by Rob Cornell
Peter sniffled. Again, the tears welled in his eyes. “Except they don’t.” He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “How’d you know all that?”
“I’ve seen this story before. Everyone has their own twists, but the structure is the same. In other words, drugs fuck up people’s lives pretty much the same way.”
Peter rubbed his forehead, eyes downcast.
I tried to feel sorry for him. Didn’t quite make it. Probably had something to do with my vision of Sasha on the snow bank and the echo of her singing in my mind’s ear. “The twist this time, with your family, is Sasha’s suicide. And this group, CYAN. They don’t fit the usual story.”
“It’s all my fault,” Peter said. “Sasha…she didn’t commit suicide. They killed her. They said I’d taken too long, so they took my baby girl away from me.”
Chapter 21
I woke the following morning—Day Two—to the sound of muttering with the occasional whimper. I turned on my side and found my roommate still completely covered with his blankets two beds down. They called them “beds” anyway. Felt more like a cot to me. All springs with a tiny bit of padding.
Which explained the knot in my neck. The headache, though, I think came from what Peter told me yesterday in the book room.
I had to back him up when he accused CYAN of murdering Sasha. It sounded like paranoid crazy-talk, and seeing as we were in a mental hospital, I couldn’t be sure. So I asked again about that word he had used.
Hyper-recrution.
Peter had wiped the last of his tears out of his eyes. “It basically means recruiting young people into the group as quickly as possible. They gave us commissions on each new member we brought in. It became a sort of joke, because more than half the kids that started coming in were definitely not Christian.”
The acids in my stomach sloshed. I could feel the urge to puke roll up the back of my throat. “That’s…”
“Sick,” Peter said. “But the founders knew how to convert a kid quicker than reprogramming a computer. It would start with gifts. A new laptop. A cell phone. Stuff like that. They’d also get their little crosses to wear around their necks. Those worked like advertising. Kid would ask, ‘Hey, where’d you get that laptop.’ And the member would point to their cross. ‘Same place I got this.’”
“Then what?”
“The brainwashing would step up a notch. In order for them to keep getting their free stuff, they had to attend church—didn’t matter where—and they had to do volunteer work for the organization. Anyway, they have these tiers, and for the kids it starts out like a competition. Who can get to the next tier in the org first. Then the brainwashing kicks in and they become hyper-recruiters, too.”
“To what end?” I asked.
Peter looked at me like I was a fool. “Money. Isn’t it always about money?”
“But how do they profit by this?”
“By getting as many to the top tier as they can. These are the ones so dedicated to CYAN’s cause they would do anything for the leaders.”
“Like what?”
“Like enforce certain ‘protections’ to area businesses. Or deal meth south of the tracks. I even heard rumors of some of the younger female recruits disappearing. You can take your guess what that means.”
“You’re talking about a cult and organized crime in the same breath.”
“I am.”
That’s when the headache had started. Apparently, I had held onto it through the night. Right now, all I wanted was some Advil and some gin. But I had two more days at Sunnygale, and they didn’t give out either of those things.
Peter had gone on to explain that he had taken some advances on his pay in order to help with the baby. They didn’t have any insurance, and CYAN wasn’t the kind of business that offered benefits. They gave him the advance, but he had to promise to make it up with extra recruits. Between taking care of his family and trying to keep up with the normal amount of recruiting, he fell even further behind.
This went on until CYAN finally fired him and gave him a deadline to repay all the money they had advanced him, just under forty grand.
“But,” Peter said, “I have proof of how the whole operation works. I got hold of one of their books. It’s like their version of a Bible, but only those on the highest tiers get to read it. There’s stuff in there about what they do to punish recruits, or how they initiate women into the higher tiers.”
“Do they know you have this book?”
“They might. But you have to get it. Give it to someone who can help put a stop to their operation…” His eyes had watered, lips quivering. “You have to help me do right by Sasha.”
I had swallowed the knot in my throat. “Tell me where it is.”
I killed the rest of my three days in the reading room. Nobody bothered me in there, though I’d get an occasional glare when Billie would swing open the door and prop it that way. “This needs to remain open.”
After a while, when I knew he was on lunch or off his shift, I’d close it again. None of the other staff seemed bothered by it. In fact, the rest of the staff left me mostly alone. After my exchange with Peter on the first day, a tension simmered in the hospital, especially when Billie the Bully came around. Everyone seemed to know something wasn’t right about me, but that it had nothing to do with addiction or mental health. They could sense I didn’t belong, but couldn’t finger the reason.
Though I heard one nurse whisper to an orderly she thought I was working undercover for the FBI.
Not even the doctor I was assigned to visited me after the first introductory meeting I had with him as part of my orientation.
It all worked fine by me, as long as they didn’t find proof that I was someone other than David Shultz.
Occasionally, I would sit next to Peter at lunch or dinner. He’d tell me stories about Sasha, about how she joined CYAN and discovered he really worked for them, but had promised never to tell her mother. A bold sin he didn’t want her to commit, but allowed nonetheless.
When Day Three came along, I woke, packed my things, and spent an hour filling out more paperwork. I did this in the glass cubicle office at the heart of the hospital floor. From time to time, I would look up to give my eyes and wrist a rest, and would find Billie on the other side of the glass glaring at me as if I were Satan himself.
Every time I caught him staring, he would look away quickly, obviously. Poor Billie had no flair for surveillance.
I wanted to say goodbye to Peter and wish him luck, but I guess that didn’t fit hospital protocol. And they wanted me the hell out of there, anyway.
The sun outside shined bright enough to hurt my eyes. The cold, however, burned twice as harsh against my face. The wind came out of the north and staggered me as I left the hospital for the lot where I’d left my car.
I cranked the heat once I sat behind the wheel, took a long, deep breath, and let out a sigh that could have rivaled the northerly wind. I wanted to go straight home and take a nap in my own bed, but I had things to do.
I stopped at my office first. Paul had written a note and left it for me in the center of my desk. It read: A Carrie stopped by. Said she needed to talk right away.
I stared at the note.
I would have to call the trio in and let them down. Tell them that while I’d found Peter Brown, he had requested I not give away his whereabouts and that I would comply with his request.
The urgent note made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. What could it be this time? My investigation was over, damn it. I’d found Peter. It was over.
I crumpled the note and tossed it in the wicker trash can beside my desk. I’m normally not a wicker kind of guy, but the thing only cost a buck.
I leaned back in my chair and let my thoughts run. I thought about CYAN running a cult that gave them a frightening amount of people power to do their bidding. Robbery. Extortion. Fraud and confidence schemes. All in the name of God.
The idea gave me chills.
I cal
led Palmer and got him on the first ring.
“Don’t you ever go out and make arrests?” I said. “Or is it always donut time at your desk?”
“Fuck you, Brone,” he grunted. “My three favorite words.”
“Tell me about CYAN?” I threw it out from left field to take him off guard. He was more willing to slip up and tell me something real that way.
He sputtered for a moment, then fell silent. “You got something?”
“So you know who I’m talking about?”
“Big ass Christian youth cult. The department’s been keeping our eye on them. We’ve had our share of issues with members of the group. Kids in their twenties, even teens, doing holdups, selling drugs, setting up collection sites for false charities. And they’re all wearing these little crosses around their necks. Coincidence?”
I frowned. “How come no one has done anything about it?”
“We can’t prove their related. And it could be a coincidence. There’s no pattern outside of these kids who are supposed to be Christians pulling small-time shit.”
I leaned back farther in my chair, bringing it right to the tipping point. I stared at my ceiling. A cobweb dangled between the ceiling and the light at room’s center.
“Again, I ask… You got something?”
“Not proof of anything. Not yet. But I’m about to collect it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Would I joke with you?”
“So you’re not serious.”
I laughed, despite feeling a little hollow and unlike myself at the moment. “Just trust me.”
“You’ve always made that real easy for me, Brone,” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask how you came by this proof?”
“I made friends with someone who’s been involved with the organization almost since its inception.”
“You make strange friends.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I disconnected the call, inhaled, exhaled, smacked my face a couple times to wake me up, and left the office, headed for the Brown’s house. Carrie’s note could wait.
* * *
“Did you find him?” Mrs. Brown asked as she let me in the door. She continued on into the house while I stomped the snow off my boots and slipped out of them. Mrs. Brown led the way into the living room. A full bottle of scotch sat next to a couple empties on an end table. A short glass with half-melted ice cubes rested on the table’s surface, the wood soaking up the condensation off the bottom of the glass.
Mrs. Brown didn’t seem bothered that I hadn’t answered her question yet. She sat down next to the end table, settling into the couch, cracked open the full bottle, and poured some into the glass. “I’d offer you one,” she said, “but I know you’ll refuse.”
She was right, too. I’m a gin man. Not much into scotch.
The wind blew against the house, rattling the window panes, the sound like a jet engine revving up for takeoff. On my way over, only a flurry of snow blew along the wind’s waves, but the forecast called for heavy snow that evening. Despite the harsh wind, nobody wanted to use the word blizzard, as if worried about jinxing us all.
“I’m fine,” I said, still standing. I unzipped my parka, but kept it on. “I don’t plan on staying long.”
Mrs. Brown sipped her scotch as boldly as her husband had probably downed his beers in front of the TV—while on sleeping pills to boot. Yet she didn’t seem to recognize the irony of her complaints about those doped-up nights of his.
What had Carrie said to me that first day the trio came to my office?
Satan’s most powerful weapon, Mr. Brone, is temptation.
In other words, Satan was a pretty good excuse for breaking the rules when they became inconvenient.
“So, did you find him?” Mrs. Brown swirled her glass, the ice cubes spinning in a scotch tornado.
“I did,” I said. “But he’s asked I not reveal his location.”
“Then what was the point of hiring you?”
“Not my place to say.”
She shot to her feet. Scotch sloshed out of her glass, but she didn’t seem to notice. “What bullshit. What…hypocrisy. You get to take money for nothing. For nothing.”
“Ma’am, you aren’t my client. I’ll discuss the issue of money with them.”
She opened her mouth to an O and waggled her head back and forth. “Oh, excuse me. Us poor folks don’t deserve to know where our fucking husbands are. We just have to sit by and hope they’re not dead.”
“He isn’t dead.”
“Don’t break your detective’s code for my sake. I’m not worthy.”
I glanced at the empty scotch bottles. I wondered how long she’d been drinking. A couple days, at least, only a little at a time. Otherwise, her face would be in the carpet-nap by now. Winning any kind of argument with her wouldn’t happen. She was good and pickled.
“Mrs. Brown, may I look through your husband’s things once more?”
“Why? You said you already found him.”
“There’s something specific I’m looking for.”
A crooked smile made her face look like a cracked egg. She poured the last of her scotch down her throat. “You mean the Book?”
My insides felt like they had locked like the gears of a broken watch. My gaze went to the cross around her neck. Another proud member
“What did you do with it?” I asked.
“I put it back where it belonged. With my faithful elders.”
“Do you know about Peter’s so-called debt?”
“It’s not ‘so-called.’ It’s real. And he should be ashamed.”
“He only did it to provide for his daughter.”
Her lips twisted into something between a snarl and a smile. She made a disgusted sound from the back of her throat. “And look how it ended.” She hurled her glass in my direction. It went wide and shattered against the wall, leaving a wet stain behind. “It’s his fault she’s dead. They’re going to kill us all eventually if they can’t get to him next.”
Her eyes flashed. A genuine, yet sinister smile rose on her lips.
My stomach dropped. How could I be so careless? I spun and ran for the front door.
“You’re probably too late,” Mrs. Brown shouted from behind me.
I only stopped to put my boots back on, then I was out the door sprinting for my car, the wind punching at me, but my own desperation was too strong to lose my footing. As I started the engine, I caught Mrs. Brown staring through the fogged glass of her storm door. She wiped at the condensation, opening a barn brushstroke to see through.
The bitch was still smiling.
My snow tires did their best to keep me from slipping off the street as I gunned the engine. I had to get back to the hospital, had to get to Peter before it was too late. Because I had screwed up big time. Without even thinking about it, I had led CYAN right to Peter. And if they were willing to kill Sasha to get at him, they would have no qualms with murdering Peter.
Chapter 22
The wind carried the sound of the sirens far enough that I could hear them from six blocks away. When I reached the hospital, two patrol cars, an ambulance, and a fire engine clogged the circular drive in front of the main doors. Another patrol car blocked the entrance to the parking lot. I parked illegally at the curb in front of the hospital.
I no sooner got out of the car than I had a patrol officer bundled in his winter gear waving me away. “You can’t park there.”
“You guys are blocking the lot.”
“No one in or out for the moment.”
“What’s going on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.”
Of course he couldn’t. He didn’t look much older than eighteen with the woolen earflaps of his cap blocking off everything but his baby face. “I need to know if Peter Brown is okay.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you. I have no idea what happened in there. They don’t always share with the guys directing traffic.”
Now he h
ad me on a guilt trip. This young man would go far in the department.
I backed away from the cop, but I didn’t get back in my car. I drew my phone instead.
“Please,” the officer said. “You’ve got to move your car.”
I dialed Palmer.
“You got that proof for me yet?” he asked.
“Where are you?”
“My office. Why?”
“What’s going on at Sunnygale?”
“Sunnydale?”
“Gale. Sunnygale. The mental hospital south of town.” My phone beeped. I had a second call coming in. I checked the ID. Carrie. But I didn’t have time for her right now. I put the phone back to my ear.
“…still there,” Palmer was saying.
“I’m here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Sir,” the young cop said, moving close as if he meant to snatch my phone out of my hand. “You must move your vehicle now or I’ll call to have it impounded.”
I covered the receiver on my phone. “I’ll be gone before the tow truck arrives.”
The cop frowned, knowing I was right. And since he’d been tasked with directing cars away from the hospital, he couldn’t take the time to write me a ticket. “Make it quick,” he said and stomped his way back to his post on the driveway in.
I uncovered my phone. “Sorry about that,” I said.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I found Peter Brown. But I also think I led some people who were looking for him, too, right to his door. Or the hospital’s door anyway. So I get to the hospital just now and it’s pandemonium. Can you find out what’s going on?”
Palmer groaned and sighed at the same time. It sound like some bizarre animal call. “Did you light off another clusterfuck, Brone?”
“I don’t know. This is a mental hospital. Could be anything.”