He held out his hand, and Wong coldly offered hers. He grasped it with both hands, shaking it with gusto. Then he turned to Abby and Carver.

“And you must be the NYPD detectives I’ve been told to expect,” he said, the smile staying on his face. He practically beamed at them. “Welcome to my farm. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Abby’s eyes went to one of the windows on the second floor of the house, where a couple of tiny faces gaped at them with curiosity.

“So what’s this about?” Otis asked.

“You have a man living here,” Carver said. “His name is David Huff. We would love to have a word with him.”

Otis frowned. “David? What do you want to talk to him about?”

“Just a few routine questions regarding a case,” Carver said.

“Well, lunch starts at one, so we have a bit of time. Let’s see if he’s around.” Otis took a cell phone from his pocket and dialed. As they waited, Abby looked around, taking it all in. The fence seemed to circle the entire perimeter. Aside from the large house, she spotted a few cabins farther south, as well as something that seemed like a barn. Several men and women were toiling in a field.

And three men stood a dozen yards away by a pickup truck, looking at them. These guys, she was certain, were armed.

If things went south, how would it play out? Would Tillman’s followers barricade themselves in the house? Shoot at the police from the windows? Were there automatic rifles stowed on the second floor, a few feet away from the kids who were staring at them?

“Tell them.” Wilcox, handing her the phone. “Tell them what will happen if they come near us. Tell them about the gun.”

The cold muzzle, pressing against her temple.

“He’s not answering,” Otis said.

“Imagine that,” Detective Wong said dryly.

“Let’s search for him,” Otis suggested. “He’s probably around back.”

“Maybe he’s in the house?” Abby suggested.

“Not likely,” Otis answered, smiling at her disarmingly. “David sleeps in one of the shacks out back, and during the day he’s either working the field or in the office.”

“What’s the office?” Abby asked, catching up to Otis as he strode toward the field.

“Just a small caravan we use to store all of our paperwork. David’s our accountant.”

“How long has David lived here?” Abby asked.

“David’s one of the earliest members,” Otis said with a fatherly smile. “He practically helped me build this place.”

“So what is this place exactly?” Abby asked, feigning curiosity.

“We’re a Christian community,” Tillman answered. “We’re trying to make this world better.”

“Make the world better?”

“That’s right. We search for lost souls, and gather them. Protect them. Heal them. And we try to contribute to worthy causes. Racial inequality being the chief one. Did you know that Suffolk County is the most segregated area in the United States? More than eighty percent of the county is white.”

“I didn’t know that.” Abby looked around again to get a feel of the place. She had to hand it to Otis; he ran a tight ship. The ground was weeded; the gravel path was well surfaced; the walls of the shacks and the caravan, as well as the main house, were freshly painted. It was easier to maintain a farm well when each of the workers was completely and utterly devoted to you, willing to work eighteen or even twenty hours a day.

Otis kept talking. “In our community, twenty-two percent of our members are African American, twenty-one percent Latino, and fifteen percent Asian.” He pointed at the men and women working in the field. “And we strive for gender equality as well. Women and men are treated equally here.”

“Treated equally?” Abby suspected that if she repeated Tillman’s words to him, he would keep talking forever. He warmed up to her, walking closer, his hands and shoulders relaxing.

“That’s right. We have an equal number of men and women on the board. And the tasks are rotated equally. We have as many men doing the laundry and cooking as the women.”

“Admirable.” Aside from the hushed statutory rape story, of course. Abby could almost feel Tillman’s speech crawling on her skin, a hungry parasite, searching for a way in.

“Otis!” one of the men called from the field. “We have a problem here.”

“Just a second,” Otis called back. He glanced around him, then brightened. “Ruth! Can you come here a minute?”

He waved his hand. A young woman approached them, her face blank. Detective Wong, standing by Abby’s side, inhaled sharply. Abby glanced at her, saw the detective’s expression twist in pain. And then it was gone, Wong’s cool expression back in its place.

Tillman placed a fatherly hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “Can you please show the detectives where the office is? They want to talk to David.”

Ruth raised her eyes to the man. That stare. Damn it. That look of complete devotion, of reverence and love. Abby wanted to grab the girl. To drag her away from this place kicking and screaming and spend days, or weeks, or months talking with her. Do whatever it took to deprogram her.

“Sure,” Ruth said, glancing at each of them, Otis’s hand still on her shoulder. “Come on, it’s this way.”