by Sean Oliver
“If you can find it, you can have it,” Moore said. “See, after looking around my basement for a half hour, my wife walks in with her phone—YouTube on the screen, showing a video of some cat taking apart my exact model, changing the darn belt.”
“How ’bout that,” O’Malley said.
“Watched a six minute video, put the phone down, replaced the belt, and my drawers were being dried in under twenty minutes.” He leaned back on the counter, quite proud. O’Malley looked over and winked at him. The detective saw that cop instinct in Moore. You can bury it under thirty years removed from the job, but it never leaves. Both of them spotted Albrecht’s change in demeanor—it was as obvious as a fireworks display, and Moore had gone in for the kill.
Albrecht took an emotional step back, straightened his posture, and turned to O’Malley. He smiled.
“Detective, I can appreciate security officer Moore’s foray into appliance repair, but I assure you there is value in what I teach, and great value in my work at P.S. 21.”
“That’s not even in question, Mr. Albrecht,” O’Malley said. “I have no doubt you do fine work. If nothing else, I can tell you that you keep a better kitchen than my wife. I feel like I’m in a department store.”
“Clutter is the obstacle to clarity,” Albrecht said, gesturing to his head.
“You live alone?” the detective asked.
“Yes. Divorced.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
O’Malley chuckled. “Never thought of it that way.”
“Sure you have,” Albrecht said. He flashed a grin at the cop. O’Malley returned it and looked away uncomfortably.
“How’d you land the contract with Carson schools?” the detective asked. “District is tighter than a crab’s ass these days,”
“I’ve been servicing the district for several years now.”
“But how did you find Carson? Cold calling? Just going down the list? Did you know someone in the district?”
“I was first brought in by George Anastas, the principal of P.S. 21. Other principals heard of the success we were having with the teachers at that school, so naturally they all wanted the shiny toy. Principals are like that, Detective. They become so removed from the ability to enact any real change that they begin to salivate over wearing the prettiest dress.”
O’Malley turned to Moore. “Picturing Principal George in a dress?”
“Ooh, baby,” Moore said.
The detective turned back to Albrecht. “Don’t you mean staff?”
“I’m sorry?” Albrecht said.
“You said you were having success with teachers. Don’t you mean with staff? I watched one of your sessions from the doorway and you even had a janitor in there.”
“Everyone is welcome in my workshops,” Albrecht said. “I would never throw someone out due to their job title. I don’t see myself above anyone.”
“Of course not, and that wasn’t the implication. I just wondered why a janitor would need techniques to prepare students to take a test.”
“Preparation is a life skill.”
O’Malley shrugged it off. “I guess. So if everyone takes the workshops, who’s working in the building—teaching, counseling, cleaning the shitters?”
“I usually do two shifts. There are prep periods used for the workshops or free teachers covering other teachers’ rooms while they’re with me. Everyone participates in making it work, detective. It’s a communal effort.”
O’Malley was playing cards he didn’t really have at that point, and he knew it. Albrecht’s role in any misdoings was entirely unclear and beyond being a bit of a strange bird and an outsider, he was guilty of nothing. Nothing the detective could glean, anyway.
“Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Albrecht,” O’Malley said reaching for his phone on the binder.
Albrecht’s eyes followed his hand.
“If you think of anything else, I’ll be at the school fairly regularly until April,” Albrecht said.
“Okay. Sorry to disturb you at home.” He started for the door with Moore behind him. They turned for a final wave as they exited.
“Sorry I couldn’t help,” Albrecht said.
O’Malley and Moore got down to the front door and were blasted by the frigid wind the second O’Malley pulled it open. They took a few steps to the unmarked police car. They both got in and closed the doors.
“The binder,” Moore said.
“Yup.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Honduras—March 1961
TOMMY CARRIED A sack of rice out of the food cabin and nearly fell on the bottom step when it tilted. It had been a little loose the past few weeks but it was downright dangerous now. Things weren’t being fixed as quickly as before. Many of the young men in the Circle were being dispatched for gathering wood and building those lookout posts up in the trees. Tommy now spent entire days logging.
The food cabin looked a little low in supply, too. There were certainly plenty of provisions left and the farmer guys, mostly locals who joined the Circle after they moved there, seemed hard at work every day. So much of the group’s energy was spent on food, but now it seemed Markus was becoming preoccupied with lookouts and security. He’d moved the roadblock trees much farther down the gravelly path into the encampment. The Diaz brothers manned it nearly all day now.
Markus himself seemed okay, though. He was still spending time with everyone and spreading positivity. He still spoke of their insular world. He still felt their mission was more important than anything they could be doing with their lives. Tommy though, was becoming less sure.
Tommy was bored when first distracted and drawn to the treetops. He spent too much time in his own head as it was, and then Markus had begun requesting more meditation sessions. Tommy found it increasingly difficult to clear his thoughts and his meditations became frustrating and truncated. He didn’t want to be there anymore, but had nowhere to go.
So he hauled the logs and erected crude ladders affixed to tree trunks thirty feet up in the air. All the additional tasks worked to his favor, having made it easier to keep his mind busy with menial labor. But Tommy must’ve been wearing his disenfranchisement a bit and giving off signals. Agatha was always around him now—not always engaging him directly, but at a distance where she could keep an eye on him. That was fine. He was going along with the program. Outwardly.
Markus increased the number of times he put an arm around Tommy and reinforced how smart he thought he was. It felt good. Everyone there made him feel pretty good. The Circle was security. That settled him and made him certain of his choice to spend so many hours working with them in Florida. By the time they’d secured the location in Honduras and Markus had the fields producing viable crops, there was no other option but to follow everyone down there.
Security and normalcy was fertile ground for boredom’s growth. Tommy began to stagnate and often reflected about new beginnings other than the one the Circle of Tomorrow offered him. He was grateful for having been reborn, but a fire was growing in his belly.
He dropped the rice in the kitchen, more than enough for his buddy Lawrence who managed to keep his weight up due to his consumption of it. The kitchen was located in Cabin 4. He was back outside in the center green just as Markus arrived. Tommy sat cross-legged in the large circle the members formed. Markus went to the center and also sat. He looked around at them and smiled, making eye contact with as many faces as he could.
“Amazing, what we’ve done here,” Markus said. “Look at you all—self-sufficient in this self-sufficient community. Wait until people see what we’ve done. And they will.”
He stood and paced in the center of the circle, taking time to stand before different parts of the group. He looked down at them, looking into their eyes as he spoke. The group was ever attentive.
“This beautiful parcel of land that we’ve created here will live long in our hearts, even after we’ve left it and moved on. When I came here for the fir
st time, nearly three years ago, I knew this could be a home for us. This would be the cradle for our reinvention. It took time, money that we all contributed, and some help from our friends here that joined us. But look at what we have.”
Markus moved to Tommy’s side of the circle and looked down at him and a few of the members seated around him. Tommy looked up into Markus’s eyes.
“There will soon come a day when we see we’ve outgrown this place and we are ready to move back out to society. That may scare some of you, but you must understand that the world will not view you as they did before. Our message will spread. Our insular society will become a model for many. We lived without government. We loved our neighbors and relied on them. We were free from the tools that keep people in fear—radio, newspapers, and the televisions.”
Markus moved to another area of the circle. Tommy knew this whole sermon—they all did. They’d heard it a million times. They knew the value of the self-reliant, insular society. They’d learned to live without the influence of news and government. But all Tommy heard now were Markus’s comments about going back into society. They’d do it as a group, that was the plan he’d always espoused—establishing a community in the general population, where citizens would begin to gravitate to their group. They’d buy into the belief system, contribute their worldly possessions, including money and property, and the Circle of Tomorrow would grow. Children would be born into it. There would soon be old and young.
If Tommy were to emerge in society, he’d need to deal with the fact that he was still a wanted man. He saw himself reemerging not into a society that would follow him into a new way of living, but a society that wanted his head. The group would draw attention. Anonymity drove him to the group in the first place. Now that veil was going to be removed. He decided right there, sitting in the circle, that he would have to get away and start anew somewhere else.
FIFTY-SIX
“HYPNOTISM.”
O’Malley was shaking his head as he sat behind the wheel at a red light. Moore had to be joking. It was getting late and the drive back to Carson from Albrecht’s home was filled with frustrating attempts to connect dots that didn’t really belong in the same puzzle. There was Trisha’s disappearance, teachers acting oddly, and an educational consultant to whom an entire staff pledged an odd devotion. And he seemed pretty normal, except for a passionate aversion to technology. He was an eccentric. They’re out there.
“You’re losing your mind,” O’Malley said to Moore. “This is one of those cases that will drive you crazy if you don’t let yourself off the hook a little. It is a whodunit—you have to keep pushing, but let the details just come to you. If you chase every lead and try to figure out every possible angle, you start cooking up stupid shit. Like hypnotism.”
“I’m serious, Irish. I’ve seen group hypnotisms—dozens of people getting on the stage, all being hypnotized. In a few minutes they’re jumping like monkeys, chirping like birds, and shit like that.”
O’Malley just kept shaking his head. “Not this guy.”
“You get the sense this guy is a kidnapper?” Moore asked. The light turned green and O’Malley drove them over the Pulaski Skyway, into Carson.
“No.” They both sat with that.
The disappearance of Trisha McAllister was going on far too long for everyone’s liking. The longer missing persons cases remained unresolved, the worse the chances became for a safe return. From all discussions with Trisha’s family members as well as her best friend, there seemed to be no boyfriend or anything logical at all to draw her away. There was no credit card activity. There were no fingerprints found in her car other than from the expected people.
Both men rode in silence for a time. O’Malley was thankful that was the only question about the kidnapping. Moore must’ve known how barren the investigation was and didn’t bring up any more questions. Or maybe he fell asleep.
“I got her computer,” Moore said. O’Malley turned to him.
“McAllister’s?”
“Girl at the school brought it to me.”
“The friend?”
“Yeah. Principal George’s daughter. Said she didn’t take it, just found it.”
“You believe her?” O’Malley asked, as Moore took some time to think.
“I think I do. She’s the honest type. You wouldn’t want her as a friend, but she’s gonna tell you the truth. ‘Hey detective, you’re losing your hair up in the back there.’ That type. Bitch-on-wheels.”
O’Malley thought. “Where did the wheels come from?”
“Huh?”
“Bitch-on-wheels. Is it worse than a bitch? And how do they get to that level?”
“Got me.”
They drove in silence for a while. The car radio was tuned to a sports talk station, but so low it was barely audible.
“Why didn’t she bring the computer to me? She already visited me at the station with information. Seems like she’d know to bring me a huge piece of fucking evidence.” O’Malley’s voice slid up a few octaves.
“Don’t get hot about this now. I don’t think she knows who to trust.”
“And she trusts you? You barely know her. You’ve only been in that building a couple of months.”
Moore was nodding along. “Maybe that’s why she trusts me. She said me, her, and the McAllister girl were the only three not like the others.”
O’Malley shook his head. There was a critical piece of evidence with that laptop, possibly with fingerprints or trace DNA, and it was sitting in some drawer. Or in this Moore guy’s house with his dog licking it.
“Where the hell is that computer?” he asked.
“It’s safe,” Moore said. “And you can have it. Matter of fact you can have it back on the date when I got it.” He looked at the detective for understanding.
“It’s not the dates on the chain of custody I’m worried about.”
“Like I said, it’s safe. No one touched it since I got it, so relax.”
“I’ll relax when I have it.” O’Malley just drove. He liked Arthur. The old guy’s story connected with him and he had the stuff—that cop stuff, and that’s the stuff that can’t be learned. But O’Malley was the one with the gold shield. He was also the one who the chief called almost every day for updates. The media made dozens of calls to headquarters every week, and Chief Abernathy didn’t hide his displeasure from O’Malley in having nothing new to report to them.
“You know you can’t solve this from the outside,” Moore said. “I’m gonna hand you that computer, man. And I can hand you something else.”
“What’s that?” O’Malley asked.
“The person who took it.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
“ARE WE STILL getting married?”
As annoyed as Deanna was by the question, it was a good one. Strangely, it was less annoying knowing there was some mystical connection to a bunch of dead dropouts behind it, rather than a groom’s cold feet.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Who am I marrying?”
He was looking at her, though she kept her eyes on her plate. Elegance surrounded them. The breathtaking Manhattan skyline beside them was not enough to draw them out of the desolation. Outside the restaurant window, the Hudson River glistened in the night, reflections of New York’s million pinpoints dancing atop it. Everything was perfect. But they were not there.
“I haven’t really been thinking about the wedding,” Deanna said.
“Sure you have. Just not the same way as before.”
“Right.”
Their water glasses were refilled by someone they didn’t bother to see. It was a forced time-out from their conversation. Then he was gone.
“I wasn’t keeping this from you,” Jared said. “I just don’t understand it. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“You know enough to realize that our wedding is disappearing from your mind. And you know enough to realize that you have to worship this guy that comes to our school to talk about tests. And now
, apparently, you know enough to realize you’re connected to a bunch of people that committed suicide.”
“This leave of absence is the best thing to happen to you, Dee. I don’t know what’s happening at school, but you’re clearly not a part of it and now you’ll be safe.”
Deanna dropped her fork and leaned in. She tightened her jaw to keep an outburst suppressed.
“My fiancé is a part of it. My father is a part of it. My best friend is gone because of it. Now tell me again how I’m not a part of it and how I’ll be safe.” She was leaning halfway across the table. She did not let go of his eyes.
He averted his—out the window, down to his utensils. He nodded.
“Now I can’t think about July, either,” she growled. “Thank you.”
“I think you need to let this run its course. Stay away from the school.”
Deanna slid back and pulled her purse off the arm of the chair. She dropped it on her lap and shuffled through its contents, retrieving a thin wire. She handed it to Jared.
“Earbuds?” he asked. Deanna put her purse back and resumed eating.
“You’re going to put that on the inside of your shirt, plug it into your phone, and record the next session with that Albrecht guy. You’re going to record every workshop from now on.”
Jared ran his fingers across the cord in his hand, up to the small, cylindrical microphone head.
“Upload the files into Google Drive as soon as you’re done recording. Get them off your phone after you do, or else it’ll fill up.” She looked up at Jared. All the directives had him staring blankly. Good.
She was going forward in her investigation—in school or out of school. Getting her out of the building wasn’t going to stop her. Jared was still there and part of this group. As long as he was, she was inside, too. She would gut it from the inside. How Trisha was related to this was still uncertain. But she was—of that Deanna was sure.
After several false starts, Jared could only come up with one thing. “What app should I use?”