Cult (10 page)

“Sad,” Naomi said flatly. “Very sad.”

“Worse than that,” O'Hara took a deep breath into his thin chest. “Out-and-out mind control. A ruthless mind-rape hiding under the guise of religious freedom.”

“You said you were in it once. You had to believe it in some capacity,” Naomi said, hot for argument. She had no faith in these men.

“Please, Nay,” Barney said.

“It's okay,” O'Hara said, lifting his hand like a traffic cop. “I understand where she's come from, Harrigan. She has to be educated.” He turned to Naomi. “I don't mean that as an insult. You've seen the lady in question. How does she look to you?”

“How she looks is not the issue. She's there by choice.”

“For her there is no choice. Her mind is in cold storage. She has absolutely no control over her present actions, no free will. Remember Jonestown, Waco, Al Qaeda. It freezes my tongue just to think about
that
one. Those people were programmed. Jones, Koresh, Bin Laden and the others, all they had to do was pull the switch. The poor bastards believed those jackasses who run the show were the messengers of Jesus or Allah or whatever deity comes to mind. We've all seen the results. Those poor saps did their bidding into oblivion. Just step over the line, folks. Paradise awaits. Come on now. That's not a reward. That's a headache. Picture it. What dumb shit.”

His sick humor and posturing grated on Naomi. She saw flaws in his logic, his stringing together of incidents to prove his point. She was not convinced. People do stupid things. Yes, there was evil in the world. These people were indeed evil, but that did not justify what he was planning to do.

“Okay,” O'Hara said, as if he were embarked on a new beginning. “Your wife in there. How did she strike you?”

“Like some other person. Not my Charlotte,” Barney answered.

O'Hara glanced at Naomi.

“I never knew her before,” Naomi said hesitantly, softening her belligerent stance. “To me, she seemed well… exhausted.”

“At this stage they usually are. My job is get them back to where they were before they were brainwashed… at least, start them back. Jog their minds to work. They believe at this point that it's a sin to think anything else but what they're told to think. We don't know that much about the human brain. One theory is that by manipulating information and exhausting both the body and the brain, you actually change the chemical balance. And people like Father Glory are willing to use it for their own greedy ends. I know him. He's just a ruthless son of a bitch who uses these kids to line his pockets. They get nothing. They're just slaves. You should see how he lives in his mansion, with his yachts and limos and private jets. Hell, those poor kids would kill for him. Do we need any more evidence? There's nothing, nothing on this earth more precious than freedom. Nothing.”

He seemed to retreat into reflection.

“How can you argue with that, Nay?”

“Okay,” she began. “I'll grant you that maybe the Glories and other cults are manipulate people. I can understand the idea of temporary changes. Control diet, sleep, information, exhaust people, maybe you have a point, but how does it explain Al Qaeda, those suicide bombers? You talk about a ‘process.' Were their diet and sleep controlled? We've heard that the Glories use sugar. Do you really think the suicide bombers pigged out on Twinkies? Seems that there was a bit of a difference in the so-called process.”

She had lashed out, determined to make her point. O'Hara nodded.

“As I said, I understand where you are coming from. The fact is that Bin Laden's followers were brainwashed practically from birth. They were halfway into his cult to begin with. The concept of paradise is drummed into them from the get-go. They're given books filled with hatred and calls for violence and self-sacrifice. The indoctrination preaches against ‘infidels,' everyone who doesn't believe what they believe. Obedience to the divine, as interpreted by their leaders, is taught as a duty. Soon they are dry timber, ready to ignite if they fall into their clutches, then further brainwashed. In a short time they'll go out and kill themselves if ordered to, for whatever reason the boss feels is justified. Fiddle with the message, shift the calibration just enough to get them fully committed. Takes effort, patience, time, skill, focus, organization. There you have it. No different from the Glories. None.”

He stopped abruptly for a long moment. Then it passed and O'Hara continued. “Problem is you can't deprogram them so easily. I do one-on-one. Think about doing them one-on-one. There are thousands, maybe millions of them. There is a solution, of course. Kill the leaders and the followers are disoriented, jumping around like chickens with lopped-off heads. But then, that's not in my job description. Just call me the professor of deprogramming and leave it at that.”

She had listened patiently.

“Noted,” she said. She'd have to think about this. She had, of course, heard these ideas before, but deprogramming was contradictory to her mindset and convictions. “There is still the moral issue to consider.”

“Jesus,” O'Hara said. “I've heard that morality bullshit before.” He turned to Barney. “The real question is, can you trust her?”

She felt their eyes bore into her. Yes. He was right. That was the ultimate question.

“Yes. We can trust her,” Barney said exchanging glances with her. She didn't like being scrutinized like this.

“Okay then. Here's the skinny. You get your wife out of that camp physically. I'll get her out mentally. I can't give you any guarantees, but I'll try my damnedest. For starters, we've got to get her out of that damned county. The Sheriff is too scared to oppose them. They've got him stalemated. Also, I'm sure they've already got wind of something going down. They're good at that.”

“How can they know that?” Barney asked.

“Who the hell knows?” He looked at Naomi. “Hope you're right about her.”

“I'm right.” Barney said without hesitation.

She wondered how he could be so certain. She wasn't certain about her own loyalty.

“Just get her out of the camp. They could get itchy and do something stupid.”

“Like what?” Barney asked, confused.

“Don't even think about it,” O'Hara said. “These people are ruthless. They'll do anything to protect themselves.” He stood up. “I'll be reachable at my cell at any hour, day or night.” O'Hara scribbled his number on a napkin and gave it to him. Barney put it in his shirt pocket.

Naomi watched as O'Hara's gaunt figure emerged from behind the table. Roy stood up too.

“Trouble is,” O'Hara said, “I get tired explaining it. The fact is it's there. It happens.”

Without turning again, the two men moved out the door and into the street.

“Under what rock did you find him?” Naomi asked when they were out of sight. “He's one cocky bastard.”

“If he saves Charlotte, I don't care what he is. He's been there. Who else would take this on? It's nasty work. Besides….” He turned to look at her, not just at her, but trying to see inside of her, begging, imploring. Probing her were the eyes of a trapped animal. “What other choice do I have?”

“Who would have thought, back in those days, it would come to this?” The words had come out of nowhere, a sniper's bullet, wailing into her mind. She had leaned back on the headrest of their rented car. He had left the other one at the parking lot outside Holmes' office building and called the rental agency to pick it up.

“Just a precaution. It's like undercover work,” he mumbled.

It made her question him, like most things that were happening. His mind was like a river carving out its own course through a jungle, devious, relentless, surging here, trickling there, skirting obstacles, but always with one objective in mind, finding the open sea, freedom. It was just one of a hundred images that his actions brought to mind.

“I'm glad you're with me, Nay,” Barney said.

Had she figured this much in his grand design from the beginning? Or was he now improvising? The irony was that predictability was one of her reasons for rejecting him.

“I'm going to get her, Nay,” he said fiercely.

“If anyone can, you will.” Her response sounded trivial. He was a far cry from the memory of him that she had carried around with her for so many years. Or had her perception become clearer?

“I always wondered…,” she began haltingly, “…why you never came after me, Barney.”
Like this
, she would have added. But she held it back. The comparison between her and Charlotte was odious.

The car moved steadily. He was suspiciously calm. She saw no tremble in his lip, no palpitation in his jaw, no flicker of his eyelid.

“It seemed inevitable,” he said, after a while. “You didn't want the constrictions of commitment.” His words seemed pedantic, contrived, although his reasoning was clear. “Your life was elsewhere, independent of me. I was also embarrassed. I did a ridiculous thing.”

“Not ridiculous, Barney,” she admitted cautiously. “I feared your commitment was too… too overwhelming. I felt pushed.”

“I figured you just didn't love me enough. When you love someone, nothing matters. You don't make decisions of the heart with your head.”

“I wanted my independence. On my terms.”

“I know. That told me you didn't love me enough.”

“But I did.”

“Then you wouldn't have left. No matter what.”

“We were different. Our lives were in different places. We had different values. Different aspirations.”

“I found that out.”

Now he was making her into a fool, and it embarrassed her.

She waited for more, but it did not come.

So he did remember
, she thought. But it was all part of his yesterdays. Irrelevant. Leaning back, she closed her eyes again.

There's a lot to be said for exorcising thought
, she told herself, remembering O'Hara's words: “It's a sin for them to think.” At that moment, she almost envied Charlotte her sense of bliss.

He maneuvered the car into a parking space in the motel lot, then hurried into the lobby. When she caught up with him, he was waving a voicemail memo.

“Pay dirt,” he said.

She looked at the memo.

“Between four and six,” he said, looking at his watch, as he hurried to his room.

Following him, she went through his room into her own. In the bathroom, she undressed and stepped into the shower. Time to clear away the grime. She turned on the taps full blast. The spray bombarded her and she bent down to let it hit her head. Pound some sense into me, she begged.

Standing in front of the mirror, naked, rubbing herself dry, she removed the steam on the glass with the flat of her hand. When she saw her face clearly, she made her decision. It wasn't her show. It was time to pack.

What she had seen at the camp was from his perspective, not her own. She agreed with Holmes. A religious experience was mysterious and personal, however it came about. Charlotte had both a legal and moral right to be where she was. O'Hara was obnoxious, his reasoning overblown. He was caught in an obsession of revenge.

None of it had anything to do with irrational emotion. Intellectually she was revolted. They were bending rationality, invoking unproven science, inventing methods of repression, cynically playing head games, intruding on Charlotte's private inalienable right. Such thoughts were at the very heart of her political and moral convictions.

Cleansed of indecision, she came into her room, dressed in slacks and a blouse, and headed for the phone to make her plane reservations.

“It worked.”

Barney's voice jolted her and she put down the phone, breaking the connection.

“Worked?”

“I think so.” He held his notebook in his hand. “He was blood-red mad. Calling from a phone booth. It took him a while to settle down.”

“He's getting you Charlotte?”

“It's not as simple as that.” He looked at his watch. “I'm going to Lauderdale to pick up Kevin.”

“Kevin? Have you gone crazy? Are you going to give them your child?”

“Don't be ridiculous. Do you think I would do that?”

No
, she thought.
No matter what, he wouldn't do that.
He began to pace the room, putting his fingers through his hair.

“It's Byzantine, I know. Holmes needs his out, too. They'll think they're getting Kevin. It's so incredible, they'll believe it. Holmes agreed. The bastard agreed. He liked it. Can you imagine? The hypocrisy of those people. The Glories think they'll be getting rid of me and, at the same time, have a future recruit for their fucking army. I demanded one condition, the real scam. That I hand Kevin over directly to Charlotte. Outside the camp. A shopping center. They'll bring her in one of their cars. We beat it back and forth for a while. Like a prisoner of war exchange. It has to be credible to them.”

“And then you'll snatch her.”

“Exactly.”

“And the money?”

“Hell, he bought the deal. I don't care about the money. It might break me. I'm a salesman, Nay. Money is a renewable resource. Besides, all the bills I gave him so far are marked. Evidence that money passed.” He waved his notebook. “I've got all the serial numbers in here.”

“He must know that.”

“Maybe so. I told you, he's a shrewd bastard. Corrupt as hell.”

“Everybody's corrupt in this deal.”

He ignored her remark. His mind was not concentrating on her subtleties. “But she'll be protected. You think O'Hara and Roy can just up and get her? Do you think the Glories are that stupid?”

“Holmes did say there are no guarantees.”

She noted that his optimism had faded.

“Showing her Kevin might change the game plan, make her walk on her own.”

“Maybe,” Naomi agreed.

“O'Hara knows they've got risks to take. They've got some problems right off the bat: the Glories won't go out of Sheriff Clausen's county. That's an absolute condition. It gives them a sense of security.”

“And O'Hara's okay with taking the risk?”

“Yes.”

“Let me guess, for more money?”

Barney nodded.

“You're going to put your child through this?”

“Charlotte is his mother.”

She watched him pace. Stopping, he faced her.

His words echoed in her mind.

“I'm hoping that Kevin's presence might at least shorten the time it takes to deprogram her, gnaw at Charlotte's sense of guilt, affirm the tie between mother and child. Hell, there has got to be something in that. How can a mother give up her own child?”

She averted her eyes, directing her hand toward the phone. She willed it to obey her.

“Please, Nay. If this doesn't work, I don't know what I'll do. Just stick with me. I need you here. Call it moral support.”

“You can use that word?” she said. She felt cut in two, stalemated within herself. His passion and obsession was overwhelming.

“You're using me,” she muttered.

“I'm using everybody, Nay. I know that.”

He looked at his watch again.

“I've got to go. With the time difference, I can make it back by two PM tomorrow. Can I count on you?”

When she didn't answer, he moved back to his own room and she stretched out on the bed, watching the ceiling.

Think of yourself
, she thought. He came back into her room, carrying a shoulder bag and his notebook.

“You can drive me or I can take the car,” he said gently. When she didn't answer, he said, “I can't tell you how much I owe you.”

She grunted a goodbye and, in the distance, vaguely heard the rented car cough, sputter, and drive away. Alone in the motel room, her confliction heightened. As if to fix her identity and willpower, she called the office, forgetting the time difference. The endless ringing reminded her of this, and so she called her boss, who was out for the evening. Then she called her mother.

“I'm in Washington, Mother,” she said, after hearing the high-pitched cackle of her familiar voice. As always, she could sense her attitude, poised between suspicion and sarcasm.

“Say hello to the President.”

“Not that Washington, the state.”

“So far?”

“I just called to see how you are.”

“You're all right? No troubles?”

Her mother lived in this perpetual state, waiting for the ring that would be the clarion of disaster.

From years of experience, Naomi knew the signs of a placating response. Long ago, Naomi had rejected confiding in her mother. The generational gap had become a chasm.

“I had a spare moment.”

“From a conference or a man?” Her mother larded her disapprovals with wiseacre accusations. Mostly, the spears fell on a strong shield, but sometimes they hit the mark. Naomi reminded herself of the reason she had called.

“There was something I wanted to ask.” Even to herself, she sounded wispy and tentative. Then an idea emerged.

“As long as everything is fine, you can ask. As long as there are no arguments,” her mother said. It was merely banter. They had little in common. Her mother's widowhood was a closed world of games and charity work, predictable opinions, an old Jewish mentality. She lived embedded in her roots.

“Were we ever religious?” she asked.

“Religious? You were bat mitzvah. Your father went to shul when he was alive. I light yozeit candles. Of course, we were religious. We're still religious. We're Jewish.”

“I mean really religious. I mean about God.”

“Naomi? Is there something you're not telling me?”

“It's important, mother. Think for a moment. I want a serious answer. Were we religious? When I was growing up, did we believe in God?”

“Where is the question? We're Jewish. Read the Bible.”

Naomi was doing badly. The problem was that she was not exactly sure what she was asking.

Then her mother said, “Naomi, no matter what, you'll always be Jewish. No matter how many scutches you go with, although I don't hold my breath. No matter if you marry one. No matter if you convert to the goyim. God knows who is Jewish and who is not. No matter how topsy-turvy the world gets.”

She felt how fiercely the sense of belonging lived in her mother.

“You are what you are, girlie.”

“And no one can take that away, make you different?” She almost felt foolish. Worse, Naomi was asking it of someone inert and narrow-minded.

“Different? Who can make you different?” Her mother paused. “You called me from California to ask these questions?”

“I think that if I believed in God….” Naomi faltered.

“Not believe in God?” her mother responded indignantly. “That's a sin. That's only words. Of course you do. I told you. You're Jewish. That's the problem with you young people. You're all confused.”

“You can say that again.”

It was one of her mother's generalizations.

In her mother's circle there were absolute truths.
Belonging
, Naomi thought suddenly. Was that what she wanted to ask about? Everybody was thirsty to belong, to be part of something bigger than one's self.

“But I did not have a choice in that,” Naomi protested. “I was simply born into it. I'm Jewish because you and dad were Jewish.” Her words sounded simplistic and naïve, and it frightened her.

“From Washington, the state, you're calling? Are you smoking that potsy?”

“Pot.” She paused. “No, mother. I'm not stoned.”

“I love you, my darling. I don't understand you. But I love you.”

Tears welled in Naomi's eyes.

“And I love you, mom,” she said.

Why?
she wondered. Sometimes she would dismiss her love for her mother as merely sentimental, a biological imperative that superseded reason.

I love her because she's mine
, Naomi thought.

When she hung up she felt better. Applying her makeup carefully, she went to the lobby, bought a newspaper, and read it over a drink in a coffee shop. Injustice was everywhere. It was like a wasting virus, spread over the carcass of the world. Nests of them were everywhere.

In the coffee shop, she ate part of a club sandwich, then came back to her room and turned on the television. Her spirit was soaring. She had put principle before self. She had faced the problems of the world head on.

She had left Barney because his world was too narrow, too earthbound. What he called home and hearth meant stagnation, control, boredom. In her world, there was room to grow. His world was a hothouse, stultifying, pedestrian, dedicated to the pursuit of money, things. She felt pride again in the decision to leave that she had taken years ago, a young girl with a purpose. It had taken courage and guts to do what she had done.

She felt strong again. In control.

No
, she concluded.
I will not participate in the travesty that Barney is concocting.
However detestable the Glories were, Charlotte had every right to her life, as she chose to live it. Above all, she must stand by her principles.