“Doesn’t this remind you of that TV show?”
“Huh? No. Holy clouds, woman! This isn’t the Ponderosa.”
“Of course not,” she said. “Silly me!”
Realizing that he must have spoken sharply to her, Cnut softened his voice and said, “I’m fairly certain that show was filmed in Nevada. I have a brother who lives in Vegas, and he told me something to that effect one time. In fact, the TV set had been a tourist attraction for many years after the series ended, a theme park or something, until it got torn down.”
Logic told her that he was right, but, even so, this giant log house stood in the clearing like a testament to another era. Of prosperous ranching. Cowboys. Big families. American values. The Old West at its best. It saddened her to think that what must have once been a family home was now turned into a dude ranch lodge. Changing economic times, she supposed.
Made of richly grained, golden logs, it appeared to be a two-story dwelling that spread out in two directions, as if it had been added on to several times over the years. And there were lots of outbuildings as well, including a massive barn. She thought she heard the sound of a horse neighing from that direction.
But no people. At all.
“Uh-oh!” she said.
“Tell me about it,” Cnut said, opening his door. “Maybe you better stay here in the car while I check things out. Lock the doors.”
“Not a chance,” she said, and opened her door as well.
“Stubborn woman!” Cnut muttered.
“Smart woman!” she muttered back.
They walked along the side of the building, around to the front, and onto a long porch where four rustic rocking chairs sat empty. She noticed that Cnut had his handgun out again, which was rather alarming. Also alarming was the front door, which was open.
They stepped hesitantly into a wide central hallway whose only furnishing was a receptionist desk, minus a receptionist, a half-dozen rolled-up prayer rugs, and a long console table under an antique mirror that held a Koran and stacks of touristy kinds of literature. A blackboard display listed activities for the week. Lots of yoga and meditation, indoors in the solar and outdoors, weather permitting. Riding lessons. Koran study. Fly fishing. Holy yoga. Skeet shooting. Mediating with Allah. Roping and horse shoeing. Understanding jihads. Line dancing. Internet recruitment. Campfire sing-alongs. Capitalist devils. An overnight trail ride that coincidentally took place last night into this morning. A Sharia way of life. Coming up on Saturday was a hoedown, whatever that was. Some kind of dance party, she guessed. Yippee! It didn’t seem to fit in with all the propaganda-type programs, but maybe that was a way of hiding their true intents here.
Which one of those activities would Celie be involved in? She liked yoga, but for a higher purpose? Line dancing? Yeah, but in a burqa? As for fly fishing, Celie wouldn’t even touch an uncooked fish. Too yucky!
All this Andrea took in while Cnut went into a side parlor. There were several parlors, actually, on both sides of the hallway, their main features being comfy low leather couches and huge stone fireplaces. All the furnishings were Old West chic.
Here and there lay puddles of slime, similar to that by the gatehouse.
“It smells like bad farts in here,” Andrea said.
“Are there good farts?” Cnut asked with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t touch that stuff.”
She was leaning down near one gooey pile to see what it was. Her head shot up at the alarm in his voice.
“It’s sulfur you smell. You know, fire and brimstone kind of sulfur.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do,” he said. “For my sins, I know.”
“What’s going on here? Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions.”
“What?”
“Shh!” he cautioned, and walked slowly down the hallway.
She followed close behind.
There was a large dining room with an enormous pine table and benches that could seat sixteen, along with several smaller tables and chairs, equally rustic. Half-eaten meals sat on the tables—pancakes and syrup, sausages and bacon, toast, cups of black coffee. No slime here, but there were several piles of clothes, right down to boots and watches and jewelry, as if people had just disappeared right out of their clothing, top to bottom.
Was this one of those clothing-optional places, on top of its ISIS connection? No, that didn’t make sense. Of course, none of this made any sense.
“What’s going on here?” she asked again. “Where’s my sister?”
Cnut didn’t answer. Instead, he had pulled out his cell phone and was speaking to someone.
“Vikar? Big trouble on dude ranch.”