Cult Following

by Donn Cortez

  “I can’t say yet,” Horatio said. “Tell me, has Jason been acting different lately?”

  Wendall hesitated, then said, “Well, yes. We all thought it was a girl—he was acting like he was in love. You know, sort of giddy, always in a good mood, dressing better—not at work, here he was still pretty casual, but afterward. I actually saw him in a suit once.”

  “Uh-huh. What about his eating habits? Were they different?”

  “I believe he’s recently become vegetarian, come to think of it.”

  Horatio nodded. “Did he ever talk about adopting a new set of beliefs?”

  Wendall frowned. “I don’t understand. You mean going into a different field of study?”

  “No. I mean religious or metaphysical beliefs.”

  “No. No, he never mentioned anything like that.”

  That was a good sign. If Jason hadn’t gotten around to mentioning his new outlook to his coworkers, maybe he still had doubts. Maybe he hadn’t completely given in to Sinhurma….

  “He seemed a lot happier,” Wendall said, his thick eyebrows coming together as he frowned. “I thought we only had to watch out for disgruntled people in the workplace—is sudden joy a warning sign now too?”

  “This kind of joy comes with a very high price tag,” Horatio said. “One I don’t think Jason wants to pay….”

  “How much?” the man in the pink T-shirt and white suit jacket asked again, disbelief in his voice.

  “Cover’s twenty bucks,” the bouncer repeated. “If you want to stand in line, and you don’t look like an idiot. Or you could pay the fifty-dollar surcharge.”

  “And what would that be for?” the man asked. He was in his late thirties, trying to look like he was in his mid-twenties, and from his unshaven chin and Ray-Bans obviously still thought Miami Vice was the height of cool.

  “That would be to get you to the head of the line, and to suppress my natural idiot-detecting abilities,” the bouncer said. His name was James Collinson, he stood six foot two, his hair was brown and wavy and he had arms like tanned tree trunks. “Which, I gotta say, are being severely strained at the moment. Find that jacket at a yard sale? Or you been saving it since your high school prom?”

  The man glared at Collinson, glanced down at the oak-size arms folded across his chest, and slunk away to try his luck farther down Ocean Drive.

  The bouncer didn’t give him another thought. Collinson dealt with people like him every night, people who thought charm, arrogance or—laughably—politeness would get them through the portal he guarded. None of the above impressed him. He kept an eye out for sexy women in a minimum of clothing, celebrities, and cash, in that order—and even the cash didn’t impress him that much. He enjoyed his job for the perks, not the profit, and the two main ones were sex and power.

  He yawned and stretched, showing off his massively muscled biceps at the same time. The night was hot and humid, threatening rain, but the line to get in was just as long as ever. Garth’s was the newest, hottest spot on the beach, and if you wanted in you had to convince the giant at the front door you were worthy. Life was good.

  He checked the counter in his hand—which showed how many people were inside and kept him from violating the fire code—and then looked up and down the street, his gaze passing over the people lined up behind the velvet rope like they weren’t even there. South Beach was always entertaining; on the street, the traffic that crawled slowly past was a mix of black and white limos, tourists in rental vehicles, and tiny Italian sports cars that looked small enough to dart between the wheels of the hulking, tinted-window SUVs. The art-deco facades of the buildings were lit up in spotlights of pink, green, orange, blue; across the street, out in the bay, the lights of a thousand pleasure craft twinkled and bobbed like drunken stars.

  Tonight, though, it all seemed kind of boring. He fished the paperback out of his back pocket, flipped it open to where he’d left off and started reading.

  “Is that The Vitality Method?” a voice asked. Only the fact that the voice sounded young and female prompted Collinson to look up.

  “That’s what the cover says,” he said. The speaker was a woman, but she wasn’t that pretty, that young, or showing that much skin; he dismissed her almost immediately as a middle-aged tourist wanting to experience a hot Miami nightclub with no actual idea of how unlikely that was. There was something familiar about her, though….

  “I just finished reading that!” the woman said. “Are you vegetarian?”

  He was almost about to snap, No, but you might want to skip your next few cheeseburgers—she wasn’t fat, but he hated being interrupted—when he suddenly realized where he knew her from. A grin spread across his face.

  Collinson considered himself to be a lucky person. In the few years he’d been in Miami, he’d landed in one fortunate situation after the other; he’d made tons of cash, spent most of his off-time partying, and had slept with some truly outstanding women, including an underwear model. But the moment he was about to enjoy made all those previous blissful experiences seem like a short beer in a bad bar.

  Careful, he thought. Take it slow. Savor this holy sacrament, for lo, it shall not pass this way again.

  He gave her his best, most disarming smile and said, “Hey. Don’t I know you?”

  She smiled back and said, with just a trace of a Southern accent, “I don’t think so.”

  “You sure? My name’s James—that ring any bells?”

  “Sorry, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, then—what do you do for a living? Maybe that’s it.”

  “I’m a public servant.”

  He spread his arms expansively. “Just like me.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think so. My job’s a lot more boring.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “I’ll bet you have lots of fun…I know I do. Been waiting long?”

  “Seems like forever.”

  Good, good, he thought. The more time she’s got invested the longer she’ll stick around. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “Me, I’m outta here in a few more minutes—soon as my replacement shows up.”

  “Lucky you. Um—looks like somebody else just left,” she pointed out, a trace of hope in her voice.

  “You know the great thing about the jobs we have?” he asked in a friendly voice. “The control we have over other people’s lives. I mean, it’s not like we’re in charge of anyone’s destiny, but we do have a big influence in the short term. It’s like there’s a big switch over people’s head, with two settings: ‘good day’ and ‘crappy day.’ And we’re the ones that get to flip the switch. I tell ’em to go on in, they have a good day; I tell ’em to get lost, they have a crappy one. You know?”

  Suspicion had kindled in her eyes. When she replied, her voice had that cold, irritated tone to it he remembered. “Not really, no.”

  “Sure you do. You get to flip that switch every day, just like me. The difference between us is that you like switching it to ‘crappy’ a lot more than I do.”

  There it was. The flat look in her eyes that had made him want to throttle her, the last time they’d met. But this is gonna be even better….

  “It’s all about the power, isn’t it?” he said. “I mean, yeah, it’s nice to make people happy, yadda yadda, but it’s nothing like the charge you get when you really, truly screw someone. Doesn’t matter if they deserve it or not, doesn’t matter what they’ve done or who they are—’cause it’s not about them, is it? It’s about you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “See, you and I are privileged,” he said, on a real roll now. “Other people who deal with the public every day get driven crazy, because they have to treat their customers with respect. No matter how many times they get asked the same stupid question, they have to grit their teeth and smile. But we don’t, do we?” He leaned in abruptly, getting right in her face. “Nah, we can tell ’em how we really feel. If we’re hungover or mad at our neighbor or just pissed off because the world ain’t fa
ir, we can dump that anger all over the next person in line. I do it right here…and you do it down at the Federal Building.”

  She wanted to leave, he could tell, but she was torn; she’d waited a long time to get in, and maybe his replacement would be nicer. Besides, he thought, what she really wants to do is let me have it with both barrels. That’s what she’s used to. Well, come on, girl—show me what you got.

  “Look, I just do my job,” she said coldly. “It’s not my fault if you don’t—”

  “If I don’t what?” he snapped. “If I don’t like being treated like some kinda bug? Like I’m some kinda annoyance that’s keeping you from doing something more important? C’mon, be honest—your job gives you a license to treat people like crap, and you use it more often than you shave your damn armpits.”

  Her eyes went wide, and he knew he’d finally pushed her into losing her temper. About time, too.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?” she demanded. He knew she was about to unleash a verbal tirade, but he had no intention of enduring it; there was something he could do at his job that she couldn’t do at hers.

  He stepped to one side and yelled to the line of people stretching out behind her—many of whom had been following the exchange with interest—“Hey! How many people here been screwed around by the government?”

  He got a few immediate cries of “Yeah!”

  “Income tax? Trying to get a permit or something?” he called out. The whole line erupted with shouts of affirmation, drowning out whatever the woman was trying to say.

  “Yeah, I know!” he hollered. “Well, this woman right here works for the DMV!”

  This time, there were insults and boos mixed in with all the noise. The woman looked like her eyes were about to spit flames.

  “Think I should let her in?” he hollered, and was met with a loud chorus of no’s and profanity. You could always count on a crowd to act like a bunch of third-graders.

  “You think she deserves the right to party with us?”

  “NO!”

  “What? You don’t think she’s nice enough?”

  The responses were getting uglier. He looked down at her, saw her wince, just a little.

  “You don’t think she’s hot enough?” he continued.

  More denial. Comments about her weight, her clothes, her parents. Was that a tear he saw in her eye?

  Struck by a sudden inspiration, he waved the book he still held at her with one hand. “You say you just read this book? Well, I’m not done with it yet, but so far it seems to be saying, ‘Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside.’ Which makes you the ugliest bitch I’ve ever met…see, I have a responsibility. I am here to keep a certain kind of people out of this club—and honey, you are it. Nobody here likes you, nobody here wants you, and nobody here wants to hear a single goddamn word you have to say.”

  That did it. She bolted, reduced to tears. He watched her run with a grin on his face, savoring the victory. Make me wait six months for a goddamn motorcycle license, huh? Let’s see how you like getting jerked around for no reason. “Come on back anytime,” he called after her. “I’m here all night….”

  He waved the next three people inside, showing how magnanimous he was, nodding and smiling as they congratulated him and confirmed that “she had it coming.” Life wasn’t just good, it was grand.

  And then the guy in the bad suit walked up. Mid-forties, almost bald, built like an ex-linebacker with a face to match. “That was quite the performance,” the man said. “You feel that way about all public servants?”

  “Just the jerkoffs,” Collinson said.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to pass that along to the desk sergeant down at County,” the man said, pulling a badge out of his pocket. “Lieutenant Frank Tripp. Y’know, I would have done this sooner, but when you started waving that book around I thought you might actually tell me something useful. Wishful thinkin’, I guess.”

  “What, this? A friend gave it to me.”

  “Yeah, and I bet I know which one,” the cop replied. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs, grabbed the bouncer’s wrist and spun him around. “James Collinson, you are under arrest.”

  “For what?” he demanded. “Getting a little payback?”

  “Marijuana cultivation and trafficking,” the cop said. “Let’s go, Jimbo.”

  Damn, the bouncer thought as he was led away. Guess the switch just got set to crappy….

  Horatio gave Doctor Wendall his card and told him to get in touch if he heard from Jason, then got back in the Hummer and called Wolfe. He’d had better luck—Jason wasn’t at home, either, but the CSI had managed to get a warrant to search his residence.

  Horatio met him in front of the place, an art-deco apartment building painted a vivid shade of green. The super, a rotund woman wearing heavily tinted glasses and a floral-print sundress, let them in.

  Jason’s apartment wasn’t quite what Horatio expected. The carpet was spotlessly white, the furniture a combination of Danish modern and designer originals that incorporated a lot of curving chrome and blond wood. Track lighting on the ceiling, tasteful art posters in silver frames on the walls. Bookcases that incorporated Lucite panels and aluminum strutwork.

  “Pretty stylish for a geek,” Wolfe said, looking around.

  Horatio walked over to the bookcase. “Only on the surface, Mister Wolfe.” He pulled out a book with one gloved hand and read the title out loud: “Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Players Handbook.”

  “Doesn’t quite go with the room,” Wolfe said.

  “The room doesn’t really go with the tenant,” Horatio said. “Let’s see if the rest of the place is the same.”

  The bedroom, at the end of a short hall, told a very different story. The bed was unmade, the walls covered with tattered posters: Apollo 13, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, scantily clad heroines from Japanese manga. Dirty clothes were piled in heaps on the floor, food-encrusted dishes balanced on top of stacks of magazines or books. A computer with a flatscreen monitor was set up on a desk under a window, a towel thumb-tacked to the window frame as a makeshift curtain.

  “Seems a little more like the guy you described,” Wolfe said.

  “Yes, it does,” Horatio said. “The living room looks formal and artificial—it’s the image he’s trying to project to the outside world. This room is what he’s really like.”

  “You think he’s been playing us, H?”

  “No. I think somebody’s been playing him…somebody who preaches the importance of appearances.”

  Wolfe glanced around the room. “Doesn’t look like the sermon was entirely effective.”

  I hope not, Horatio thought. “Let’s see what the evidence says….”

  Wolfe searched the living room; Horatio took the bedroom.

  By the time he was done, Horatio was fairly sure that if Jason had slept with Ruth Carrell, he hadn’t done it in his own bed. The sheets hadn’t been changed in a while, and there was no evidence of sexual activity. That made sense; if Ruth had seduced Jason, it would probably have taken place at the compound.

  “Hey, H? Take a look at this.”

  Wolfe was in the small kitchen off the living room. A deep fryer sat on the Formica counter, next to a sink piled high with dirty dishes. “He may have developed a sense of style, but his sense of hygiene hasn’t quite caught up,” Wolfe said. “One of the rocketeers told me he makes fuel in a deep fryer. Check this one out.”

  Horatio peered into the appliance. A yellowish, waxy substance was encrusted around the edge; he scraped a little off with his finger and sniffed at it.

  “Sugar,” he said. “And I’m betting when we test it, we’ll find ten percent ammonium perchlorate as well. This is where he cooked up the fuel for the rocket.”

  “Think the launch system’s here too?”

  “We won’t know until we look, will we?”

  They went through the entire apartment, room by room. They found books on rocketeering, old rocket parts, an
d a small tool kit under the sink. From the scraps of wire and plastic scattered on it, Jason used his kitchen table as a workbench.

  More disturbing was what they didn’t find. “No toothbrush, no shaving supplies,” Horatio noted. “Hard to tell with that mess in the bedroom, but I’m guessing clothes and a suitcase are missing too. He’s taken off—but I’m guessing he hasn’t gone far.”

  “The Vitality Method compound? You think Sinhurma would try to hide him?”

  “I do. But not,” Horatio said grimly, “the way Jason is hoping for.”

  Calleigh walked into Charette and Sons with a big smile on her face. Oscar Charlessly was talking to a woman in a green sweater over by a large industrial fridge, grinning and patting the appliance like it was a big, friendly dog. The woman was nodding and laughing, obviously very much at ease.

  He is one hell of a salesman, Calleigh thought.

  She strode right up to them and said, “Hello again.”

  He turned, beamed when he saw her and said, “Good to see you! Hold on a sec, darlin’, I’m just finishing up here—”

  “I’m sorry, Oscar,” she said sweetly, “but I’m in kind of a hurry. If I wait for you to run down, I could be here all day.”

  He laughed. “I do go on a bit, don’t I? Well, then, what can I do for you, Miss Duquesne?”

  “You can tell me how much dried marijuana you can pack into one of these,” she said brightly, looking over at the fridge. “Sort of a custom-made packing crate, isn’t it? I’d guess you could use all sorts of large-scale appliances for the same thing—stoves, washing machines, dryers….”

  His laugh got heartier. “My, my, my! I suppose I’m smuggling cocaine in my shorts, too, right? Plenty of room in those!”

  The woman in the green sweater laughed too, but she sounded a little uncertain.

  “No, I think you just stuck to the green and leafy stuff,” she said. “Old appliances aren’t hard to find—for your purposes, they didn’t even have to work, did they? They just gave you a convenient excuse to drive a big truck back and forth from the Georgia border to Miami. So much dope comes into Miami from the Caribbean, you thought you could slip under the radar by bringing it in from the other direction. Undercutting the competition by using a local supplier? Lower-grade product than Jamaican ganja, but you got around that by using high-grade clones—kind of a designer knockoff. And lastly, you maximized your profit by turning some of the dope into hash, like a winemaker turning bad grapes into brandy. You even had a Rastafarian front man—picked for promotional reasons, right? Really, Oscar, you’re quite the merchandiser.”