The Cult

by Arno Joubert

“Now is as good a time as any, don’t you think, Director?”

  Scarpa sighed. “Hang on a second, let me get out of the bedroom, Lina is sleeping.” A couple of seconds later he said hesitantly, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Yes, yes. I know about the whore. Fifty hail Mary’s and five Our Father’s. How is the case doing?”

  “Thank you, Father. They found some CCTV footage with what looked like a man wearing a cassock leaving the Plaza Hotel a couple of minutes after his murder, but I managed to erase the footage.”

  Casanellas gripped the edge of the table. “All of it?”

  “Yes, don’t worry.” Casanellas heard Scarpa light a cigarette and inhale the smoke. “It looked like the man had been stabbed by a blunt object, but we can’t figure out with what.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “I just don’t want the murder weapon to pop up with some incriminating fingerprints on it, that’s all.”

  Casanellas chuckled. “Do not fret, Director. That will not happen.”

  “Well, okay, if you say so.”

  “Thank you so much for your time, Director. Have a good rest now.”

  “Thanks, I wanted to—“

  Casanellas disconnected the call. He ambled to the kitchen and started preparing a cup of tea, humming. They had nothing on him, blessed Mother Mary. Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gateway Commune,

  Las Vegas

  Ted Olson banged on the door, but nobody answered. The high-pitched hum of a vacuum cleaner sounded inside, so he unlocked the door with his master key and stepped into the house.

  Jenna was standing with her back to him, vacuuming the living room. She had earphones in her ears and was swaying her hips to a tune she was listening to. Olsen leaned in the doorway, admiring her bottom and long legs for a moment, her slender waist gyrating, one hand in the air and the other pushing the vacuum cleaner, the only participant in her own domestic rodeo competition.

  Olson tiptoed to her and grabbed her around the waist, pulling an earphone from her ear. “Heya, beautiful,” he whispered.

  She shrieked, turned around and pushed him away, wide-eyed. She breathed a sigh and smiled when she recognized him, pulled out the other earphone and switched off the cleaner. “How did you get in?”

  Olson dangled the master key on his finger.

  She shoved him on the chest with a giggle. “Don’t do that again.” She sauntered to the kitchen, the tight denim shorts hugging her sexy backside like a glove. “Besides, you’re not supposed to be in here, I’ve been cleansed.”

  Olsen followed her to the kitchen and hoicked himself up onto the counter, kicking his legs back and forth. “C’mon, Jenna. You know how much I hate it when you screw that old fart.”

  She looked up sharply. “Master Lamont deserves your respect. And he’s not old.”

  Olsen screwed up his face in disgust. “He’s ancient, Jenna.”

  She opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk. “His soul is old, which makes his twenty-five year-old body look older than it actually is, that’s all.” She looked at him, a challenging frown on her pretty face. “He has to bear all our sins, how do you think that would make you look?”

  Olsen rolled his eyes. “So I guess there’ll be no hanky panky for the next month?”

  “I don’t want to taint his gift with your…”

  “Sperm?”

  She shrugged. “You know what I mean.” She glanced up, rubbing her belly with a smile. “Imagine me being the bearer of the divine seed, Ted. Imagine the honor of being known as the mother of the Chosen One.” She looked out of the small window above the sink, a dreamy expression on her face. “They’ll write books about me.”

  Olsen snorted. “Funny how all the chosen ones end up in the chosen incinerator.”

  “What did you say?”

  He smiled, shook his head. “A little insider joke, that’s all.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him accusingly, poured a glass of milk, ignoring his comment. “What do you want?”

  He slipped off the counter, took the carton from her, took a long slug of milk. “Seen Eden’s kid around lately?”

  Jenna Sands shook her head. “I haven’t seen Eden or the boy for a couple of days now. Maybe they decided to move on—“

  Olsen guffawed. “Move on? Are you serious? You never move on from this place.”

  She glimpsed at him innocently before lifting her shoulders indifferently and started buttering a slice of bread.

  Olsen turned around to leave, glanced over his shoulder. “If you see him call me.”

  “You better watch what you say about the Master, Ted,” Jenna said, waving the butter knife.

  He turned around and faced her, his hands on his hips.

  She pointed the knife at him accusingly. “Besides, if you don’t get your act together and start acting like the maintenance guy that you are, you might lose your job.” She folded her arms over her chest. “These places are falling apart, they all need a new lick of—“

  He strode over to her and grabbed her neck, pushed her back. “You ever tell me how to do my job again, I’ll kill you.”

  She dropped the knife and grabbed his arms with both hands, her lips parting but unable to force out the words. Her face started turning red and a vein pulsed on her forehead.

  He shoved her back and her bottom thumped against the open drawer, cutlery clattering as she steadied herself, holding onto her neck and taking deep, raspy breaths.

  He strode out and slammed the door behind him. “Bitch.” Someday, he would tell all these juvenile delinquents the damn truth and send Lamont and Di Mardi to Hell.

  Exactly where they belonged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  General Alain Laiveaux quaffed his first drink for the morning and sat back with a grunt, studying the case file. He scanned the notes, flipping through the photos of the crime scene.

  There were two reasons why Laiveaux was interested in this specific case. The first was that he had arrested and convicted the dead man, Ed Watson, twelve years ago for child molestation. The second reason was that his computer had red-flagged the movement of a certain Father Timothy Casanellas from the Vatican City, Rome. He had worked with Casanellas before. Recently though, wherever Casanellas went, a clergyman happened to be killed. Which could have been a coincidence. Or not.

  He placed the photos back in the file and his chair creaked as he leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. He sat like this for a couple of minutes, rocking to and fro in his chair, then leaned forward and picked up his phone. “Lieutenant, come see me in my office.”

  The man arrived a minute later, looking flustered, like he always did whenever he visited the general in his office.

  “Yes, General?” the tall, blond man said, his eyes darting around the room, a worried frown on his brow.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant.”

  The man lifted the chair and pushed it back and sat down gingerly. Laiveaux poured three fingers of Cognac into a tumbler and pushed it over to him.

  Latorre nodded a thanks and took a sip, placed the glass down carefully.

  “Relax, Lieutenant.”

  The man nodded with pursed lips, wringing his beret in his hands.

  “Do you want a case?”

  Latorre’s eyes widened. “My own case?”

  Laiveaux nodded.

  Latorre leaned forward excitedly. “Yes, of course. When do I start?”

  “Today.” Laiveaux pushed the file to Latorre and gave him a rundown of the murder of Father Ed Watson. “Liaise with Captain Guerra. Another man was killed in Salt Lake City,” he said and checked his notes. “Bishop Warren Garland, bled to death.”

  Latorre sat back with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

  “What?” Laiveaux asked.

  “It’s just that the Captain wouldn’t approve of this. She would probably say that she needed to babysit me.”

  “You li
sten to everything your mother told you to do?”

  Latorre shrugged. “I guess not, General.”

  “So ignore her.”

  Latorre’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down. “The problem is that she’s usually right.”

  Laiveaux quaffed his drink and dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “Bah! Of course our mothers are usually right, but that doesn’t stop us from going out and trying things for ourselves, man.”

  Latorre shook his head. “I meant the Captain. She’s usually does end up babysitting me.”

  Laiveaux leaned back in his chair and it creaked. He would need to oil it sometime, but it was the most comfortable chair in the entire office; he had tried them all. “You talking about the diving school, when Alexa saved you from drowning?”

  Latorre’s eyes narrowed. “I almost forgot about that, it was the first time she saved my hide.” He sighed and started counting the incidents on his fingers. “In Dabbort Creek, she saved my life twice. At Metcalfe’s mansion, she got me out of a pretty sticky situation. I thought I was a goner. Then there was the time—“

  “Shut up man, you’re boring me.” Laiveaux pointed at Latorre’s chest. “What’s that, Lieutenant?”

  He looked down at the medallion on his chest. “The Legionnaire’s medal of honor, General.”

  “And why did you receive it?”

  Latorre pursed his lips, fiddling with his beret. “For saving the Captain’s life, General,” he whispered.

  Laiveaux leaned forward. “Speak up, man.”

  “For saving the Captain’s life, General,” Latorre said, louder this time.

  Laiveaux smiled and nodded. “If it weren’t for you and Voelkner, Captain Guerra wouldn’t have blessed us with her sparkling persona and gentle heart today. I climb out of bed every morning thanking God for sending you two to look out for her while she was still a recruit in the French Foreign Legion.”

  Latorre smiled uneasily.

  Laiveaux jumped up, strode around the table and slapped the man lightly on the shoulder. “That’s a compliment, man. Captain Guerra is simply trying to pay you back for saving her life so many years ago.”

  Laiveaux opened the door. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  Latorre stood up, stuck his beret on his head and saluted smartly.

  “Oh, Latorre,” he called.

  Lieutenant Bis Latorre spun around on his heel, casting the general a questioning look.

  “You know that the Captain is extremely fond of you?”

  Latorre nodded. “Yes, General.”

  “And extremely protective over you.”

  Latorre smiled. “Yes, General.”

  Laiveaux sighed. “Don’t screw up and get yourself killed or something.”

  “I won’t, General.”

  Laiveaux nodded a good bye, closed the door and sighed. He sauntered to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another Cognac. “Be safe, Lieutenant. The Captain would never forgive me if something were to happen to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Alexa slipped out of the seat of their rented Chevrolet and inspected the building from the parking lot, her hands on her hips. She glanced sideways at Neil and he shook his head, an amused grin on his face. “Welcome to the spiritual capital of Vegas, Captain.”

  It had taken them almost two hours to get to the place, having been built deep in the Mojave Desert. The building was a three-story monolith with large, Roman columns in front. A twelve-foot-high statue of what looked like a woman holding her arms outstretched stood in the middle of a fountain in front of the building. Her right hand was slightly raised, gripping a staff which had an elaborate trinity knot sculpted at the top. Jets of water formed elegant arcs and splashed down at the statue’s feet.

  The building was surrounded by acres of neatly-tended lawns as far as the eye could see. Dotted across the grassy lawns stood sculptured reliefs of various animals, a growling lion and some prancing buck, an escutcheon of the fleur-de-lis, the three-petalled lily, fastened to their chests.

  A large sign board stood to the side of the building. It said Welcome to Illumenex Park. Please report to Reception.

  They strolled along a shaded walkway fenced in by tall Sissoo trees. At the top of the arched doorway was another emblem of a female with outstretched arms. This one had wings as well, and wore a crown with what looked like an eye set in front.

  They entered the building through large glass doors which sucked closed behind them, a refreshing puff of cool air greeting them as they entered. The floors were shiny white granite, and the soothing sounds of running water and birds tweeting drifted to them from hidden speakers.

  A smiling young woman and man stood behind a white granite reception desk. They wore garments that looked like flowing robes, the man had a bizarre golden tassel around his head and the woman wore a white hood. Both wore a thickly corded golden chain around their necks. The same type Danny Gonzales had worn in the questioning room.

  “Welcome to Illumenex Park,” the man said with a beaming smile. He did some weird stuff with his hands, an intricate alien greeting of some kind, then bowed.

  “Are you attending an orientation course or would you like to make use of the Park’s spa facilities?” the woman asked, the same funky hand signal followed by a bow. She folded her hands into the sleeves of her robe, like an ancient female druid.

  Alexa showed the woman a badge, resisting the urge to do the funky chicken. “My name is Captain Alexa Guerra from Interpol. This is Superintendent Neil Allen. We’d like to speak to a Mr. Joe Di Mardi.”

  The man pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, a quizzical expression on his face. “Do you have an appointment with Grand Master Di Mardi?”

  “Nope,” Alexa said.

  “Then I’m afraid—“

  Neil slapped his hand down on the solid granite reception desk. “Check the badge, pal. If you can’t read, it says Interpol, which means one of two things. Either your boss is in deep shit already or he’s going to end up in deep shit if he doesn’t speak to us within the next five minutes.”

  The woman pursed her lips and rubbed her hands down her robe, as if she was trying to straighten out a crease. She turned on her heel and flicked her head back. “I will see if the Grand Master is willing to accommodate your request,” she said and marched away, the robe billowing out behind her. She wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  “Tell him that we may accommodate him by not locking him up today,” Neil called after her.

  The man behind the reception desk closed his eyes and sighed, shook his head. After a deep breath he opened his eyes and smiled, pointing toward some white leather couches. “Please have a seat and help yourself to some Rooibos tea.”

  They strolled to the couches. If felt like they were in a Roman bathhouse, the sound of water trickling everywhere around them. “What’s Roy Bush tea?”

  “It’s pronounced Roy Boss,” Alexa said. “It means red bush and grows indigenously in the mountainous areas of the Cape Province in South Africa. You should try some, it’s very aromatic.”

  Neil flopped down onto a sofa while Alexa inspected a serving area containing an array of cups and cutlery. She popped teabags into two cups and filled them with boiling water, strained it and handed a cup to Neil.

  He sniffed it. “No milk?”

  “It’s better this way, trust me.”

  He took a sip, nodded. “Nice.”

  Alexa turned around as they heard the urgent patter of naked feet on granite. A tall man with a kid’s face strode towards them. “Agents, please follow me to the board room.”

  His face looked almost angelic, a smooth, white porcelain skin with full red lips. The face was framed by a mop of curly black hair which bounced up and down as he energetically propelled himself forward. Alexa and Neil caught up with him, strutting along, shoulder to shoulder, down a wide passageway that could easily accommodate four cars side-by-side.

  The man smiled, his lips pouting slightly as he did
so. “Sorry, my name is Joe Di Mardi, and you are?”

  “Captain Alexa Guerra and Superintendent Neil Allen,” Alexa said, showing her badge.

  He ushered them into a room with a white granite table and white leather chairs. “This place must be a bitch to keep clean,” Alexa muttered.

  “What was that?” Di Mardi asked.

  “I love the scenery,” Alexa said with a smile, looking out through a large wraparound window to the side of the room. Two imposing ziggurats had been built a hundred yards away, white-robed men and woman climbing the stairs, baskets filed with what looked like fruit in their arms. “What are those?”

  The man smiled, the sides of eyes crinkling to prove that he wasn’t a mere child. “Why thank you, Captain Guerra. Those are the temples of Isis and Ra, they took us almost ten years to complete.” He clapped his hands together. “I must say, I am pleased with the outcome.” He sat down. “How may I help you today?”

  “Do you know a girl called Mika Wattana?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I knew her well. She and some other kids always stood picketing at the gate, trying to convince people not to join our organization.”

  “You didn’t have her removed from your property after these protests?”

  The man shrugged, folded his hands together. “It’s a free country.”

  “You spoke to her?” Neil asked.

  The man held up a hand. “Wait, why all these questions about Mika, is she okay?”

  “She’s dead, Joe,” Neil said, leaning back in his chair.

  Joe Di Mardi’s hands went to his mouth, his eyes darting between Alexa and Neil. He pulled a hand through his hair and slowly shook his head. He fell back into his chair with a heavy sigh. “Great mother, Isis.”

  “I’ll repeat my question,” Neil said. “Did you speak to her?”

  Di Mardi nodded, dumbstruck. “We had long conversations. Arguments about the origins of the Bible and the true meaning of Salvation.” He looked up, his mouth open and eyes wide. “How did she die?”

  “She was murdered,” Alexa said. “Tongue cut out. All her organs removed.”