“I can prepare myself for that.”
“You must. Over the days or weeks that follow, Cynthia and Justin will work up a psychological profile on her. We want to get into her brain, to map her psyche, so to speak. We want to know all we can about the activities of the group she has been involved with and how they work, how they recruit, their leadership hierarchy. In Amanda’s case, we have one very distinct advantage. We’ve identified Joseph Krebeck. We also know he’s dangerous, so we have a better idea about how to approach the extraction. I would also imagine the same could be said for the people who make up his inner circle. Leaders like Krebeck are usually well insulated. It’s their underlings who carry out the dirty work. The information Amanda shares with us could be enough for law enforcement to move in and arrest the leaders of the group. Depending upon the severity of the acts they’ve committed, they could go to prison for a very long time.”
“If Amanda is still as high-spirited as I remember her to be, this will not be easy,” Claire said. “She’ll fight off any attempt to forcibly remove her every step of the way.”
“I’m sure she will. We’ll be prepared for that. That’s why we need to gain her trust, to help her understand that we’re there to help her, not hurt her.”
“How can you expect her to do that when she doesn’t even know you?”
“Through you. We’ll need you to provide us with the family picture you brought with you. And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll need a recording of your voice. A personal plea from you to cooperate and come with us. If she doesn’t recognize you from the picture, she’ll likely remember the sound of your voice. You see, for most of us voices are like auditory fingerprints. We have a capacity for their long-term retention. Like when you get a phone call from someone you haven’t heard from for a very long time. You know you know the voice. You strain to place its familiarity, and eventually you do. Hearing your voice may be the key to unlocking Amanda. We want to create an emotional or psychological connection with her that is so compelling she will trust us and come along freely.”
“I can do that,” Claire agreed. “How soon will it be before Mark and his team can get started?”
“As soon as we’ve identified her exact location, we’ll arrange the extraction.”
“How will you do that?”
“It’s all a matter of planning and patience. First, an operations team will carry out a reconnaissance of the area where we believe Amanda is being held. They’ll make note of her surroundings, watch the comings and goings of the other members of the group, their daily routines. Most importantly, they’ll identify if she has a handler.”
“A handler?”
Martin nodded. “Sometimes, a high-profile cult member is assigned a handler by the leader of the group, usually a senior lieutenant within the chain of command. It’s their job to watch that person twenty-four seven.”
“I thought they maintained control over the group as a whole?”
“Yes, they do. But a person like Amanda is different. If the country’s best law enforcement agencies tried to find her and came up empty, it’s obvious she’s being hidden by these people. They know that if she’s found by the authorities, it will mean the end of life for them as they know it. Their freedom would be gone in a heartbeat. In Amanda’s case, federal authorities would pursue an action against them, most likely implicating them on charges of obstruction of justice, conspiracy, and kidnapping to name just a few. Should that happen, the cult would crumble. Without leadership and guidance, they’re lost. That would be a fate equal to death. If they know who Amanda is, and my best guess says they do, they’ll use her to further their own agenda, whatever that is. They’ll protect her at all costs. To them, Amanda is a valuable property, a commodity they won’t have any problem using as a bargaining chip if things get ugly. That’s why once we find her, we must get in and get out as quickly as possible. If something goes wrong with our plan, she will be in danger. It’ll be her life for their safe passage. Make no mistake about it.”
“We can’t let that happen, Martin,” Claire said. “I don’t want to have come this far to lose her now. I’m not sure if I could live with that.”
“Don’t worry, Claire. I have no intention of letting anything go wrong. Before we make our move, we’ll have double and triple-checked the plan. Amanda’s safety and security are our primary concern.”
“Are you going to be part of the extraction team?”
“Yes, I am. I really want this guy. I have a feeling Joseph Krebeck has more than one skeleton in his closet. And I want to be the one to expose him.”
42
CLAIRE STOOD, WALKED to the edge of the gazebo, stared up at the pale moon, then turned and faced Martin. “If you’re going in after her, so am I,” she said defiantly.
Martin scoffed. “Are you insane? That is completely out of the question. You have absolutely no training in these matters. For all intents and purposes, this is a tactical operation, a hostage rescue. Your inexperience could get you hurt or killed. Just in case you haven’t figured it out, we are, by definition of statute, kidnapping Amanda. That you’re her sister and we’re doing this at your request has no bearing on the matter. We’re going to go in and remove her, probably against her will. If we’re caught trying to extract her, no one’s going to ask if we’d like to sit down and discuss it first. Cults govern themselves according to their rules. A violation of this magnitude could have serious consequences.”
“Meaning?”
“That they could make you disappear. Permanently.”
Claire folded her arms. Her voice shook. “My family is dead, Martin,” she replied. “Amanda is all I have left. So, if I must die or be left for dead in some godforsaken place never to be seen again, then I bloody well want to know it was for a good reason. And I can’t think of a better one than trying my damnedest to rescue my only sister from the hands of a bastard like Joseph Krebeck!”
“I’m sorry, Claire,” Martin said. “I shouldn’t have put it that way. I know how much Amanda means to you and that you want her back in your life. But that doesn’t change the situation. You can’t go in. I won’t allow it. It’s just too damn dangerous.”
“Then train me.”
“What?”
“Train me. Teach me what I need to know. You name it, I can learn it.”
“That’s absurd. We don’t have the time to train you for something like this.”
“Then just give me the basics if you have to. But I’m telling you right now, trained or not, I am coming with you.”
Martin sighed. “You’re not going to give up on this, are you?”
“I’m going in with you to get her, Martin,” Claire replied coolly. “That’s final.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I’m a big girl. I’ll take my chances.”
Martin let out a heavy sigh. “Something tells me I’m never going to figure out how I let you talk me into this.”
“You already know how.”
“This ought to be good.”
Claire smiled. “Because you find me completely irresistible.” She walked across the gazebo and sat in his lap.
Martin sighed. “Yeah, but that’s beside the point.” He cradled her in his arms. Her body was warm and inviting. He kissed her softly on her forehead. “I’m serious, Claire. You could get hurt.”
“No, I won’t,” Claire replied. The soothing tone of his voice and gentle touch comforted her.
Martin stroked her hair. “What makes you so sure of that?”
“Because I know you’ll be there to protect me,” Claire said.
The wellspring of emotion rising within Martin told him she was right, and the thought of it scared him. He had never fallen in love so fast, not even with Anne, and he had loved her to the very marrow of his being.
They sat in silence, holding each other, immersed in unspoken words and desires.
&nbs
p; Claire lifted her head from his chest. “Martin?” she said.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for everything you’re doing to help me. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“You’ll never have to,” Martin replied. “We do this because we can. Because we believe it’s important and should never be allowed to happen to good people like you and Amanda.”
“I know. But I believe it’s more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“Fate?” Martin replied. He shook his head. “Not really. I believe we chart our own course. The decisions we make along the way, both good and bad, determine who we are and who we become.”
“Interesting,” Claire said. “I believe just the opposite, that we cannot change the life we live day to day, and that there’s nothing we can do to alter the course of those events. Our future is a path we are pre-determined to follow from the day we’re born until the day we die.”
“Is that your scientific opinion?”
“No. Just my personal philosophy. Take us, for instance.”
“Us?”
“Yes, us. You and me. Several days ago, you knew nothing about me, did not know who I was, had no connection to me in any way, shape, or form. Now look at us. We couldn’t be any more involved in each other’s lives if we tried. Fate intended for us to meet. We had no choice.”
“Of course, we did,” Martin said. “You could have declined Kelly’s offer to attend the Janus party. If you had, we never would have met.”
“That’s not the way I see it. I believe I went to the party because I had no other choice but to go. Don’t you see? I was destined to be there, to meet you, and for you to meet me. Fate brought us together.”
“Tell me you’re going somewhere with this, because there’s a strong possibility this discussion could send me into therapy real soon.”
Claire laughed. “I’m serious. Okay, let me try this out on you. When you were young, didn’t you ever wonder what your life would be like when you were eighteen? Or thirty? Or sixty? What you would do for a living? What your wife’s name would be? What she would look like?”
Martin smiled. “No. I grew up rich and spoiled rotten. My father paid other people to think of those things for me.”
“Very funny. Well, didn’t you?”
“Sure. I suppose we all wonder about those things. But I still maintain they come to us as our life evolves. We choose whom to love, what to do with our lives, and how hard we’re willing to work determines whom we become. There’s nothing predetermined about that.”
“I disagree.”
“Somehow I just knew you would.”
“Fate governs our lives, and I can prove it.”
“This should be interesting.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Close your eyes.”
“Can I make a wish?”
“If you like, but it won’t make any difference.”
Martin closed his eyes. “Right. Fate. Absolutely nothing I can do to stop…”
Before he could finish speaking, Claire kissed him.
He opened his eyes.
“See?” Claire said. “Told you so. There was absolutely nothing I could do about that. Couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried.”
“Fate, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
They kissed again, more passionately than before.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Martin said. “And I have to tell you now.”
“I already know what you’re going to say,” Claire answered.
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. And I want you to know it’s okay. You can trust me.”
“Trust you? With what?”
“Your heart.”
“You know how I feel about you, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And that doesn’t scare you? We barely know each other.”
“Yes, it scares me,” Claire said. “But not knowing where this could lead scares me even more. I haven’t been in love in a very long time, Martin. You need to know that up front, so you don’t expect more from me than I’m capable of giving right now.”
“We’ll take it one day at a time. One hour at a time, if that’s what you want.”
“Thank you. But I already know everything will be all right.”
“Let me guess. Fate.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
Martin smiled. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room. We both need to get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
43
VIRGIL STOOD IN the entranceway to his building. With each labored breath, he fought to calm himself. Perspiration and cool, damp fog had penetrated every fiber of his cotton shirt and jeans. The clothes weighed on him like a suit of aqueous armor, restricted his movements.
The voice of Fallon and the cries of Blessing and Sky which he had expected to hear when he reached the building were strangely absent. The rooms above lay as silent and undisturbed as mausoleum vaults.
In his weakened state, the ascent to the second floor required considerable effort. He braced himself against the wall for support and tried not to think about the searing pain that threatened to steal him from consciousness and send him tumbling back down the stairs. He pushed up, up, until he reached the landing. Exhausted, he sat for a moment, gathering his courage with his thoughts, then struggled to his feet and crept around the corner.
At the far end of the long, narrow corridor lamplight slithered beneath the door to his room, striking and recoiling from the wisps of air which taunted the flame within. Virgil knew he was alone, but he did not feel alone. In his delirious state, the building had come alive. A wall of imaginary eyes, no doubt possessed in some demonic way by the spirit of Fallon himself, watched him from the end of the hallway. It would have been within Fallon’s power to accomplish such a feat, he thought. Any man evil enough to commit murder, or be party to it, would surely have made a deal with the devil that would empower him with such abilities. Another wave of pain rushed through his body. Virgil could feel his ability to focus slipping away. The hallway ahead transformed. The wall of eyes had now disappeared, but the stable floor had morphed into a swirling, molten ooze. It pooled at his feet and flowed under the door. He knew what he was seeing was not real, could not be real, nothing more than a horrific manifestation of his imagination. Yet there it was. He pressed his back against the wall and fought to maintain both balance and sensory control. The foul stench of bile rose in the back of his throat and he tasted its noxious fermentation on his breath. He was sweating profusely now. Perspiration streamed down his face, stung his eyes. I’m losing control, Virgil thought. Got to keep it together… for Sky… for Blessing. He closed his eyes, wiped the sweat from his face, and drew slow, deep rhythmic breaths. When at last he opened his eyes, the corridor had resumed its familiar construct. The dim light at the foot of his door ebbed and flowed with the familiarity of dancing lamplight. The constant pain emanating from his leg had caused a fevered rush and sent his imagination into overdrive.
The room ahead lay still. Perhaps Fallon had heard him coming as he climbed the stairs, having opened the door just wide enough glimpse of him breaking the sightline of the landing, and ordered Blessing and Sky to remain silent or die. Or perhaps they were already dead, and Fallon was now waiting for him.
Finish the family.
Bury the truth.
Virgil assessed his options. He would have to surprise Fallon, catch him off guard, do the unexpected.
He pushed off from the wall, ran towards the door, gathered speed with each agonizing, erratic, lop-sided shuffle-step and smashed his way into the room. Fueled by adrenaline, driven by instinct, he let out a war cry of pain and fury as he broke through the wooden door.
Virgil’s assault on the room ended as abruptly as it had begun. He tripped and fell. Fighting
the writhing pain, he clambered to his feet and strived to regain his bearings as quickly as possible. Fear pumped his heart like a bellows. Through heaving gasps, he surveyed the dimly lit room as he steadied himself against the bedpost.
No Blessing.
No Sky.
No Fallon.
He had not preceded him to his room. The danger to his family had been a figment of his imagination. Or had it? He needed to find them, to know they were safe.
He raised his pant leg, examined the gash below his knee. The compress had done its job. The wound had clotted. He stood beside the bed and tested his leg under his full weight. He could move with greater freedom than before. He walked stiffly across the room to the bureau where Sky kept a safety kit of Band-Aids, gauze and first aid supplies. He opened the top drawer and removed a white metal box, placed it atop the bureau, unlocked the clasps, flipped back the lid, and rummaged through the container. He removed a wide sleeve of medical gauze, several fat sterile cotton balls, a roll of cloth adhesive tape, a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a thin tube of Polysporin. He stripped off his clothes, deposited them in a wet pile at his feet, placed his foot on the edge of the bureau and examined the wound carefully. It would require stitches, but not right now. At this moment, he needed to clean and dress the wound as best he could and get back to Communion Hall as quickly as possible.
Virgil doused the cotton balls in the peroxide, held his breath, then pressed the clammy mass into the wound. Pain jumped from his leg to his brain as though completing an electrical circuit, ricocheting from nerve ending to synapse like lightening through a storm. He fumbled with the tube of greasy ointment, squeezed a generous amount of the clear gel into the crevice of the wound, and placed a sterile pad over the gash. He wrapped the wound with fresh gauze and taped it in place. Slowly, the pain subsided. He changed quickly, put away the medical kit, and discarded the damp, bloody, dirt-stained clothes into the hamper.
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