“At last, one night, when most of the camp lay sleeping, the Suspicious Disciple noticed certain of the cult’s inner circle leaving the compound. She slipped from her bed and followed them into the surrounding jungle.”

Now Storm kept his eyes on Harper only, as she drew breath, braced herself, went on. “Trembling with fear, the Suspicious Disciple threaded a narrow path beneath trees so thick they blocked the moonlight and plunged her into a shadowy darkness pierced by terrible animal cries and ominous scrabblings. Finally, the low murmur of voices up ahead led her to the edge of a steamy clearing. Pushing aside the leaves, she peeked through. And there, by the light of a single torch, she saw all her half-formed suspicions confirmed. And worse.”

Harper squared her shoulders, blinked through the flame-light on her spectacles. “Iago was standing before a stone altar,” she said. “And lying on the altar was a child. One of his own children—a mere toddler—looking up at his father with sleepy, trusting eyes. Around them, a few of the inner circle stood watching, mumbling some arcane chant. And at the clearing’s far edge, a young woman was struggling wildly in the grip of two hulking apostles. It was the child’s mother, and her wild stare was white above the gag that stifled her screams.

“And then, as the Suspicious Disciple looked on in helpless horror, Iago raised a curved dagger into the air above the child’s naked chest. And with a dreamy grin, he—”

“Jesus,” said Storm. “Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me, all right? Jesus.”

Harper went on more quietly. “The scales of a years-long madness fell from the Suspicious Disciple’s eyes. She turned to rush back to the compound, to raise the alarm. Unfortunately, in her panic, she fell, gave herself away. She only just managed to evade capture, dashing into the surrounding jungle, working her way back to the camp, where her own infant lay sleeping, as the others hunted for her.

“It was then that Iago—realizing the game was up—set fire to the compound, burning his own followers in their beds, shooting even those of the inner circle who tried to escape.”

Storm grimaced. “Like Waco. Like Jonestown.”

“But years earlier than both. In fact, one strain of scholarship holds that the Reverend Jones was much inspired by his predecessor.”

“Swell. A boy’s gotta have someone to look up to.”

“No doubt. In any case, no one escaped from Fort Iago alive.”

“What about this one?” Storm gestured at the photo with his chin. “The lady with the kid. Is she the—what-chamacallit—the suspicious one?”

“Perhaps. In any case, no one knows what happened to her.”

“Well, why not? I mean, all these people dying, someone’s gotta know something.”

“People disappear all the time, Richard. Especially drifters, runaways.”