by Dara Girard
“And some don’t.”
Clay could feel his patience thinning. “It is not your job to tell people what—”
“People do it every day,” Emmerick interrupted smoothly. “Rabbis, priests, and yogis teach followers how to live, how to seek the sanctuary of the spirit that we all desire. It is our right to have that. I am a messenger like them: Am I to be persecuted, as they would have been years ago, because my beliefs are currently not popular?”
“Your message is self-serving. You target the weak—those that are destitute, ill, alone.”
“Because they need the message more. No one sees them. How many homeless people do you pass on the streets without looking them in the eye? They are invisible to us. I’m sure you understand that intimately.” He smiled with cruel confidence.
Clay didn’t reply.
“But I see them. The universe sees them and they are made part of a world that would throw them aside.” He leaned forward, his eyes lit with a private knowledge. “The truth is this is a personal vendetta. You already have a bias against people like myself.”
“What you are doing is—”
“Perfectly legal. Not all people believe in my practice.” He paused like a seasoned speaker. “Your sister did, however.” He turned to Amy. “She had been a follower of mine and she died. Tragically. But her death is not a tragedy. It was a release from a life filled with suffering. She was ultimately rewarded for her loyalty and obedience.”
“To you or to your universe?” Clay quietly asked.
His gaze pierced the distance between them. “You should know the answer to that. You used to be a believer once.”
Amy jumped in. “Is that true, Mr. Jarrett?”
Clay didn’t reply right away, almost feeling the camera coming in for a close-up. “Yes.”
Emmerick nodded, pleased with the acknowledgement. “You came to me with nothing. A lost teenage runaway lacking education, little hope of a successful future, with your own traditional beliefs in shambles. I taught you how to survive, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Clay couldn’t say much else without betraying himself, without admitting that Emmerick was prodding a wound he’d thought he’d healed. He knew how Emmerick worked, that he would prod that wound until fresh blood seeped through.
“Everyone had turned you away, but I didn’t. I gave you something to hope for.” He turned to Amy. “He was one of my best recruiters. One of the most powerful speakers around.” He looked at Clay. “I was proud. You were the son I never had.”
“You weren’t my father.”
Emmerick clasped his hands in his lap, unperturbed by the venom in Clay’s tone. “I was a father figure. Like Rennie was a mother figure to you. I gave you guidance. Just because you turned against the faith doesn’t mean you need to start a crusade to destroy it.”
Amy piped up, seeing a perfect angle. “So, as a former member of the Careless Rapture Ministry, were you involved in any, as you would say, harmful activity that causes you to be here today?”
“The ministry had a different name then,” Clay said. “The name is as changeable as the beliefs.”
Emmerick shook his head as though disappointed. “Your bitterness hurts me. I would suggest you try my book to ease you of your anger. You were always one for anger.” He pulled down his collar to reveal a thin scar. “Do you remember when you gave me this? You’d wanted to kill me because of your sister’s passing. I had to talk you down from your rage. I saved your life as you did mine and that brings me to my book. The lessons the universe teaches us.”
It went steadily downhill from there. Emmerick combated Clay’s every statement with some damaging information from the past. He was better than Clay had remembered—too subtle to seem threatening, with a calm, patient manner that didn’t allow Clay to argue with him without Clay looking aggressive. So Clay retreated by using vague terms and neutral statements. Soon the program was over. They ceremonially shook hands, both knowing Emmerick had come out the victor. Defeated, Clay left the studio.
A half hour later, he sat in the silence of the Church of Holy Spirit. The silence allowed his thoughts to punish him. The majestic vaulted ceiling hung overhead while a European stained-glass altar with gilded images of saints and kings faced him. He watched an old woman kneel before the brass candles and bow her head, and gripped his hands to keep from being consumed by the memories of Melanie, Gabriella, and Rennie, who’d never get the chance to be old. He’d failed them all and now Jackie, too. He’d lost her when he’d started to treasure what they had.
She was right. He had run. He’d run before he destroyed what he held dear. Alone, he was safe. Everyone was safe. He loosened his fists. There was no need for pity. His life was a series of choices and he would not regret them all right now. He had to think, to plan. The thin scar on Emmerick’s neck flashed in his mind. He did try to kill him, and didn’t regret it. But Emmerick had been wrong—his sister had been alive then. Clay had tried to kill him when he’d come into his room one night and tried to betray his trust in a way no father figure should. He saw his evil then and wanted to destroy him.
That night Emmerick had persuaded followers to tie up Clay and then Emmerick had beaten him with his fists and his words. Clay had almost taken pleasure in the blows. His own father had never touched him, but somehow the pain felt right, the hurt a comfort. It made him own his feelings of worthlessness. At that moment he understood his sister, why she chose the worst men, why his love could never be enough for her. He’d lain there waiting for death to come so that the pain would subside. Morning came instead.
In the church, he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling as insignificant as the building meant to make parishioners feel. His life always came to this. To sitting alone.
He briefly rested his forehead on the pew, pressing against the hard wood, then he stood and turned. He halted. Jackie sat three rows back, staring at him. The tenderness in her gaze twisted his heart.
He wanted to touch her. To tell her he was sorry about the other night. To ask for another chance. Instead, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you.”
He walked to her and trailed his finger along the length of the pew. “You were at the station?”
“Yes.”
So you saw my defeat? “I’m working on a new plan.”
Jackie touched his hand. “I don’t care about a new plan. I don’t care about Emmerick. I care about you.” She held his hand in both of hers.
Clay tried to pull away, tried to resist the pull to be near her.
She wouldn’t release it. “You’ll have to make me let go.”
He sat, too tired for another battle. She didn’t speak; he didn’t want to. Soon the silence seemed to diminish the pain and his haunting thoughts melted away.
“What happened when you ran away?” she asked. “What did you do? How did you survive?”
He sniffed. “Didn’t you hear? I was part of a cult.”
She let his hand go. “There’s no harm in trying to find a family when you don’t have one.”
Clay rested his forearms on the pew in front of them. “I stayed with my sister for a while, then went to England to see my mother.”
“How did you get the money?”
“Sold some things I shouldn’t have—not drugs, so you can get that look off your face. There are other ways to make quick money, which I did, and went. It didn’t work out, so I roamed a bit. Then I met a man who asked me how old I was. I lied, he gave me a job as a courier. I transported things to the islands. One trip there, I helped a guy in a barroom brawl; he happened to be a PI and said he could use me. I returned to the States, met up with my sister again. At that time she was with Prince—Emmerick. He was an impressive speaker. I was in awe at first. Until I saw what he was. I lasted two months, then left. My sister didn’t beg me to stay and I never saw her again.” He smiled without humor. “A free and easy life of fun and travel.”
Jackie rested her
head against his shoulder.
The simple gesture made his throat close, preventing words. He could only wonder, Why, Mischief? Why are you here with me?
A shaft of light spread down the aisle as someone entered the church. He heard Jackie sigh and something in him sighed with her. He took a deep breath.
“Come by Saturday and I’ll cook you dinner.”
She sat up and stared at him. “What time?”
“Say, eight-thirty?”
She winked. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter Seventeen
When Clay entered Hodder Investigations the next day, Brent came up to him with such enthusiasm, he knocked over a pad of files, spilled coffee, and tripped over the desk.
“Calm down,” Clay said. “What’s wrong with you?”
Brent grabbed paper towels and mopped up the mess. “I saw you on the show.”
Clay shoved a hand in his pocket and nodded. “Hmm.”
Brent threw the paper towels away, then looked at him, his eyes filled with awe. “Were you really in a cult? Or were you just in character, ‘cause, man, if you were in character, that was awesome.”
Clay walked into his office. “I wasn’t acting.”
Brent followed. “So you were really in a cult?” He hit his forehead with the flat of his hand. “I can’t believe it. Not someone like you. I thought cults were only for gullible losers.”
Clay put his jacket on the back of the chair, then sat. “An apt description.”
Brent shook his head. “Nah, not of you.” He sat and leaned forward. “Watching that show was like watching a movie where the apprentice meets his master after years have passed. I mean, the way you watched him as he tried to goad you. You didn’t even flinch, hard as steel. Nothing he said could get to you.”
Odd how it hadn’t felt that way.
“Did you ever think about creating your own cult? I’m not into the crazy sacrifice stuff myself, but wearing hoods could be cool.” His eyes widened as a thought came to him. “Not white hoods or anything like that. No way.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, they don’t have to be hoods at all. How about robes?”
Mack looked up from his laptop. “How about you shut up and find something to do?”
Clay turned on his computer. “No, it’s all right. Let him talk.” He couldn’t hide his past now; he didn’t want to. He found Brent’s interest intriguing. He could see how unripe minds could be a kind of drug for a man in want of power. A willing follower is a great intoxicant—that was how Emmerick had captured him. He’d been like Brent. Less eager, but just as curious, just as determined to prove himself.
Emmerick had been a good man to emulate. Clay had learned his stillness, his patience from a master of his craft. Emmerick was a keen observer of emotions, the neon signs to a person’s inner workings. The key to their mind—and their mind was the greatest thing for a leader to possess.
Clay had felt the power of that control as his protégé. One word from him could send a grown man into tears, make a woman kneel before him, or make a group tremble. Clay had mistaken it for reverence; he’d later learned it was fear. At the time the difference didn’t matter; no one would have called Clay a brilliant man. His teachers had laughingly referred to him as someone with unknown potential. They didn’t know what to do with him. He wasn’t the cleverest person, but with control he didn’t need to be. Emmerick’s community made him somebody, told him he was good at something. Clay could make people listen and believe.
He could twist people’s thoughts, make them do as he wanted. As a recruiter for the community, there was the thrill of gathering more for the flock. He’d gotten satisfaction in being the wolf among the sheep, lurking undetected on the regular city sidewalks, watching people pass, ready to capture another gullible mind. It had taken practice, but Clay had been a quick learner. He’d learned to modulate his voice, his tone, his manner, and to keep his gaze steady without intimidation. He was a big man and had to learn to put people at ease with a smile and a glance that said, “Trust me.”
“Umm, Clay?” Brent asked in an odd tone.
“Sorry?”
“I asked what was it like?”
“Not very exciting. At the time he owned a property in upstate New York where we all lived. My sister and his other three wives lived in the main house. The others lived in trailers. There were about twenty of us. There were no books, no TVs, or radios allowed. We refused to have our minds poisoned by the outside. We just studied devotion to our leader and his cause.”
“Did you have orgies?”
Clay sighed. “No.”
“No freaky stuff like child brides, drug parties, or drinking?”
“No.”
Brent frowned, disappointed. “Then what did you do all day?”
“Mostly worked on the message. Created fliers, kept people in order. Those who began to question too often were dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. It was for their own good,” he said sarcastically.
Brent scratched his head. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“It wasn’t meant to be fun.”
“Then why did you fall for it?”
I wanted a family. I wanted to belong somewhere. “I wanted a purpose and the community gave me one.”
“Why do you call it a community?”
“Sounds better than a cult, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess. How did you escape? I heard it’s almost impossible to escape a cult—uh, community?”
“Not impossible. The trouble is how a community traps your mind, not your body. Like an elephant that learns to stay.”
“What?”
“An elephant trainer teaches a baby elephant not to escape by chaining the animal’s leg to a huge log so strong that the infant soon gives up trying to escape. As the elephant grows he becomes so used to captivity that even if the trainer ties a stick to its leg, the elephant won’t try to escape. The trainer has the elephant’s mind and the elephant has no idea of its strength.”
“Wow.”
“It’s escaping the poison of your thoughts that’s the true test. There were no chains or bars. We stayed because we were supposed to. To leave was to be a traitor, to turn against God. A betrayal like that lingers. You’re left with nothing. No family and nothing to believe in. You’re an outcast in every way.” He twirled his pen. “I like to say I left, but in truth I was kicked out.”
Mack stared, amazed, as though seeing Clay for the first time. “So you really tried to kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He stopped twirling the pen a moment, then continued. “He was a perverse man and I took exception to it.”
“How do you get kicked out of a cult?” Brent asked. “What happens?”
“I can only speak of my experience. I was ceremonially stripped naked and left in a field.”
“What did you do?”
“I went back to my old life working for a PI. He was kind enough to give me another chance.” He skipped over how he’d stolen some clothes off a clothesline, shoplifted a bag of beef jerky from a market, and slept under newspapers trying to avoid the police and combat the hunger and despair that followed him.
“You know, you should think of writing a book yourself,” Brent said.
“No, thanks, I’d rather not put my past into print.”
Mack clasped his hands behind his head. “You know you’re going to be a curiosity now. I bet people will come up with cases just to meet you.”
His statement wasn’t far from the truth. But instead of cases, overnight they had received various religious material from people professing their beliefs and offering Clay their faiths in hopes he would find peace.
Clay looked at the stacks of mail on his desk and Mack’s. He looked at Brent, who was helping them get through them. He frowned. “I’m beginning to think the show was a bad idea.”
Mack slit open an envelope. “Not necessarily. This is interesting. At least people are aware of Emmerick.”
“And me.” Some considered him a soul in torment, others a lost man—all wanted to help him.
“Whoa,” Brent said, staring at a picture. He handed it to Mack.
Mack gave a low whistle. “It’s not all bad. Look at this.”
Clay took the picture. It was a photograph of a woman kneeling. She wore only a cross around her neck.
“She wants to share the love of the Holy Spirit with you.”
Clay lifted a brow and handed Mack the picture.
He tucked the photo in his pocket. “I’m keeping this.”
“The rabbi’s prayer was beautiful,” Brent said. “Think I could take that? My grandmother would love it.”
“Go ahead,” Clay said. He looked at the letters, prayers, and books. “I don’t understand this.”
“I do,” Brent said.
Mack rolled his eyes. Clay ignored him. “Explain it to me.”
“If you think about it, this is what life is all about, right? Being connected to each other and helping each other out.”
Clay shrugged, amazed by Brent’s simplistic view. A part of his cynical mind had to admit that it made sense. “I’m just glad it was a small local show. I couldn’t take any more attention.”
“You’re just used to being a loner.” Brent tapped his leg with a letter opener. “I was thinking last night.”
“Really?” Mack said.
“Yeah,” Brent said, unaware of his sarcasm. “I thought about why Clay joined that cult and now I know. In a group you matter, you’re somebody.” He opened another envelope. “I’m not lying. If you created a community, I’d join it in a heartbeat.”
Clay looked at him, alarmed at the thought. “Don’t say things like that. It’s foolish.”
“It’s true, though. I trust you. I know you wouldn’t create something that would harm people.”
Clay stared at him with growing unease, but an idea had begun to form in his mind.
***
Mack shook his head after Clay told him his idea. “Too risky.”
“It’s worth a try. You saw Brent. He’s eager and he’s ready to prove himself. He wants to know what investigating is and this is a perfect opportunity to use him.”