Jupiter's Bones (13 page)

But Bob’s eyes never left Terra’s. He said, “I’ll finish up. You have children to take care of.”

“Yes, Brother Bob.” Terra was petrified. “Right away.”

The older man softened his tone. “Don’t worry. The transgression will not go beyond me. I know you meant well. How about if we meet in an hour…to discuss the children’s lessons?”

Terra licked her full lips, her big eyes growing even wider. “Of course.” She managed a slight smile. “Of course.”

Marge waited for more, but no one spoke. Something more than lessons was going on between them.

“That’s all,” Bob said in a casual tone. “You may go.”

Again, Terra gave him a smile—a bigger one. She pivoted and returned to the safety of her classroom.

Bob had a gleam in his eye. “You have nothing better to do than to harass a young woman?”

Talk about harassment
. Marge said, “What transgression did Terra do? Show some independent thinking?”

“Independent thinking is not a transgression.
Any
opinion is welcome as long as it’s between family members. But showing you around without proper clearance is not acceptable. It’s how we keep order.”

“Sort of like the army.”

“Paramilitary. If you don’t like it, you can leave.” His eyes honed in on hers. “Pluto’s not spouting hyperbole. Andromeda
was
kidnapped. She’s over eighteen. Her parents have no right to keep her against her will.”

“The law agrees with you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not enough right now. The sooner you resolve this crisis, the better. If you don’t do it with
quasar speed, the trust between my people and yours is going to deteriorate exponentially.”

“Any suggestions?” Marge said.

“Yeah. Lean on Asnikov. Haul his ass into jail. Torture him until he confesses.”

“We’ve got a thing called due process in this country.”

Bob sneered, “Asnikov doesn’t care about due process. Why should I?”

“What do you
know about cults?”

Webster thought about the question. “I’m no expert—”

“Then it’s good you’re with me,” Asnikov broke in. “You might as well learn from the best.”

The intercom beeped, a disembodied female voice saying, “Jay on line two.”

“I’ll take it in the inner office.” Asnikov regarded Webster from across his desk. The cops had sent him Surfer Dude—blond and well built. He stood about six even…boyish face though he was probably about thirty-five. Mr. Southern Boy, sitting in his blue serge suit with a
well, shut-my-mouth
grin. Sneaky demeanor. He bore watching.

“The call’s important.” Asnikov stood. “Help yourself to another cup of coffee, Detective, I’ll be right back.” He paused. “You poke around, you’re asking for a lawsuit. I’ve got cameras everywhere.”

Webster pointed to an overhead, geometric stained-glass ceiling fixture, and then to an air-conditioning grate.

Asnikov said, “Try to find all of them. It’ll keep you busy until I’m done.”

As soon as the deprogrammer left, Webster sat back in his chair, and tried to maintain a relaxed pose because the cameras were recording him. He was sweating internally
if not through his shirt. Reuben Asnikov was a steel vault without a millimeter of give.

Webster liked how the office had been done up—arts and crafts style. The ceiling was low and made from cherrywood planks set in a running board pattern. The illumination came from recessed, ceiling canisters. The overhead fixture, which was rectangular and ran the length of the ceiling, was assembled from small, opaque squares of yellow, red and blue glass; it probably held a half-dozen cameras. Webster looked upward and waved.

All the furniture was constructed from slats of pure, polished teak: stark in design and hard on the butt. Even the couch Webster was sitting on had no fixed cushions on the back. Sitting was made tolerable by the use of yellow silk pillows. Asnikov’s desk was an enormous chunk of rosewood grained with deep swirls of brown and black. The desk chair was a modular piece of blue leather. The walls, like the ceiling, were built with cherrywood planking. No artwork was hung on them because the picture windows provided the color—palettes of leafy green elms and sycamores. Through the windows, Webster caught sight of a rock waterfall.

An attempt at serenity was marred by the six-foot high gun safe in the corner, the locked shelving unit holding the newest of surveillance equipment and the fully loaded computer ticking out reams of paper. Asnikov’s phone system had more lights than an airplane’s cockpit.

A few moments later, Asnikov returned, hanging up his jacket on a brass coatrack. The man was built as solidly as a welder. His face was hard, his green eyes were intense and his square jaw had a mandible that worked overtime. His clothes were more Hollywood exec than PI. He wore a loose-structured tan Armani-type suit over a blue-and-brown striped shirt. For his sartorial accessories, he had chosen a yellow tie and matching pocket handkerchief.

He said, “Get out your writing pad and take notes.”

Webster held his tablet up. “Ready when you are.”

“Cults.” Asnikov started ticking off fingers. “You need a charismatic leader—someone with
it
. Because it’s the leader who attracts the followers. Which is the second thing you need.”

“Followers,” Webster said.

Asnikov smiled with closed lips. “You got it. Cults require adherents—
ites
. They’re the ones who guarantee survival, the drones who work the jobs and spread the
word
—which is the third thing you need.”

Up went three fingers.

“The
word
!” Asnikov said with emphasis. “The philosophy, the
ism
. Cults are always ritualistic and more than likely have an
unorthodox
philosophy specifically designed to develop an us/them attitude. The
ism
is the key to a successful cult. It must isolate and alienate its members from the outside world. Ergo, a successful cult is one that erases its members’ pasts. If the cult eradicates its adherents’ history, it’s free to create its own, substituting one that glorifies and extols the cult’s values
and
the values of the charismatic leader who, in fact, determines those said values. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you,” Webster replied.

“To recap, three things. The
it
, the
ites
and the
isms
,” Asnikov continued. “There are open cults and closed cults. Most of your religious variants started as open cults, founded on
isms
by a charismatic leader who held a vision. Some examples; Christian Science developed by Mary Baker Eddy, the Shakers forwarded in this country by Ann Lee, Mormonism with Brigham Young’s sighting of the angel, Moroni, Jewish Chasidism with the Ba’al Shem Tov. Today, many of these cults have been integrated into standard American religious practices. But way back when, these leaders were ridiculed and ostracized.”

“Just like Ganz,” Webster stated.

“Ah, but there’s a big difference,” Asnikov answered. “In these open cults, the adherents stick to a strict set of
isms, but
—a big
but
—they are free to come and go. No
one is
forcing
them to stay. The leaders are generally non-obstructionist, and access to its participants is easier.”

“And that makes your job easier,” Webster said.

“Absolutely. If I can talk to a person alone, and on
my
turf, I may be successful in returning that adherent to the former life
or
I may
not
be successful. If I am sure that there is no coercion, I let well enough alone. The parents may be very unhappy, but if the kid’s over eighteen, them’s the breaks.

“It’s the closed cults that are my stock-in-trade—the ones that keep their followers under lock and key.”

“And you feel that the Order of the Rings of God falls under that category?”

“Without a doubt. When was the last time you ever saw one of its adherents in the supermarket?”

“I’ve never looked.”

“Well, Detective, I
have
looked. And let me tell you something. No one ever went in or out without Emil Ganz’s—i.e., Jupiter’s—say-so. You ever wonder how a cult that big survives when no one residing there has a conventional job?”

“How?”

“Two things. First, the group pools its followers’ collective money. You join the Order of the Rings of God, you give up all your worldly assets for the good of the group. Guess who determines how that money is spent?”

“Jupiter.”

“Two points, Detective.” Asnikov took out a bottle of water, and drank it empty. “Over the years, Jupiter must have conned hundreds of thousands from his adherents. How much Jupiter had pocketed for himself is anyone’s guess. I do know he bought a chicken ranch about a hundred miles north. It produces eggs and chicken for the Order with enough leftover eggs and feathers to sell for pocket change.”

“So Jupiter has used the money for the good of his followers.”

“Except that the ranch is under
his
name as the sole
owner.” Asnikov glanced at his watch—a Steel Oyster Rolex. “Now this is a prime example of a closed cult. To get the chickens and eggs, someone from the Order has had to go up there on a regular basis. It’s a time-consuming and menial job—collecting eggs and chickens and feathers. You assign a chore like that to an underling. Yet the only people who
I’ve
ever seen leave the confines and drive up there were Jupiter and his attendants—Pluto, Bob, Nova and the lady Venus. No one else. Ever. You’ve got to ask why.”

“Jupiter doesn’t want to give his followers freedom.”

“Exactly. He keeps his adherents
away
—away from freedom, away from their pasts and from parents or old friends or, God forbid, me. If Jupiter loses his followers, he loses his power base. Personally, I’m always suspicious of people who love power.”

Asnikov’s jaw muscles started working.

“People say I’m a kidnapper. Uh uh, not a chance. I’m a
redeemer
. It’s people like Ganz who are the kidnappers.”

“But if the member is a willing participant—”

“No such animal. As long as the person is not permitted access to the outside world, he or she is a captive. Maybe one who is treated nicely—fed and clothed and fucked—but as dependent as a pet. You have children, Detective?”

“Indeed, I do.”

It came out as “In
deed
, ah dew.”

Asnikov asked, “How’d you like if some goat treated your son or daughter like a circus animal—blindly obeying orders like some freak?”

“I could understand the heartbreak.” Webster looked at the deprogrammer. “But taking someone who is over eighteen and whisking them away—even for his or her own good—is against the law. Then again, I think you know that. I’ve doubts whether something like a law would stop you.”

“If those idiots at the Order say that I’ve been within
ten feet of their compound within the last month, they’re lying. Even worse, Detective, they may be hiding something truly nefarious.”

“Like what?”

“A girl’s missing, sir.
You
figure it out.”

“You think they’ve murdered her?”

“I don’t think anything is beyond them.”

“You wouldn’t be trying…for instance…to deflect the attention away from yourself, now would you?”

Asnikov was straight-faced. “I don’t need to deflect attention away from myself. Watch me all you want. If I break the law, arrest me. I’m not worried.”

Webster said, “So you’re not involved in Lauren Bolt’s kidnapping?”

“No, I’m not involved. And who says she was kidnapped? With all the confusion yesterday, the girl could have taken the opportunity to slip.”

“And if I looked into your books, I wouldn’t find Millard and Patricia Bolt listed as your clients?”

“Now that is truly a theoretical question.” Asnikov gave him a hint of a smile. “If you could break into my books, which are written in code, I’d hire you in a snap at a starting salary of six figures.” He paused. “If you don’t believe me, Detective, ask Lauren Bolt’s parents.”

“We’ve been trying to get hold of them,” Webster answered. “Mr. Bolt’s secretary says they’re on vacation.”

“It’s America. They have a right.”

Webster slouched, trying to get comfortable on a rock-hard sofa. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“I don’t know why,” Asnikov answered. “We’re basically on the same side.”

“It’s the basically part that bothers me,” Webster said. “Y’see, my tactics always fall within the law.”

“Hence the high failure rate among the police.” Asnikov grinned, showing white-capped teeth. “I reiterate. You think I break the law, arrest me. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Webster licked his lips, deciding to redirect the inter
view. “In your opinion, what’s going to happen with the Order now that Jupiter’s gone?”

“An interesting question.” Again, Asnikov checked his watch. But he didn’t appear to be in a hurry. “There are four under him with a supposedly equal power base. But anyone who knows anything about the Order knows that Pluto is the number-two man.”

“So Pluto takes over?”

“Notice I said the number-two
man
. Problem is there’s also a number-one
woman
. And she holds just as much sway as Pluto. Right now, I’d say Pluto is probably in charge. No doubt, he’s trying to stonewall Venus. But once she gets her bearings that could all change.”

“Who do you think will win out?”

“Can’t tell. But there’s bound to be some sort of power play by Pluto, then a counter by Venus…a jockeying back and forth until someone will eventually come out the victor.”

“How long do you think that’ll take?”

“Who knows?” Asnikov’s eyebrows bunched in concentration. “A week, a month, a year. The longer it takes, the better it is for everyone. If the power play is made too hastily—without thought to consequences—things could get ugly. If I were the police, I’d keep a close watch on the compound. The Order’s a fecund bunch. You don’t want a pile of dead kids on your conscience.”