He had come to this remote corner of Arizona originally in search of answers after the massacre in Mexachuli. But he had found nothing here but a stone wall, and after being threatened more than once by the locals he had elected to continue his research from a distance. It had turned out to be easier to parse information that way-tracing tax records, travel records, even finding a source for phone records-than trying to find anyone in the NLDS who would talk to him. Jeffords had been a mesmerizing prophet, and even those members sent into exile for whatever sin all wanted to return back to the fold. Either that or they were terrified of the Angels. In any case Trace had found only three sources who would talk to him even outside California City. Devotion, obedience, and terror were the three cornerstones of the pyramid Jeffords and Rendt had built here. The late afternoon sun still baked the brick homes and curled the siding on those clad in vinyl. A thousand windows reflected the bloody glow of the sky as though the houses were all clawing their way to a bleary-eyed, vampiric wakefulness.
