The Investigation

by Vicki Blue

Chapter One

Part I

She could feel her heart pounding against her chest, was aware of how shaky and uncertain her legs felt as she stood before him.

“I will be brave,” she’d told herself. She always told herself that. But in the end, when she was standing before him, knowing exactly what was in store for her, she realized she was not brave. Not at all.

A tear slipped from her eye and rolled down a cheek tanned by long days working in the garden. It was her favorite place on the compound the garden. That and the barn, where she helped tend to the poultry and livestock that supplied the residents’ eggs, meat and milk.

Farming was something she’d always wanted to do, and the pretty brunette had thrown herself into her duties with abandon and had showed a natural talent for making the puniest and sickliest plants and animals to thrive. That earned her admiration, but also jealousy. The community was close-knit and orderly, but even so pettiness reared its head, especially when a pretty new face came on the scene and caught the eye of the most handsome and eligible men. And when that man offered himself as her guardian – a requirement in a society whose rules dictated that females have male oversight, the jealousy reached a tipping point.

For months she had ignored the jibes, only concentrating on her work. But this afternoon it had been too much and she had unleashed a venomous diatribe against her tormentor, Sarah, and topped it off by coating her with the contents of a pail of fresh cows milk.

It had taken three men to separate them, and now the young woman stood before her guardian-turned-husband, Jake, dreading what was to come.

He’d spanked her before for other things – occasionally just to remind her that he could. She did not have a problem with the rules, or the concept of discipline. Like other women who found their way here, the setup was a dream come true. The threat of discipline brought order, the implementation wiped slates clean and laid the path for atonement. It kept things running smoothly.

Usually.

“She started it.” The woman sniffed, her voice quavering. She looked down at her hands, which were shaking slightly as they toyed with the strap of her apron.

In front of her, seated on a straight back chair, Jake was already rolling up his sleeves. “Perhaps,” he said. “Not perhaps. For certain. Sarah has a sharp tongue. But make no mistake, my dear. Adam is likely tanning her bare bottom as we speak. And given her continued defiance she’s probably getting the switch.”

The woman shuddered at the thought. She’d not been switched. Yet. Jake’s hand was bad enough.

“Besides, it’s no matter to me who started it. The language you used is unladylike and prohibited, and the assault..”

“It wasn’t an assault!” Her voice was high with fright. “I threw milk at her and she attacked me.”

“Throwing the milk was an assault.” He paused, putting his broad hands on his knees as he looked up at her. His forearms, bare now, were well-muscled and nearly as brown as his pants. “And it was wasteful.”

He shifted till he was sitting straight up and held out his hand. “Come on. Over my lap.”

She thought about running, but knew where that would lead. She’d tried that only once and had paid with the reddest, sorest bottom she could remember. She thought about begging some more, but knew it was futile. It would be useless, and show a lack of faith in her mate’s decision to do what needed to be done.

She’s already begun to sob ever so softly when he pulled her gently across his lap. When he raised his skirt, she put her fist in her mouth to try and keep from crying out. But when the first smack from his work-toughened hand impacted her soft, vulnerable bottom she could not stop herself.

From inside the cabin, the sound of steady smacking interspersed with her plaintive cries rang out. Walking past, a few residents looked up, but did not stop. Correction of women, they knew, was a necessary part of life. Here, where men loved the women enough to guide them, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Part II

“Is this all the information you have?”

Karen Patterson looked across the table, knowing it was professionally risky to put the question to her superior officers in such an insolent tone, but she couldn’t help herself. The pride of snagging my first undercover assignment was quickly evaporating as she leafed through the thin folder of information on the group I was being sent to infiltrate.

“Oh believe me, Karen, no one is more frustrated than we are at the lack of information on these people, which is exactly why we need to send someone in there to find out what – if any – laws are being broken. All we have right now are some rumors..” Sgt. Jarvis sighed and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his soup-stained tie over his large belly.

“Yes,” Karen answered, leafing again through the scant notes and photos. “Isolationists with possible right-wing, anti-government tendencies. Unconfirmed reports of the subjugation and possible abuse of women. Apparently the men there rule, and women are subject to physical discipline. It’s rumored that corporal punishment of wives is commonplace. ”

She snorted in disgust. “Let’s hope that’s just an exaggerated rumor. It’s bad enough that patriarchal freaks still exist without women actually willfully choosing to be with them. Who would want to live in a commune today, anyay? I thought the notion died out in the late 70’s”

“Not entirely.” Capt. Clemmons spoke up now from where he was leaning against the wall. Tall and then, he was the Mutt to Sgt. Jarvis’ Jeff. “Oh, and for an FYI, they don’t call themselves communes anymore. I think today the term is ‘intentional community. As far as the ‘patriarchal freaks’ label goes, it’s not illegal to put yourself in that category. People are free to be and believe what they want as long as they follow the laws. But if laws are being broken..if there are weapons violations or abuse or if people are being held against their will then that’s a different story.”

Karen looked down at one of the photos showing a barefoot, pregnant woman with baby fastened – papoose-like – on her back. She was picking peas while behind her a burly-looking man as chopping wood in the distance. Both looked perfectly happy in their gender roles. Karen rolled her eyes. With all the advances women had made she had to wonder why anyone would choose to raise their children in such a stereotypical subculture. These women had obviously been brainwashed and didn’t know what they were missing living outside a world that offered them jobs, independence and equality with men.

“So.” She shut the folder and looked up at the men. “Just how do I get in?”

“It’s not impossible.” Capt. Clemmons pointed to a picture of a pretty brunette woman who looked to be in her late twenties. Karen recognized the picture as the copy to one she had in her packet. The woman’s name was Ann-Marie Fales, and it was her politically well-heeled parents who had pressed for the current investigation of the intentional community known as Heartfield.

“As you know from the information we gave you, Miss Fales joined Heartfield last year, much to the frustration of her family. They’ve acknowledges they knew she wasn’t happy with her job as a management consultant – a job her daddy, Harlan Fales, admits they pressured her to take so she could eventually work with him in the family company. Ann-Marie has been described as defiant and overly compliant by turns. Her mother said she hated school and longed of settling down on a farm somewhere and having a family, but her parents told her that was nonsense and urged her towards a career track. She was dutiful enough to graduate at the top of her class in college and enter Harlan and Associates like they wanted. But then just after Christmas last year she took off and left a note for her parents saying she’d lived for others long enough. The P.I. they hired tracked her to Heartfield. Attempts to reach her there were unsuccessful. The Fales think she’s been brainwashed.

“Based on…?” Karen asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Based on the decision of a brilliant career woman to leave a 100K job to dig in the dirt with a bunch of hippies.” Capt. Jarvis gave a derisive snort. “According to Melissa Fales, this ‘cult’ – as she called it – took advantage of Ann Marie’s ‘submissive tendencies.’”

Karen looked back down at the photo of Ann Marie. She was pretty, with the sort of earthy, girl-next-door look that likely helped her blend right in to the type of people that likely inhabited Heartfield – earthy, back-to-the-land types that lived off the grid and grew their own food. Her hair was straight and long; and in my notes I remembered the portion of the interview in which Mrs. Fales had complained that her daughter had refused her efforts to adopt a more modern style, just as she’d refused to drive a newer car or wear designer clothes. Ann-Marie’s mother had used the refusal as an example of her daughter’s “apparent mental illness.”

“It was like she was determined to reject every benefit our lifestyle afforded,” Mrs. Fales had complained, and Karen wondered how much of that pressure to conform had contributed to her decision to make such a radical decision. Still, it was no excuse to move to a community where women reportedly had no rights beyond what the men gave them, and it baffled Karen further why this young woman would exchange the authority of an overbearing mother for that of an overbearing man. Ann Marie could have changed jobs, moved or done anything else. But to move onto a 600-acre compound where she’d be treated like a second-class citizen based on her gender? That seemed like cutting off her nose to spite her face.

She shut the folder and looked her collegues. “So how do I get in?”

Capt. Jarvis sat up and leaned forward. “Well, as Ann Marie Fales demonstrates, it’s possible to just go up and knock on the door and be accepted. But I suspect there had been some communication between her and some of the members beforehand that precipitated her joining. Heartfielders keep to themselves for the most part, but do have some contact with the larger community, even if they are mostly self-sufficient. They still come into town to go to the doctor when they need to, frequent the feed and hardware stores, etc. And they’re apparently more than willing to help when the community needs it; they’ve been compared to the Mennonites, although no one’s been able to pin down their religious beliefs. They’ve helped out people who needed food, taken in stranded travelers temporarily, etc. I’m thinking the best method might be to get you in the door. Pretty, vulnerable woman breaking down near the compound…out of money, no place to stay. You get the idea.”

Karen nodded knowingly. “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

Capt. Jarvis began to arrange things on his desk, a sign Karen had come to recognize as a sign of nervousness. There was something he wanted to say; she could tell. She could also tell he wasn’t really sure how to say it.

“The Fales’ would like to talk to you before you leave,” he said. “They’re pretty insistent we get Ann-Marie out of there.”

Karen struggled to hide her irritation. The average person did not have the political clout to sic the Landover police force on a community. And even though she disagreed with the ultra-traditional lifestyle of Heartfield – at least what she knew of it – it irked her to know the investigation was likely born of a vendetta the Fales had launched due to their anger over a grown child’s decision.

But Karen didn’t want to rock the boat. This assignment was good for her career in more ways than one. Not only could it lead to a promotion at work – an obvious goal – but Karen also hoped the experience of uncovering the unconventional lifestyles of the Heartfield residents would help her achieve my true dream of breaking out as a writer of true crime novels. Cults and secret societies made for good reading, especially when the investigation revealed bizarre practices and subjugation of other people. Going undercover in one would give me the kind of first-hand perspective that best sellers were built on.

“Of course,” I lied. “I’d be happy to talk to them.”

Part III

“I didn’t raise my daughter to waste her life.”

Melissa Fales dabbed at the base of her over-made eyes, although they looked more angry than sad.

“We both wanted the best for Ann Marie, and..” Harlan Fales reached over to take his wife’s hand, but she jerked it away.

“Please, Harlan, let me handle this,” she said. “This young lady needs to realize what is at stake. Miss Patterson…”

“Officer Patterson,” Karen corrected.

She ignored the clarification. “Harlan and I are not your average citizens. We one of the largest companies in this town, and we were major contributors to Sheriff Smith’s campaign.” She paused for effect. “Major contributors.”

“Melissa..” Her husband looked over at her, obviously embarrassed at his wife’s implication.

“Harlan, let me finish. Unlike our daughter I’m not the least bit interested in being told what to do.” She directed her attention back to Karen. “As I was saying, there is much at stake here. Our daughter is sadly misguided and I believe she needs professional help. Ever since she was young she insisted on playing house and spoke of getting married, even though I told her over and over she’d only find true happiness in independence. She often complained that our expectations were too high, and as head of the Women’s Career Coalition you can imagine that those sentiments were unacceptable coming from the mouth of my daughter. I don’t know if Ann Marie has Oppositional Defiance Order or if she has some sort of masochistic streak, but whatever it is she needs help. She knew what this group was like before she joined. She’d heard the rumors about how women there live like obedient little servants to those brutish men. And yet she appears to have sought out their company. This is more than disturbing to someone of our reputations. Should the details of her entering Heartfield become public it would be scandalous. That is why it is so important for you to determine how and why these people exploited my daughter’s weakness and brainwashed my daughter into their mindset.”

Karen sighed, and finally dared ask the question she wondered if anyone else had put to them. “Is it possible she just wanted to live like that?”

Sgt. Jarvis clearned his throat. Up until this point he’d been silent, letting the Fales – or letting Mrs. Fales – imply what he ethically could not. But with the two most powerful backers of his boss sitting there, he realized he had to speak up.

“As we told you earlier, Officer Patterson, we suspect that this group is targeting and holding women like Ann Marie. We also suspect them of possible other illegal activities. It’s vital that we uncover just what is going on…”

“Especially given that Sheriff Smith is up for re-election,” Karen thought to myself, not that it mattered. She was more than eager to do my part to expose this group, especially given her own feminist tendencies. Even if it wasn’t for the right reasons, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Part IV

It was arranged that Karen check in every couple of days. Sgt. Jarvis gave her a cell phone with strict instructions that she find a private place to use it. Since residents of Heartfield seemed to keep busy, neither Karen nor her superiors foresaw a problem finding a private place to check in. A phone would also be hidden in a large oak that bordered the Heartfield property; Clemmons showed her on a map where it would be, in case hers became lost or broken.

But her superiors emphasized that if she felt that she or anyone there were in danger, it should be reported as soon as possible. And if Karen failed to check in for three days straight, they said, then they would come looking. She was also given a code word – pomegranate - to use in case she needed to call for help without tipping off anyone around her.

Karen chose “Betty Linden” as an undercover name, and created a back story that had her traveling from Michigan to start a new life post job layoff as a factory worker. Having been raised on a farm, she already had the skills that would make her attractive as a potential member of the community. Karen was urged to observe and to keep an open mind, and was given a micro-recorder/camera small enough to be hidden in the folds of clothing or hidden when not in use.

“Be careful,” Sgt. Jarvis said. “This is some expensive technology.” Karen cynically noted that the same could not be said about the car she was given, a battered ’97 Ford Taurus that would be perfectly believable when it “broke down” up the road from the Heartfield compound.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Capt. Clemmons put the question to her later when we were going over the instructions for the umpteenth time.

“Sure, why wouldn’t I?” Karen smiled at him.

He shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “I just worry about you.”

Karen would have been offended if the statement had come from anyone else, but Capt. Clemmons was almost like a father-figure to many on the force and – just a few years away from retirement – too old to worry about political correctness.

“Well don’t,” she said. “This is just the kind of challenge I’ve been hoping for. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not worrying about them hurting you,” he said, grinning no himself. “I’m worried they might turn you into some little housefrau. What if we go out there to find you planting sunflowers and walking two steps behind some chauvinist pig with dirt under his fingernails?”

Karen laughed at the image. “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” she said. “I didn’t become a cop because I believed in male dominance.” I winked. “One day when I’m sheriff in these parts I hope to inspire other female officers with the story of how I broke apart the most notorious band of gardeners in Suffolk County.”

Capt. Clemmons laughed, slapping his leg. “That’s my girl,” he said, then his face grew serious. “Really, though, Karen, be careful. It’s dangerous going into a place just based on speculation, and that’s really all we’ve got.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But if the situation for the women in Heartfield is anything like we think it is, if they really are encouraging their wives to be obedient and punishing them when they aren’t, then that’s just the sort of thing I’m eager to put an end to.”