Torn (20 page)

“Take a good look,” he encourages me, attempting a smile with his misshapen mouth. “I’m used to it. Arthur
used to say I was the ugliest creature on earth, and he loved me for it.”

“Arthur Conklin.”

“Himself.” He nods, looking somehow both wise and tortoiselike. “Our founder and my one true friend.”

“Your one true friend stole my little boy,” I remind him, getting to my feet.

He shakes his head. “No, never. Absolutely not. Arthur would never have done such a thing. Not when his mind was his own, and certainly not now. There are other forces at work. Dangerous, greedy people who will stop at nothing.”

“Who?”

“If you’ll take a seat and try to relax, Mrs. Corbin, food will be brought in. You must eat—you’re shivering from hunger—and then I’ll try to explain exactly what’s going on and what we’re going to have to do to get your son back.”

Ordinarily I’m not big for scrambled eggs, but when Eldon and his bookend wife scuttle in with a tray of food, the smell of eggs and buttered toast makes me ravenous. Side of home fries, small dish of warm, cinnamon-tinged applesauce, more of the amazing toast slathered with jam. I probably consume enough calories to last a week. As my visitor predicted, the shivering stops and my head seems to settle firmly upon my shoulders.

The homely man is Wendall Weems, and if Arthur Conklin is the pope of the Rulers, then he’s the cardinal who serves as the Vatican Secretary of State. Or, that’s how he’s begun to describe himself.

“Though that’s actually a terrible analogy,” he concedes, sipping from a glass of water as I mop up the last of the
scrambled eggs. “The Conklin Institute is not a religious organization. Far from it. In all of Arthur’s writings there is no mention of God or soul, or of any necessity for a spiritual life, or indeed of a promised afterlife. For which, by the way, he has been branded an atheist, a charge I consider profoundly unfair as well as beside the point. In his many works Arthur has never denied the existence of a supreme being—he has simply never chosen to discuss the possibility. Spirituality and the prospect of eternal life are outside of his purview. Instead he concentrates on improving the human mind by rewiring the way we process thoughts. That’s the essence of what we do—teach people to control their thinking. We’re all about self-improvement.”

“I thought Rulers were all about making money.”

“A misperception,” Weems responds, sounding utterly reasonable. “Once raised to the next level, a Ruler’s improved brain power will almost inevitably result in the acquisition of substantial wealth. We would say that wealth flows toward Rulers as magnetic waves flow through a charged device.”

“So Rulers are all about magnets?”

He smiles, looking almost impish in his homeliness. “You mock us, Mrs. Corbin, but that’s okay. You haven’t been brought here for some sort of grand conversion to our way of thinking. No, no. For you this is not the road to Damascus. It is the road to being reunited with your little boy.”

“And you’ll help me do that?”

“Absolutely,” he says, bathing me with the warm light of his beautiful, ancient eyes. “That’s my mission.”

The people Weems insists are my hosts join us at his invitation, still looking slightly nervous. He presents them
to me as if we’re being introduced for the first time at a business meeting, or a Chamber of Commerce get-together.

“Haley Corbin, these two courageous individuals are Eldon and Missy Barlow. Eldon is a brilliant gameware designer with many patents, and Missy is, if I may say so, brilliant at managing their resources. The point is, at my request they took a great risk bringing you to sanctuary in their own home, and the circumstances were such that you may have felt threatened at the time, unfortunately.”

I snort. “They knocked me out and put me in a dog kennel.”

Weems studies me, not unkindly. “Would you have accompanied them willingly?”

“No way.”

He leans forward, which increases the curve at the top of his spine, making him look almost hunchbacked. “There were indications that your life was in immediate danger—it still is, by the way—and we had no time to lose,” he says. “Had the Barlows not taken action, it is entirely possible that you would already be dead.”

Eldon and Missy nod in unison, seconding that opinion.

“Yeah? Who wants me dead?”

Weems clears his throat, makes a little smile. “Evangeline, Arthur’s second wife,” he says with some measure of distaste. “Her loyal faction, her followers.”

“Jed’s stepmom wants to kill me? Why?”

“There is an unfortunate situation developing in our little community. You are the mother of Arthur Conklin’s only grandchild, therefore you threaten Evangeline’s dominance.”

“Because of Noah?” I say, recoiling. “But that’s insane!
You people steal my son, make it look like he died—and somehow it’s my fault?”

“Not at all. You are entirely blameless.”

“So you admit it’s your fault.”

“Not me, nor those I represent,” he responds, sounding endlessly patient. “As I mentioned, my great friend Arthur Conklin is incapacitated. A series of strokes have so damaged his mind that he suffers from dementia. He is dying, Haley, and his wife wants to seize control of the organization.”

“Let her. Why would I care who’s the boss of your cult or community or whatever it’s supposed to be?”

“We’re not a cult,” pipes up Eldon Barlow, looking to Weems for approval.

“Unfortunately, Evangeline is a force beyond my control,” Weems admits, looking a little shamefaced. “She represents a small but ruthless faction who believe that our founder has mystical powers. If she has her way, the institute really will become a cult that worships Arthur as a kind of god. For the last few years, since Arthur’s decline began, this group has gained traction because Evangeline claims to speak for her husband. In effect, she puts words in his mouth, and that can only work as long as he remains alive. She has taken extraordinary, and in my opinion, exceedingly cruel steps to keep the poor man alive, including a number of transplants. In the past few years, against all rational medical advice for a man his age, Arthur has received a new heart, a new kidney, and a partial liver. Now his poor body is failing, and nothing more can be done to prolong his agony. It’s a matter of weeks, perhaps days. That’s why Evangeline chose this moment to kidnap your son. She believes, or professes to believe, that Noah will
in effect become the reincarnation of Arthur. And of course she will continue to speak for him. Your son will become, if she has her way, a sort of puppet under her command. Which is why she wants you to vanish from the face of the earth.”

I feel faint, and must look it, because Weems quickly hands me a glass of water.

“I know it’s a lot to absorb,” he says apologetically.

When the dizziness passes I tell him, as forcefully as possible, “You really want to help me get my son back? Call the police. The FBI. If this woman has done what you say, she’s a criminal. Criminals can be arrested.”

Weems sighs, and for the first time he looks uneasy, as if he’s not comfortable with what he’s about to say. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mrs. Corbin. If a phone call to the authorities would free your little boy from her clutches, I’d make the call, believe me. But you’re talking about Conklin, not Kansas.”

“What does that mean?”

Weems looks up at the ceiling, steeples his long fingers as if in prayer. “That’s part of our present difficulty, I’m afraid. Our community is controlled by the institute that Arthur founded. We own the county, the village, the campus—everything. We are therefore a political entity as well as a business and real-estate entity. There is no civil police force in Conklin, at least none answerable to the state of Colorado. Security is provided by a private security firm, and that firm is controlled by one of Evangeline’s most rabid followers: BK Security, owned by Bagrat Kavashi. Mr. Kavashi is an exceedingly dangerous man. Smart, brutal, and utterly without remorse. According to
our sources, Kavashi has been given orders to make you disappear. That’s why we took such elaborate measures to bring you all the way to Colorado undercover, and why we must keep your precise location a secret.”

“So call the FBI,” I suggest, cheeks heating up. “Kidnapping is a federal crime. Being a gated community with some nasty rent-a-cop in charge won’t protect them from the FBI, not when a child has been taken!”

Weems glances at my so-called hosts, who both look stricken by my outburst. He sighs deeply and with a palpable sense of melancholy. “We considered that option, Mrs. Corbin. But I’m afraid that Conklin is much more than a gated community, and Mr. Kavashi is much more than a mere rent-a-cop. If we’re correct, Evangeline has your son hidden somewhere in the Pinnacle.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

He shrugs, as if in apology. “I thought you might. Apparently your husband never mentioned it. No matter. The Pinnacle is a very large and very secure enclave—it could be described as a kind of fortress—located high in the mountains. Virtually inaccessible to outsiders.”

“I don’t care where it is. Take me there. Let me see him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. If Evangeline suspects that some legal entity like the Colorado State Police or the FBI is about to put her in jeopardy, she will destroy the evidence of her crimes. My understanding is that such a contingency plan is already in place.”

“Destroy the evidence?”

“Without hesitation.”

“You’re saying she’ll kill my son if the cops get too close.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he concedes. “If she gives the
word, if she believes the integrity of the Pinnacle is about to be violated, your son will be made to disappear. No trace of him will ever be found. She’s a fanatic, Mrs. Corbin. Those who threaten her have a tendency to disappear, utterly and completely.”

I stand up from the table, my whole face hot, eyes wet with anger. “You know what I think? You’re all a bunch of crazy psychos! Why should I believe anything you say?
You’re
the ones keeping me prisoner!”

In the face of my outburst Weems remains utterly calm. “You may be correct about Evangeline. She may indeed be a psychopath. But if we truly didn’t care about what happens to your son—to my dear friend Arthur’s only grandchild—then I’d make that call to the FBI myself. In the end, after the raid and the inevitable battle and the eventual investigation, Evangeline would at the very least no longer have the boy as leverage, whatever happened. She might or might not be prosecuted or convicted—she has an army of lawyers to defend her—but one way or another our position would be improved. So despite what you think of me—of us—I do have a conscience. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even know for sure that your son is alive.”

“I know,” I tell him bitterly. “I always knew.”

Weems reaches into a pocket, hands Missy a shiny silver disc. “Put that in the machine, would you, dear? Thanks.”

Missy obediently trots over to a flat-screen TV, happily punches buttons on a slender DVD player as she feeds in the glittering disc.

“In the end the choice has to be yours,” Weems is
saying. “If you decide to call in the FBI, and manage to convince them that your son is being held somewhere in Conklin, and they stage a raid to try and recover him, we will not stand in your way. We will not impede you or the FBI. But first you better take a look at this.”

Weems points the remote and Noah appears on the screen, big as life.

3. Maggie Makes Her Case

Shane can’t help it, he keeps looking up. Not because he thinks the sky is falling—not at the moment, anyhow—but because there’s something about the wild roof that draws his attention. The architects who designed Denver International Airport call it a “tension fabric construction,” intended to echo the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, but to Shane it looks like the inside of a mad white circus tent.

As airport designs go, DIA is crazy and kind of cool, but he decides he wouldn’t want to be standing under that roof when a blizzard dumps a few million tons of snow on top, filling the gaps between the swooping peaks. If the fabric fails it would be like being trapped in a man-made avalanche.

“You’ll hurt your neck, big boy.”

He looks down to find Maggie Drew smiling up at him. That’s the first thing he notices, the warmth of her smile. The second thing he notices is the cane.

Today she’s using her cane.

“Little flare-up,” she explains, making light of it. “It happens. Touch of the old rheumatiz in my wee little ankles. Nothing to fret about.”

“You made it.” He bends to kiss her cheek. “All the way from D.C. as a favor for a friend. Thank you, thank you.”

“You said something about buying me a cup of coffee,” she says airily, nudging him with the knob of her cane.

He’d already picked out a relatively quiet little café on the mezzanine level of the concourse, overlooking the fountains, but now is worried she’ll have trouble on the escalators. “I’m fine, lead on. View’s better up there—closer to heaven.”

He pretends not to notice the twinges of pain that flicker across her face as she limps toward the escalator. It’s slow going, but eventually they’re seated in an out-of-the-way spot he scouted while awaiting her flight. The ambient noise of the fountain will make it hard to be overheard, supposing he’s been followed, which he’s certain is unlikely.