The woman turned immediately and moved toward the checkout. The woman with her whispered something I could not hear, but the women to whom I had spoken shushed her quite clearly. I hurried through my shopping with hope of falling into line at the register behind her. When I got there, however, they were through and being herded onto the bus.

I watched them drive away as I paid for my food.

“Fifteen fifty-three,” the cashier said.

I gave him a twenty. “That was an odd sight,” I said.

“What?”

“All those women dressed like that.”

He shrugged, handed me the bills, and the coin change slid out of a machine next to me. “They come in here every Sunday. Some kind of religious group, I guess.”

“The men with them look pretty rough,” I said.

“I guess,” the man said. I looked at his tattoos, and it occurred to me that he didn’t look so different from the compound men.

“I just meant they didn’t look like churchgoers.”

He stared at me rather blankly. He might have nodded. Regardless, I was left feeling awkward and anxious.

I made my way north to the state police station at the southern edge on Socorro. It was on a frontage road along the freeway and looked very much like a hardware store. The office was manned by two officers, both white, both alarmingly similar in affect to Jeff and Roger.

“What can we do you for?” the mustachioed one asked me. He was seated, but he was very wide.

“I’m not certain,” I said. I was afraid to speak, not because I feared they were involved or sympathetic to the Nazis I had met, but because my story simply sounded so crazy. The notes hidden in clothes ordered on eBay, a paleontologist masquerading as a petroleum geologist camped out and spying on their neighbors to expose their slavery ring. Being here was a bad idea. My silence attracted the attention of the second cop.

“Sir?”

“I was wondering how long it will take to get to El Paso from here.”

They exchanged glances.

The mustache said, “About three hours.”

“Anything else?”

“Sir, what’s your name?”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Excuse me.” The mustache stayed after me. “Maybe I should just write down your name.”

“No, thanks.” I walked out. I was certain one or both were watching me.

The mustache followed me out of the building and watched as I got into my car. I didn’t like his posture, the way he seemed to lean toward me. I didn’t like his voice. He scared me, and I didn’t like that.