by John Dalmas
Killed by an insider with a grudge! He'd only been guessing, but it could be. And the church would probably hide it. I had virtually zero chance of finding out, from an organization like the Church of the New Gnosis.
When Tuuli got home, we took a commuter airbus to Santa Barbara. I love L.A., but in Santa Barbara the air is softer than anywhere else in the known universe. We strolled around and snacked and shopped, neither of us actually buying much. Tuuli likes to look, and I kind of do too. One place we went was Nielsen's Dairy, where we sat outside under an awning and had about a dozen different flavors of rich, rich ice cream. I could almost feel myself getting fat. Tuuli can eat like that and stay tiny, but that's not how it works with me at all.
When we got home, Fred Hamilton had called and left his number. A local number. I called him right away, Tuuli notwithstanding. He was living in West Hollywood, working as a stockbroker, and admittedly was out of touch with what was going on in the church.
I asked him how a would-be abductor might have gone about getting his hands on Christman.
"Look," he said, "I have a friend with me now, from out of town. Will tomorrow be all right? I'd like to meet you. We'll eat out somewhere, on me."
"Sure." Obviously he'd come a long way from the Gnostie exile who needed to bum a phone call, to ask his parents for bus fare.
"There's a little place on La Cienega," he said, "near Willoughby. Called Yolanda's. It's hard to miss; got a conspicuous sign, and tables with awnings out front for nice weather. Suppose I meet you there at noon, for brunch?"
"Um. Would earlier be possible? On Sundays my wife and I usually eat lunch together at home. It's gotten to be sort of a tradition."
"Actually, earlier would be better for me, too. My company's heading out early tomorrow, flying back to Seattle, so I'll be up at seven anyway."
* * *
We settled on breakfast at eight-thirty. It turned out to be a good hour; there weren't a lot of people there, and most of them were eating outside. We took a booth in a back corner. Yolanda's was a health food kind of place, though the food turned out to be excellent. I ordered black coffee, a stuffed bell pepper, and buttermilk, trying to make up for yesterday's ice-cream binge. "Real buttermilk or cultured?" the waitress asked. When I lived with my half brother, Sulo, after dad and mom were killed, I used to drink real, homemade buttermilk. Eila made it when she churned butter. I hadn't realized you could get it in L.A. It came from Altadena Dairy, the waitress said. She looked Hispanic, so I told her, "Real then. Leche cuajada."
She laughed. "I think I'd better bring you suero de mantequilla," she said.
Which left me unsure whether I'd made a real mistake, or if it was a matter of dialect. L.A.'s got about every Spanish dialect there is, plus usages all its own. While we waited, Hamilton and I talked, and I told him what I had to work with. Mainly speculations.
He stirred honey into his herb tea. "Christman has, or had, three residences," he said, "each of them well guarded. He moved from one to another at irregular intervals by sky limo. The main one was a luxurious penthouse apartment at the Campus, on top of the Administration Building. He was there more than anywhere else, sometimes for extended periods. His office was in the penthouse too. It would be nearly impossible for outsiders to get at him there; there were too many people around. Including his bodyguards, who were chosen for utter loyalty and obedience. They were security-checked on the psychogalvanometer. He dressed them well, in civvies, and they were trained to be totally unyielding. They carried guns, too. I know that for a fact, because I saw one of them take off his jacket in the restroom, and he was wearing a pistol in a shoulder holster. Supposedly they practiced on a pistol range somewhere beneath the Admin Building."
The theory of a gangland hit, never very compelling, began to shrivel.
"Another place he lived is called 'the Ranch.' It's out in the Imperial Valley, backed up against the Vallecito Mountains, southwest of the Salton Sea. Supposed to be forty acres. I was there a few times when I was a courier in the church's Executive Communications Section. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence—HardSteel topped by razor wire—with little towers at the back corners where they weren't conspicuous. Watchmen sat in them with radios and guns, watching the fence. At night there were lights here and there along it so they could see if anyone came up to it, colored lights so they wouldn't seem like a security thing, although they were.
"Inside the fence it was beautifully landscaped. Had been when he got it. All the way around, there were rows of Washingtonia palms—the real tall, skinny ones—alternating with tall, stout date palms. And irrigated Bermuda grass lawns, and marvelous gardens. Fountains played constantly, and there were pools with exotic carp, red and white and gold. At night, colored lights would play on the fountains, except when Ray was stargazing. Then they were turned off.
"A really nice place. Makes being rich seem worthwhile. He'd go there off and on in the winter, though we never knew when in advance. Especially when L.A. had one of its stormy, rainy winters. On a February day when it was gray and wet and chilly at the Campus, it'd be sunny and warm at the Ranch. Maybe a little windy. He'd host rich churchies there, rich members, especially Europeans or Japanese or Brazilians, when he wanted to pitch some expensive project to them. He always preferred to spend other people's money.
"He'd had an observation deck built on the roof of his residence there—we called it 'the hacienda'—with an expensive telescope, and he'd go out and stargaze at night." Hamilton laughed. "I remember being shocked at a thought I had: If Ray can leave his body—that's the soul going for an outing, you understand, the body being left to run on automatic—if Ray can leave his body like that, which was supposed to be nothing for him, he should be able to go out into space and look at any star he wants to, from as close as he'd like. So why use a telescope?"
Hamilton chuckled. "At the time it seemed like a terrible, heretical thought.
"There was a bigger tower near the back, screened from the hacienda by tall date palms. It was said to have electronic scanners, and supposedly surface-to-air missiles in case of aerial attack. That could have been a rumor, of course, the part about the missiles. It's hard to know."
I interrupted. "I've been told by a church member that in the church, rumors are rare."
Hamilton laughed again. "That may be true of rumors about controversial or negative matters; it's considered evil to pass along bad rumors. But there were always rumors about what wonderful things Ray was doing or was going to do. Churchies feed on them; they're nourished by them. They don't think of them as rumors.
"His third residence is called 'the Hideaway,' on 160 acres of private land inside the Willamette National Forest. In Oregon, in the Cascade Mountains. I was there just once, as a courier. There's a log lodge in virgin forest, beautiful, and the whole place is surrounded by a security fence. I guess you know how tough it is to get through a HardSteel fence, and any disturbance of it—someone climbing it, or a tree falling on it, anything like that—would set off alarms and flashing lights in the guardhouse. And of course, there's the usual razor wire on top.
"The fence is patrolled twenty-four hours a day, or it was, by armed patrols with German police dogs." He chuckled. "Makes Ray sound paranoid, and I guess he was, at least a little. But apparently people did try to get in. Supposedly several were injured on the razor wire at different times, trying to get over the fence at night. At least that's the story. Guards picked them up and called the sheriff, and meanwhile their injuries were treated in the little clinic at the lodge. When the sheriff got there, he hauled them to town.
"Ray didn't spend a lot of time up there; it was too far. But now and then he'd go, maybe during a bad hot spell in summer. And when there was a storm on the sun, and northern lights were forecast. Ray loved the northern lights. I think he got high on them. Oregon's a lot farther north, and there's no light pollution at the Hideaway. The word was that he'd fly up there to watch.
"There was a sto
ny ridge that sort of wrapped around where the buildings were, with a foot trail up to the top. He'd had a little observatory built up there for stargazing. I've seen it. I guess Ray had a thing about the stars.
"He seldom traveled, except between those places. So if anyone kidnaped or killed him, it was probably at one of them, or traveling between them. Unless he changed his habits since three years ago."
The waitress brought our food while he was telling me about the observatory, and we pretty much stopped talking to eat. When we were done, we skipped dessert. He sipped his tea and I worked on a refill of my coffee.
"Fred," I said, "I'd like to ask a personal question. Or maybe several of them. Tell me to stuff them if you feel like it."
He grinned. "Shoot."
"How much do you make a year now?"
"Huh! It's hard to say for this year. A hundred and twenty thou last year."
A hundred and twenty thou. About two and a half times the national average for families. "I haven't talked to many New Gnus," I told him, "and most that I have talked to, worked for the church as staff members. I got the impression, though, that they weren't too bright. But the guy at Gnostic Withdrawal Assistance . . . ?"
"Gerald. Gerald Williams."
"Gerald not only seemed smart; he had something. Had it together, you could say. That's the impression I got. And a wealthy guy I talked to yesterday, who's a totally dedicated New Gnu, or seems to be, made somewhat the same impression. And today, you. Why the difference?"
Fred grunted. "First," he said, "there are simply differences between people, for whatever reasons. In the church as well as out. Also, strange as it may seem to you, Ray's counseling procedures do help people. They don't do everything he claims for them, by half, but they help. A lot. And a lot of staff members never get any of them. I did, and Gerald did, because we managed to get ourselves trained as counselors, and counselors are allowed time to counsel each other.
"Most members not on staff have had quite a lot of counseling. That's where probably ninety-nine percent of the money comes from. They tend to be in good shape, mentally and emotionally—except in matters concerning the church. Concerning the church, they tend very strongly to be obedient, even robotic."
Robotic. I remembered the staff member I'd talked to in the Neophyte Building. She didn't think; she recited.
"And then there's the matter of in or out," Hamilton went on. "For most of the time I was in, ten years, I was a good little robot. I believed what I was told to believe, and rejected what I was told to reject. In the midst of a whole lot of evidence to the contrary. Sometimes—quite often, actually—I noticed the contrast between what I saw and the way things were said to be or supposed to be. And I always found an excuse for them. Then, for a while, I was a sort of secret questioner. Finally the effects accumulated, and I got myself kicked out.
"Within days after leaving, I began to see a lot of things more clearly. More freely. It was like I'd been colorblind, and was starting to see color. People who've been in the church, who've gotten counseling and then left, tend to do better personally than before they'd gotten in. Sometimes a lot better."
"Do many of them leave?"
"Martti, most of them leave. A big majority of them. The biggest product of the Church of the New Gnosis is ex-members."
That was something I hadn't been aware of. Somehow it made me feel better about the church; it was less a trap than I'd thought. My coffee was cold, and I signaled the waitress for a refill. When I had it, I asked, "How much money do people usually spend on counseling?"
"In my case, nothing. I discovered New Gnosticism as a college senior, a finance major, and quit before I graduated, to join staff. I didn't have any money. But there are lots of people, wealthy people, who've spent more than a quarter million." I sat stunned. A quarter million! It seemed impossible, even considering prices of up to a thousand dollars an hour I'd read about for counseling. "How . . . Why does anyone spend that much money on a cult?"
He smiled a small smile. "There are enough unusual truths, or what feel like truths, in the books and introductory lectures, to get you curious. Maybe even hopeful; even excited. Me, I got excited. And particularly if you're dissatisfied with your life, or the world, you may decide you want to look into it further. Then, if you get some counseling— The results of getting counseling, particularly the more basic levels, can seem miraculous: old fears and worries gone, old grim moods, old regrets, old grudges, old psychosomatic conditions. Gone! Crap you thought you were stuck with for life! So you think, Jesus! This stuff works miracles! And you keep expecting more. Ray was always promising more and more up the road."
Fred had started quivering, trembling, as he talked about it. It was pretty strange, because his voice, his eyes, seemed perfectly calm.
"While at the same time," he went on, "he fed us a line that this was all part of a crusade, that the human race was doomed unless we got everyone in the world into the church. And that, of course, was going to take lots of money and lots of dedication. The church was an embattled army fighting to save humanity. And like any army, ours had to be obedient. Unquestioning. Also, it could be destroyed from inside, by subtle deviations in teaching and procedures. So absolute orthodoxy was vital, and continuous vigilance—an uncompromising ruthlessness with anything done differently than Ray said."
With that he stopped, sat dead in the water for a minute, then took a sip of tea. "Sound like anything else you ever heard of?" he asked.
To some degree or another, it seemed to me, most cults were like that; some mainstream religions were too. "It must be a relief to be out of it," I said.
His smile was rueful. "It is and it isn't. Being out has left a hole. For me, dealing stocks is a way to get money. Beyond that, it's neither satisfying nor important. I'm looking for something that is. And that's not easy, when you've been burned like I was."
We didn't say anything more for a couple of minutes. I started wishing I'd ordered dessert. Finally I asked, "Do you have any thoughts about what may have happened to Ray Christman?"
He shook his head. His eyes focused again, and he came out of whatever he'd been in. "No. No I don't. Every possibility I can think of seems unlikely. He may have simply taken off with a bunch of the loot, to live somewhere as an anonymous rich American. That's probably the best bet."
That stunned me. It seemed so damned logical! And obvious! And I hadn't thought of it before. "Tell you what," he said, and he sounded all business now. "I'll give you the name of a woman, an ex-churchie like me, who may be the best-informed person there is on the church. Outside its upper executive levels. She has sources everywhere, sucks in contacts and information like a black hole. The difference being, she'll let it back out when she feels like it.
"Even churchies talk to her. She's probably the only outie I know who has information sources inside. And she's never been expelled—kicked out. It's supposed to be automatic to expel anyone as evil who openly quits the church, but she's never been expelled."
He gave me the phone number and address of a woman called Molly Cadigan, a business consultant who worked out of her home. "She's informal," he said, "and may not make a great first impression, but she's smart. I've seen her in action. The first time I met her, she gave me some free advice, and it worked like a bomb. I cashed in. Since then I buy her advice, and it's always good. She's not in it to get rich, either. She doesn't go looking for business. She's content to make a comfortable living, and lives the way she pleases, does what she likes.
"She's a well of information, not only about the church, but about its enemies. And so far as I know, she doesn't sell that kind of information—not to individuals. She gives it away. Although she might charge a corporation like yours."
He emptied his cup and didn't pour any more. Apparently we were about done.
"She was an early member," he continued, "one of the founding members. Before that she was a Noetie—one of Leif Haller's followers. Beginning in her teens. But she was always self-d
etermined. She quit the Noeties when Haller began to demand conformity. Later she quit the church for the same reason.
"Since I've been out," Hamilton went on, "I've met a lot of ex-churchies, some of them oldtimers like Molly. And they tell stories. One of them is that Molly was Ray Christman's girlfriend, once upon a time. That may be why she never got expelled."
* * *
I left the restaurant knowing that Molly Cadigan was someone I wanted to talk to.
6
MOLLY CADIGAN
Reading the L.A. Times at my desk the next morning, I found an item that jarred me. "Gerald Williams, owner and operator of a firm called Gnostic Withdrawal Assistance, was arrested yesterday on a charge of possessing for sale a quantity of crack cocaine." Crack has long since been out of style, but it still has its users.
Anyway that rocked me back in my chair. Williams a pusher? I didn't believe it.
He was being held in lieu of $50,000 bail.
I got on the phone to the LAPD and identified myself, explaining that Williams was an information source for me in an investigation. I asked to speak to the officer in charge of the case. A Lieutenant Emiliano Gonzaga accepted the call. My name was familiar to him. He told me they'd gotten their tipoff from a teenaged kid named Joseph R. Minnis.
"I can't help but wonder," I said, "if Joseph R. Minnis isn't a Gnostie. Or was put up to it by the Gnosties."
"You're not the first to wonder," he told me. "We're looking into it. So far as we can determine, Minnis isn't a Gnostie, but he is a street hustler on the make.
"We found the package in Williams' restroom cabinet, with the extra soap, scouring powder, and TP. And failed to find his prints on it, or anyone else's. It could have been left there by anyone. We've also verified that he lets street people use his restroom. If we don't get firmer evidence against him today, we plan to release him late this afternoon."