He raised the lights from the outside, then closed the door. “Steve wants the tape.”
So it was him. She had never been face to face with her nightly visitor, but she had suspected it was Blechman.
“You watched it,” he said with surprise. He was holding the tape, which she had neglected to rewind.
“I—” she said nervously. “I thought he wanted me to.”
“He did. He’s always wanted you to know.”
“Know what? That I looked just like that poor woman?”
“That you were destined to join his inner circle.”
“I don’t want to join anything. That’s why I stopped coming to the monthly meetings.”
“You stopped coming because your husband made you stop.”
“My husband didn’t know anything about this.”
“He is exactly the kind of domineering spouse that Steve warned us about. He controls you even when you don’t realize you’re being controlled.”
“And I suppose this is a better way to live? Boxed up like an animal?”
“You have the power to free yourself, Flora.”
“My name is not Flora. And I’m tired of hearing how Flora has the power to free herself. The power to stop innocent women from being killed. What power? All I want is to go home. Is anyone ever going to let me go home?”
He glared at her and said, “I’ve never liked you, Beth.”
She blinked hard, shocked at the way he had spat out her real name. “What?”
“I knew you would never do what it takes to join the inner circle.”
The madder he got, the more inclined he seemed to talk. It was risky, but she dug deep for courage and tweaked him good. “As if a dope like you would know what it takes to join the inner circle.”
“I am the inner circle.”
“Oh? And what did you do to get there? Promise to wash Steve’s car for life?”
His face reddened. For a second she thought he would come after her, but he just clenched his teeth and said, “I killed for him. That’s what it takes to make the inner circle.”
She withdrew timidly. She’d seen the pictures of those murdered women.
He said, “Steve and I did, together. We cut the cord between my old and new family. I killed my old self.”
“So, you didn’t really kill anyone,” she said, hoping that the photos had been phonies. “It’s all symbolic?”
“The process is symbolic. But the murders are real.”
“You…you actually killed someone?”
“And the real beauty is that the cops will never figure it out. I have no apparent motive. Never even met the victim. Chance resemblance is the only connection. He was fifty-one, so was I. He was divorced and lived alone, same with me. He represents my old self. The part that must die before you can reach a higher level of vibration.”
“You just picked out some poor guy and killed him?”
“Steve picks. He picked both victims.”
“Both?”
“Of course. Steve would never ask his most devoted followers to do something he hadn’t already done himself. He kills the first one and shows you the way. And you duplicate it.”
“Like an echo,” said Beth, recalling the allusions to Blechman’s manuscript in the speeches she’d attended.
“Now you’re catching on.”
She was almost too frightened to speak. “Is that why he killed those women, the ones in the photographs he showed me? He was showing me the way?”
“Yeah. Only he’s tired of trying to lead you by example. He gave you three chances. Each time he told you the power to stop the killing was in your hands. All you had to do was follow his example. Kill your old self. And the echoes would stop.”
“Why in the world would he think I was capable of murder?”
“You did steal for him.”
She was suddenly queasy. The shoplifting from Nordstrom’s. “Steve made it sound as innocent as those antisocial things you do for research in a college psychology class, like singing on a bus just to see the reaction of strangers.”
“It was your first step toward breaking with your old self.”
“And it obviously failed.”
“Yes. Your failure is now obvious to everyone. Including Steve.” He took the videotape and started for the door.
“Wait. What are you going to do with me?”
His eyes narrowed as he clutched the videotape of that tortured woman who looked eerily like Beth. “That’s entirely up to Steve,” he said, then shut the door and locked it.
The light switched off from the outside, and she was again alone in the darkness.
Sixty-three
Andie started at a noise outside her window. She looked out toward the main house. Past evenings on the farm had been tranquil to the point of dull. Tonight, however, the old farmhouse was filled with commotion. Lights were on. Doors were slamming, people coming and going. Men on ladders were bolting shutters to the second-story windows. The shutters appeared to be made of solid metal, not the old wood-slatted kind. From the way the men were straining to hoist them up, Andie would have guessed heavy-gauge steel.
Bulletproof? she wondered.
She stepped outside. A man was rushing by her unit, one of the young recruits. “What’s going on?” she asked.
He stopped just long enough to catch his breath, winded but elated. “Preparations!”
“Preparations for what?”
He sprinted away without an answer. Andie called after him, again asking, “Preparations for what?”
He shouted back, “The transformation!”
As he ran toward the house, Andie stood and watched with a sinking sense of dread.
“Meredith?” Gus stood in the doorway, half inside and half out. The flashlight from his car was in one hand. The gun was in his right. The door was hanging by one hinge. Broken glass was scattered across the landing.
There was no reply. Not that he’d expected one.
Cautiously, he reached around the door frame and tried the kitchen light switch. Nothing. Dex was right. The electrical lines had been cut.
He switched on his flashlight and took just two steps inside. The narrow beam of light cut across the refrigerator and cabinets, then came to rest on the kitchen table. There were four chairs, but only one place setting. A good amount of food was on the plate. The water glass was nearly full. The napkin was neatly folded, seemingly unused. The intruder had apparently caught her at dinnertime. Or perhaps Gus had caught him at dinnertime.
Was that bastard cold enough to whack her and hang around to eat?
With each step forward, broken glass crunched beneath his feet. The thought of Meredith clinging to life, barely hanging on, drew him in. The thought of another intruder lurking around the corner made him freeze in his tracks.
“I have a gun,” he said loudly, as if that would scare a murderer into surrender.
He aimed the flashlight and leaned forward to see down the hall into the living room. The sofa was straight. No lamps were tipped over. No sign of any disturbance at all. No sign of Meredith either.
He walked the other way, across the kitchen and toward the dining room. Crystal and silver glimmered as the flashlight cut across the breakfront to the display cabinet. A collection of framed photographs stood like dominoes on the credenza, one after the other. A wedding picture. Some baby photographs. None recent. The flashlight zipped past the last one, then zipped right back. It was a five-by-seven of a woman and a teenage girl. The girl was Shirley, five or so years ago. But it was the woman who intrigued him.
He picked it up and studied it. The woman had to be Meredith, though she barely resembled the skinny woman with short hair he’d come to know. Seeing what she looked like with long hair and an extra seventy-five pounds was a watershed for him.
He’d just made the connection.
Sirens and swirling lights in the front lawn interrupted his thoughts. The police had arrived and were pounding on the front doo
r.
“Police, open up!”
Gus stole one more look at the old photograph, then stuffed it in his jacket and hurried out the back.
The Op Center at the FBI office in Seattle was up and running by the time Isaac Underwood arrived. The phone call from Gus was but one of the triggers.
“What do we got?” asked Isaac. He entered like the wind with two assistants in his wake.
Lundquist answered, “Meredith Borge is confirmed dead. Strangled.”
Isaac moved to the big table in the center of the room. A bright light from the ceiling illuminated a detailed drawing of Blechman’s farm and a series of aerial photographs. “What’s the latest from Yakima?”
“Our surveillance agents report a high level of activity at the compound, especially for night. They’re placing shutters on the windows of the main farmhouse,” he said as he pointed at the corresponding box on the drawing. “They appear to be bulletproof.”
“Any sign of Andie?”
“No.”
“Any chance she snuck away?”
Lundquist shrugged. “If she did, she hasn’t made contact with us.”
“Any concrete insights as to what the hell set these people off?”
“If we’re to believe Gus Wheatley, Meredith Borge was the one person who could link Blechman’s group to his wife’s disappearance. No doubt that got her killed. But maybe they’re afraid they didn’t shut her up soon enough and anticipate some kind of offensive from law enforcement. That scenario would be especially consistent with the theory that they’re holding Beth Wheatley against her will.”
“Yes. That’s one possibility.”
Both men were silent. Lundquist said, “I think we both know the other.”
Isaac looked to the middle distance, speaking to no one in particular. “Or they finally figured out Andie is FBI.”
“I’m afraid that’s the way I see it too, sir. What do you want to do?”
“Start a dialogue.”
“Specifics?”
“I want a negotiation team activated. Set up a mobile unit as our forward command post.”
“Problem is, there’s no phone service to the farm.”
“Then get a chopper to drop a cell phone on their fucking heads. If that doesn’t work, use a loudspeaker. Just stay out of sniper range.”
“What about our own snipers?”
“Advance two of them. Just to observe at this point.”
Lundquist didn’t jump.
“Let’s move!” said Isaac.
“Isaac, I’m all for opening up the lines of communication. But let’s not forget that somebody on that farm is in all likelihood responsible for the strangulation of at least five people. Six if you count Meredith Borge, seven if you count Shirley. If they know Andie is an FBI agent, talk isn’t going to get her out.”
They locked eyes, then Isaac said, “Put SWAT on alert. Two teams. If we have to go in, I want them in position.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” said Isaac, his voice low and serious. “No show of force till I give the word. We negotiate as long as possible. In the meantime, be damn sure that SWAT stays out of sight.”
Andie watched from the doorstep outside her barracks, feeling like the only person on the farm who wasn’t in high gear. One after another, a stream of men and women hurried past her. They carried nondescript boxes of food and supplies from the barn to the main house. Some of them looked frightened. Others were angry. All of them seemed to know what to do.
“Come on, Willow! Give us a hand!”
A group of women raced by her, but Andie couldn’t match the voice to a face. Standing around wasn’t the kind of thing Willow would do. But Andie had a growing sense that she wasn’t long for the role.
Obviously, something had made the cult leaders feel as though an attack from outside were imminent, but she couldn’t say what specifically had triggered the decision to fortify the compound. In her last phone contact, Isaac had promised to set up spot surveillance of the farm. Maybe they had discovered one of the agents. Or perhaps Isaac had decided to increase the pressure without telling her. Some new break in the serial killings could easily have triggered a roadblock or even the deployment of SWAT around the perimeter. Andie needed to get up high where she could see what was going on.
She ran from her unit to the back of the barn. A ladder led to the hayloft. She climbed quickly and moved to the opening in front, where she hoped she might be able to see out to the main road. Tonight it was too dark to see to the end of the driveway. If law enforcement was out there, it was a furtive effort with no show of force. There were no swirling lights, not even the glowing orange dot of a cigarette in the darkness. From this vantage point, however, she did have a better look at the men on the ladders who were putting the shutters on the main house. They were thirty yards away, but Andie could see the automatic pistols holstered at their sides.
A gunshot cracked through the barn wall. Another pop, another shattered board. Suddenly the walls were exploding from a barrage of gunfire across the face of the barn, the old wood splintering like kindling. Andie dived low as shots whistled over her head. Screams erupted from the main house, where the metal shutters rattled with fully automatic gunfire. Andie looked up just as one of the men on the ladders was hit several times. He tumbled down the rungs and hit the ground with a thud. He didn’t move. Dead. Two others lay dead on the roof.
An attack! Why?
The semi-organized human supply line from the barn to the house had now completely scattered, people running scared. “Get inside!” someone shouted from below.
Andie smelled smoke. Flames erupted behind her. A fire was ripping through the barn, devouring the loose and baled hay in the loft. She couldn’t go back to the ladder. The flames were out of control behind her, but the front of the barn was still being pelted by gunfire. With no other choice, she jumped from the loft and ran from the flames, keeping low to the ground. Frightened horses raced from their smoke-filled stalls and nearly stampeded her. Another barrage of gunfire cut down a woman just twenty feet ahead of her. Andie ducked behind one of the sleeping barracks. Others screamed and ran for the house or the barracks, any place they could find cover.
A spray of gunfire shattered the windows above Andie’s head. She pressed her whole body to the ground, as low as she could get. She was frightened but even more shocked. The FBI had fired first. No warning.
What in the hell are you idiots doing?
Sixty-four
The Op Center had erupted in confusion. A half dozen agents were on the phone, each in a different shouting match, each trying to find out what all the shooting was about. Isaac was the center of the storm, directing his wrath at Agent Lundquist.
“Who the hell did you put in charge out there? Lieutenant Calley?”
Lundquist was at a loss. “It’s not us who did the shooting.”
“Who is it then? Yakima Sheriff’s office? Everybody and their brother has a SWAT team these days.”
“No one from the sheriff’s office has been deployed. I’m telling you straight, Isaac. No paramilitary law enforcement unit is even in place yet. Not even our own SWAT.”
Realization slowly washed over him. Isaac walked to the map and uttered softly, “They’re firing upon themselves.”
“What?” said Lundquist. “Why the hell would they do that?”
“Why did they start the fires at Waco? To trigger an apocalypse.”
Lundquist stood silent, stunned.
“Deploy the SWAT,” said Isaac. “It’s time to save these people from themselves.” He looked down, concerned. “Or at least save Andie.”
A pulsating alarm pierced the night, echoing like an air-raid siren across the compound. Andie was lying in a depression in the earth that barely provided cover. It would soon be a shallow grave if she didn’t move to a safer place. Bullets were missing her by inches, kicking up dirt all around her. Then there was a break, as if they were reloading or regr
ouping. On impulse, she made her move. She rolled to the front of the barracks and shoved the door open. Gunfire shattered the door above her, but she rolled inside and pushed it closed. She huddled on the floor, then looked up and gasped.
Three bodies were suspended above her, hanging by the neck at the end of a rope. One man, two women. They twitched every few seconds as bullets whistled through the shattered windows and riddled the corpses. They turned slowly on the rope, and finally Andie saw a face. One of them was Felicia.
The apocalypse had begun.
Andie was frozen, unable to look and at the same time unable to tear her eyes away. Suddenly, she smelled smoke again. It wasn’t coming from the barn. It was from the back of the barracks. The unit was on fire.
The door burst open. She jumped to defend herself, but a man grabbed her. He was armed and wearing a flak jacket. He was dressed in fatigues and had his face covered with greasepaint. Instinctively, she hit him twice, landing a solid blow to his jaw.
“Willow, stop!”
She recognized him. It was Tom. And he still thought she was on his side.
“Let’s go. Everybody inside.”
She wasn’t sure what was going on, then it clicked. She recognized the fully automatic AK–47 rifle and the full metal jacket ammunition he was carrying. You son of a bitch. You were firing on your own people.
“Come on, damn it! Inside the house!” He grabbed her and nearly dragged her out the door.
Sixty-five
The driveway was empty when Gus arrived home. Carla’s car was gone. On the phone from Meredith’s, he had tried to convey the requisite urgency without scaring her to death with news of a killer on the loose. It wasn’t as if the killer were outside the Wheatleys’ front door. Carla had plenty of time to get Morgan to safety before the attacker could get to his car and drive all the way from Meredith’s house.
Unless he had a partner.
Gus’s heart was suddenly racing. In all the confusion—fighting off the attacker, Dex getting shot—the possibility of two killers striking in tandem had eluded him. He hurried inside and called out from the foyer.
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