Undercover Husband. Cindi Myers

didn’t wait for the young man to answer, but pushed past him and continued down the trail.

      The camp itself was spread out in a clearing some fifty yards from the creek—a motley collection of tents and trailers and homemade shelters scattered among the trees. A large motor home with an array of solar panels on the roof stood at one end of the collection. “That’s Metwater’s RV,” Marco said, and led the way toward it.

      Walt followed, taking the opportunity to study the men and women, and more than a few children, who emerged from the campers and tents and trailers to stare at the two lawmen. More than half the people he saw were young women, several with babies or toddlers in their arms or clinging to their skirts. The men he saw were young also, many with beards and longer hair, and all of them regarded him and Marco with expressions ranging from openly angry to guarded.

      Marco rapped on the door to the large motor home. After a few seconds, the door eased open, and a strikingly beautiful, and obviously pregnant, blonde peered out at them. “Hello, Ms. Matheson.” Marco touched the brim of his Stetson. “We’d like to speak to Mr. Metwater.”

      Frowning at the pair of officers, she opened the door wider. “I don’t know why you people can’t leave him alone,” she said.

      Walt had heard plenty about Andi Matheson, though he hadn’t met her before. Her lover was the man murdered outside the Family’s camp, and her father, a US senator, had been involved in the crime. She was perhaps the most famous of Metwater’s followers, and apparently among those closest to him.

      “We need to ask him some questions.” Marco moved past her. Walt followed, nodding to Andi as he passed, but she had already looked away, toward the man who was entering from the back of the motor home.

      Daniel Metwater had the kind of presence that focused the attention of everyone in the room on him. A useful quality for someone who called himself a prophet, Walt thought. Metwater was in his late twenties or early thirties, about five-ten or five-eleven, with shaggy dark hair and piercing dark eyes, and pale skin that showed a shadow of beard even in early afternoon. He wore loose linen trousers and a white cotton shirt unbuttoned to show defined abs and a muscular chest. He might have been a male model or a pop singer instead of an itinerant evangelist. “Officers.” He nodded in greeting. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

      “We’re looking for an infant,” Marco said. “A little girl, about three months old.”

      “And what—you think this child wandered in here on her own?” Metwater smirked.

      “Her mother was a follower of yours—Emily Dietrich,” Marco said.

      Metwater frowned, as if in thought, though Walt suspected the expression was more for show. “I don’t recall a disciple of mine by that name,” he said.

      Walt turned to Andi. “Did you know Emily?” he asked.

      She shook her head.

      “What about Anna Ingels?” Walt asked.

      Something flickered in her eyes, but she quickly looked away, at Metwater. “We don’t have anyone here by that name, either,” Metwater said.

      “I asked Miss Matheson if she knows—or knew—of an Anna Ingels.” Walt kept his gaze fixed on Andi.

      “No,” she said.

      “Asteria, you may leave us now,” Metwater said.

      Andi—whose Family name was apparently Asteria—ducked her head and hurried out of the room. Metwater turned back to the Rangers. “What does any of this have to do with your missing infant?” he asked.

      “Her aunt, Hannah Dietrich, came to us. She thinks her sister’s child is here in this camp,” Marco said. “She has legal custody of the baby and would like to assume that custody.”

      “If she believes this child is here, she’s been misinformed,” Metwater said.

      “Then you won’t mind if we look around,” Walt said.

      “We have a number of children here in the camp,” Metwater said. “But none of them are the one you seek. I can’t allow you to disrupt and upset my followers this way. If you want to search the camp, you’ll have to get a warrant.”

      “This child’s birth certificate lists you as the father,” Marco said.

      Metwater smiled, a cold look that didn’t reach his eyes. “A woman can put anything she likes on a birth certificate,” he said. “That doesn’t make it true.”

      “Are you the father of any of the children in the camp?” Walt asked.

      “I am father to all my followers,” Metwater said.

      “Is that how your followers—all these young women—see you?” Marco asked.

      “My relationship to my disciples is a spiritual one,” Metwater said. He half turned away. “You must excuse me now. I hope you find this child, wherever she is.”

      Walt’s eyes met Marco’s. The DEA agent jerked his head toward the door. “What do you think the odds are that his relationship with all these women is merely spiritual?” Walt asked once they were outside.

      “About the same as the odds no one in this camp has a record or something they’d like to hide,” Marco said.

      “It does seem like the kind of group that would attract people who are running away from something,” Walt said.

      “Yeah. And everything Metwater says sounds like a lie to me,” Marco said. He turned to leave, but Walt put out a hand to stop him.

      “Let’s talk to those women over there.” He nodded toward a group of women who stood outside a grouping of tents across the compound. One of them stirred a pot over an open fire, while several others tended small children.

      “Good idea,” Marco said.

      The women watched the Rangers’ approach with wary expressions. Walt zeroed in on an auburn-haired woman who cradled an infant. “Hi,” he said. “What’s your baby’s name?”

      “Adore.” She stroked a wisp of hair back from the baby’s forehead.

      “I think my niece is about that age,” Walt said. “How old is she? About three months, right?”

      “He is five months old,” the woman said frostily, and turned away.

      The other women silently gathered the children and went inside the tent, leaving Marco and Walt alone. “I guess she schooled you,” Marco said.

      “Hey, it was worth a try.” He glanced around the camp, which was now empty. “What do we do now?”

      “Let’s get out of here.” Marco led the way down the path back toward the parking area. They met no one on the trail, and the woods around them were eerily silent, with no birdsong or chattering of squirrels, or even wind stirring the branches of trees.

      “Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?” Walt asked.

      “I’m sure we are,” Marco said. “Metwater almost always has a guard or two watching the entrance to the camp.”

      “For a supposedly peaceful, innocent bunch, they sure are paranoid,” Walt said. What did they have to fear in this remote location, and what did they have to protect?

      Their FJ Cruiser with the Ranger Brigade emblem sat alone in the parking lot. Before they had taken more than a few steps toward it, Walt froze. “What’s that on the windshield?” he asked.

      “It looks like a note.” Marco pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures, then they approached slowly, making a wide circle of the vehicle first.

      Walt examined the ground for footprints, but the hard, dry soil showed no impressions. Marco took a few more close-up shots, and plucked the paper—which looked like a sheet torn from a spiral notebook—carefully by the edges. He read