Authors: Chris Jordan
“They have no children?”
“Not then. After the book is published his wife gets pregnant and they have one child, a boy. Bit of a miracle baby because Professor Conklin has a very low sperm count, result of a fever when he was a child. They name the miracle baby Arthur J. Conklin. Different middle name so he’s not a junior.”
“
J
for Jedediah.”
“Correct. Very good. So Professor Conklin writes his book, gives it a catchy title
The Rule of One.
The book lays out his theory about how human beings can learn from the example of insects and reorganize the brain for success. It’s all very complicated—unreadable nonsense in my never-humble opinion—but aside from improving your brain power, the book promises to make you rich. Conklin published the book with a small but legit publisher and that first year he sold less than five hundred copies. So he decides to take back the contract and publish it himself.
Good move on his part. He expands the title to
The Rule of One: How to Unleash the Hidden Powers of Your Mind.
He sets up seminars—get this, he charges to explain his own book, then sells it to you. And he doesn’t sell you one copy, he sells you a hundred and tells you how to make money selling it to your friends and neighbors, and how they’ll get rich selling it to
their
friends and neighbors.”
Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “It never changes, does it? The old scams are the best.”
“True,” Maggie agrees, “but Conklin added a few variations of his own. Pretty soon he’s moving up to ten thousand copies a week in hardcover. Then nearly a hundred thousand copies a month in the trade paperback edition. He’s advertising on cable TV, buying thirty minutes at a time, promoting his book, his secret system for accumulating wealth. He gets very wealthy. Some of his devout readers become his followers and take to calling themselves ‘Rulers.’ They call Conklin the ‘Profit,’ as in
making a profit.
”
“I heard that,” says Shane. “I thought it was a joke.”
“No joke. Believe me, these folks are very serious. At this point, the late 1970s, his organization has all the makings of a nascent cult, with the author as the charismatic leader, but it’s not quite there yet.
The Rule of One
has a core philosophy—the individual transforms himself by tuning into what he calls ‘hive think,’ or group intelligence, and then utilizes newfound brain power to dominate the unenlightened. The average saps that Conklin calls ‘drones.’ That’s all very much standard cult, but what the Rulers lack is the origination myth associated with most religions. Conklin has nothing whatever to say about a supreme being, no theory about how the universe began.
He does not promise an afterlife—indeed he discourages any such beliefs. For Rulers, the only thing that counts is the here and now.”
“Greed is good.”
Maggie smiles. “Not quite. Conklin believes that greed is an effective stimulant for the higher evolution of the mind. He has no particular use for ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ But he very effectively uses greed to bind his followers together. Many of the original Rulers, the first few hundred, they also get rich, mostly by running seminars that charge upward of five thousand dollars per person, more or less guaranteeing that true believers will turn that initial investment of five grand into fifty thousand in six months or less. And many of them do.”
“A Ponzi scheme?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? But no. That’s what’s different about the Rulers. Conklin isn’t into ripping off his people. He uses his own accumulated wealth—basically a very private hedge fund—to help the Ruler elite get rich, and stay rich. By elite, I mean those who rise through the ranks, true believers who have proven their understanding and unconditional acceptance of his theories. By this time Arthur Conklin has founded the Conklin Institute and established a strictly controlled hierarchy within the Rulers. He begins to enforce the notion of ‘sharing-in,’ which means that when you join the club and become a full-fledged Ruler, they access your net worth. From that moment on, you must pledge to return twenty-five percent of any increase in your net worth to the organization.”
“You’re kidding,” says Shane, sitting up straight. “Wow.”
“That would be two and a half wows,” Maggie says.
“Many churches encourage a more voluntary tithing, donating ten percent of your earnings to the church. Conklin helps you get rich, then takes twenty-five percent of your newfound wealth and returns it to his own coffers. Which means that whatever else they are, the Rulers are made of money. The Conklin Institute is an immense and efficient cash machine. At this point we’re talking billions. Invested in real estate, U.S. treasury bonds, and in several holding companies that own or control scores of small, mostly high-tech corporations. Believe me, they’re a power on Wall Street. Savvy, deeply secretive, and feared.”
“So he really is like Howard Hughes.”
“There are certain parallels,” Maggie concedes. “Shall we get back to my thumbnail history?” she adds with a grin.
“By all means.”
“By 1980 Arthur Conklin is no longer making personal appearances at seminars, at least not live—his image is featured in their presentations, of course, and his voice is on the Ruler indoctrination audiocassettes. By 1985 he’s gone from self-help book promoter to full-fledged cult leader and is rarely seen in public. The day-to-day operation of the empire is overseen by his CEO, Wendall Weems. If you think Conklin is secretive, then say hello to Mr. Weems, if you can find him. In 1991, Conklin’s wife dies—breast cancer—and he marries Evangeline Dowdy, one of his many accountants. Thirty years his junior—Arthur likes ’em young. The word is that Eva the Diva wields considerable influence within the organization, and has long been resented by Mr. Weems. In 1992 the institute purchases two hundred square miles of remote land in Colorado, establishes their own tightly controlled county government,
and builds what amounts to a college campus with a surrounding village called, you guessed it, Conklin.”
“So the man doesn’t suffer from lack of ego.”
“No indeed. And for a while there in the nineties it looked like his cult would go the paranoid route. That’s why we were paying special attention, because the more inward and paranoid a cult, the more potential for bloodshed and self-destruction. At the time, the Rulers seemed to be closing ranks, developing a siege mentality. Almost apocalyptic. Not unlike the unfortunate Branch Davidians, but without the religious component. But they were acting like they expected to be attacked, developing a bunker mentality.”
“But that changed?”
“It did, yes. Apparently Arthur Conklin had some sort of revelation, or maybe he really did get smarter, because he changed his attitude in a fundamental way. Less inwardly paranoid, more outward recruitment of new members. It worked—the paying membership tripled in size. Conklin—the town, I mean—went from being a bunker-mentality refuge to being what is in effect a ski resort without the skiing. Condos, lodges, all owned by wealthy Rulers. They built a very attractive campus for the institute. All that being said, it remains a very private place—you have to be invited in, and needless to say you pay for the privilege. Seminar fees start at five thousand and go up, the higher you advance within the organization.”
“How big is the place?”
“We think the population fluctuates between three and six thousand, depending on who is in residence, but it could be more. As I mentioned, in some ways it functions like a very expensive resort, with members buying time
shares. Virtually all the residents and students are devout Rulers, or those who wish to become Rulers. Anybody else they bring in, mostly maintenance and construction crews, must be issued visitor permits that are akin to visas. They even have their own private security force.”
“Like the Vatican.”
“I think the Catholic Church would be very offended by the comparison, but yes, a teeny, tiny, little bit like the Vatican, with Arthur Conklin as the pope. In that scenario, Weems and Eva would be rival cardinals, I suppose.”
“That old
People
article said it was like Scientology without the science fiction.”
Maggie rolls her eyes. “Again, I’m quite sure that Scientologists would be offended by any comparison to the Rulers. Scientology has become a mainstream religious philosophy. Unlike the Rulers, who still operate in the shadows, Scientologists live public lives, and openly defend their beliefs.”
“Tom Cruise, John Travolta.”
“And Will Smith, Kirstie Allie—the list goes on. I
loved
Travolta in
Hairspray,
” she adds, brightening.
“Missed it,” Shane admits, expressing no regret whatsoever. “So tell me, is it plausible that Arthur Conklin would hatch an elaborate scheme to kidnap his own grandson?”
Maggie shifts in her seat, as if uncomfortable with the thought. “Not Conklin himself, I seriously doubt that. But there have been rumors of late.”
“Rumors?”
“Only rumors, not substantiated,” she cautions. “We do have a few disgruntled Rulers who occasionally pass on information. Lower level types, I’m afraid. Like I say, the agency isn’t putting a lot emphasis on tracking non-
Muslim domestic cults of late, unless there are charges of, say, child molestation. Then everybody gets very excitable. Anyhow, the word is that Arthur Conklin is presently incapacitated, and has been for months. A stroke or possibly a neurological disease, nobody seems to be quite sure. What they are sure about is that a couple of factions are struggling for control of the organization.”
“And all that money. Billions.”
“Yes. This is typical for charisma cults. What happens when the charismatic leader dies? Who takes charge? Power schisms within cults are often resolved by violent means. The word is that the establishment—that would be Wendall Weems, the acting CEO—is in conflict with Evangeline and her faction. Eva’s followers include the Ruler security chief.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Quite a lot, and it’s not good. His name is Bagrat Kavashi, affectionately known as ‘Vash.’ Dashing-looking fellow with a black mustache, quite vain. Mr. Kavashi hails from the Republic of Georgia, where as an ambitious teenager he ran a private militia that was really a criminal enterprise—extortions, abductions, murders, you name it. When it got too hot, he took his loot and split for good old America, land of opportunity. That was years ago. Apparently Evangeline discovered him, took him under her wing—and possibly into her bed—and set him up in the security business. Turned out to be a good move on her part. BK Security is now third or fourth behind Wackenhut.”
Shane says, “Now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure there were BK guards at the lab that processed the remains.
So this Kavashi dude is her pit bull, is that what you’re saying? He does the dirty work?”
Maggie nods. “My sense is that if Eva the Diva decided that controlling Arthur Conklin’s only living descendent will help them hold on to power, Mr. Kavashi wouldn’t hesitate to arrange an abduction, maybe even blow up a school to cover his tracks. But that’s all speculation. There’s not a shred of physical evidence to support it.”
Shane leans forward, his hands folded on the table. “So given what we know about the players, Haley Corbin might not be a paranoid delusional? She might be right? That’s your professional opinion?”
Maggie looks him in the eye. No flirting, no fooling, just the facts. “Absolutely,” she says. “And if I’m correct, she’s in danger, too.”
4. Into The Cold And Black
Route 31 isn’t exactly a superhighway. Heading west it adds and subtracts lanes at a whim, stops for the occasional traffic light, winds through small towns like Palmyra, Macedon, and Egypt. Farm country, peppered with a few commuter developments, but as far as I’m concerned, on this particular evening it might as well be the yellow brick road to the Emerald City.
After six weeks of pure hell, things are finally clicking, moving faster and yet spinning less. Mad mom has got it going on. Suddenly I’m operating on two fronts. My big guy is in D.C., consulting with experts, and I’m on my way to meet up with the nervous, prefers-to-be-nameless dude who claims to know something about my son’s disappearance.
Not that he would tell me much over the phone. Just that he “saw something go down” at the Rochester International Airport the day after Noah’s school exploded. What, exactly, he won’t say because “they might be listening.” I get the impression he works at the airport but he won’t give me any particulars, not over the phone.
Mr. Paranoid. A face-to-face, that’s the only thing that will make him feel safe enough to speak. I’m more than willing to oblige. A thirty-mile trek is no problem—I’ll drive to the ends of the earth, if that’s what it takes. Besides it gives me something to do—something with a purpose—while I wait for Shane to return.
On a section of the road that runs parallel to the old Erie Canal, my cell chirps. I snap it open without looking—sorry, I don’t do headsets—thinking it might be Mr. Paranoid with more nervous instructions.
“Mrs. Corbin? Is that you?”
“Shane!”
“Are you at home?” he wants to know.
“On the road.”
He insists on me pulling over. And not just the side of the road, a proper parking lot, to avoid getting rear-ended. Considering what happened to his family, I give him this one. So I pull in at a feed-and-grain store, closed, and leave the headlights on, illuminating the empty, snow-strewn parking lot.