The Truth Circle Read online

  * * * * * *

  The Chevy Astro sent its occupants careening from side to side as it skidded its way down an uneven dirt path in the forest.

  “Could you please keep it on the road?” Beverly intoned from the front passenger’s seat as their guide swerved to avoid a downed birch tree, nearly sending them into a ditch.

  Even though John was only doing 30 mph, the serpentine nature of the dirt track, with its winding loops and tight corners, made it feel like twice that speed. Its pitted surface was marred by protruding rocks and bowing potholes, like someone had taken an expert-level ski slope and painted it a particularly ugly shade of brown.

  “You can’t even call this a road,” Coop remarked as the van whipped around another corner, unseating his tortoiseshell glasses for the tenth time in as many minutes. “It’s more like a deer trail.”

  John stole a glance back at his passengers through the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry about that, folks. Some of the trails out here aren’t really meant for vehicles. We’ll be back on the main road in a bit.”

  The van was already deep in the woods. The group hadn’t seen a person or house for the last 45 minutes, as lightly populated towns had quickly given way to farm country, which gradually receded to uninhabited scrublands before plunging into the heart of Quehanna. Most of that time had been spent on a freshly paved two-lane highway, but 15 minutes ago John had taken a sudden detour down this tooth-rattling nightmare of a path.

  While Beverly rode up front with John, clutching anxiously at one of the monogrammed bags on her lap, Ken and Gaby sat in the mid-passengers’ seat, each clinging to the safety handles on the roof. Sandwiched between them was Lamar, who compensated for the lack of a safety handle by bracing his feet against the back of the gearbox. Coop, who was sitting in the very back, steadied himself by gripping an armrest. Beside him sat Wade, who quietly picked at the skin peeling off his sunburned cheeks, seemingly unfazed by their current predicament.

  Ken polished off the last of his Coke and tossed the empty can to the floor. He looked around the cabin for something else to slake his thirst and spotted Gaby’s partially drunk Sprite in her cupholder.

  “You gonna finish that?” he asked as he reached across Lamar and snatched the drink, not bothering to wait for an reply.

  “Hey! I was saving that!” Gaby protested.

  “You snooze, you lose, babe,” he replied.

  Just as Ken tilted the can back for a sip, the Chevy lurched violently to the left, sending most of Gaby’s drink rolling down the back of his neck instead of his throat, soaking his bomber jacket and seat cushion.

  “Goddammit!” Ken roared, flinging the now empty can to the floor and peeling off his jacket. “I’m soaked to the skin!”

  “Sorry,” John said, stealing a quick look back at Gaby and giving her a knowing wink. “These roads can be unpredictable.”

  Gaby snorted with laughter and quickly covered her mouth as Ken glared at her. Sensing the tension, Lamar slunk down in his seat and did his best to avoid eye contact with either one of them.

  The dirt trail gradually widened and straightened after reaching the bottom of an expansive gully. The jostling slowly subsided.

  As the van chugged along, the passengers noticed that the banks of the gully were starting to close in. The interior gradually darkened as the looming gully walls blotted out most of the light from the windows. The encroaching banks were so close that scrub plants growing along the edges started scraping against the van’s exterior. Claustrophobia began to set in.

  “You sure you know where you’re going?” Ken asked nervously as he wiped the last remnants of Gaby’s drink off his jacket.

  “We’ll be on the road again in a minute,” John assured him.

  The floor of the gully rose precipitously as they reached its outer edges. John floored the gas pedal as the van sputtered and wheezed its way up the slope. Ken’s discarded soda cans rattled their way to the back of the van as it slowly climbed. As the van crested the slope, the group saw it connected to a narrow dirt trail, and just beyond it lay a paved, two-lane highway.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Coop said, clapping appreciatively.

  Lamar loosened his death grip on his seat cushion as John steered the van onto the highway and the dirt path quickly faded in the rearview mirror.

  “In case you all were wondering, that little excursion was a shortcut,” he explained. “The main highway through Quehanna loops east and then south about forty miles out of our way. That shaved about an hour off our travel time.”

  “And about a year off our lives,” Beverly muttered.

  A thought occurred to Lamar.

  “I thought you said this was a wild area,” Lamar offered timidly before trailing off into a nearly imperceptible murmur as the others turned to look at him. “So why are there roads here at all?”

  “Huh?” John replied.

  “Why are there roads in a wild area?” Lamar responded louder.

  “Oh, this wasn’t always a wildlife refuge,” John explained, keeping his eyes on the road. “Back in the ’50s, an Air Force contractor built a research facility out here. Wanted to test out nuclear-powered jets, if you can believe it. They spent years setting this place up, built a working reactor, miles of roads, an airstrip, the works. But the project never got off the ground — so to speak — and they eventually abandoned it. That dirt path we just left actually leads to the facility; they cleared the land but never got around to paving it over. If you check survey maps, you’ll see it listed as Reactor Road.”

  Coop gulped at the name, as Gaby and Lamar exchanged worried glances.

  John sensed their discomfort and chuckled good-naturedly.

  “Relax, the facility’s been shuttered for 60 years, and anyway, our campsite is five miles north of the plant,” he said. “Take my word for it: I’ve been coming here for over four decades, and I don’t glow in the dark.”

  “Is that why we haven’t seen anyone else out here?” Ken chimed in. “Fear of glowing in the dark?”

  John shook his head.

  “Nope, it’s just the wrong season. Quehanna gets its fair share of backpackers, but you never see any after Labor Day,” he explained. “And only the most adventurous stray this far north; all the popular hiking trails are in the southern block.”

  “What about campers?” Ken continued.

  “Hardly ever get ’em,” the old Shawnee Indian replied. “‘Wild area’ means no permanent structures allowed, so you won’t find any cabins or campgrounds out here. When palefaces hear that there’s no hookup for their RV, no Wi-Fi and no porta potties, they look elsewhere for their vacations. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “So, what’s that mean for us?” Beverly asked, dreading the answer to come. “Are we sleeping in the van?”

  “I call shotgun!” Ken blurted out.

  John roared with laughter, momentarily startling the others.

  “No need for anything so drastic. You’re getting all the amenities you were promised: running water, a shower, outhouses, firepits, and of course, the sweat lodge.”

  Beverly looked confused.

  “But you said …”

  “Everything at the campsite predates the construction ban,” John explained, anticipating her question. “It’s all grandfathered in.”

  This news cheered the group as John turned off the main highway and onto another dirt track, this one identified by a wooden post with trail markers painted on it. Unlike the last dirt road, this one was well worn and wide enough for two vans to pass.

  “The sweat lodge. Is that where we’ll perform the purification ceremony?” Coop called out from the back row.

  “That’s right,” John responded.

  “And you’ll teach us how to do it?”

  “Think of it more as me guiding you along the path,” John answered.

  “The path to the spirit realm?” Coop asked earnestly.

  Ken rolled his eyes contemptuously.


  John studied Coop in the rearview mirror for a long moment before responding.

  “Look, Coop … it is Coop, right? I’m concerned that you have the wrong idea. I’m not here to help you commune with your dead ancestors. I’m here to help you rediscover yourself.”

  “But it’s titled ‘Mystic Tours,’” Coop insisted, clearly unconvinced.

  “You watch too many movies,” John replied good-naturedly. “Mysticism isn’t hocus-pocus and channeling other realms. It’s spiritual. Just like believing in the divinity of Jesus makes you Christian, not a sorcerer. And while it may be a different take on spirituality, the end goal is the same: spiritual rebirth.”

  “Are we gonna have to listen to this New Age bullshit all week?” Ken fumed, pounding his armrest in frustration. “I came for survival training, like the brochure promised. Living off the land and all that. If this is gonna turn into some touchy-feely, Kumbaya-chanting nonsense, then drop me off here!”

  “The quest for a new you is both spiritual and physical,” John explained patiently. “Just give it a try, and I promise that by the end of the week, you will be a changed person, guaranteed. That goes for all of you, by the way.”

  “Guaranteed?” Beverly chimed in. “As in, money-back guarantee, like it said on the website? Because if I’m going to live like a savage for a week, I expect results.”

  “What sort of results were you expecting?” Lamar asked mildly.

  The question was harmless, but Beverly took immediate umbrage to it. She spun around in her seat and glared at Lamar, who withered under her intense gaze.

  “My reasons are my own, and that’s all you need to know,” she responded haughtily, crossing her arms protectively.

  An uncomfortable silence descended on the van as John steered it into a clearing the size of a soccer field where five dirt paths converged.

  For 10 agonizing minutes, the only sound was the hum of the motor and the whoosh of tree limbs scraping along the edges of the van. During this time, John guided the van through a veritable maze of converging and diverging trails, most of them unmarked and overgrown with weeds. The feathered dreamcatcher hanging from the rear window undulated wildly as the van hopped from one trail to the next, switching from dirt trails to gravel roads and then back again at seemingly random intervals. How John kept this leafy labyrinth straight in his head was a mystery.

  The silence in the van was growing oppressive. Coop shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The minutes seemed to drag on interminably, with nothing to mark their passage.

  “You got any grub in here?” a raspy voice called from the back, piercing the stifling silence. “I’m starving.”

  It was Wade, who hadn’t spoken a word since the trip began. The others looked back in stunned silence. If the sudden rush of attention bothered him, he didn’t show it. He continued peeling layers of dead skin from his sunburned face, occasionally pausing to idly flick the balled-up remains to the floor.

  “We won’t be eating a proper meal until sundown,” John responded, sounding relieved to have some interaction. “But I have snacks in a storage container just below your feet.”

  Wade leaned forward and spotted a clear plastic container under his seat. It was overflowing with chips, beef jerky and chocolate bars.

  “Yeah that’s the one,” John said, watching through the rearview mirror as Wade hefted the container onto his lap. “Help yourself.”

  Wade needed no further encouragement. He popped the lid off and tore into the snacks like a man possessed. He devoured a Milky Way in two bites, pausing just long enough to swallow before he ripped open a bag of Bugles and poured them unceremoniously into his mouth. His next victim — a Twinkie — was barely out of its wrapper before he crammed it down his throat with abandon. There was no attempt to savor his high-calorie meal; it was a frenzy of feasting.

  The others watched this gluttonous display with a mixture of disgust and fascination.

  “You must really be hungry,” Coop said diplomatically as Wade polished off some beef jerky and moved on to a tin of buttered popcorn. “Do you want a napkin?”

  “Or diabetes,” Ken muttered under his breath.

  The gravel road was starting to thin out in patches as the van followed its course beneath a natural limestone bridge and then ascended to the bridge’s level before banking left around a muddy escarpment into an ankle-high cluster of thistles. The overhead tree canopy had thinned out considerably, allowing light to stream into the area as the van finally stopped at a fork in the road.

  The right fork ended after 30 feet in an open field, while the left fork was a dirt trail that traced a steep hill out of view. The right fork was flanked by two eight-foot-tall totem poles on either side.

  “We’re here,” John said as he idled the van between the two totem poles.

  Hand carved, each pole bore three distinct faces: one on the bottom, one in the middle and one perched on top. While the faces on the bottom and the middle differed between the two poles, both were topped with the same image: a beaked creature with blood-red eyes. The creature’s outspread wings extended out a foot in both directions.

  “These are the welcome posts,” John explained, anticipating the others’ questions. “Each face represents a different creature that is special to my people.”

  “What are those eagle-like things on top?” Gaby asked.

  “Those are thunderbirds, the spirit animal of my tribe,” John said, giving the van some gas as it followed the left fork up the hill. “It’s said they possess the sacred eye of the Beholder; those who fall under its gaze have their failings exposed and cleansed. As you can probably guess, the thunderbird represents self-knowledge and transformation.”

  “Like the transformation we’ll be undergoing,” Coop mused as he adjusted his glasses.

  John nodded.

  “Remember these welcome posts, folks,” he said. “The next time you see them, you’ll be very different people.”

  * * * * * *

  As the van crested the hill, the passengers leaned forward to catch a glimpse of their home for the next week. Through the windshield they could see the van was on the cusp of a bowl-shaped depression some four miles wide that dipped 10 stories downward before reaching the bottom.

  The bowl was ringed on three sides by hills to the north, east and south. The van clung to its southern lip, which was the shortest of the hills; the northern and eastern slopes were far steeper and too overgrown to allow passage except on foot. There was no western lip; instead, the base gave way to a lower-lying floodplain that stretched out of view. The group could make out a creek in the sparsely wooded floodplain and several large rock formations nearby.

  Near the depression’s western edge, right beside the floodplain, was a circular campground some 30 yards in diameter, dotted with structures too small to discern at this distance. The dirt road led straight to the camp, cutting a swath through a sea of deciduous trees awash in seasonal hues of yellow, orange and red.

  As the group drew closer to the camp, they started to make out more details. It was laid out like a clock face; at the center of the dial was an open firepit overlaid with a mesh cooking grill. All the remaining structures were on the periphery of the circle. In the 2 o’clock position was an uncovered log rack holding neatly stacked piles of wood; at 4 o’clock was a pair of single-seat outhouses with doors facing the center of the campsite; the dirt road ended at the camp’s 5 o’clock position; in the 7 o’clock position was a well-worn footpath leading downhill to the floodplain; 8 o’clock was occupied by a cabana-style shower; at 10 o’clock was a tin-roofed storage shed; and at the 12 o’clock position was the campsite’s largest structure, a 12-foot-tall domed wigwam with an open roof. It was situated beneath the boughs of an enormous pine tree that towered fifteen feet above every other tree in the region.

  “This is it?” Beverly asked contemptuously as the van slowly descended into the depression.

  “Yep,” John replied with a hint of pride. “She�
��s a beauty.”

  The van did a partial loop around the circular campsite before stopping in front of the storage shed, giving the group a closer look at the amenities. Many of the buildings were in dire need of repair. The tin roof of the storage shed was badly rusted, and the shower door sagged, thanks to a busted hinge. One of the outhouses showed evidence of a recent repair job to its outer walls, with several unevenly spaced boards nailed diagonally over a hole. Several boards on the front of the second outhouse had separated with age; even from the van, the group could see between the seams inside.

  “So, what do you all think?” John asked as he killed the ignition, causing the Chevy to choke and wheeze momentarily before shutting off.

  “It’s very … rustic,” Gaby offered charitably as she opened the sliding panel door and scooted out.

  John was already out of the van and darting around the front to help unload the group. His movements were so swift and nimble that it was easy to forget his age.

  Beverly opened the passenger’s door just as John came around to her side. As he helped her out of the van, she sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “What is that odor?”

  John paused to inhale deeply.

  “That’s just the outhouses,” he replied nonchalantly. “I cleaned the traps on my last trip, but I guess that wasn’t enough. I’ll throw on another layer of lime before dinner.”

  Beverly looked like she wanted to retch.

  The others started piling out of the Chevy one by one. Ken exited cradling his bomber jacket, which was still sticky with spilled soda. Coop stepped out gingerly, careful not to catch the hem of his ankle-length robes on the sliding side door. He paused just outside the door to drink in the surroundings before being shoved aside by Wade, who was too busy munching on the last remnants of the snacks to bother with an apology.

  The weather had warmed considerably since they left the strip mall as the sun was nearing its apogee. Gaby peeled off her down jacket to reveal a pale-green turtleneck underneath. Lamar quickly followed suit, unzipping his bubble jacket and tucking it under his arm. Wade stopped shoveling Pringles in his mouth just long enough to remove his threadbare Cowboys cap, revealing a military-short crew cut that accentuated his rapidly receding hairline.