by P. G. Forte
It’s not a church, at all, he’d argued, it’s a cult. And not any two-bit, peace and joy, New Age, feel good, love-fest of a cult, either. It was the proverbial ticking time bomb, with the potential to turn Oberon into another Jonestown, or the next Waco.
Not that he could offer any proof of that. And without proof, without probable cause? There could be no investigation. No action taken. No nada. Even Nick Greco, reigning king of the loose cannon society, had been forced to concur.
But Liam hadn’t become a cop so he could stand by and do nothing, especially not in this case. So he’d quit in protest of the department’s decision.
And, now? Had the mountain really come to Mohamed? “Oh, yeah? And what might that be?”
Nick reached inside his jacket and removed a four by five manila envelope, which he placed on the bar. Liam picked it up and opened it. Inside he found a dossier, a list of email addresses, and a handful of photographs.
“Pretty lady,” he said as he studied the pictures. “Who is she?”
Nick took another sip of wine. “My ex-wife. Lauren DeGeneris.”
Liam found himself staring again. “She’s in TLV?” Now, there was irony for you.
Nick grimaced. “She doesn’t live in the compound, if that’s what you mean. At least, not yet. But, she attends meetings there on a regular basis, and if her recent bank activity is anything to go by? Then, yeah. She’s a contributing member, all right.”
For a moment, Liam could find no answer He stared at Nick, nonplused. Well, that’s gotta suck. He knew first hand what it was like to have the people you cared about lost to cults; misled, endangered, impoverished, lost beyond the reach of any kind of common sense. He knew it all too well.
Nick shrugged. “What can I say? Lauren does not always exhibit good judgement.”
Liam nodded. “Well, that was already obvious, wasn’t it?” After all, she married you. He slipped the photos back into the envelope and took a closer look at the papers, pretending not to notice the way Nick’s mouth had compressed and his eyes narrowed. And, okay, that really hadn’t been necessary, but the old guy just had a way of getting on his nerves that Liam could not comprehend.
“She’s hooked up with a variety of on-line chat groups,” Nick commented. “Most of them have some kind of post-apocalyptic, metaphysical slant. There’s a lot of talk about the coming earth changes, polar ice-caps melting, Hopi prophecies of doom and destruction—you know the kind of thing I mean. TLV crops up in the threads and subject lines fairly often.”
“Suigeneris?” Liam asked, as his eyes picked out the unfamiliar word.
Nick sighed. “Her screen name. French, I think. It means one of a kind, and she is that, all right. But, she should be able to get you in the door – as long as you can convince her you’re a serious seeker of something—truth, beauty, the American way. God only knows what it is this week. It’s probably best not to mention your former line of work, if you can help it. Although, she’ll probably pick up on it, anyway.”
“So, what if she does?” Liam asked. “Do I come clean? Tell her I know you? Or try and bluff it out with some kind of cover story?”
Nick signaled the bar attendant to bring him another glass of wine. “It’s a small town, but you haven’t been here long, you might be able to get away with a bluff. Still, I think your best bet would be to say as little as possible, and stick as close to the truth as you can. If you mention me at all, better tell her you think I’m a prick, or she’s never gonna trust you.”
Liam nodded. “Right, you already said that. Stick to the truth.”
Nick’s eyes went glacial, but there was no other change in his expression. All the same, Liam felt the familiar torsion in his solar plexus that signaled an energy drain. Okay, okay, I’m backing off.
Nick sipped his new glass of wine and then continued. “This whole search for meaning thing isn’t new for Lauren. But the way she’s tapping her bank accounts? That’s different. That’s not like her, at all.” He shrugged. “She could just be trying to buy a first class ticket to salvation this time around, or she might be in some kind of trouble that I don’t know about. Either way, you keep your eyes open while you’re there and watch out for her.”
Liam nodded. He put the envelope away and drained his glass. “I’ll see what I can do. If I find anything out about Lauren, I’ll let you know. Thanks for the lead.”
“There’s just one more thing,” Nick said, very quietly.
Liam smiled wryly. “I know. You don’t need to tell me. If anything happens to her, you’re gonna hold me personally responsible, right?”
Nick shook his head. “No, I’m not gonna need to hold you responsible for anything. ‘Cause you’re gonna make sure nothing happens to her. Period. You got that?”
Liam studied him curiously. What was the deal, anyway? Greco was remarried, wasn’t he? Happily, from all accounts. And yet– “Wow, I guess you still really love her, huh?”
This time, Nick did look surprised; not hugely startled, but significantly less bored. “Trust me. There’s no love lost between me and Lauren. But my daughter loves her mother, and I love my daughter. That makes Lauren’s safety very important to me.”
Liam grimaced. “Right. Gotcha.” Of course. He sighed as he thought back to last November, when Nick had come close to committing murder on his daughter’s behalf; and Liam had come close to interfering with his plans. He’d earned himself a first class lecture in the process—one that still rankled.
It’s not me who’s made a career out of flouting the rules, pal, Liam thought angrily; I’m a strictly by-the-book type of guy. At least seventy, eighty percent of the time.
With a subtle nod in Nick’s direction, Liam took his leave. Greco wasn’t above the law, no matter how much he liked to act like he was, and sooner or later, that rebel act was going to catch up with him. Someday, Nick would cross one line too many, and there’d be hell to pay for his actions. Just like I’m paying now, Liam realized, as the torque in his solar plexus became a full fledged twister.
It was just damn lucky for him that Chenoa was around here somewhere, because until he learned to stop messing around with annoying guys like Greco, he was going to need all the assistance he could get to keep himself calm and centered.
* * *
“What’s wrong, angel?” Sam asked, intercepting Marsha just as she’d been about to make good her escape into the ladies room.
Oh, crap, what’s he doing in here, she wondered staring at her husband in dismay. He’d been out on the terrace only a moment earlier. Why couldn’t he have stayed where he was? “Nothing,” she said, trying to blink the tears from her lashes. Damn it, she hadn’t wanted him to see her this way. She’d spent entirely too much time in tears lately, and that had to be the most boring thing on earth to deal with; someone else’s useless self pity.
“Nothing? Are we starting that again?” Sam took a handkerchief from his pocket and lifted her chin. “Here, let me see. You’re going to smear your makeup.”
“Serves me right,” Marsha murmured. “I don’t know why I even bothered putting it on.”
Sam dabbed carefully at her eyes. “I don’t either. I can barely see your freckles under all this stuff.
Marsha sighed. “Oh, like that’s a loss.” She was usually an extremely pragmatic person, and she’d long ago come to terms with her looks. Or, so she’d thought. But vanity was a funny thing and very hard to kill. It kept coming back, like crab grass or shingles or fleas or any other pernicious ill. Migraines. The IRS. And, at the moment, she hated her freckles.
“It is a loss,” Sam insisted. “I love your freckles.”
“Sam!” She stared at him open mouthed, surprised by the baldness of the lie. “You do not!” She knew damn well the type of woman her husband admired. Or, at least, she used to know. Not one of them had freckles.
Sam stopped wiping and looked at her sternly. “Yes, I do. I even have favorites.”
“Favorites?” Marsha smiled in d
isbelief, daring him to continue. This should be good. It was hard to hide your tastes from someone who could read your thoughts, and it had always amazed her that Sam had managed to fall in love with her in the first place, especially considering how far she fell from his usual type. Tall, slim blondes with porcelain skin and classic features, those were the kind of women he favored.
No one who looked remotely like her.
“You have one right here,” Sam said, as he placed the tip of his finger on her cheekbone, just below the outside corner of her eye, “that’s shaped like the map of Australia. But, sometimes, if you smile in just the right way, your face crinkles up and it turns into Cuba.”
“Cuba?” she repeated on a gurgle of laughter.
Sam smiled. “Mm-hm. Just like that. And then, over here on this cheek,” he continued, as he turned her head and gently traced a meandering cross along the side of her face, “there’s a whole bunch that resemble the constellation Cygnus. The Swan.”
“Then there’s your back,” he said, taking hold of her shoulder and starting to turn her around–
“Okay.” Marsha stopped him. “I got it. I believe you.” She didn’t care if it was true, or if he’d just now made it up, she was touched by his tenderness. Although, tonight, when she removed her makeup and scrubbed her face clean, she would check it out and see – just to know.
She felt like she knew so little anymore. She was desperate to know... anything.
“People’s tastes do change, you know, angel,” Sam said, still regarding her steadily. “I think maybe they improve as you age, as you mature and become more intelligent.”
Marsha laughed. “More intelligent? You might want to have a little chat with Jasmine and Brandon about that.” Her daughter and Sam’s assistant, at twenty one and twenty four, respectively, had very clear ideas about how quickly humans lose brain cells as they age. “We’re on the downhill side of the intelligence curve, now, Sam. Didn’t you know? We’re getting less intelligent, not more.”
“Pah,” Sam muttered as he put his handkerchief away. “They have to think that. They’re children. They’re both years away from having any real intelligence and they’re impatient.”
Marsha laughed. She found herself feeling so much better, she could barely recall what had upset her.
Sam smiled gently. “That’s better. Now, come and dance with me.”
Marsha nodded happily. But when Sam held out his hand to her, the glow she was feeling diminished. She took his hand, steeling herself for the loss, for the shock it always was now, to touch him and yet feel... nothing. No warmth. No radiance. No tingling currents of energy. Nothing that used to be there. She kept her smile in place and prayed he couldn’t see beyond the mask.
The way things once had been was just a fading memory now. In a few years, she probably wouldn’t even remember what it had been like when she could touch Sam’s hand and feel his love wash through her like a wave.
If you even have that long to spend with him, an evil voice whispered in her head.
Despite what he’d said about taste, she had no choice but to believe he had fallen in love with her for reasons that had nothing to do with looks, and everything to do with abilities she no longer possessed; with the woman she no longer was.
What if Sinead was right and, in a few years, Sam grew bored? What could she possibly use to hold him now? Now that she had nothing special to offer to anyone.
* * *
Finally, Liam thought, catching sight of Chenoa standing near the cake table chatting with a couple of guests. He felt a surge of relief. “Hey,” he called in greeting, coming up beside her.
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Hey,” she replied, looking at him, bemused. “You really meant it. I can’t believe this. Liam, you didn’t actually crash this wedding just to get a piece of cake?”
Of course, he hadn’t. He smiled. “What other reason would I have for being here?” When she seemed unable to answer, he added. “Although, now that you mention it, I could use a little energy work – if you have a few minutes to spare?”
“Energy work?”
Why the surprise, he wondered; as he nodded. That was what she did, wasn’t it? It’s what her grandfather had been all about – service, helping people, giving back. Paco had been a real holy man. A shaman. An honest to God do-gooder; unlike the con men, the leeches, the fucking pedophiles that ran places like TLV.
“I see what you mean,” she muttered, looking him up and down. “What have you been doing? Oh, no, wait, let me guess.” She cast a quick glance around the terrace and smiled wryly. “You must have had another run-in with one of the guys you used to work with—is that it?”
Liam shrugged. “Something like that.”
Chenoa shook her head. “You know, Liam, quitting that job might have been the smartest thing you ever did.”
Now it was his turn to be surprised. She has to be kidding. Chenoa might have magic hands when it came to shifting and balancing energy, but when it came to what motivated people, what made them feel alive, why they did what they did, and how to get them to do what you wanted, instead? She was a babe in the woods with a shitload yet to learn.
“Could be,” he said, not really answering. Nothing could have induced him to quit the force. Nothing but the chance to investigate that damn cult. This was the most promising lead he’d had in– well, ever, really.
The connection between TLV and Dagoba House was all too clear.
Dagoba. Just thinking of the place brought the familiar pang to his heart. Amy. Jack. Mom…
Chenoa studied him critically. “Come on, you’d better sit down.”
“Thank you,” he sighed, after she’d led him to a nearby table. She stood behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders and began to work on his chakras.
“Just try and relax now,” Chenoa said quietly, her voice already taking on the dreamy, slightly sultry tone it got whenever she worked on him.
It was a tone that usually sent his thoughts trending in completely inappropriate directions. Would she sound like that in bed, he couldn’t help but wonder. Just like he couldn’t help but imagine how she’d look laid out beneath him, naked and round, her cheeks flushed, her eyes heavy lidded and dark, going abruptly out of focus as he buried himself inside her. Then her lips would part and that voice–
But, not today. Today, his thoughts were already headed to a far different place. To a world of pain and loss and darkness.
Dagoba. The temple of the Gods. Where his childhood had died.
Liam had been five when his mother found salvation, religion, and a whole new life among the faithful. She’d been searching for something to believe in. At least, that’s what he liked to believe, how he wanted to think it had started. He wanted so much to believe that his mother, still reeling from the unexpected death of her parents, had been desperate for some proof of an after life. Proof which Reverend Jim Phelps and the Dagoba Community claimed to be able to provide.
However it started, it had ended as something a lot more worldly. Liam’s half sister, Amy, had been born a little less than a year later; and, a year after that, his brother Jack arrived.
His father divorced her. Liam could hardly blame him for that. And his mom took the three of them to live in Dagoba, where Amy was re-named Astarte and Jack became Jamal.
Liam got a new name, too. Kaikea. Hawaiian for sea foam, or white wave or some other crap. All part of Jim Phelp’s international buffet of bullshit. We are the World had nothing on Reverend Jim – or Bapu, as he like to be called, in a clear cut case of ripping off Gandhi, for Chrissake.
But Jim’s popularity in the outside community went downhill right quick after multiple charges of statutory rape were brought against him. The next four years were spent running – life on the road with the Dagoba family circus. They moved from commune to co-op, from ashram to church farm; finally fetching up in an isolated, postmodernist, quasi-religious, quasi-militia compound on a parcel of land so remote that it didn’t
even have a name.
Liam’s father caught up with them there, somehow, and took him away. But, only him. Dad always said he couldn’t get custody of the younger kids. Truth was, he didn’t want them. Liam supposed he couldn’t blame him for that. They weren’t his kids, after all.
But they were Liam’s family. His life. His whole world.
That was eleven years ago, when he was thirteen. It was the last time he ever saw either of them. Amy was seven. Jack was not quite six.
Amy begged him not to leave them, but he had no choice.
He promised to come back, but he never did.
Jim Phelps was arrested, tried and sent to prison. After that– No one really knew what happened. Some say it was a frayed wire or a short in one of the portable heaters. Some say it was sabotage. Others claimed mass suicide.
However it happened, the results were the same. The compound went up like a rocket. Only a handful escaped. His mother’s body was found in a pile up near one of the exit doors.
The adults, as far as anyone could tell, were all accounted for, in one way or another. As for the children – Amy and Jack and several of the others – their remains were never recovered.
It might be their bodies were overlooked in the rubble. Or there might not have been enough left of any of them to identify. There were even a few survivors who claimed that several of the children had been shipped off to other communes in the weeks before the explosion, but it was hard to know whose word to believe.
Liam had tried for years to find out more. He’d even written to Jim, while he was in prison, and begged him for information. The old liar had hinted that he might know something about the children, that he had reason to believe they were both still alive. That he might even know where they could be found. When pressed for details, however, he insisted he would say nothing until he was set free.
Liam should have realized that free, as far as Jim was concerned, was synonymous with gone. As soon as they released him, the bastard dropped out of sight. It had taken Liam months to track him down in Ohio, where he’d started a new commune – the original Universal Church of Truth, Light and Vision. By the time Liam arrived there, he’d closed that operation down, too, and gone underground yet again.