"I don't believe so."

"Is this the only way out?"

"They could get out the other side if they had to, towards Tombstone. But, as I told them, it's a hard road to drive at night. They on the run from something?"

"I can tell you better after I talk to them."

Brotherton's look hardened. "You're close-mouthed, Mr. Archer."

"The girl's parents hired me."

"I asked myself if she was a runaway."

"That's putting it a little strong. But I expect to take her home with me."

He let me go up the mountain by myself. I followed the storekeeper's directions, and they brought me to the head of a canyon whose open end framed the distant lights of Copper City. There were several lighted buildings in the canyon. The highest and largest was a sprawling stone house with a peaked shingled roof and a wide porch shelving out in front.

The road that led to the stone house was blocked by a wire gate. When I got out to open it, I could hear the people singing on the porch, singing a kind of song that I'd never heard before. Their refrain was something about Armageddon and the end of the world. Raising their voices on the prowlike porch, they made me think of passengers singing hymns on a sinking ship.

Fred Johnson's old blue Ford was parked in the gravel lane ahead of me. Its engine was dripping oil like something wounded. As I approached it, Fred got out and walked uncertainly into the wash of my headlights. His mustache was wet and spiky and he had a beard of blood. He didn't know me.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

He opened his swollen mouth. "Yeah. They've got my girl inside. They're trying to convert her."

The hymn had died in mid-phrase, as if the sinking ship had gone down abruptly. The hymn-singers were coming off the porch in our direction. From somewhere out of sight in the building, a girl's voice was raised in what sounded like fear.

Fred's head jerked. "That's her now."

I started for the gun in the trunk of my car, then remembered that I was driving a rented car. By that time, Fred and I were surrounded by half a dozen bearded men in overalls. Several long-skirted women stood to one side and watched us with cold eyes in long faces.

The oldest man was middle-aged, and he spoke to me in a monotone. "You're disturbing our evening service."

"Sorry. I want Miss Biemeyer. I'm a licensed private detective employed by her parents. The sheriff of the county knows I'm here."

"We don't recognize his authority. This is holy ground, consecrated by our leader. The only authority we bow down to is the voice of the mountains and the sky and our own consciences."

"Tell your conscience to tell you to go and get your leader."

"You must be more respectful. He's performing an important ceremony."

The girl raised her voice again. Fred started toward it, and I went along. The overalled men came together and formed a solid phalanx blocking our way.

I stood back and shouted at the top of my voice: "Hey, leader! Get the hell out here!"

He came out onto the porch, a white-haired man in a black robe who looked as if he had been dazzled or struck by lightning. He walked toward us, smiling a wide cold smile. His followers made way for him.

"Blessings," he said to them, and to me: "Who are you? I heard you reviling and cursing me. I resent it, not so much for myself as for the Power I represent."

One of the women moaned in awe and delight. She got down on her knees in the gravel and kissed the leader's hand.

I said, "I want Miss Biemeyer. I work for Miss Biemeyer's father. He used to own this house."

"I own it now," he said, and then corrected himself: _"We_ own it now. You're trespassing."

The bearded men let out an assenting growl in unison. The oldest one of them said, "We paid good money for this place. It's our refuge in time of trouble. We don't want it desecrated by cohorts of the devil."

"Then bring Miss Biemeyer out here."

"The poor child needs my help," the leader said. "She's been taking drugs. She's drowning in trouble, going down for the third time."

"I'm not leaving her here."

Fred let out a sob of frustration and grief and rage. "That's what I told them. But they beat me up."

"You gave her drugs," the leader said. "She told me you gave her drugs. It's my responsibility to purge her of the habit. Nearly all of my flock took drugs at one time. I was a sinner myself, in other ways."

"I'd say you still are," I said. "Or don't you believe that kidnapping is wrong?"

"She's here of her own free will."

"I want to hear her tell me that herself."

"Very well," he said to me, and to his followers: "Let them approach the dwelling place."

We went down the lane to the house. The bearded men crowded around Fred and me without exactly touching us. I could smell them though. They stank of curdled hopes and poisonous fears and rancid innocence and unwashed armpits.

We were kept outside on the porch. I could see through the open front door that there was reconstruction work going on inside. The central hallway was being converted into a dormitory lined with bunks two high along the walls. I wondered how large a congregation the leader hoped to gather, and how much each of them might pay him for his bunk and his overalls and his salvation.

He brought Doris out of an inner room into the hallway. His followers let me go as far as the open door, and she and I faced each other there. She looked pale and scared and sane.

She said, "Am I supposed to know you?"

"My name is Archer. We met in your apartment yesterday."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember. I think I was stoned yesterday."

"I think you were, Doris. How are you feeling now?"

"Sort of woozy," she said. "I hardly got any sleep in the car last night. And ever since we got here they've been at me." She yawned deeply.

"At you in what way?"

"Praying for me. They want me to stay with them. They won't even charge me. My father would like that, not having to pay for me." She smiled dispiritedly on one side of her mouth.

"I don't think your father feels that way about you."

"You don't know my father."

"I do, though."

She frowned at me. "Did my father send you after me?"

"No. I sort of came on my own. But your mother is paying me. She wants you back. So does he."

"I don't really think they do," the girl said. "Maybe they think they do, but they don't really."

Fred spoke up behind me. "I do, Doris."

"Maybe you do, and maybe you don't. But maybe I don't want you." She looked at him in cold unfriendly coquetry. "I wasn't what you wanted, anyway. You wanted the picture that my parents bought."

Fred looked down at the porch floor. The leader stepped between the girl and us. His face was a complex blend of exalted mystic and Yankee trader. His hands were shaking with nervousness.

"Do you believe me now?" he said to me. "Doris wants to stay with us. Her parents have neglected and rejected her. Her friend is a false friend. She knows her true friends when she sees them. She wants to live with us in the brotherhood of spiritual love."

"Is that true, Doris?"

"I guess so," she said with a dubious half-smile. "I might as well give it a try. I've been here before, you know. My father used to bring me here when I was a little girl. We used to come up and visit Mrs. Mead. They used to-" She broke off the sentence and covered her mouth with her hand.

"They used to what, Doris?"

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about my father. I want to stay here with them and get straightened out. I'm spiritually unwell." The self-diagnosis sounded like a parroting of something that she had recently been told. Unfortunately it also sounded true.

I had a strong urge to take her away from the brothers. I didn't like them or their leader. I didn't trust the girl's judgment. But she knew her own life better than I could possibly know it for her. Even I could see that it hadn't been working out.