Cult (9 page)

Holmes sat back in his chair, unable to react.

“You're demented,” Holmes said.

“Determined would be more accurate. I'll make more trouble than you ever dreamed about.”

Holmes shook his head.

“I can't.”

“Yes you can,” Barney said between clamped teeth. “Yes you can.” Without another word, he grabbed Naomi's hand and helped lift her out of her chair.

“Let's get the fuck out of here.”

They moved swiftly out of the office, through the corridors, into the reception room where they slowed down to a walk. He offered a benign smile to the girl at the desk, who smiled back primly. Then he pressed the button of the express elevator.

“Please, please, please,” he whispered.

She started to speak.

“Not now, Nay. Not now.”

He looked above the elevator door watching the red digital lights flicker. Behind them, a bell sounded persistently, pleasantly trilling, like in a department store. The elevator came. The door opened.

“…why yes, Mr. Holmes, they're….” The girl's voice disappeared.

The door closed. Barney leaned against an elevator panel and closed his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Fine.”

He opened his eyes and they both watched the digital numbers move swiftly as the elevator hurtled downward. It did not stop at the lobby level. As it reached the level below, he poised himself at the entrance and grabbed her hand.

“What is it?”

The elevator doors opened.

She grabbed his, following his lead, running toward an exit sign. They came to a door, which he swung open. They were in a courtyard, between two huge trash bins. She followed him up steps, into the street, where he kept on running. The street descended sharply downhill, and she had to strain her leg muscles to keep from falling. Her chest ached. A sharp pain speared into her side.
Madness
, she thought.
He's gone crazy.

Faces red, sweating, gasping for breath, they kept moving through Union Park, into the side streets.

“I can't,” she protested between gasps.

“All right.” He looked behind him. Pedestrians moved laconically, self-absorbed. Cars passed in the ordinary flow of traffic. Holding her arm, he guided her into a coffee shop. They took a booth in the back. She felt the sharp pain in her side subside as she watched him. Patting his perspiring face with a handkerchief, he opened his collar and the little gold pin that held it together fell on the plastic table.

A waitress came up to them.

“That hot outside?” she asked. He managed to give her his order.

“Scrambled eggs. Two coffees.”

“Toast?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Naomi could see that all he wanted was to get rid of her. Finally, they cooled down.

“I don't understand,” Naomi said.

“I know.”

Saying nothing more, they waited as the waitress, looking at them archly, brought two coffees, which she placed on the table in front of them. It had all happened so fast, like a projector revved up, offering relentless images.

“You were wonderful,” he said finally, patting her hand. She wanted to draw it away, but she held it there. The touch of his flesh now seemed alien and she was genuinely alarmed.

“Was there really a hundred thousand dollars in there?”

“Yes. And I marked all the bills.” His handkerchief was soaked. Taking off his jacket, she could see his shirt was wringing wet, stuck to his body. The curl had gone out of his hair and her dress clung moistly to her back.

“Did you see the bastard? That moralistic hypocrite.” He was in the throes of a deep inner excitement. She realized that his mind had been spinning endlessly for days, churning with plans, options and alternatives.

She was only beginning to glimpse the extent of his scheming now, the singleness of purpose that drove him forward, like a computer guided missile. He seemed very much in control.

“Yes, I saw that,” she agreed.

“I want them to see I mean business, that I would go to any lengths to bring Charlotte out, pay any price. I want them to know that I mean trouble.”

“That message came out loud and clear.”

“He may even bite himself, the greedy fuck. Find a way to get her out of the camp. Tell them that I brought her son, that I am giving him up. If that doesn't work, there's the other alternative. Buy her out. Ball's in his court. I don't care how it happens, only that I'm working every angle I can think of, no matter how far-fetched. This is one way to do it.”

“It'll be a challenge,” she conceded.

“Takes fire to fight fire,” he said, looking at his watch.

It occurred to her that he was observing time for a reason. To hide her scrutiny, she lifted her coffee cup, but continued to watch him over the rim.

“I have a….” She was about to say “right,” editing it quickly, “It would be nice to know these plans in advance. After all, I am you chief witness.”

“I know,” he said lowering his voice, watching the door. “I'll try to be more candid in advance.” He paused. “There was a note in with the hundred.”

“Note?”

“You might as well know.”

“What does it say?”

“I want him to be at risk as well. I wrote on the envelope: ‘This is the payment I promised you' and I signed my name, and gave him the number of a motel room. That and the marked bills have got to scare the living shit out of him. You saw his office, all that respectability, the old-line firm. That's what the Glories bought. And what they bought has to be above reproach, Caesar's wife. Above all, he wouldn't want to expose himself to the slightest hint of corruption.”

“He didn't take it. You left it on his desk.”

“His word against ours.”

“You are devious, I'll give you that.”

“That's what I want him to see. I want him to convince them that I'm more trouble than Charlotte is worth.”

“And you think they'll respond to that?”

“I hope so.” He paused and glared at her. “After what you saw at that camp with your own eyes, Nay, anything goes.”

“But this…,” she began, putting down her coffee cup. He was attacking the heart of her, her vaunted moral position. It was the bedrock of her political philosophy. “The means doesn't justify the ends.”

“You want me to roll over and die? Do nothing? Accept my fate and Charlotte's too? Surrender? Those bastards have attacked me. They've broken up my family. Do you think they fight fair?”

“I didn't say that,” she countered. “We don't have time for this kind of discussion.” For the moment, she decided, she would take refuge in that.

“You knew it wouldn't be a joyride,” he said, striking into the soft center of her guilt.

“I came because….” But she could not go on. How could she possibly explain her motives?

I must leave
, her reasoning told her. Instead, she put down her coffee cup. The waitress came back and slid the scrambled eggs in front of each of them. The eggs looked completely unappetizing.

Rising unsteadily, she went into the ladies' room. It was filthy, smelling of urine, the bowl of the toilet rust-stained. She stood over the toilet, feeling nauseous.

I must get out of here
, she vowed.
Run.
He was using her, part of a bizarre plan only fully known to him. She wanted to hurt him. She knew she must clear the air between them, reveal her true motives, foreclose on her acting against the grain, against her principles.

When she came back to the table, two men had joined Barney. Again, he had outfoxed her, had made plans involving her without her consent. Hiding her anger, she slid in beside him.

“This is Pat O'Hara.” O'Hara was their age. He hid his eyes behind dark mirrored sunglasses, and his bony face was partially obscured by a scraggly rust-colored beard. His skinny chest was covered by a faded denim shirt. He looked like he had something to hide.

“And Roy Smith.” He was a chunky black man with a rim of steel-wool beard around thick lips. His skin shined like ebony and his large, amused brown eyes mocked the world. To greet her, he raised two fingers in a macho gesture of acknowledgment. Sitting across from them, she noted in the way they reacted to each other that they were a team, on the same wavelength.

Comrades. Mr. Brains and Mr. Brawn.

“Naomi Forman,” Barney added. “She's my friend. It's okay.”

O'Hara assessed her, his mouth set in a tight line of non-commitment. She knew he was judging her.

“If you say so,” O'Hara said. He spoke softly, perhaps deliberately so, but there was a conspiratorial air about him. Apparently they had been in the middle of a discussion. She noted, too, that Roy had eaten her scrambled eggs and was scooping up the dregs with a piece of toast.

“I don't say you can't figure out a way,” O'Hara said, dismissing her. “Just get her out of the camp. The sooner the better. The longer they keep her, the tougher it is.”

“That's the game plan. Get her out. You go to work,” Barney said.

O'Hara nodded.

“I need her back,” Barney stressed.

“That's the point of the exercise.”

“In three or four weeks or so,” O'Hara explained, “they'll put her on the street or into one of their businesses, selling whatever. They could even send her out of the country. You won't know where she is. They're clever bastards. You're already becoming something of a nuisance. If they think you're going to be a troublemaker, they might shift her around.”

“You think maybe I've blown it?” Barney asked.

“Who the fuck knows,” O'Hara said. “You're not the only one rattling their cage.”

“We'll just have to act as fast as we can,” Barney said.

“All I'm saying is that they can't be underestimated,” O'Hara pointed out.

The waitress came, took away the dishes and refilled their coffee cups.

“None for me,” Naomi said.

“Will it work?” Barney asked. “The deprogramming?”

“I can't guarantee it,” O'Hara said. “Most of the time. Depends.”

“On what?”

“How they've twisted her head. She's terrorized, scared shitless. Her mind has gone to sleep. It's a sin for them to think.”

So he's a deprogrammer
, Naomi thought with resentment. Again, Barney had not consulted her. He had said he was operating on many tracks. This seemed like one that was too extreme. As if responding to her thought, Barney said, “He's a deprogrammer. Used to be at the camp.”

“At the camp?”

“Jeremiah's honcho,” Roy interjected. “‘Zachariah' is what they called him.”

“Takes one to know one,” O'Hara said, making a lame attempt at humor. When no one laughed, he shrugged.

“Mrs. Prococino mentioned him,” Barney said. “Remember?”

She had, and even back then Naomi didn't like the idea.

“Roy here saved me,” O'Hara explained. “It's a long story.”

Roy nodded. She didn't want to know.

“You're planning to kidnap her,” Naomi said, looking at Barney, who nodded.

“No choice about that,” Barney replied.

“None at all.”

“You saw her.”

“It's wrong. Against the law,” Naomi muttered, her indignation rising.

“Hey. Which side is she on?” O'Hara said.

“Ours. Don't worry.” Barney patted her arm. She withdrew it.

O'Hara turned his head towards her, then took his glasses off, showing nervously darting hazel eyes lost in a network of red veins. He fixed them on her and she turned away.

“The first law is the law of nature. That came before any other law. No one has the right to take away a person's free will. When they do that, they take away your mind, and when they take away your mind, they take away your being.” She was sure he had given this lecture many times, although he made it sound fresh and new.

She was about to offer a rebuttal but she knew it wasn't worth it.

“You won't hurt her?” Barney asked.

“That's what they do, not us,” O'Hara said. “She has been hurt in the worst possible way. My job is to open up her mind, snap her out of it. I know the way into it. I was once in her position. I know how it's done, I know how to undo it.”

“They took away seven of my best years. I'll never forgive them for that.”

“Seven years,” Naomi echoed flatly.

“Hard to believe?”

“You don't look the type that would join,” she pressed, finding her strength again.

“I didn't join,” O'Hara said patiently. “That's a misconception. You don't join. You are captured. What you've just said, that's a problem in itself. Blaming the victim.”

“Please, Nay,” Barney said. “I've checked him out. He's saved nearly a hundred people, not only the Glories but from other cults as well.”

“It's a business,” she shot back. “He's profiting from your pain. How much are you paying him?”

“Twenty-five grand, lady. And all expenses. For me and my people.”

“How many of you are there?” she asked.

“Just me,” Roy interjected. “I'm his people.”

“I think you've got a nonbeliever here, pal,” O'Hara said. “Maybe I should split.”

“No… please.”

“Suppose it doesn't work?” she asked, with mock innocence.

“Then the shit hits the fan. She goes back into oblivion and they charge us all with every bullshit accusation they can throw at us. It's happened to me. I've got suits pending in four states. That's what happens to the money I get, lady. Lawyers. It turns out I do it for love.”

“Love.”

“Yes,” O'Hara mused. “That goddamned word. How these cults have insulted it, putrefied it. Those poor, sad victims. I've come to hate the word.”