Under Cover of Darkness (37 page)

"Not to ask a stupid question," Victoria followed up. "But I don't suppose Beth Wheatley's picture was among the photos of cult members who were arrested."

"No," said Andie. "And that's not a stupid question. To address Isaac's question at the outset, one of the things I want to accomplish with this assignment is to determine whether Beth Wheatley is a victim. Or an accomplice."

"Accomplice to what?" asked Lundquist. "Let's not lose sight of the fact that this whole theory is based on a tip from a convicted felon who wants to get out of jail, collect a quarter of a million dollars in reward money, and move to Tahiti. We don't have any evidence that Steve Blechman or anyone else from this so-called cult has ever met Beth Wheatley or any other of the victims of this serial killer."

"Which is exactly why I need to go on this retreat," said Andie.

Lundquist said, "Working in a used-clothing store in Yakima undercover was one thing. Infiltrating a cult is quite another."

"What are you saying?" asked Isaac. "That the assignment is foolhardy?"

"I say that if it's evidence we're after, we get a search warrant and go look for it."

"You know as well as anyone that a search warrant has to be specific. We have to list exactly what we're looking for in our affidavit."

"How about Beth Wheatley? That's pretty specific. If we really think Beth Wheatley could be at the farm owned by Mr. Blechman's cult, I say we get a search warrant and turn the place upside down till we find her."

Andie was about to speak, but Victoria beat her to it. "Bad idea," she said loudly over the box. "Any overt action by the FBI could prompt the cult members to turn the plac
e i
nto a poison drinking fest, like Heaven's Gate or Jonestown, or a deadly inferno, like David Koresh in Waco. Cult members are by definition suicidal, since they have already killed off their past life. From what Andie told us of Blechman's teachings, this cult is no different. He preaches the need to sever ties with family and friends--everything that keeps you vibrating at a human level. Based on what I've heard, Blechman isn't afraid to die. And he isn't afraid to take his followers with him--whether they're willing or unwilling."

Lundquist grimaced, seemingly unconvinced. "I'm just trying to strike a reasonable balance here. We have a serial killer who could strike again at any moment. I don't want to get sidetracked on some expensive and protracted undercover operation that turns out to be totally beside the point."

"That's a valid concern," said Andie. "But storming the compound isn't the answer."

"I didn't say storm it," snapped Lundquist. "I said get a search warrant. Don't twist my words."

"Sorry. But I think the point Victoria was making is that the distinction might be lost on a paranoid group of cult members who went so far as to chain themselves to an irrigation pipe in order to stop the government from spying on them."

Lundquist was searching for a reply but was coming up empty. "Smartass," he muttered beneath his breath.

"Come on," said Isaac. "Let's not get personal."

"On the contrary," said Lundquist. "Now is precisely the time to get personal. I sense that you're leaning toward some kind of undercover approach. So the next logical question is, who is the right man for the job?"

"At the risk of sounding like a bumper sticker, I'd have to say the right man is a woman."

"Is that so?" said Lundquist. "Andie, why don't you relate to us your previous undercover training and experience?"

She had none, but she felt compelled to say something. "I did some acting in college."

"Wonderful. You can be Eliza Doolittle in the cult revival of My Fair Lady. Isaac, how'd you like to play 'enry 'iggins?"

"Enough," said Isaac.

"I'm not just taking potshots," said Lundquist. "I like Andie. I think she's got real potential. I just don't want to see her killed on an assignment she's not qualified to handle."

"I'm up for it," said Andie.

"Think before you talk, kid. You're going inside a cult. Once you're there, you're on your own. Our surveillance agents can't see through walls. And we can't wire you. If they pat you down and find a wire, you're dead. I'm not saying this to be a sexist pig. But with two dead men, three dead women, and another woman missing, maybe you'd better think twice before you walk into a cult that may have spawned a serial killer."

She looked at Lundquist and then at Isaac. "I have thought about it. This is what I want to do." Her gaze fixed on Isaac. He'd been with her so far, and she expected his approval. She waited. Several seconds passed. She suffered through the silence, begging with her eyes.

He said finally, "Let me think about it."

"But--"

With a quick wave of the hand Isaac cut her off. Concern was evident in his eyes. Lundquist's speech had gotten to him. "I said I'd think about it."

Andie watched with disappointment as he rose from the table and left the room.

Chapter
Forty-Seven.

Gus had been awake since three A
. M
. That was when Morgan had finally fallen asleep. The nights were getting increasingly difficult. For a six-year-old, a week and a half was an eternity. Beth had been gone so long that Morgan was seriously beginning to doubt her return.

For the most part, Gus had managed to keep his own doubts to himself. The advice he'd gotten was to remain positive in front of Morgan. That didn't mean walking around the house with an ear-to-ear smile. Nor did it mean lying to her. She could see the worry in his face, so there was little point in telling her he wasn't concerned.

Last night, however, he might have been a little too honest. It was on their third late-night go-round, after the story-reading session at eleven o'clock and another glass of water at one A
. M
. Morgan was still wide awake. Clearly, something was weighing on her mind. Gus carried her from the bed and held her on his lap as they rocked in the glider. Her head lay on his shoulder. He could feel the warm breath against his neck, the baby-fine hair brushing against his skin. They rocked in the glow of her Little Mermaid night light. It took a few minutes, but finally she opened up. She spoke without looking at him, her cheek against his chest.

"Daddy?"

"Yes."

"What's a reward?"

He knew where this was headed, so he answered carefully. "It's like a prize that you give to a person who does a good deed."

"A kid at school said there was a reward for Mommy." "That's true. If anyone can bring Mommy back to us
,
that would be a good deed. So I'll give them a reward." "What are you going to give them?"

"Money."

"How much?"

"A lot."

"All the money we have?"

"No. Not all of it."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't have to give that much."

"How do you know that?"

"I just know."

"But Mommy isn't back. What if your reward isn't big enough?"

"It's big enough. But if they ask for more, we'll give it to them."

They rocked in silence, then she asked, "How much more?"

"Whatever it takes."

"Would you give them your car?"

"Absolutely."

"How about the house?"

"If we had to, I would."

"Would you give them Aunt Carla?"

That elicited a half smile. "No, honey. We can't do that." "Would you give them me?"

"Never," he said firmly. "Not in a million years."

She nuzzled the nape of his neck and asked softly, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"If they wanted you as their reward, would you go?"

He didn't answer right away. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he had never thought of it in those terms. "Yes. I would."

He felt her cling tighter. Her voice filled with urgency. "You would go, too?"

"No. I would go instead of Mommy. Mommy would come back."

Her body shivered. "But what if it was a trick? What if both of you went away?"

"That's not going to happen. Don't worry about that. I promise you that will never happen."

She nearly crawled inside him. She pressed as much of her body against his as was physically possible. This close, he could practically see her thoughts. He could definitely feel her fears, and it made him regret having said he might go away under any circumstances. All he could do was hang on tight and reassure her. They remained that way for almost two hours, till Morgan finally fell asleep.

After putting her down, Gus didn't even try falling back to sleep. He needed something to occupy his mind. Predawn television didn't cut it. The newspaper had yet to be delivered. His eyes drifted toward the framed photographs on the dresser. There were at least a dozen of them. The frames were old, some of them from the days when he and Beth were just living together. Over time, however, the pictures had changed. It was an interesting progression, he thought. It used to be him and Beth. The two of them snow skiing. The two of them at Haystack Rock. Then came the engagement and wedding pictures. The baby pictures followed. Morgan in her bassinet. Morgan and Mommy. He scanned the entire dresser.

There wasn't a single picture of him and Morgan.

Curious, he went to the closet and dragged down the old shoe boxes that held all their photographs. Over the next several hours, he went through them slowly, box by box, oldes
t t
o newest. The old ones were familiar and brought back memories. The new ones, however, were truly new to him. He hadn't been the photographer for any of them. He wasn't in any of them. He hadn't even seen most of them before.

He returned to the older ones, back to a time when he was still part of the family. His favorite was one he had taken of Morgan in her crib when she was just eight months old, before things really started to tank between him and Beth. A ray of sunlight streamed through slats on the Bermuda shutters. It angled perfectly toward her crib, shooting like a laser beam. Morgan stared at it intently, reaching for it, trying to grasp it in her tiny fingers. Gus snapped a perfect shot that captured the moment exactly. Friends and family who saw it had the same reaction. "Just like her dad. Mad because she can't have everything."

Looking at it now, Gus saw it differently. There was no anger or frustration in baby Morgan's eyes. It was simple fascination. The look of determination was so strong that if you stared at the photo long enough, you couldn't help but put aside your own grown-up notion of the laws of physics. You'd swear she could reach out and grab it, even bend it and twist it as she wished. She had the innate gift of making the impossible seem possible, but that didn't make her a hopeless overachiever like her dad. As the years had made clear, she also had the wisdom to leave certain things be and enjoy them for what they were.

That made her more like her mother--the Beth he remembered.

"Daddy?" He looked up, startled. Morgan was standing in the doorway, still in her pajamas. "Are you going to take me to school?"

He checked the clock and groaned. It was already after nine. "Oh, boy. We're late." He quickly started stuffing photographs back into the boxes. In his haste he spilled a bulging stack all over the rug. Morgan came to help gather them up. She handed him one after the other. I
t w
as slower that way, but Gus liked the teamwork. "Thank you," he said as she handed him the last one. "Should I get ready for school?"

He was about to say yes, then reconsidered. She probably hadn't noticed that her father wasn't in a single one of the dozen photographs she'd just handed over, but he certainly had. He had planned to take another run at Shirley Borge, but she probably could use another day to cool off anyway. "Morgan, why don't you and I take the day off?"

"And do what?"

"Anything you want. Go ice skating. Go to the zoo. Anything at all."

Her eyes brightened. "You mean we're going to play hooky together?"

"Yeah," he said with a thin smile. "I think it's about time."

It took just minutes to fill his duffel bag with the basic necessities, though everything was folded and arranged with precision. One change of pants, two clean shirts. Extra thermal socks and underwear. Three long-sleeve cotton turtlenecks and a heavy wool sweater. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A straight-edge razor with just a bar of soap, no shaving cream. A Swiss Army knife, flammable steel wool, and some waterproof matches.

His weekend in the mountains would require little more. The retreat was just one day away. Already, he could feel the increased flow of energy, feel the change in his level of vibration. Energy was power. Power was his sustenance--his power over others.

The window shade was drawn and the room was dark, though not completely black. A four-watt bulb in the bathroom cast a faint glow that reached all the way to the bed. He could see only because his pupils had adjusted, and he could see quite well. The pattern on the bedspread. The curves beneath the covers. Her head resting on the pillow.