by Elin Peer
“Thank you. It’s right this way.” With my jacket across his arm, Damon walked over and opened two French doors into another opulent room with a lit fireplace and four large floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a breathtaking view of the pristine garden and the lake in the distance.
“Ms. Christensen is here, sir.”
An old man rose from a reading chair close to the window.
I recognized him as Mr. Robertson from the research I had done, but he looked tired and older than in the pictures I’d found of him online.
“Thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, thank you. Water would be fine.”
Robertson was dressed in an expensive-looking suit but it was loose on him, making me think he’d lost weight recently. Walking over to an oval-shaped free-standing bar made of mahogany, he poured me a glass of water from a jug that still had ice cubes in it. “Here you go.”
I stepped closer and took the crystal glass. “Thank you.”
After pouring himself a glass, he motioned for us to sit down.
“You have a very beautiful house, sir.”
“Mmm.” Robertson gave a minuscule nod of his head.
I sipped my water, impatient to hear what he wanted to talk to me about.
“I need your help.” He tapped his index finger on his glass. “And I think you need mine.”
Shifting in my chair, I licked my lips, feeling nervous.
“You come from money, but now you’re in need of it.”
I frowned, not liking that he knew this about me.
“You grew up with easy access to funds. Your parents were described to me as rich and generous by nature. But then they cut you off a year and half before you graduated. That put you in a rough situation.”
“I manage.”
“Yes.” Robertson lowered his glass and looked thoughtful. “You’re a resourceful woman.”
I wondered how many details he knew about the time my parents gave me the ultimatum to either break up with my boyfriend or be cut off financially. It had broken my heart, but I hadn’t hesitated in choosing my independence and my self-respect.
“Can you confirm that you’re no longer in a romantic relationship?”
My throat felt dry so I took a bigger gulp of water from my glass. “I’m not.”
The relationship with Miguel had only lasted four months after the split from my parents, but I didn’t regret standing my ground. Never had I imagined my parents would hold their money over me as leverage. It had infuriated me. Especially, since their argument that he wasn’t good enough for me was based on the things that mattered to them and not to me. So what, if Miguel was a broke musician? He was kind and funny and we were great at laughing together. On our first date he took me salsa dancing and made me feel pretty and adored. When I twisted my ankle four weeks into our relationship, he carried me seven blocks on his back.
I didn’t pick him so he could make my parents look good among their friends, I picked him because he was transparent, funny, and kind.
And yet, over time, my parent’s criticism had weighed down on our relationship. Things that hadn’t bothered me before began to annoy me. Like the fact that Miguel couldn’t pay his share of the rent. Or that he would box our food and give it to homeless people, which was a sweet thought, except I was the one paying for the groceries.
I couldn’t afford to feed the neighborhood. Hell, I couldn’t even afford to pay for Miguel and me.
My scholarships didn’t cover my full tuition, and being financially cut off by my parents, I had been forced to obtain student loans and work on the side to not lose my apartment.
If it hadn’t been for my friend Sydney, who introduced me to her lucrative side business, I wouldn’t have graduated.
“I could use your services and you could use my money.” Robertson had built the Solver empire and he was a man used to getting what he wanted.
My chest heaved in a deep intake of air. Of course he wanted to talk to me because of the services I could offer him. I should have known. “I’m very particular over whom I offer my services to. To be honest, I’ve only had four clients and they were regulars. Our age difference is something I’d have to think about before I agree to this, but what I can tell you is that I charge two thousand per event you bring me to. I have dresses for most occasions but if you require me to wear something specific, I’ll have to approve it and the cost will be yours to cover on top of the two thousand. There are no sexual services included of any kind. No touching and no kissing but dancing is fine, as long as it’s clean.”
Robertson had straightened up in his seat and there was curiosity in his eyes now. “You’re a very attractive woman, Ms. Christensen, but I’m seventy-six and you could be my granddaughter. I’m not asking you to escort me to a function.”
“But you said that you needed my help.”
“I do.”
Crossing my legs, I admitted, “I’m confused.”
“Mmm… yes, but before I reveal the nature of my request, I must ask that you sign a non-disclosure agreement. This is a private matter and I don’t wish for the press to get a tip.” Turning in his chair, he reached for a brown envelope and took out three pieces of paper for me to sign.
When it was done, he took his time to put them away before he folded his hands in front of him. “I’ve called you here because of my grandson, Charles. He went to Ireland to participate in a conference, and enjoy a few weeks of traveling around the country. The plan was for him to stay in Ireland for three weeks and then come back home and continue his work for Solver Industries. He’s been gone for five months now and it’s become clear to me that he’s fallen prey to a cult.”
He trailed off but I kept waiting for him to tell me more.
“I suppose Charles being involved with them is proof that having a high level of intelligence doesn’t always come with a developed critical sense.”
“Are you sure it’s a real cult?”
“I’ve done my homework on the man who runs the cult, and I can spot a Machiavellian character when I see one. He’s a charlatan who has Charles enthralled.”
“It’s not one of those religious doomsday cults, is it?”
“No, but there are a few factors that define it as a cult. Conor O’Brien preaches his own philosophy on spirituality, and on most evenings, the members sit for hours listening to his speeches that no one is allowed to question. Former members talk about worshipping O’Brien and his having control of their careers and money. The members are asked to cut off contact with family and friends, and should a member no longer be able to produce riches for O’Brien, he gets rid of them.”
I’d leaned forward, engulfed in Mr. Robertson’s pain. “That’s awful. Have you warned your grandson?”
“Of course, but now he has stopped answering my calls.” The old man looked out the window with sadness showing in every wrinkle on his face. “The first time he talked about the mastermind group that he’d joined, I was on my way into a meeting, so I didn’t ask many questions. After that I didn’t hear from him for several weeks until he finally returned my call.”
When Robertson took another sip, his hands were shaking. “I was shocked at the things he said.”
“What did he say?”
Robertson’s eyes glazed over. “He talked about finding the family that he never had and he blamed me for not caring about him.” A flash of pain crossed his face as he lowered the glass to his thigh. “Charles is my only grandchild. My late wife and I took him in when our son and daughter-in-law died. Charles was four.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” His chin shivered a bit as if suppressed emotions were trying to find a way out. “I’m a busy man and looking back, I didn’t take as much time for Charles as I should have. It was hard for Emmy and me; she was already sick and Charles had all those issues.”
“What issues?”
With a sigh, Mr. Robertson threw a hand
up. “There were the night terrors that would have him screaming from nightmares. Then there was his extreme shyness, which I suspect had a lot to do with his Tourette’s. Of course, we gave him all the help money could buy, but for every year he went through therapy and treatments, it seemed the doctors just added more diagnoses to his chart. That boy had so many letters attached to him. ADHD, OCD, Asperger’s, Tourette’s, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if they blew it out of proportion, but for what it’s worth, he got better over time.”
The name Charles and Tourette’s brought back a memory of a man I’d met at Harvard, but his last name had been McCann and not Robertson.
“As I said, Charles was only four when his parents died. It was a motorcycle accident. A drunk driver missed his red light and caused a frontal collision. My daughter-in-law, Rose, was killed on impact but my son hung on for a few more days until the doctors advised us to turn off the respirator. It just about killed Emmy. She mourned every day and then sixteen years ago when Charles was thirteen, we had to bury her too.”
“And Charles’ maternal grandparents; where are they?”
Robertson cleared his throat. “His mother, Rose, was Irish and that’s why Charles wanted to travel around Ireland for a few weeks. He has an aunt and a grandmother on his mother’s side, but they haven’t heard from him in months either.”
“Are you worried that he’s hurt?”
“I know he’s alive. My team looked into it and made me a report.” He turned again and handed me a green file case. “Charles has moved into a commune. It’s like the damn hippies with everyone calling each other family and sharing. Have you ever heard of a mastermind group that lives together? The moment I read that Charles now lives there, I knew that the Red Manor Mastermind Group is a cult.”
“You really think your grandson joined a cult?”
“I know he did. My sources confirm it. It’s run by a man called Conor O’Brien who sells himself as an enlightened genius.” Robertson scoffed. “He’s clever all right, targeting people from Ivy League colleges around the world who all think they’re too smart to fall for something as cliché as a cult. Of course, it’s not a coincidence that most of them come from rich and influential families either.” Shaking his head with sadness, he looked away. “Young people are so naïve.”
There was another moment of silence as if Robertson needed to collect himself.
“I’m more than happy to help any way I can, but I have no connections in Ireland. I’m not sure what it is that you want me to do.”
He turned his face and pinned me with those intelligent eyes of his that shone with determination. “I want you to get Charles out of the cult, of course.”
I jerked back and squeezed the arm rest of the chair I was in. “How? I don’t even know your grandson. What makes you think that he’ll listen to me?”
“You’ve met him. You attended the same university.”
“I assure you, sir, that I didn’t even know we had a member of the Robertson family on campus.”
“That’s because he enrolled under his mother’s maiden name, McCann.” From his inner pocket, Robertson pulled out a picture and handed it to me.
It was the man from the coffee shop in a serious pose from his graduation day. His dark hair was a bit unruly but he looked confident, handsome, and as well built as I remembered. I nodded. “Yes, I’ve met him.”
The memory of our first encounter still made my toes curl. I had been a freshman blown back by the stranger that had walked into the café, exuding intelligence and elegance. But no matter how much I’d tried to make eye contact with him, he wouldn’t look my way. With the confidence of a young woman used to being hit on, I had gone over to order, just so I could have a chance to talk to him. It hadn’t worked out, since Charles had shown zero interest in me. In my eagerness to start a conversation with him, I’d made a big fool of myself and when I proceeded to take a sip of his coffee, the humiliation had been complete.
“I looked into your background and found a few details that makes me optimistic that you’re perfect for the job.” Turning in his chair, Mr. Robertson pulled out another set of printed papers and handed them to me. “You should recognize this paper. You authored it.”
I let my fingers run over the title: Mind control: Myths and Facts. It was a paper I’d written in psychology.
“You have seventeen pages describing the ways cult leaders brainwash their victims.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, and quite a few describing unhealthy company dynamics that take place in modern-day business. Some of which I’d like to discuss with you another time.”
I moved in my seat. “As I said, I’d like to help, but just because I know a bit about how cults work doesn’t change that I’ve only met your grandson a few times, and that was years ago. What makes you think that he’d be interested in anything I have to say?”
“Hmm… come with me. There’s something that I want you to see.” Mr. Robertson got up and swung a hand, gesturing for me to go first.
He took me back through the grand entrance and into a small elevator. “I used to run up and down those stairs, but now, my hips don’t like them much.”
On the second floor, we got out and walked to a bedroom with large, robust furniture in dark wood. Unlike the rest of the house, it was a little untidy in here with random-looking objects spread around.
“This used to be Charles’ room.” Robertson walked over and touched a globe on the desk that stood against one of the three windows in the room. “After our last conversation when he cut me off, I came in here hoping to find clues… and maybe to feel a bit of a connection because I missed him.” He sighed. “But either way, I found something that led me to you.”
My heart did a flip as I kept listening.
“I never cleared out this room after Charles bought his penthouse apartment in downtown Chicago. Turns out that he left some boxes here and in one of them there were some of his diaries and a few objects.” Robertson moved to the bed and picked up a blue journal.
“I didn’t take Charles for a guy who would keep a diary.” Maybe it was the mystery of it all that had me on edge and making such an insensitive comment. “I’m sorry, it sounded like criticism, but I just meant that it’s unusual, that’s all.”
Robertson held the journal in his hands. “Emmy taught him to use it as a tool when he was younger. She kept a diary from before I met her and over the forty-two years of our marriage, she often tried to get me to keep one of my own. According to her, journals offer a safe place to vent out the thoughts and emotions that we find it so hard to share with the people around us. With Charles being painfully shy and introverted, I suppose writing down his feelings became a stress reliever of sorts.” Robertson lowered the book and frowned. “I don’t believe in snooping around in other people’s diaries, but in this case, I’m trying to find a way to help my grandson out of the claws of a cult, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I understand.”
“Good. I don’t need to remind you that you’ve signed an NDA. I’m going to leave you here to read what he wrote about you.”
Charles wrote about me? Butterflies tumbled around my stomach as if a sudden gush of wind had knocked them off course.
Feeling like I was in a surreal trance, I watched Robertson place the journal on Charles’ bed before walking past me and stopping by the door.
“I’ll see you downstairs. If you decide to take the assignment and help me get Charles out of the cult, his journals will give you important insights into his personality and background that can serve you in winning his trust.”
“Thank you.”
The old man stood for a second with his hand on the door handle. “If you get Charles to leave the cult for good, I’m prepared to give you a million dollars.”
My jaw hung low. “That’s… a lot of money, but it’s not necessary. I assure you: I’m happy to help if only you pay my expenses.”
“
I’m getting old and my health is declining fast. Believe me when I say that a million dollars is nothing compared to what I’d give to make peace with Charles before I die. The sad reality is that I’ve worked my entire life to create an empire for my heir, and now he doesn’t want it.” His shoulders sagged and he looked thoughtful.
“Did Charles say that?”
His eyes glazed over again. “He said he needed to do some soul searching. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I never did much of that, but these past months I’ve had a lot of time to think. I worked so hard to give him a privileged life but at the same time, I made him a target for charlatans and criminals like O’Brien. That’s why I’ve changed my will. If I die before Charles is outside the influence of the cult, he won’t get his inheritance.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. I’m hoping O’Brien will release his claws on Charles once he learns there’s no inheritance. If he does, I’ll have given Charles something worth more than money.”
“So, you’re saying that if I don’t get Charles out of the cult, he’ll lose his entire inheritance. How long do I have?”
“If we’re lucky, a few months.”
I stared at the old man. “Are you… dying?”
“We all are. My time is just coming sooner. Or at least, so my doctors tell me, but I’m not convinced.” He didn’t stay to elaborate but walked out. When the closing of the door clicked behind me, I moved forward and picked up the book on the bed. A bookmark stuck out on top, marking where Robertson wanted me to read from. My hands were shaking when I opened it.
December 16th.
I ran into her again tonight. Charlie from the coffee shop.
She was standing with some of her friends outside Lucy’s Bar. One of them was smoking and they were tipsy.
It surprised me that she called out to me because it’s been over a month since that awkward meeting at the coffee bar. It’s stupid how much I’ve thought about her and all the witty things I wished I’d said to her that day. Twice, I’ve seen her on campus and both times she smiled at me, but I was so stressed about the pep-talk in my head to go and talk to her, that she was gone before I mustered as much as a smile. I’ve been so certain that by now she would have categorized me as either stuck-up and arrogant or a complete basket case.