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A Joseph Sterling Mystery Novel

Written by G. Lester

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As he gazed across the table at Lee Warton, Joseph Sterling was once again impressed by the common demeanor of most people with uncommon beliefs. The man seated across from him would have been defined as a total kook by all but the most open-minded, and yet his clothes, grooming, and mannerisms were inconspicuous and unexceptional.

Granted, he obviously made no effort to keep up with the most current fashions (but then again neither did Sterling) and his lean, middle-aged face, framed by thick-rimmed, powerful glasses, was half-hidden behind brown-gray, thinning hair that probably would have looked better if it had been trimmed more neatly around his high cheekbones and slightly protruding ears.

His large, bony hands were folded together on the table in a vaguely religious manner, as if he were demonstrating a personal humility without quite breaking into open prayer. But overall, he looked remarkably common and familiar, if not quite like an upscale professional then at least no worse than any of the other blue-collar, lower-income men seated in the small downtown cafe at that hour.

Joseph Sterling knew Warton slightly. They had met at various gatherings of eccentric and unusual groups that Sterling, as a freelance journalist who made his living by writing about such matters, habitually attended as a means of making contacts and gathering new material.

From what he knew of Warton and his organization, he would have expected that he would shun other metaphysical organizations like the plague, but the tall, thin man turned up at their meetings with surprising frequency. Always quiet, always polite, seated at the back of the room with a slight smile on his face as the speakers discussed auras and magnetism, spirits and crystals, UFOs and demons, Warton had never made a spectacle of himself by either agreeing or by disagreeing with that was being said, but he tended to show up at every type of meeting, at every opportunity. Sterling wasn't quite sure why.

Inevitably, over time, they had developed a kind of acquaintance, if for no other reason than mutual recognition as they kept running across one another. And, too, perhaps, there was the added sympathy of two outsiders, two not-quite-disbelievers in a crowd of open-mouthed, often credulous followers of whatever was being discussed that night. Without intending to do so, Sterling had often found himself exchanging glances of mild amusement or amazement (and sometimes, admittedly, of scorn) with Warton and other, scattered skeptics seated here and there in the audience.

If that created a bond between them, it was only mild and incidental. But when Sterling had answered his phone one morning to find Warton on the other end, asking to speak with him on an important subject he would only discuss in person, Sterling had suggested that they meet in a local, convenient restaurant. Warton had readily agreed, asking only that Sterling make it as soon as possible. So after raising his eyebrows slightly into the receiver, Sterling had agreed to meet with the taller man that very afternoon.

Warton had greeted him with strangely old-fashioned manners, half-rising to shake his hand and then waving him into the chair opposite him. He had made suitable small talk until the waitress had taken their orders (Sterling wasn't quite certain whether or not Warton was a vegetarian but had followed his lead to settle on a simple salad just in case; he didn't want to offend the man before they had even had a chance to talk) and then, as they sipped cautiously at the overly-hot coffee, Warton wriggled his heavy eyebrows behind the thick frames of his glasses.

"I suppose you already know why I've asked to see you," he said.

Sterling leaned backward slightly in surprise. "How should I know that?" he asked mildly.

Warton smiled. "It was my impression that you knew everything," he said, scratching at a faint four-o'clock shadow along one thin cheek. "Your reputation precedes you, you know."

Sterling frowned. "I wasn't aware that I had a reputation," he said. "Especially for anything approaching omniscience."

Warton laughed slightly. "See?" he asked. "How many people would even know the word omniscience, let alone use it in a sentence?"

Sterling shook his head. "What's your point?" he asked, somewhat rudely. He had never responded well to flattery. Warton paused for a moment, looking at him with magnified, oversized eyes, and then he sighed.

"I see I've offended you," he remarked. "Sorry. That wasn't my intention. I just assumed you knew- surely you've heard of the troubles we've been having, back at the community."

Sterling gave him a blank look. "What community?"

Warton gave a grimace of impatience. "Oh, come on!" he snapped before he could stop himself. "You can't tell me you haven't-" He leaned forward and peered in a disconcerting way into Sterling's open, apparently innocent eyes. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked.

"Sorry to puncture the inflated image you seem to have of me," Sterling said. "But I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about."

Warton leaned back and laughed softly, shaking his head. "Well, I guess that just goes to show me that I should never assume myself to be the center of everyone else's universe. But you do at least know of our group, the Grimmly River Transcendentalists, don't you?"

"I've heard of them," Sterling said shortly. "I can't say as I know all that much about them, really." In fact he knew more than he was admitting, but he had learned long ago that the best way to interview people was to pretend to be as ignorant as possible so that they had to tell him things. If he had had a personal motto, it may well have been, 'never assume anything.'

"All right," Warton nodded. "You probably think we're just another bunch of kooks with some crazy, stupid beliefs, right?"

Sterling made a vague gesture with his hand. "Why? Should I?"

Warton scratched at his neck. "Well, I don't think that, of course," he said. "But that's the way most people describe us. Either that or as Satanists, though that tends to be just the religious types. Of course we have nothing to do with the worship of the devil, though we try to be tolerant toward all beliefs."

Sterling repressed a sigh. He had expected to have to sit his way through a sermon somewhere along the line. Might as well get it over with as soon as possible so they could get on to whatever had led Warton to ask to see him. "So what do you believe, then?" he asked patiently.

To his surprise Warton shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he told him. "Or maybe it does, but not right now. We can go into it later, if you want." He gave Sterling a knowing look and a slight smile. "You're not really interested anyway, are you?"

Sterling shrugged. "I'm always interested in other people's ideas."

"Perhaps so, but only so that you can make money by writing about them, and getting your articles published in magazines that treat metaphysical subjects like nothing but the modern equivalent of a freak-show," Warton said.

Sterling flushed slightly but Warton's eyes expressed only friendly sympathy.

"Well, that's not the way I'd put it, myself," he said cautiously.

"I meant no offense," Warton assured him. "I realize that even bad publicity is often better than no publicity at all, and to be honest about it, many metaphysical people are rather- well, foolish, to put it bluntly. Though I can't say I agree with exposing the deepest, most fundamental beliefs of others to ridicule and scorn-"

"Hey, that's a bit harsh, isn't it?" Sterling protested, feeling the flush of temper crawl its way up his neck. "I don't-"

Warton raised his hand in a placating manner. "Sorry, sorry," he apologized. "Like I said, I mean no offense. But to return to the subject, I had supposed you had heard of our problems. If not I'll have to-"

At that moment the waitress brought salads and then refilled their cups. Conversation lapsed between the two men as they took the first, cautious bites of their food. Then, as he nibbled on an oversized piece of lettuce, Warton sniffed and patted his lips with his napkin.

"So do you want to hear my story?" he asked.

"That's what I'm here for," Sterling pointed out.

"All right. I'll try to keep it simple."

Sterling smiled slightly. "I'd appreciate that."

Warton gave him an odd look but then plunged forward. "Well, in the first place, we don't have a proper community," he explained. "Not like a commune or something. Oh, we do own land, an old farm that we've converted to our needs, but most of our members live here in the city and hold down regular jobs and the like. We're not a bunch of grass-eating hippies."

"Glad to hear it," Sterling muttered, wondering if, then, he could have ordered something other than a salad (a delicacy he didn't much care for, as a rule).

"Not that we have anything against that kind of lifestyle," Warton said hastily, clearly determined not to offend anyone. "And like I said, we have this place out in the country, we spend as much time there as we can. Fortunately many of our members are able to live there full-time, to tend the fields- we have a large garden, and raise much of our own food- and to engage in the different work upon which our organization is founded. We make it a rule never to turn anyone away, and don't have any strict rules for membership, so quite a few- well, indifferent members, with no real commitment to our cause, live on the farm, along with perhaps a hundred serious participants."

"Is this all relevant?" Sterling asked. "I mean, it's interesting, and all that, but is it-"

"Believe me, it's important," Warton said grimly. "See, that's where the problem is, out at the farm." He leaned back in his chair and pushed the half-eaten salad away. "Do you know anything about the tenets of our faith?" he asked.

"Not as much as you, obviously," Sterling said. "So why not just assume I don't know anything at all and tell me. Always remembering that neither one of us has all day to sit here talking," he added hastily, having learned from bitter experience never to encourage a fanatic to talk too enthusiastically about his special interest. "Of course I know what transcendentalists are."

"Perhaps so, but we aren't normal transcendentalists," Warton said. "Oh, don't worry. I won't bore you with long lectures, but basically, our belief is that this world is unspeakably evil, fallen, corrupt, dark and- well, let's just say negative."

"You don't hold any monopoly on that," Sterling pointed out. "Many faiths believe that the material world is evil."

"Of course," Warton agreed. "But we don't just sit back and wait for some god to rescue us from it. And we don't waste our time complaining about it, either. The Grimmly River Transcendentalists strive to find ways to escape from the physical world, to transcend it, so to speak, by whatever avenues are open to us. So in that sense we are more or less experimentalists, seeking to find ways to outgrow the limitations and the pure evil of the unadulterated physical state."

Sterling scratched his forehead gently with the tines of his fork. "Well, good luck," was all he could think to say.

"Oh, of course, if we can find the key to any sort of transcendence we will gladly share it with others," Warton assured him. "But you can understand, it's a slow and tedious process, involving the investigation of many possibilities that lead nowhere, and numerous dead-ends. And since our basic beliefs are that the physical world is evil and corrupt, we- well, we tend to be a somewhat melancholy, pessimistic bunch. An occupational hazard," he smiled.

Sterling laughed slightly. "Stands to reason," he agreed. "But if that's your problem, well, I'm no psychiatrist."

"Thank God for that," Warton said fervently. "Psychiatrists are a part of the problem. Rather than encouraging people to escape from the evil of this world, they encourage people to surrender to it- to 'adjust' and to 'accept' things as they are. A very pernicious attitude, and one we find especially harmful. How can one overcome evil if one refuses to see it as it is?"

Sterling shrugged. "Good point," he said in a neutral voice. "But I still don't see what you want with me. If you're asking me to write an article or two about you-"

"That's not at all what we had in mind," Warton interrupted sharply, but then he caught himself and smiled. "You see, we have a little problem," he said. "We think we may have a serial killer killing our members, out on the farm."

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A Joseph Sterling Mystery
Written by G. Lester
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