'Where are the children now?' Marge asked Terra.
'Come.' Terra straightened her spine and took Marge's hand. 'I will take you.'
Leading her down a hallway, Terra tiptoed until they reached a kind of cul-de-sac of three doors. Small, muffled cries bled from one of the rooms. Terra smiled. 'The nursery.'
'Mind if I take a look?'
Terra opened a door just a crack, enough for Marge to see but not wide enough to be noticed.
Three women in white gowns were tending to a dozen small children - babies and toddlers. Each was doing a job. One was rocking a two-year-old, singing lullabyes to a Botticellian face. Two infants were sleeping in cribs. One woman was on the floor building with Lego with a group of toddlers. Another was setting up food on a picnic table for what appeared to be an afternoon snack.
'Would you like to go in?' Terra asked Marge.
'No, that's fine.' Marge faced her. 'Don't want to disturb anyone.'
Terra closed the door and opened another. 'This is one of our two primary classrooms for grade school.' She walked inside the room. Immediately, a group of children stood at attention, all of them dressed in white cotton pants, a white long-sleeved T-shirt and white socks and sneakers.
The clothes were bright white - dead white. Either these kids didn't do much dirty work or the compound owned shares in Chlorox.
In white and standing erect - like little angels. Around thirty of them of varying ages, but they all seemed to be under twelve. A quick ethnic breakdown put around sixty percent of them as Caucasian, about thirty percent Asian, while the remaining ten percent were of mixed race.
Tender, small faces with bright eyes too big for their faces, smooth cheeks unravaged by hormones and red but unchapped lips that, when parted, produced the crooked smiles of half-erupted teeth. They stood in a state-of-the-art classroom replete with writing desks each holding a PC computer, a monitor and a printer. A marker board sat on the front wall, various equations scrawled across the white surface in red ink. The remaining three walls were made up of bookshelves. All the texts seemed to deal with the physical sciences or the spiritual. Not a novel in sight. Like the other rooms in the compound, there were no windows - only skylights.
No windows.
Making access into the compound - except through the exterior doors - just about impossible. With all the goings-on yesterday -the police, the techs, the people from the coroner's office - Asnikov would have had a rare opportunity to strike.
Terra stood at the front of the classroom. Her manner was grave. 'Good morning, our future generation.'
In unison, they answered, 'Good morning, our Sister Terra.'
'You may sit.'
They sat.
'I will be with you in a moment. You are to use this interlude to say your prayers, asking once again for the safe journey for our Father Jupiter into the next universe. We all hope to join him soon.'
The last sentence drew hackles from Marge's neck.
Terra said, 'Our dear son Gamma, will you lead the chant?'
A ten-year-old Asian boy stood. Within moments, the class broke into a mantra - hushed drone as whispery as the wind. Terra took Marge out of the classroom. As soon as they were alone, Marge asked Terra about the meaning of joining Father Jupiter.
The young woman gave Marge a startled look. 'It's a formality, Detective. They need to feel part of the grief process. Yet, we insist that they know there is a better future.' She paused. 'Surely, you don't think we have something more... more permanent in mind.'
'There have been precedents.'
'Father Jupiter was never one to force anything upon anyone. I assure you that those in charge feel the same way.'
After interacting with Pluto, Marge wasn't sure at all. 'I noticed those kids were preteens.'
Another tear slipped down Terra's cheek. 'The older ones were Andromeda's charges.' Again, the young woman took Marge's hand. She shook it with urgency. 'You must find her soon. For the children's sake. She relates so well to them... to the teenagers.'
Slowly, Marge extracted her hand from Terra's. 'How many kids were in her charge?'
'Eight. They're simply lost without her.'
'Who's taking her place in the meantime?'
'I am,' answered a deep, male voice. He was tall, thin and bearded. He extended his hand to Marge. 'Guru Bob. And you are... ?'
'Detective Dunn.'
'Ah. That's right. You were here yesterday.'
'Yes, I was. I didn't expect to be called back so soon.'
'We didn't expect it, either. What are you doing here? I mean here specifically... in front of the classrooms.'
'Sister Terra was just showing me around.'
'I'll bet she was.' He took in Terra with fiery eyes. Marge came to her rescue. 'I was looking over Andromeda's room and Terra was kind enough to take an interest in her welfare. She said that Andromeda was a teacher. One thing led to another.'
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, 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 homed 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 seven... 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 throug
h 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 cherry wood planks set in a ninning 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 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 marred by the six foot high three-steel 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 their 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, Maroni, 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 nonobstructionist 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 and 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 chickens 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 'Indeed, ah dew.'
Asnikov said, 'How'd you like it 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 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 book
s, 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?'
Faye Kellerman - Decker 11 - Jupiter's Bones Page 14