The Tribes

by Mari Howes

Genres: General Fiction; Thrillers; Legal Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A dark and daring debut thriller exploring power, control and resilience against all odds, The Tribes tells the story of a cult member accused of a shocking crime and the lawyer who chooses to defend her.

One quiet night in a rural Vermont town, a panicked woman calls 9-1-1 on a gas station payphone to report that a newborn baby has died. Local police respond to the call and charge Heather Garner, a college drop-out and member of fringe religious community The Messiah’s Tribes, with the murder of her son. Heather’s future is in the hands of her family: but they haven’t seen or heard from her in almost 20 years.

Lawyer Abby Harris’s friends and colleagues are puzzled by her choice to take on the case, especially given she’s pregnant with her first child. But Abby is convinced that there’s more to Heather’s story than meets the eye. The investigation leads her to understand that the community Heather belonged to may not be a peaceful, eccentric bunch of hippies, but a well-organized, exploitative criminal enterprise.

Engrossing and suspenseful, The Tribes reveals the mystery of Heather’s past piece by piece, until a jury must decide: does her indoctrination make her a victim, or a perpetrator?

Release date: November 3, 2026

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 416

Sample

1.

HEATHER

Before. Upstate New York, 1996

The platform truck drove closer. It was loud-so loud the beat thumped inside my muscles and bones, as if the bass had transplanted itself into my body. Men in tie-dyed shirts and stringy dreads stalked the crowd on stilts. The sweet smell of pot smoke hung in the heavy August air. An ocean of Phish fans looked like figures in an Impressionist painting-not much more than a mess of dots and brushstrokes against a backdrop of soaring Adirondack Mountains and cloudless cerulean sky.

Someone dropped a cigarette onto my foot and ground it out with a combat boot. It hurt, but not as much as it should have. I whimpered a worthless objection and stumbled away.

When I looked back, Veronica and Laci were gone. They had been here two seconds ago, and now-poof.

Trios sucked. We were nominally "best friends," roommates thrown together for our first year of college: Laci Franklin of Darien, Connecticut; Veronica Pavlovitz of Grosse Pointe, Michigan; and me, Heather Garner of Wellesley, Massachusetts. We must've looked like the perfect little clique, striding around campus together.

But the truth is, I was never Laci's first choice, nor Veronica's.

Laci and Veronica had chosen each other, and they'd been inseparable ever since they had arrived at college orientation ten hours before me. They'd unpacked their stuff-spiral notebooks, shower caddies, collages of hometown friends who had been shipped to other colleges-all over our cramped triple, which was just a double room with extra furniture jammed in. They left me a bare bed, its metal frame and plasticky mattress untouched, and scrawled a note on the room's whiteboard: "Went to icebreakers. Come find us!"

The period part of the exclamation point was a red heart, but they might as well have written: "Hurry, loser! You're missing out!"

By the time I saw their message, I'd missed both the crux of the orientation program and the pizza party afterward.

My bickering parents-they bickered all the time, like an irritating mixtape in the background of my life-and I had arrived in the dark, after dinner. I'd gotten up early to pack the car, but Mom had some client who insisted on discussing the fabrics for her Nantucket house that morning. The existing window treatments were overstimulating her baby, or some new age psychobabble like that. Mom couldn't afford to turn down design clients. Not when the ten-plus years spent puttering in her home décor boutique were finally starting to pay off.

I fought back tears over missing the first day of orientation. I wrestled my new twin sheets-pink, too frilly for a dorm-onto the slippery green-gray mattress, and wondered why, if Mom was such a home design genius, she hadn't told me to go to TJ Maxx and buy a mattress pad like everyone else.

Probably because she and Dad were over this whole ritual.

Seven years ago, our whole family had escorted Michelle to Dartmouth with pomp and circumstance fit for a coronation. Two years later, we flew, again as a family, to install Jennifer at Stanford with similar fanfare.

What did I get? A fight in Dad's wood-paneled Cherokee about kitchen renovations that lasted the better part of three hours. A fight that ended in a stalemate in the fire lane outside my dorm, and led to strained voices, forced cheerfulness, and barely veiled relief that they were depositing their unwanted third daughter at any college at all.

When the resident assistant-a smiling, moderately overweight girl with one of those creepy nose rings rammed through her septum-said she'd help carry my stuff, I dismissed Mom and Dad right away.

"Fine," Mom said, through clenched teeth. "You can drive yourself to this third-tier, overpriced, artsy-fartsy excuse for a college next time, and may you never know the sadness of having an ungrateful child."

A year later, I had no idea whether my parents even noticed that I'd left for my sophomore year a few days early so my roommates and I could sneak to the concert. We'd arrived with the first wave of fans, chowed down on s'mores, and watched the outdoor screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show with some hot guys from Syracuse who'd pitched their tent next to ours.

Our tent neighbors also gave us the fluffiest, greenest weed I'd ever seen. "You're in for a religious experience. Prepare to be transported."

They weren't kidding. Before long, I'd lost my grip on time with my watch safely stowed in the glove compartment of Veronica's car. I couldn't even remember if I'd fooled around with one of the 'cuse guys before the classical orchestra took the stage. Not that I really wanted to know. There was no dry itch of latex though, truth be told, I couldn't feel much besides my spinning head and twisting gut.

The crowd pushed in a wave toward the monstrously huge truck bearing the band on its platform. I stood still and let them swirl around me, like a rock in the stream-the antithesis of a ripple in still water. (Veronica insisted on listening to the Dead on the way to the festival; she deemed it a matter of respect.) Everyone looked so happy, so enraptured, but I wished the crowd would part, and let the endless jam drive away on its eighteen-wheeler. My brain screamed for silence that wouldn't come. Why did I get so spun out?

I needed to find my roommates, or I'd be stuck on the tarmac of this decommissioned Air Force base forever, lost in the labyrinth of tents and portable toilets. I trudged forward, slipping between groups of partyers on unsteady feet. Rumors swirled: the festival had drawn almost a hundred thousand people, fifty times the student body of Phillips College.

I smiled. I could still do basic math. I couldn't be too messed up. If I could find Laci and Veronica, all would be copacetic.

My friends were such posers. Rich girls buying into the deluxe free love and liberal arts package. Veronica, the dominant force of our trio, hailed from the largest furniture dynasty in the Midwest. She could rage against the man, but she'd always have a career-in-waiting in case she got bored of her rebel act. And Laci was a member of both the Young Socialists and the Equestrian Club.

God, I wanted new friends.

No. I wanted a total do-over of my entire freshman year. I'd fucked up so completely: Cs and Ds across the board, automatic academic probation. My advisor, a literary legend and minor local celebrity, looked at me over his glasses and recommended "a total revision before September."

xxx


A dude with tattoos snaking up both arms caught me eyeing him. I smiled and darted my eyes away, but he dismissed me as if I were nothing, as if he was waving smoke away from his face. My head spun faster, and for a millisecond, everything snapped into brutal focus.

Since my high school boyfriend had dumped me-on Thanksgiving Eve of freshman year, so cliché-I'd been spending way more time spun out. And while spun out, I was screwing an increasingly shameful number of random guys. A lump lodged in my throat. Focus, Heather.

Okay: Laci and Veronica had to come back to the camping area eventually. Their stuff was there, along with the keys to Veronica's mother's hand-me-down blue Volvo station wagon-a car that could only ever qualify as a status symbol in Vermont. In the back of the car, we had a case of water. I would find the tent, get the car keys, drink about five gallons of water, and wait for Laci and Veronica to reappear.

I pushed through the throng toward the main entrance. An amazing bus, a double-decker splashed with enormous psychedelic daisies, sat parked alongside the chain-link fence that separated the tarmac from the muddy campground. It had to be Ben & Jerry's. The ice-cream kings traveled with a fancy bus, and hadn't they been on stage earlier?

My mouth watered at the thought of ice cream. Water. Anything cold.

Some rarely deployed self-preservation instinct told me to keep walking toward the bus. Lace curtains covered its windows, which seemed fancy, but what did I know about buses? I'd only ever ridden the Logan Express. That and Walt Disney World transit. Neither of which counted.

An old hippie sat on a folding chair by the entrance. She had a shriveled face, long platinum-gray hair, and practically no eyebrows. A small white cap covered the crown of her head. She was knitting a fisherman sweater, a crazy project in the soupy weather. A trio of men with beards and ponytails played folk music on an accordion, a guitar, and some kind of reed flute. Nobody was eating ice cream.

"Come take a break," the old lady said. Her hands never slowed.

A bystander, older than me, and out of my league, anyway-scruffy, handsome, and square jawed-stopped talking to his friends long enough to yell, "Babe. Hey, babe! Do not go in that bus," before his buddies pulled him back toward the concert.

I stepped up the stairs anyway. Either I was hallucinating, or this was no ordinary ice-cream truck. The interior looked more like someone's fancy pirate ship playhouse, with gleaming carved wood and gold brocade upholstery. A group of people talked quietly over cookies. One of the girls poured me a cup of tea.

"Come in and chat." Her voice oozed warmth. "I'm Naomi."

Naomi looked about my age, maybe a few years older, and significantly prettier. She wore no makeup and her blond hair hung down her back in two braids. Her billowing sky-blue prairie dress matched her eyes.

The tea was green and sweet. I downed two cups and fumbled for my wallet.

"Oh, don't worry about that-It's free. Have as much as you like. You seem tired. Why don't you sit for a while?"

I collapsed on the sofa. My head hit the antimacassar and I heard myself beginning to babble that Nana used to have antimacassars on her parlor furniture, but Nana went to Heaven. "Antimacassar" was a fun word to say, even though I was sad about Nana being dead. I felt sad and giggly-uncontrollably, unapologetically giggly-at the same time.

Which was wrong and awkward, but I always felt wrong and awkward. College made me feel like I was ten years old again, and I was the only kid at swim camp who couldn't make the butterfly click. That feeling never went away-though I could tune it out sometimes, with enough weed.

Naomi handed me a pillow. "Rest. You're safe here."

I was too tired to argue. Naomi arranged the pillow under my head and hoisted my feet onto the sofa. She draped a summer-weight blanket over me and I let myself doze.

xxx


The sound of cars idling and the smell of home-cooked breakfast drew me out of a thick sleep. In that split second between slumber and wakefulness, my whole body felt at peace.

My eyes flew open.

Morning.

Laci and Veronica.

They were probably passed out in our tent.

My stomach growled. When Naomi offered breakfast, I tucked into the food, relieved to chow down away from the judgmental eyes of the popular girls who prowled the dining hall, showering approval on the skinny girls who had the strength to eat only salad. I devoured several strips of bacon, a heap of fried potatoes, and buttery pancakes swimming in syrup.

Naomi hovered, ready to refill my plate and cup.

"I should get moving-but, um, thanks for everything."

"Please come visit again."

I was shocked when I stepped outside and saw that most of the tents were gone. Our tent was gone. I picked up my pace and half jogged to the parking lot. Almost all the cars, thousands and thousands, had disappeared. A janitor's truck rumbled to a stop next to me.

"Are you lost? Do you need help?" the driver asked.

"I think my friends left me. What time did the show end?"

He scratched his stubble. "Honey, everyone left yesterday. Do you need a quarter for a phone call?"

"No, thanks. I've got a quarter."

I hightailed it back to the bus. I asked two guys in headbands what day it was.

"Tuesday."

"The concert ended Sunday night, right?"

"Technically, the last set didn't wrap up until early Monday. But yeah, they started to clear everyone out right away."

The world tilted underneath me.

I had passed out for more than twenty-four hours, surrounded by strangers. Plus, classes started tomorrow.

Laci and Veronica had left me behind. For real. Had they called the cops and reported me missing? Had they called my parents?

"Are you alright?" Naomi appeared at my side.

"I need to get back."

"Not a problem, my friend. Where are you headed?"

The hippies drove me all the way back to Phillips College, even though it was over an hour out of their way. The men played music: mellow, repetitive melodies. Naomi sat next to me and asked me about school and my family. She listened as if she found me fascinating. When we passed the first sign for school, she handed me a pair of pamphlets, both stamped "Copyrighted Official Publication of the Messiah's Tribes."

The first, titled "Conservation: Our Sacred Duty," rambled about standard granola stuff. Plastic: bad. Composting: good. The second, much thicker booklet was packed with testimonials from grateful college kids who had joined the Messiah's Tribes and gotten clean. A Bible verse on the back contrasted the fates of the wise and the foolish in stark terms.

Whatever. To each his own. They seemed nice and they'd helped me out of a major jam. I couldn't believe how long I'd slept, and I kept wondering how on earth I'd managed not to piss myself. Had I sleepwalked to the bathroom? I didn't have the nerve to ask Naomi.

The bus driver idled at the college entrance. Naomi clasped both of my hands in hers. Her big round eyes stared straight into mine. "You don't need to go back, you know. You can choose a life that's different."

2.

ABBY

2016

Abby Harris parked her Mercedes sedan between an enormous pickup truck and a Subaru wagon plastered with at least two-dozen bumper stickers, most extolling local farming and one urging other drivers to "Keep Vermont Weird," which made her smile.

Abby loved Vermont enough to harbor a fantasy of someday relocating to one of its painfully quaint covered-bridge towns, where she could wear jeans and hiking boots, raise backyard hens, and take Fridays off to ski. She'd indulged her daydream enough to sit for both the Vermont and Massachusetts bar exams, even though she had established her career in Boston. But today, she drove straight to Rutland after hanging up with Michelle. An unusual case always sparked intrigue, but the strong possibility her prospective client might be innocent-a relative rarity in Abby's professional experience-prompted Abby to clear her day. Or rather, prompted her to pile more time-sensitive work onto her associate's already packed day.