step guide to rape and murder. When Cyrus is talking, it’s hard to image that someone could be so bereft of humanity—this might be a character flaw.

Chapter five begins on page 21 with a reconstruction project on a local church. Arthur Naci is in charge of the project, Clay’s most formidable developer. After thoroughly berating some cost-cutting engineers, he notices Bob drive up. Bob’s concerned that Gabi hasn’t called yet, they had a lunch date. Arthur turns out to be Sarah’s father, Bob’s ex-step-father. The two men decide to head over to Via Princessa together.

The house is quiet, but both Sam and Sarah’s cars are in the carport. They ring the doorbell, but no one answers. Bob notices Gabi’s horse is gone. They walk around the house, noticing the patio door is open. They call inside but hear nothing. Bob pushes open Gabi’s bathroom door and sees Poncho stuffed into the toilet bowl. He then hears Arthur’s cries. Running towards Arthur, Bob is coldcocked by Sam’s mutilated corpse, a playing card pinned to his naked chest.

And there goes all hope for Gabi and her family. I like how Teran drew this scene out, waiting until the last minute to reveal the murder scene. He is nothing if not a master of suspense.

Chapter six switches back to Case, a newly rehabilitated junkie. Walking through Hollywood, it’s a parade of junkies and other downtrodden outcasts. She’s heard of the kidnapped girl from Clay and she’s considering writing the authorities a letter.

So Case’s relation to the plot is finally revealed—she must know Cyrus or cult violence somehow.

Back at her rehab house, Case sits in the dark and reviews the cult murder headlines from Clay, which claim it’s the worse massacre since Manson. Anne joins Case and invites her to join some other girls downstairs for Christmas Eve dinner. Case turns out to be an ex-cult-member of the Left-Handed Path and she already knows too much. She admits that she’s considering writing the Sheriff’s Department in Clay.

This scene makes Case a little too melodramatic: sitting in the dark, smoking, and avoiding human contact on Christmas Eve. It’s almost seems like teenage angst pinned on to an ex-cultist—“Feel sorry for me! I’m so alone!”

Chapter seven starts on page 29 where “newsrats” are trying to tape Sam and Sarah being buried in Bouquet Canyon Cemetery, two days after Christmas. John Lee Bacon had suggested that the murder was a kidnapping gone wrong, the black cable channel opined that it was racially motivated since Sam was black, and another source suggested it was an act of revenge against Bob Hightower himself.

I like how this is such a subtle look at John Lee’s work behind the scenes. He’s diverting attention away from the excessive mutilation by highlighting the family’s fortune and keeping Cyrus and his own corruption under wraps.

Following the funeral, everyone gathers at Arthur’s house. Bob fields questions about the murder, but it’s obvious the police don’t know anything substantial.

Bob wanders outside, staring at the darkening desert landscape. He starts to remember how he found Sarah floating… when he is interrupted by Maureen, John Lee’s wife, who has poured him some Scotch.

Maureen flashes back to a hotel room she had shared with Sam, the Christian guilt making their actions all the more exciting.

Is this an indication of Maureen’s involvement? It doesn’t gain her any charity points with the reader, roping her in with her John Lee’s corruption. John Lee might have hired Cyrus to kill Sam for sleeping with his wife… when Cyrus decided to enact his revenge.

Maureen has talked with Arthur about offering Bob a job in his contracting business, but Bob vehemently refuses. Maureen tries to council him with her hand suggestively on his thigh.

If Maureen tries to seduce Bob, it would be bad news if Cyrus is on the case.

Chapter eight moves on to February without a sign of Gabi or the murderers. John Lee is tormented by any minimal evidence that might lead to Cyrus. Bob goes to church and prays every morning, then gets swallowed up in the obsession of the case. He reads every fax, email, and “Gabi” sighting, regardless of their veracity. By the end of February, he is at the dregs of his spirit and his clues when he finds the letter from Case.

Chapter nine begins on page 34, Bob has finally called Case after all this time. He asks if he can come down to L.A. and talk to her and show her some photographs.

The next evening, Bob drives through the evening rain to meet Case in her dilapidated rehab house. Anne takes him to the elevator, apologizing for the fate of his ex-wife and daughter. Bob asks a few careful questions, but Anne chastises him for his judgments: “She was in a cult for seventeen years. She is a heroin addict going through recovery. She is what she is… She’s not a saint, but she’s not a congressman either” (37).

I like how Teran subtly shows how this murder case is all over the news by Anne’s show of support.

Bob flashes back to his conversation with John Lee, who doubts Case could be remotely trustworthy: If she doesn’t feel comfortable coming in and talking to both Bob and Lee, then leave her in the hands of the FBI. Bob has gone against Lee’s orders for Gabi and for his own pride. He follows Case into her apartment, accepting coffee and a seat at the kitchen table. Case eyes his satchel with anxiety.

This shows another subtle effort of John Lee trying to cover his tracks.

They sit and talk. Case smokes and becomes more and more irate at Bob’s interrogations over her past and present. Case finally boils over, causing Bob to walk out without another word. But he pauses at the door, explaining that he has lost a wife and daughter and he doesn’t have many resources left. Case responds with the character trait of junkies usually being short of patience, and invites him to sit down again.

Bob pulls out a stack of manila folders with the crime scene photos.
“Do you consider yourself an expert on satanic cults?”
“There are no experts. Only survivors” (41).
One manila folder contains old snapshots of Gabi and Sarah and Sam, a sort of collage of middle-class life. Case asks Bob if Gabi was into any drugs or satanic groups, but he is sure she was not. As Case looks through the pictures from the night of the murder, Bob turns away. Sarah floats face down in the pool, the dog is shot and stuffed in the toilet, the horse has been killed, and Sam is unrecognizable. Sam’s autopsy photos reveal syringe marks on his arm, but Bob doesn’t think he was an addict.

There’s another flashback, but it’s unsure if it’s from a killing Case herself has been on or if she’s playing out Sam’s murder in her head. She card pinned to Sam’s chest is a tarot card: The Judgment. And Case asks Bob if Sam was injected with a paralytic. Bob is cagey, however, and asks her how she would know. Eventually, he pushes her too far and she screams at him to leave. The chapter ends on page 46.

I don’t really understand Case’s character when she does this. It was her decision to help. I don’t understand Bob’s actions either since he’s only blowing his chances with an obviously valuable resource.

The next section is called “The Rite of Separation,” and chapter 10 begins on page 49. Case is sitting in the rain on the apartment roof as Bob drives away. She flashes back to an occasion of Cyrus beating her up, kicking her in the stomach and face, cracking teeth. A man named The Ferryman looks on.

It’s obvious that Case was not only an ex-cult-member, but one that acted directly under Cyrus himself. She has a pretty solid hunch that Cyrus was behind the Clay murders, but never mentions his name. It’s possible she does this for fear of her own life, but this is never mentioned. Her character as a heroin addict is fair enough, but I just can’t find anything realistic about her. Strong female characters are kind of hard to pull off while maintaining a sense of humanity and warmth. Case being on the verge of insanity from her difficult life would have been more believable than just being cranky all the time.

The character interactions seem more conflict-driven than character-driven. What I mean is that the characters don’t seem to remain true to their personalities when a juicy interaction is at stake. As an example, Cyrus seems flatly evil without any trace of inner conflict that would make him a real person. All of his dialogue is frightfully maniacal, and this is scary enough, but his lack of motivation or history makes him almost a throwaway character. It’s possible that this will be expanded on in the rest of the novel.

I’m not sure how I feel about the blatant violence and gore in this book. It’s disturbing and memorable, but really hard to read. This might be more personal preference than any actual fault. Boston Teran is an obvious talent, raising the bar for detective thrillers considerably in his crafty writing and artful descriptions. He’s a perfect example of showing and not telling. All in all, a great study.