Cult Page 7

  The Glories had soon built this complex. It looked like a summer camp, with wooden barracks, a mess hall, meeting rooms and cabins for administration and other uses. In the beginning, the locals had fought it, but in the end it was money talking.

  “That price raised the value of our property,” the Bobsons told him, quietly at first, then louder, taking the wind out of the sails of the opposition. How many years had they been there now? Ten? Eleven? God knows how they did it. It wasn’t anything he knew about, nor wanted to.

  He had seen the busloads of young people come in from Seattle, about fifty miles west. They were a mixed bag, clean-cut, scrubbed and brushed, some with long hair and facial hair. Coming in, they looked like ordinary people. Soon they were trapped, neat little dolls. More like sheep, with Jeremiah as their shepherd.

  Often, hysterical parents would get to the camp. It wasn’t hard. There were no gates. They didn’t need gates. The gates were in the kids’ heads. When they got too out of hand, they were forcibly removed by the Sheriff’s men, locked in jail until they cooled down, then sent away with a tough warning. This tactic hadn’t really satisfied Jeremiah and that oily lawyer Holmes, who always pressed charges. But then, parents rarely came back to face them, and other jurisdictions were reluctant to go through extradition procedures. The law! In this case, it seemed he was on the wrong side of it.

  “You go near that camp, I’ll break your ass,” he had told his own boys. Two were away at college, and the oldest, T. Junior, was working back east. Hell, if it was ever his kids in there, he’d have gone in guns blazing.

  His kids had laughed at his warnings. “Pop. You think we’re dummies?”

  “Don’t be smart-asses. It can happen to anyone. I see it every day.”

  It had bewildered him at first. Even when he saw the scam in action. A kid, usually in his early twenties, would be picked up on the city streets by members of the opposite sex. They’d invite the kid to any one of the various houses they owned in the city and entice them into a three-day hang-loose adventure in the country, which would inevitably lead to carting him or her off to the camp. The kids must have thought they’d get laid a lot or discover some new kind of thrill. Only natural that kids that age looked for adventures. What they got instead was a good dose of brainwashing. Some thrill.

  Sometimes he’d get a call from someone who said he had to get away, but usually by the time he got there, they had changed their mind. Except if he got really sick. They didn’t much believe in medical care, except for minor things like bee stings and sunburn. But when a kid got really sick, they let him go. “Lucky bastard,” he’d always say when he’d visit the kid in the county hospital. Of course, he never dare say that publicly. Wouldn’t do to rock the boat. Not as long as the voters tolerated the Glories.

  The voters! He scoffed. The Glories had become voters. With so many establishing their legal residences at the camp, they were becoming a formidable political force. Soon they would tip the balance.

  He’d paid a pretty price, too, for all this aggravation. Just ask Gladys. Many a night, he would wake, sweating and screaming, and she’d have to soothe him like a damned baby to chase away the lingering memory of that fucking nightmare, the one in which all those eyes kept watching him, all those blank dead eyes. He was only the Sheriff, not God.

  “Have you called their lawyer for permission to enter the camp?” the Sheriff asked Barney, knowing the answer in advance. Delaying tactics—a favorite ploy of the Glories. The Sheriff had employed it too.

  When a distraught relative would call the Glory’s office in Seattle, they’d get politely referred to a lawyer who would tell them he would “check.” It was a question of finding out where the person was, he would say. But he’d rarely call back. And if he did there was enough advance notice for them to be prepared.

  If the relatives persisted in going beyond just a visit and got their own lawyer, made too much noise, the Glories would hide the person somewhere else, in another camp, or send them to other parts of the country or the world. The threat of making them disappear was usually enough to call off the dogs.

  Sometimes, when they felt totally safe about the person in the camp, they might allow a brief meeting, especially if it was a spouse or a sibling. More than one sibling had been captured by the Glories during a rescue attempt. Parents, because they were not part of the peer group and because of their age, weren’t nearly as vulnerable.

  “Yes,” Barney answered. “I called their office. ‘Brown and Kyler.’ I spoke to Bradley Holmes, a senior partner. He made my teeth itch.”

  The Sheriff knew what was coming next. He could sympathize with Barney’s sense of powerlessness. Even the lawyer’s name, Bradley Holmes, was intimidating. Holmes was the embodiment of the establishment. Through Holmes, the Glories had bought legal respectability. He was a whore in pinstripes. Barney had dealt with plenty of those.

  “What did he say?” the Sheriff asked.

  “He said he’d check with my wife,” Barney said, shaking his head.

  “It’s a perfectly legitimate answer. It’s her decision.” The Sheriff nearly choked on the word “decision.”

  “Oh yes,” Barney sneered. “I asked him how long it would take. He said he couldn’t tell me. All very calm and measured.” When the Sheriff deliberately showed no reaction, he continued. “I said I had come out at great expense to see my wife, that she had left a young child at home, that she was obviously being held against her will, and that I would be damned if he’d have me standing around cooling my heels until they had checked. What the hell did ‘check’ mean?”

  “It meant that you could see her when it was appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?”

  “When she wanted to see you.” He was trying to be diplomatic. “Look, I’m just the Sheriff, the messenger.”

  “What you’re telling me, then,” Barney said, “is that either I see them on their terms or I don’t see them at all.”

  “More or less.”

  “This is not what I came to you to hear. I came to you for help.”

  “Sorry. All I can help you with is advice. I’m just the messenger,” he said.

  “It’s like you’re protecting them,” Barney said, his face tightening.

  “I’m not protecting them. I’m enforcing the law.”

  “They break up my family and you tell me about the goddamned law.”

  “Barney,” Naomi cautioned.

  Her rebuke caught him in time and he backed off. The Sheriff was used to it. He wished it would come to an end.

  “Have they got armed guards at this camp?” Barney asked.

  It was the inevitable question, and the Sheriff was prepared for it. “They don’t need them.”

  “So if someone attacks them, how do they defend themselves?”

  “The fact is, Mr. Harrigan, they just don’t need them. They call me. I defend them. That’s my job, to defend citizens of this county against potential criminals.” What he didn’t tell them was that the camp had a hot line to the Sheriff’s office. Usually, though, the Glories were fully able to take care of any wild-eyed relatives that had bluffed their way into the camp.

  “We don’t really need your help,” Jeremiah had bragged. “But when we do, you’ll be summoned.” The Sheriff couldn’t help but think about the accidental drownings. They had their own devious ways to get rid of trespassers. Sometimes they said they had no record of the person inquired about. On very rare occasions, they arranged a brief talk with the Glory in question, just enough time for the relatives to get the idea. They were remarkably effective.

  “How noble.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The Sheriff knew exactly where his reasoning was leading. Poor bastard. The smell of desperation oozed out of him, spilling into the room.

  “There have been incidents. Don’t make another one,” the Sheriff
said cautiously.

  “People trying to get them out?”

  Occasionally, some relatives would try to pull a snatch with a deprogrammer waiting somewhere. The Glories had a helluva nose for that. Usually, when a snatch was tried, it was after the kid had graduated into fund-raising and was plucked off some street corner, but that was always out of his jurisdiction. When they sensed that was about to happen, they usually called him on the hot line and he and his men would rush out to the camp, or the streets where the Glories were fund-raising. A couple of times, they had missed and some kid had been spirited away, but that was rare.

  His method for disarming people who were ready for a fight was patient, gentle persuasion, maybe scare them a bit, stop them from trying anything stupid. Sometimes he would hint at the truth of the process. That always hurt the most. The fact was that the odds were against them, heavily against them. Yet there was one thing he prided himself about. He would never completely foreclose on their hopes to win back their loved one. Just as long as they didn’t try it in his county.

  “Some.”

  “Does it ever work?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Not in recent years.”

  Barney was silent for a long time.

  They were beginning to eat into the Sheriff’s time, try his patience. Besides, his stomach was grumbling. It was nearly lunchtime.

  “Look, Mr. Harrigan,” the Sheriff said, standing up. Behind him was a big map of the county. “Whatever is going through your mind, forget it.” He decided to kill any ideas the man might have.

  “Their camp is in a little valley surrounded by low hills. It’s unmarked. There’s a long, winding road. You can’t sneak in. There’s only this one road. They see you coming. Get my drift? Even if you do find it, they’ll probably let you meet the person just to see if you mean trouble. And if you look like trouble they might transfer her out of there. Why torture yourself?”

  “It’s been three weeks. This has already been torture.”

  “They usually hold them here for six weeks. Then they send them out over the country to fund-raise. She might not even be there.”

  “So,” Barney said, his lips contorting into a trembling smile. “You used the word ‘hold.’”

  “Only a figure of speech, Mr. Harrigan,” the Sheriff said.

  “It implies that she’s been captured.”

  “Don’t look for implications; I try not to make judgments. I’m an officer of the law.”

  “But you said….”

  “Please, Barney. There’s no point,” Naomi interrupted.

  “But he knows it’s true. They’re holding her under duress.”

  The Sheriff sat down again, tapping his fingers impatiently on the desk.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “They can’t be allowed to get away with it!”

  Barney was on the edge of panic. The Sheriff turned to Naomi.

  “Talk some sense into him, lady.”

  His chest was exploding with pain and emptiness. He needed something to fill it up. He’d have to end it, end it now.

  “The fact is, Mr. Harrigan, it’s damned near hopeless. What they got in there is a committed woman. She has jettisoned her life. There is nothing you can do.” What hurt him the most was the knowledge that in Barney’s shoes he’d do the same.

  He wished he could have said it another way. Go home, he cried in his heart. Don’t put your trouble on my doorstep. I’m just a man.

  Thankfully, Barney stood up, holding out his hand. Now that was odd, the Sheriff thought, they usually just sat there until he declared the interview over. The Sheriff took Barney’s hand. It felt damp, like the hand of a drowning man, reaching out for a lifesaver.

  Chapter 6

  She knew Barney would not leave it alone.

  He had, despite all the Sheriff’s warning, headed directly toward the camp. He had gotten directions through other sources, but he had visited the Sheriff, as he put it, on the off chance he might be of some help. The Sheriff had confirmed his own powerlessness, although she had sensed that he had some understanding of Barney’s pain.

  “Barney, you heard the man. It’s trouble.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Trouble.”

  “Why must you do this?” Naomi said.

  “You know why, Nay,” Barney muttered, his determination unwavering. “I’ve got to see for myself.”

  “But you don’t have permission.”

  “Fuck permission. You heard the Sheriff. I need to see her. See for myself.” He turned toward her and patted her knee.

  “Just be cool. I’ll be careful. You’ll see.”

  He pointed to his forced smile. “Like this. Show them this.”

  She shrugged in consent. No point in arguing. She had gone along.

  No one had stopped them until they reached what appeared to be a parking lot. There were a few cars and vans parked there. If they had not received specific instructions on how to get there, they might have missed it. In fact, there was nothing to indicate that this was a Glory indoctrination camp. There were no signs. And, as the Sheriff had told them, there was a long, winding road with a bridge to cross over a fast running river. Not far away, she could see a neat row of barracks-like structures and other cabins. It did remind her of a summer camp.

  As they moved into the parking lot, a single man emerged from nowhere and waved. He was dressed in khakis and a lightweight jacket. Around his neck he wore a whistle and an amulet on a gold chain. On closer observation, they saw that it was one of the amulets in the likeness of Father Glory’s head.

  The man moved in the path of their crawling car and smiled broadly. Barney pulled the car to a stop, opened the door and got out. Naomi stayed inside, watching them through the front windshield.

  “I’m Jeremiah,” the man said, a smile fixed on his face, putting out his hand in greeting. He was about 35, his curly hair flecked with gray. His expression was benign, although behind the cheekbones, she imagined she could see a hard-edged observant look. Put him in a business suit and he might have been taken for an IBM executive.

  “I’m Barney Harrigan,” Barney said, his voice deliberately ingratiating, like a salesman, his tone unthreatening, his smile fixed.

  “Yes, I know. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Really?”

  “Sheriff Moore said you might be stopping by.” He nodded and continued to smile pleasantly. “You are trespassing, but it’s all right. I’m sure if you waited for a day or so Mr. Holmes would have given you permission.”

  She could see a nerve palpitating in Barney’s jaw. He was, she knew, holding himself together by sheer will.

  “So I can see Charlotte?” Barney asked.

  “Of course.”

  He turned and waved, and three people emerged from one of the buildings and headed toward them. As they came closer, Naomi could see two women and one man. She estimated that they were in their early to middle twenties. Naomi noted that they seemed strange-looking. They were all smiling and their eyes seemed glazed. They reminded her of robots. Since she had no idea what Charlotte looked like, she could only guess that one of them, probably the woman in the center, was her.

  Barney, looking increasingly agitated, watched as they came toward him; Naomi could feel his tension. Jeremiah nodded as they came forward. Barney’s smile disappeared as they approached.

  “Charlotte,” Barney called as they came closer. He started to move forward to greet the group, but then he stopped, waiting. Naomi confirmed that the woman in the center was Charlotte. Her hair was shorn in a masculine cut, reminding Naomi of pictures she had seen of prisoners in a concentration camp. She wore slacks and a frayed sweater.

  Charlotte nodded, acknowledging the greeting. She smiled, but showed little emotion.

  “Nice
to see you, Barney,” she said with obvious indifference. Naomi could see Barney’s disappointment.

  “And nice to see you, Charlotte,” Barney said. He seemed totally confused by her reaction. What had he expected?

  “So here she is,” Jeremiah said. “Alive and well. Aren’t you, Rachel?”

  “Rachel?” Barney stared at her in disbelief.

  “Their old names don’t apply anymore,” Jeremiah said blandly. “They have a new life. Isn’t that true, Rachel?”

  “Oh yes, a new life with Father Glory,” Charlotte said. Naomi thought she could detect a sudden glow of ecstasy at the mention of Father Glory.

  She simply stood before him, silent, smiling, treating him like a stranger. It must have been galling for Barney. He turned to the woman next to her.

  “You did this, Susan, you bitch,” he murmured. There was a distinct resemblance between the two women. She must be Charlotte’s sister, Naomi thought.

  “Rachel is very happy here,” Mary said. “Aren’t you, Rachel?”

  “Very happy,” Charlotte repeated, emotionless.

  “Very happy,” the young man said, nodding.

  “I’d like you to come home with me,” Barney said. His face had flushed and the veins in his neck stood out. “Kevin needs you.”

  “Kevin will be fine,” Mary said. “He has his daddy.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “He has his daddy.”

  “He needs his mommy,” Barney said. She could sense the beginning of an eruption.

  “There now,” Jeremiah said blandly. “You’ve seen her. Doesn’t she look wonderful? She’s quite happy. Perhaps you should go now.”

  “You won’t come home?” Barney asked, swallowing hard.

  “She is home,” Jeremiah said. “Aren’t you, Rachel?”

  “I am home,” Charlotte said.

  “But Kevin…,” Barney began.

  “Well now, Mr. Harrigan. You’ve seen your wife. No problem was there. Now it’s time for you to leave. The others are having lunch.” He turned to the three robotic Glories. “You can go to lunch now.”