The Sister

by China, Max

  He was drying himself off, when the telephone rang; quickly wiping his hands, he answered it.

  "Carla?" He dried around his neck and nestled the phone between his jaw and shoulder.

  "You know you told me about that case, the researcher on cults, Michael Simpson?" The question was slanted with suspicion.

  "Yes, is everything all right?" he said, sipping from a bottle of mineral water.

  "Well, no actually. There I was asking all kinds of questions about his murder and you got me arrested—"

  "What!" he spluttered, almost choking.

  "That's right; the post-mortem revealed he was murdered."

  "I told you someone was trying to kill him and then he was found dead—"

  ""Yes you did, but you didn't tell me that no one else knew that, did you? I got arrested, thank you very much, Mr Miller!"

  "Whoa . . . when I gave you that tip off, I didn't expect that you'd go in like a bull in a china shop…"

  "I haven't finished yet!" she said through clenched teeth. "The police wanted to know why I was asking questions related to a murder enquiry that had not been officially announced. As far as the press was concerned, it was an accident. And they wanted to know where I got my information from."

  "You didn't tell them!" The few seconds she took to answer was intended to keep him in suspense.

  "You'll be relieved to know I didn't, I blagged my way out of it, saying it was a hunch, but the thing is… How did you know? You told me on the train three weeks ago, before you'd had your meeting with The Sister, so I'm a little bit confused about what the truth is here."

  Miller cleared his throat, unsure of the best way to tell her. "Carla, look . . . it's complicated."

  "How did I know it would be? We'll come back to the question in a minute. Anyway, I've done some digging; it seems he was investigating a religious cult in Spain."

  Miller felt a cold chill creeping over him; an electrifying wave swept over his flesh, across the follicles of his skin. The hair on his forearms stood on end. He had a sense of foreboding. What's going on with you lately, Miller, have you turned into a magnet for strange coincidences?

  "Apparently, he wrote a book about cults in the early eighties and he'd returned to researching to see how they'd moved with modern times. His studies show…" Carla carried on talking in the background…The larger ones have done very well, might even be regarded as respectable . . . Her voice faded as Miller's perceptions shifted, triggered by something she said. He had a glimpse, a view he recognised. It was a trail that led him back through his memories… he was in the car with Kirk again that rainy night when he was nineteen…Look it up … he transported himself into the morning after, back into the library, the book in his hands in his mind's eye . . . he folded it shut. He focused on the author's name on the front. Michael Simpson!

  Carla hadn't noticed that his mind was on something else. He tuned into her voice once more as he returned to his normal self.

  "… This particular one seems to have been resurrected and rebranded from an older version, in other words, only the name has changed. The questionable practices are the same. I've heard rumours that they launder and recycle money in the same way as drug cartels. In fact, according to my sources, there's evidence to support the supposition that this cult is under the control of a major criminal. Simpson was in Amsterdam unravelling connections to the drugs and arms trade when he met with his accident. I think I'm going to need help on this one."

  Miller bit his lip, unsure about her continuing with the investigation he'd set her off on. He knew she wouldn't just drop it, he'd have to do something, but he couldn't afford to compromise his position with the work he was doing for Kale. He needed more answers. "Did you find out anything else, Carla?"

  "Okay, the top guy was taking these heiresses, once they'd been bled dry, he was running them as high class whores. Got them addicted to religion. Got them hooked on drugs. By then, they'd do anything he wanted."

  Miller asked himself. What is my life but a series of coincidences? It can't be the same one, can it? In his heart, he already knew. All these things had come full circle, and they weren't finished yet.

  "You didn't say what they call themselves now."

  "To give them their full name: The Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo. Have you heard of them?"

  He remained silent.

  "Sometimes they're referred to as simply 'The Church'".

  "The Church," Miller repeated, struck by a moment of epiphany. The garish neon Church image and the disembodied voice he heard when The Sister touched him came alive inside his head. You must find another place to live, or he'll find you! That's who is looking for The Sister, not the Catholic Church at all.

  Several times since Kennedy's funeral, he'd deliberated the question: How far could she go without direct intervention? A series of mini revelations played through his head. All the unlikely coincidences . . . pointed to the hand of The Sister working indirectly behind the scenes. Boyle, Kirk, Ryan, Olga Kale the cult and everything else, her fingerprints were all over them.

  A steely look crossed his face. "You know something, Carla? I'd like to shut them down once and for all."

  "But how would you manage to do that?" she asked.

  "I know a man who will help me."

  "Tell me it's not Tanner!"

  "No, it isn't. It's Donovan Kale."

  Chapter 152

  When Miller arrived at Stella's house, it was already mid afternoon. The sky was leaden, pregnant with storm, and the atmosphere had stalled between high and low pressure, keeping the rain at bay. Looking up at the heavens, he muttered, "Why don't you just rain and get it over with." She didn't sound herself at all when we spoke a few hours ago. It can't be easy, being reunited with someone you've never met before. From the gate, he saw the curtains were still drawn.

  She'd been through hell over the last few weeks, but insisted she was left to deal with it alone.

  At the door, he paused and questioned his motives, unsure whether he should turn and walk away. His brief re-acquaintance with her had led her into danger, the old pattern. On the step, half-turned away, he hesitated, sensing what she was going through was beyond her own capacity for self-healing. Carla was different; she was streetwise. Stella, for all her hard exterior, was soft and vulnerable inside. He identified with her on that level, acknowledging that his own persona was just an act to cover for the child in him that never grew up.

  He thought back on all that had happened over the last three weeks. When they'd first found Kathy, she didn't want to go with them; she'd fought her rescuers with the ferocity of a wild animal.

  At first, Stella refused to believe that she was her sister. The futility of her parent's suicide heightened the anguish she felt. It was the eyes that first drew her back to Kathy's photograph. Twenty-three years had passed, and no matter what else in her appearance had changed, she still had those eyes. Denial was no longer an option; the last doubts disappeared. It was Kathy.

  At the hospital after Kathy's initial appraisal, the psychiatrist explained she'd developed Stockholm syndrome - where the captive bonds with the captor in order to ensure their survival. He'd held her for so long she actually believed that she loved him; the clear evidence of abuse and beatings hadn't diminished that belief. She'd become institutionalised, and to complicate matters further, she had signs of brain damage; more tests were needed.

  Miller had gone with Stella; she didn't have anyone else. He'd asked what the forecast was for the future.

  The psychiatrist, Dr Marshall, looked at them both over the top of his glasses and explained that conventional methods would take a long time to get anywhere. "I suspect she had a blow the head, or some kind asphyxiation that deprived the brain of oxygen. Physical abuse, drug abuse . . . they're all on the radar. To cut to the chase, you'll be better trying the alternative route."

  He referred Stella to a friend of his in Norwich, a specialist in NLP and hypnotherapy; he wrote the details on a c
ard and passed it to her. She thanked him and taking it, noted the name, Victor, followed by a telephone number.

  It was a few days before the hospital allowed Kathy to go out with them. They collected her early in the morning. Stella sat next to her in the back seat; all attempts at conversation failed. Miller observed her in the rear view mirror; she looked distressed.

  In Norwich, the therapist, Victor, was a kindly looking man with a shaven head and gentle voice. A female chaperone sat unobtrusively in a far corner for the session. They left Kathy, knowing she was in good hands for the next two hours, while they went to have breakfast in a department store nearby. Stella remained subdued and uncommunicative throughout. Although he tried to break through the self-imposed barrier she'd erected, he was unable to find a way. His efforts left him exhausted.

  When they returned, the therapist left Kathy in his office with the chaperone, while he delivered his appraisal. "I can help her; that's the good news. The bad news is . . . well, it's going to be a long hard road."

  Stella began, "But, Mr Marshall—"

  Victor interrupted, his voice becoming firm and authoritative." She doesn't know who she was before; there's absolutely no recollection, even under hypnosis. So we're dealing with amnesia as well as captive bonding. Tests have shown she is brain damaged, but perhaps worse than that . . . for you at any rate, she really believes she is Cathy Boyle," he said grimly. "And that's just for starters."

  Miller kept quiet. Stella did the talking. "Surely she remembers something about who she was - is, I mean Cathy and Kath, they're too close for coincidence?"

  "That's true. Maybe the kidnapper named her after the ID she had with her?"

  Stella was firm. "No, that never happened. You see they found her bag; she didn't have it with her."

  Victor studied her face, concerned. "It's a dilemma - do we rehabilitate her as Cathy Shaw or Cathy Boyle, or do we try to re-establish her original identity, Kathy Bird, one she hasn't existed in for twenty odd years?"

  After a quick exchange of looks, Miller spoke at last. "Whichever one gives her the best chance of a future."

  The therapist stroked the top of his shaven head with the palm of his hand, and looked at Stella, eyes filled with compassion. "She did remember one thing under hypnosis, I didn't want to tell you just yet, you've had enough to cope with, but it might just help you to decide."

  "What is it?" she said, agitated. "I want to know."

  "That scar on her top lip. At first, I thought it was an old one, you know, from a harelip. Well, I asked her about it when I had her regressed, and suggestible. She - she remembers him doing it with a pair of scissors…"

  With each new revelation, little by little, Stella had come undone. She broke down.

  By the time they left the therapists office, she was in a state of shock.

  They returned Kathy to the hospital.

  He'd driven Stella home. She barely said a word.

  He'd been unable to volunteer his point of view, while Kathy was in the car, so he said, "To me it's obvious. She has no future as Cathy Boyle. That part of her life is over now, it wasn't real. She needs to be Kathy Bird again, even if it means dealing with the loss of your parents and everything else that's happened in between"

  Stella didn't answer him, and he didn't push her.

  Arriving back at her house, he entered with her to check the house was clear. The telephone rang. It was the hospital. Not long after they'd left, Kathy had gone into a catatonic state.

  Miller asked if there was anybody she could call, who could stay with her. Stella regarded him with a strange, hurt look. "No, no, I'll be fine. I just need to be alone for a few days . . ."

  She didn't ask you to come now. It's a mistake. You should have respected her wishes and left her alone. He decided to come back another time.

  The door opened. He hadn't knocked. Surprised at the sight of him half-turned away from her doorstep, she shot him a hurt look. Apart from the pain in her eyes, her face was expressionless. Still in her dressing gown, the face pale with dark rings below her eyes, the unbrushed hair combined to tell a story. A whiff of alcohol caught on his inward breath; he tasted her despair. "Oh, Stella . . ." was all he managed to say.

  Without answering, she turned from the door; he followed her in, closing it behind him.

  In the gloom of the lounge, she flopped onto the sofa and stared unseeing at the television. A strange carnival of lights projected onto her face from soundless pictures.

  Stood in the doorway, he sought a connection with her. None came. Purposefully he strode across the room and swished the curtains back. Light flooded in. Despite its greyness, she cowered, her eyes squinted against it.

  "Do-o-on't . . ." she said, in a cracked, parched voice that lacked conviction.

  "Stella, look at me."

  She turned to face him, her gaze on his cheekbones, avoiding eye contact.

  "Talk to me Stella - I can help."

  A moment passed; she took a deep breath and exhaled it as a sigh. "I look a right junkie mess don't I?" She turned her arms out, exposing the forearms, allowing a brief glimpse before lowering them again.

  Track marks! The visible scars of her brief captivity had all but disappeared, but deeper wounds had been left for her to deal with.

  "Considering what you've been through, I think that's the least of your worries." He took a seat next to her on the sofa, and clasping his hands firmly together, held them between his knees.

  "Shall I get us some tea?"

  "I don't want anything."

  "Have you eaten?"

  She didn't turn, but sought him briefly, looking out from the corner of her eye. "Do I look like I'm in the mood to eat anything?"

  "No, but that's why I asked. You should have something; it'll help," he said.

  "Help me with what? I was better off not knowing what happened!" Her face flushed with anger. "And I feel so guilty about how I feel!" She wrung her hands together. "God, I hate myself for how I feel!"

  "Stella, none of this was your fault, but you've got to move on for your own sake and Kathy's too. You were looking for work before Ryan died, a lot has happened between times I know, but how about starting back with me. I've got a job that's going to keep me busy for a while, and I could do with someone that I can trust to look after things. What do you say?"

  "I'm not sure . . ." her fingers twisted into knots.

  "Please, Stella," he said, not wanting to press her too hard, "I'll be at the office in the morning. I could do with your help."

  Chapter 153

  Early the next day, Miller let himself into his office. Although he'd seldom worked from there over the past year, the cleaner still came in once a week to keep the dust and cobwebs at bay. Paperwork in unsorted piles covered every available spare desk space. Jesus, this place, is a mess. Coffee, that's what I'll start with.

  In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, he wondered if Stella would show. Images of other secretaries came and went; he smiled at the memories.

  The worktop rumbled as the water boiled; the button clicked off. About to pour the contents into his cup, the sound of the entry buzzer jarred him into almost scalding himself.

  On the way to the door, he glanced at the CCTV monitor. His heart lifted. Stella had arrived.

  In the weeks that followed, she re-established herself quickly, reminding Miller of why he'd once considered her his finest secretary. She glanced up and caught him looking at her.

  "What?" she said, with a bemused smile.

  "You look happy, and I'm glad. Want tea?"

  The telephone in his pocket vibrated urgently. "Excuse me," he withdrew it and answered as he advanced down the corridor to his office.

  "Carla, any news?" he'd taken to ribbing her with newspaper-style clichés. "Anything to report?"

  "As a matter of fact I have. While you've been playing nursemaid, I've found out something very interesting."

  What she'd just said managed to irritate and intrigue
in equal measure. "Come on, Carla, that's unfair—"

  "It's the truth. You should be here in Amsterdam with me, but it's okay," she sighed. "I do understand, but this is your job. Kale is paying you, not me." Her voice dropped, "what if I went to him directly?"

  Miller laughed, "If I don't get paid, neither will you. So, what have you found?"

  "Carlos, that's not his real name."

  He detected something other than pride in her tone. "That doesn't surprise me much," he said, with an air of nonchalance. "What is it?"

  "Come over here and I'll tell you." Click.

  "Carla, are you still there?" She's put the phone down on you.

  Sunlight slanted across the window, finding its way into his office, the slab of light it cast onto the wall adjacent widened perceptibly as he watched it, warming the room as it grew. She's right. You should be there. He'd get Stella to book him a flight for this afternoon.

  "Who's Carla? I don't think I've met her…" Stella's eyes gave little away, but her voice was too measured, unnatural. "And I haven't seen any paperwork concerning her…"

  "I'll explain. She's working with me in an unofficial capacity. She's a reporter, but no ordinary one…"

  When he'd finished explaining, Stella said, "I'm not sure about this new direction you're taking, it sounds dangerous."

  "I'll be back before you know it, and anyway," he held his mobile phone up and shook it. "If you need me just call."

  The hotel was a former canal house arranged over three storeys. Inside, the décor was a sumptuous blend of modern and traditional furnishings, light streamed in through arch-top windows. This must be costing a packet. She'd booked him a room opposite hers. They met in the bar.