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Seven Wildflowers
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Published:
2023-06-22
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The Shrine Of Your Lies

Summary:

Sometimes, even a minute dose is too much.

Notes:

Discussion of cults, child endangerment, implied non-consensual sex if you read between the lines. Please be gentle with yourselves.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The birds were used to him by now. The scrub jays had long since quit fussing and the acorn woodpeckers hunted through the foxtail pines and mountain dogwoods without hesitation. Ian had been in this covert for so long that his BDUs were damp on the outside from the morning fog, muddy from yesterday’s rain. A few beads of water glinted in his hair as he breathed, slow and steady. His sniper scope and binoculars, however, were immaculately dry, as were the radio at the small of his back and the earpiece that had been in place, like him, for three days now.

Chris Collier had been in the county hospital for four. Granger and Sinclair had updated Ian late last night that the kid had been upgraded from serious condition to fair. Of course, that meant California Children’s Services was just waiting to file for custody.

Another young boy heading up the dirt and gravel road pulled Ian’s full attention back to his job below. The wood and shingle houses – cabins, really – clustered below him were small, to encourage the occupants to use the ‘community hall.’ Technically they had power; they all had antennae for televisions, even, but that wasn’t going to do them much good after this summer, and most of the agents were amazed they’d been allowed that much access to the outside world.

Given how much the families tithed to Isaiah Fletcher, the buildings he supplied them to live in were badly constructed. From his position uphill of the enclave, Ian could see chimneys pulling away from walls already and the mortar starting to rot around the rocks. Foundations sagged on buildings not yet thirty years old, and several roofs looked to have at least three layers of shingles. But then, Fletcher certainly wasn’t putting all that money back into the flock’s well-being.

The housing inspectors were probably part of the cult, too, no more willing to thwart Isaiah Fletcher’s ‘God-given’ skills at house-planning than they’d argued with him about the child-molesting disguised as ‘sacred marriages’ or the poison he fed their kids as ‘initiations’ that had made Fletcher’s own grandson so damn high he’d claimed to be a superman at school, before collapsing from dehydration and, it turned out, a kidney infection. Seeing that the wells providing their water weren’t high enough above the septic fields, Ian had no idea how they didn’t have more sick kids than they did.

Another tired-looking woman shepherded her children to the community center instead of turning them loose to run off their pre-teen energy. Ian identified her by her hair – short for the women here and showing red at the roots, like her two boys’. “Jeanne Ferguson and her sons have headed to the center.” She was limping a little, which Ian had expected. He’d passed along the report on that beating when it happened last night, to be added to all the other charges piling up. “Southern line of houses should now be empty,” he reported quietly. “Shifting my focus to the community center and the ceremony.”

“Roger that,” Don replied. If Ian could hear the controlled anger under the team lead’s even voice, his usual team absolutely would. The loaner agents from organized crime and terrorism probably didn’t know Don Eppes well enough to catch how furious he was. “We have eyes on the northern houses. Sinclair, Austin, talk to me.”

“Cooper kids are finally dressed and heading out,” David Sinclair replied back. “By our count, northern line of houses should be empty now.” He sounded equally steady, banking his own anger into the calm of a man getting ready to land all over people with charges already documented for the attorneys. The tapping of his laptop keys had been a steady background noise the night before when he and Nikki kept Ian company over the comms.

“Four kids under four? It is a miracle they’re not running later,” Nikki Betancourt said derisively. Despite her late night, she sounded wide awake. Like the rest of the LEOs, she was running on anger and caffeine.

Don spoke up again, taking firm control of the comms channels and the operation. “All agents, remember your assigned targets. I want every damn house checked, including every corner of the basements. We’re not doing hostage situations, and we are not having surprise shooters behind us.”

A steady stream of acknowledgements came back over the comms, but Ian ignored those to shift to his rifle scope. He placed the binoculars beside him and steadied his breathing, sliding into the detached mindset that would let him make any necessary shots when the arrests started.

His scope gave him a clear, bulls-eyed view of Isaiah Fletcher waiting in his kitchen. He was wearing a three-piece suit that he might yet regret and sitting at the breakfast table contemplating a cut-crystal pitcher. An old-fashioned tea-strainer was still seeping poison into the water for the ceremony.

Ian had been wondering cynically whether Isaiah Fletcher would be at the ceremonial gardens early to be sure all was perfect, or get there a little late to make an entrance and have all eyes on him. Late it was going to be. Isaiah’s youngest son, Jerry, had handled the set-up, and he seemed to have hopes of taking over from his father in a few years. He’d pushed the other men hard to get every leaf up, every pine needle raked away, and he’d tidied the stone borders around the raised flower beds himself this morning. Never mind it was his nephew in the hospital from last weekend’s ceremony.

Moron or fanatic was in question; Jerry had trailed his hands through the flowers periodically, and staggered a few times, face pale and sweating when Ian had cycled back to check on that grouping of targets. Ian checked again, saw some of the men blanched and clammy, others flushed and agitated, and reported, “All agents, be advised: do not touch the men without gloves. Some of them have toxins on their skin and clothes. Isaiah Fletcher has a pitcher of something other than green or black tea and I suspect it’s playing a part this morning.”

Megan Reeves sounded calm when she said, “Well, we didn’t expect it would be anything as healthy as tea. Can you tell anything about his state, mental or physical?”

“I don’t think he’s sampled any yet,” Ian told her, not looking away from his scope. “He still looks pretty attached to reality, Reeves. No signs of cardiac variations, and he doesn’t look to be hallucinating. Other than thinking he’s a prophet, that is.”

“Prophet or grifter doesn’t matter,” Don said. “Cut all unnecessary chatter on the comms. All agents, move in and clear the houses as planned. Granger, MacIntyre, keep your groups ready to get the kids clear if it comes to a fight. CCS, EMTs, we are moving.”

Ian could hear the agents through his earpiece, but now all his attention was on Fletcher, who’d finally stood up, discarding the strainer onto a coffee saucer and collecting his pitcher to minister unto the children again. The data they’d managed to put together suggested this was a three-stage process, with a little of the toxin each Sunday for three weeks to weed out the ‘unfit.’ There was some question about whether one year was enough or if it was three springs in a row. But whether Fletcher was doing three sets of three or ‘just’ one, he sure as hell looked to be planning to poison more kids today.

The breathing in Ian’s comms sounded loud, but the agents were opening doors, not breaking them down. So far, the cult leader and his followers had no idea there was a raid going on.

Isaiah Fletcher made his entrance under the archway with the weathered (pretentious) wooden staff half-concealed in thorny vines and blooming crimson roses. Ian gave him credit for hefting all that crystal and water without a waver. For a man in his late fifties whose main exercise the last few days had been walking among his flock, fucking among his flock, and pointing fingers during sermons, he was in fairly good shape. Supposedly, prophets were never respected in their own lands. This one managed to command the full attention of a crowd that included a lot of his family.

What Ian could see was Fletcher Senior laying down his latest laws and beliefs to his followers. What Ian could hear, however, was the regular reports of ‘Sutton house, clear;’ ‘FitzWilliam house clear;’ ‘Ferguson house clear.’ He watched steadily through his scope as he heard lock after lock click into place on basement doors. All the while, Isaiah Fletcher continued to run his mouth and gesture with his hands while children held too still under the tight grip of mothers trying not to look nervous – and failing.

A few moments later, though, the men and some of the women and children started looking at the pitcher like patrons at a sports bar watching the closest screen. Fletcher was using the light off the cut crystal as some kind of hypnotic focus. Efficient, Ian would give him that, and routine, he’d bet. They’d all started concentrating on it at almost the same time.

Liz Warner reported, “Community center cleared, all basement doors locked.” She sounded revved on adrenaline, as she often did on an operation, but she used it, not the other way around. That ought to be the last bolt hole secured, too.

Only a few seconds later, Don confirmed that, saying calmly, “All right, boys and girls, showtime. Granger, MacIntyre, move to secondary positions. Reeves, Willons, as soon as they’re in place, you’re up with the warrants.”

Ian let himself tune out the sound of the wails and rage as two female agents had the gall to announce that the FBI was there to make arrests and take all minors into temporary protective custody. He also heard a pistol shot crack through the air followed by Granger’s steady voice saying, “Feds trump country deputy. Next shot kills you.”

Later, Ian would play that back in his mind, and the other voices through the comms. Betancourt taking down the schoolteacher who’d tried to cover this all up last week with her deputy husband. Reeves and Willons encouraging Jeanne Ferguson to get to safety beyond them because, “CCS is here, and med techs.” The sound of David Sinclair warning Hope Fletcher, Jerry’s ambitious wife, “You can put the gun down, or I’ll have to put you down.”

Ian’s focus just that moment was on Isaiah Fletcher and that damn pitcher of toxins, on who was in splash radius if the man dropped it. He raised it instead, too fast – the faintly milky liquid in it sloshed up over the edges onto his hand as Fletcher prepared to throw it at the gathered group of children over ten who’d been due to drink from the tiny paper cups lined up on the table for this stage of their initiation into the ‘faithful.’

Ian didn’t even have to exhale; he’d held his breath as soon as the dark red rage rose up through Fletcher’s face. His finger tightened smoothly, lightly, on the trigger, and his rifle slapped against his braced shoulder. Below him, the bullet shattered the pitcher, throwing glass and liquid all over the preacher. It also cut across the top of his shoulder, ruining his suit and drawing more blood, before it buried itself in the raised garden bed among the squirrel corn. Ian dropped his aim the minute fraction that would give him a torso shot if needed… and watched the man drop to his knees, screaming almost as loudly by himself as his flock did.

Blood was everywhere now from the glass shards cutting into Fletcher and those closest to him – including all three sons. The EMTs were going to have their hands full treating them around the toxic liquid soaking darker patches into their suits.

Then Agent Willons was there, her pistol out and unwavering. She spoke clearly and slowly, deliberately projecting over the outrage around her as she stated, “Isaiah Fletcher, you are under arrest for multiple counts of child endangerment, statutory rape, bigamy, embezzlement, and fraud.”

His parishioners had been ready to defend him until that sank in, as the water was soaking into the ground. At the last two charges, their rage paused, guttered... and blew out.

The children were mostly scared and, in too many cases, relieved. Ian could see the patterns of movement change among the adults, however, as they realized they were now in very deep waters. When the parents sagged – some in relief and others in resignation – and surrendered to the agents coming into his field of fire, Ian finally let himself return from his mental distancing.

He took his finger off his trigger.

Since he could guess how pissed off Don Eppes was at the loss of that pitcher and its direct link between Fletcher and the contaminants, Ian also spoke into his comm. “Someone should secure the Isaiah Fletcher kitchen; there’s a tea-strainer full of evidence on a coffee saucer that has Fletcher’s fingerprints on it. The residue in the saucer should match the residue on any large enough glass piece or his suit sleeves.”

Then he scooped up his rifle and binoculars and went to collect his pack – he liked his old army blanket and wasn’t leaving the MRE and water purification tablet wrappers behind -- before starting down the hill to help with cleanup. If anyone would let him. He’d spent the last three days in the hills above the bullshit going on in that assemblage of houses and ‘holiness.’ He stunk, and not just from three days in the heat.

Personally, Ian was pretty sure he could smell some brimstone and if so, it’d blown up the hillside from that hellhole Fletcher had created. If this was their idea of heaven or hell? Ian was going to hell, thanks. Happily.

Among other reasons, he’d have better company to help take the place over.

Notes:

Title from Hozier's Take Me To Church, and written for the Seven Wildflowers challenge. My assigned flower was squirrel-corn which is, in fact, toxic to humans in all parts. Brief contact is safe enough; lots of contact is not. No, really do NOT do what these assholes did. Also, it’s not usually hallucinogenic. That’s an odd reaction that the Fletchers have to the stuff, but given how many of the kids are his genetically, well.

Isaiah Fletcher because Isaiah was a prophet and the guy changed his name to make the claim; all of his sons were named after other prophets, including Jerry (Jeremiah).

Jeanne Fergusson dyes her hair and her sons’ because in some places, red hair is considered a sign of the devil.

CCS: California Children’s Services.

Written for a lot of reasons, including my prompt arriving just as I was watching a Numb3rs episode, Nine Wives, about cults. The symptoms of squirrel-corn are rather similar to too much religion, honestly, including the part where too much can kill those ingesting it.

If you want to argue the religion in this? To quote Steve Rogers, “Son? Just don’t.”

Other questions, however, happily answered in comments.