Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “This is where I allow my mind to unbend and consider new possibilities,” he told her.

  With a retreat like this to “unbend” in, who would ever need a vacation? No wonder Mike’s patrons wanted to stay “indefinitely.” Dixie curled up on the couch, facing the garden.

  “Angela mentioned you were counseling a client. Did she mean psychological counseling?”

  He brought a teapot, two mugs, saucers, and a tin of biscotti from a buffet in the dining alcove and placed them on the table. In a silver vase, a stick of incense burned, the fragrance faintly sweet and exotic.

  Mike sat near her on the couch.

  “Like everyone these days, I’ve studied basic psychology,” he admitted, “but I leave head-shrinking to people who like to peer into dark places. We discuss the benefits of diet, exercise—”

  Dixie yawned.

  “—and a good night’s sleep.” He smiled as she guiltily clapped a hand over her mouth. Then he adjusted a button on a remote control pad, slightly increasing the volume of the music that had become such a part of the atmosphere Dixie’d scarcely realized the soothing sounds were piped all over the house.

  “You designed all this yourself?” Near the incense burner an unusual piece of art gleamed in the subdued light. She lifted the object to study it—an irregular slab of onyx imbedded with twelve crystals circling a single garnet—like the twelve women encircling the flames in the silver bowl this evening. Silver threads laced the crystals and garnet in a concentric design. The piece was simple but exquisite, like everything she’d seen at The Winning Stretch. The artwork seemed familiar, unsigned, yet obviously custom-crafted. Dixie glanced at the ring on Mike’s hand: a garnet encircled with diamonds. Same designer.

  “I merely told the architects what I wanted to achieve,” Mike was saying. “Serenity.”

  “They sure got it right.”

  A knock sounded, and he hopped up to accept a tray from Angela.

  “We have a bed ready.” Angela’s clear, sweet voice carried across the room. “If Dixie wants to stay with us.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll let you know what Dixie decides.”

  He brought the tray, filled the teapot from a carafe of hot water, and set a plate of sectioned oranges on the table. At home, Dixie reflected, dessert would be Bluebell Ice Cream straight from the carton. She carefully replaced the onyx sculpture.

  “My friend Edna was a regular visitor until several weeks ago. I wonder why she stopped coming here. Did she ever hint at what she’d planned?”

  “You mean knocking off a bank?” Mike’s green eyes glittered with merriment. “We do encourage innovation, but that idea would have sparked a conversation I’d surely remember.”

  He poured the fragrant tea into pottery mugs and handed her one. Not the exact tea she’d had before, this tasted sweeter, smelled more pungent.

  “Edna’s behavior certainly sparked a conversation at dinner tonight.”

  “Did it?” He looked interested.

  “Many of the women admired her spunk.”

  “You must admit she took command of her own destiny.”

  “Mike, surely you don’t—”

  “Support her actions? Dixie, I knew Edna as a woman determined to experience life. Her death …?” He shook his head and breathed a long, disheartened sigh.

  “What sort of commitments did Edna discuss?”

  He shrugged. “Commitments are private. But in general, students commit to perfecting the body, the spirit, and eventually their entire world.”

  “Sounds overwhelming.”

  “Not when taken one step at a time. Build strength. Defeat fear. Erase pain. With one small, bold step after another, we can do anything.”

  Wasn’t that exactly what she taught in her own self-defense classes? Why did it sound so much bigger when he said it? His words carried such conviction.

  “What causes you so much pain, Dixie Flannigan?”

  “What do you mean?” He couldn’t know how miserable she’d been these past months since Parker became so distant.

  Mike moved closer, took the empty cup—her cup was empty … when had she …?—and set it on the table. Then he opened her hand. His fingers floated tenderly over her palm.

  “Pain leaves its trace, long after the wound has healed.” Her fingers tried to close over his, to stop the tingling that pulsed from her palm through her arm and sent tiny flickers of sensitivity throughout her body. But he coaxed them open and continued the butterfly touch on her palm. “A soul that knows pain develops wisdom. A soul that knows strength develops skill. You have a beautiful soul, Dixie Flannigan—scarred with wisdom, solid with strength. I’ve seen you shepherd the lost spirits at the women’s center. You would make a valued partner, a commendable leader.”

  His voice enveloped her. His expressive face, so close, so filled with understanding, made her long for his arms to enfold her as well. “Leader? Mike, I have trouble coping with crowds of two.”

  “Two is a difficult number, either static or combative. Three, five, nine, twelve—these numbers have synergy and strength, the power to move mountains.”

  “That’s true. I saw that at dinner tonight … your students …” Dixie’s tongue felt lazy. But her mind—she knew exactly what he meant. Each of those women had been alone and disoriented before finding one another. The group leadership brought them focus. Dixie glanced at her empty cup. Her limbs felt heavy, her mouth dry.

  Selecting an orange slice, she rose with effort, moved to the window, and gazed out at the garden.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mike stood behind her, his hands lightly on her shoulders. “This is a magical place, Dixie Flannigan.”

  Yes. She believed that. She’d sensed the magic from the moment she stepped into the spaciousness, the light. All evening, she’d scarcely thought about the robberies … Marty’s impending arrest … or Parker.

  She bit into the orange slice, and as the sweet juice flooded her mouth, a memory surfaced: a teenage birthday party. Chocolate, Dixie’s favorite flavor, had been nixed by the dermatologist. Kathleen made Dreamsicle Surprise—vanilla ice cream layered with delicate sponge cake and orange filling—and Dixie discovered a treat she might otherwise never have tried.

  The weight … and warmth … of Mike’s hands instilled peace, contentment. Like the Dreamsicle Surprise, an unexpected pleasure. He had an amazing charm and magnetism in the lyrical roll of his voice, the comfort of his touch. Another image came into her mind. Cows. Contented cows.

  “Your aura is so strong, Dixie, I can feel it in my hands.”

  “Aura?”

  “Your body’s energy field. We use our auras to repel or attract. Yours is a shield, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ll show you how to lower the shield and let people in, without fear of losing yourself.”

  She did fear letting people in.

  His mouth felt warm against her ear.

  “Align with me, Dixie. With your rare combination of strength and compassion, wisdom and skill, you would make me whole. Together, we can create a world—”

  A tap at the door, then Angela’s hopeful voice sounded. “Time for lights out. Is Dixie staying?”

  Mike touched Dixie’s arm, turned her from the window.

  “I want you to stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Enjoy the retreat’s serenity for a few more hours.”

  “All right.” She glanced at the teapot and the incense still burning in its holder. Why leave?

  Mike’s fingers lightly caressed her neck as she moved to follow Angela out the door.

  In yet another wing of the house, they entered a dorm with twelve beds. Angela gave Dixie a white cotton gown and robe, exactly like the set she herself wore. The women she’d met—Dixie hadn’t managed to keep their names straight—bustled in and out of the bathroom. Rows of lidded baskets on shelves provided locker space, where they stored or retrieved personal items.

  While Dixie waited her turn, she explored her new sleeping quarters—a single
bed, plump and inviting, with a feather mattress and two fat pillows. On a side table sat a pitcher of water, a glass, a lamp.

  Unlike other rooms in the house, this one had no windows. A circular skylight over the beds invited the stars in. A heavenly fragrance permeated the air, and the ever-present music played softly.

  A painting dominated the longest wall. Dixie stepped closer to examine it. She recognized the slate walkway that approached The Winning Stretch, the gardens, the atrium. But the house in the painting went on and on, with expansions yet to be built—an architectural projection. In a space at the bottom of the canvas, the architect had lettered the words:

  THE CHURCH OF THE LIGHT

  The name seemed familiar, yet Dixie couldn’t recall why. She needed to get her thoughts together about it—that seemed imperative … something about Edna and the Church … but it wouldn’t come.

  Lovely gardens … spacious rooms … friendships … enlightenment. Rebirth, Mike had said. Completion of the Church would mean a haven for hundreds of women. Such a vision deserved to become a reality, didn’t it? Dixie could help … certainly, no question. For now, she was content staring at the painting as she waited her turn in the bathroom … the Church of The Light.

  Disturbing images intruded. A pool of blood on asphalt. Edna’s sprawled body. A ring of blue uniforms. Marty’s face twisted in grief. Mike’s face … his hands. Dixie’s thoughts skittered on as she inhaled the spicy air … listened to the music … the shoosh of feet on the vinyl floor … blood on asphalt—

  With a shudder, Dixie glanced down at the nightgown and robe draped over her arm, then at the inviting bed a few paces away. She longed to ignore the terrible images, to slide beneath the scented covers, sleep beneath the stars.

  Sleep … Edna sleeping … an iris on white quilted satin … a cold hand … Marty’s sobs against her shoulder …

  Dixie sat on the bed and gazed at the Church of The Light, her eyelids like weighted curtains.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  At The People’s training center, Philip Laskey cleaned his Sig Sauer Pistole 75. He had shot well tonight, his pattern tighter than ever before, and the gun had finally felt right in his hands, an extension of his own energy. When he squeezed the trigger, every cell in his body seemed projected into the explosive bullet, his hand, arm, his every breath a nucleus of power.

  “How does it feel to kill a cop?” Cronin asked him.

  “I don’t know.” The rookie irritated Philip.

  “Who killed those cops, then? Dodge? Martinez?”

  “That’s not a question to ask. Who doesn’t matter. The People work as a team.”

  “Who’s the target tomorrow?”

  Young Cronin had too many questions.

  “If all goes well, no one,” Philip replied. “To build a perfect world, seeds of imperfection must be eliminated, but if the civic leaders proceed as our letter directed, no blood will be spilled.”

  “Are you kidding? That asshole Banning—”

  Philip hit him, a backfist, controlled.

  “We don’t use coarse language,” he explained calmly, noting the angry flare in Cronin’s eyes after the blow. To serve The People, that anger had to be contained and focused. Perhaps the Colonel’s message tomorrow would address the positive use of rage.

  Dodge and Martinez emerged from the shooting gallery. Dodge immediately began breaking down his gun. But Martinez radiated nervous energy like Saint Elmo’s fire.

  “Laskey! You heard anything, man?”

  “Nothing on the early news.”

  “Being so tight with Banning, you’d get the message before any reporters,” Dodge said.

  “Maybe.” Philip usually typed the Mayor’s handwritten speech edits. Tomorrow, they’d meet at seven A.M. for final revisions.

  “You practice the code, dude?” Martinez feigned a punch at Dodge’s arm.

  The Colonel had issued cell phones to keep in touch tomorrow, and a simple code to defeat eavesdropping.

  Dodge grunted. “Seven words—what’s to practice?”

  Straddling a bench, Martinez reached for a cleaning rag. Cronin sat down near him.

  “Is that clock right?” Martinez asked. “Can’t be right. It’s stopped, man.”

  “It’s exactly on time,” Philip told him. The thirty-six-hour deadline would end in one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Unless The People’s demands were met before then, a deadly new clock would start ticking. By the time the Mayor’s commemoration speech began tomorrow morning, The People would be in position, awaiting the Colonel’s order.

  Philip found himself praying that Mayor Banning made the right decision. Philip would do whatever was required. Corrupt units had to be eliminated. But killing was ultimately wasteful. One life affected so many.

  “What d’ya think, kid?” Martinez punched Cronin’s arm. “Tomorrow we’ll see some action!” Then he aimed a stage whisper toward Philip. “And tomorrow night, a different kind of action. Eh, dude?”

  Philip’s groin tensed at a memory as fresh as the smell of gun oil on his hands—full red lips, soft cheeks, eyes like pools of ink. Those eyes locked with his own as he rocked above them, sweat dripping from his bare skin, every nerve in his body focused on a sensation he’d never before experienced.

  The Colonel believed in reward for work well done. After Martinez eliminated the first murdering police officer, the Colonel’s reward for his top three men had been a woman each.

  Lizzie…

  After the second officer was eliminated, Philip had asked for her by name. Last night, her face had taunted him in his sleep, her red lips whispering his name. He could still taste the salty sweetness of her skin, feel the fragrant roughness of her nipple against his tongue.

  Tomorrow night … after a job well done, Lizzie would again be his reward.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Dixie shuddered awake, cramped and groggy. She blinked at the clothing clutched in her arms. What was it? Why had she fallen asleep leaning against the headboard, legs dangling off the bed?

  Not her own bed. Peering around the starlit room, she saw eleven beds, all occupied. Women she’d met at dinner. At The Winning Stretch … the Church—

  She glanced at the painting. Mike’s church. Edna bequeathed nine hundred thousand dollars to the Church of The Light.

  Dixie tossed the clothes on the bed. In the bathroom, she fumbled at the spigots. Plugged the sink. Ran it full of cold water. Taking a deep breath, she plunged her face into the chilly liquid. After a full minute, she rose for another breath, then pushed her head deeper, allowing the water to wet her hair and seep over the back of her neck. When she emerged the second time, shaking, her thoughts slid into better focus.

  She’d experienced drugs before, marijuana in college, nitrous oxide and codeine at the dentist’s office, cocaine once to understand its effects. Had Mike drugged her on purpose? He drank from the same pot of tea. Perhaps her system had reacted strangely to one of the ingredients. Euphoria, but without an edge. Contentment, in fact, an exhilaration of total acceptance. The music, the incense, the atmosphere of the entire house had seduced her to relax.

  As her thoughts tumbled into a semblance of order, Dixie knew she needed to go … yet a deep, anxious sadness overwhelmed her at the thought of leaving. She wanted to protect this sanctuary. Mike’s dream, his ability to understand the emptiness in a woman’s psyche, and to fill that emptiness with purpose, deserved safeguarding. She could be a part of that dream—

  Abruptly, Dixie inhaled and bobbed beneath the water’s surface. She envisioned Mike Tesche wearing a purple tutu. In a squeaky voice, he told her, You have a beautiful soul, Dixie Flannigan.

  Rising, Dixie gasped, coughed, and squinted at her face in an oval mirror. Woman, get out of here.

  She grabbed a towel, dried her sodden hair as she snapped off the light, and allowed her eyes to adjust to total darkness. Then she stepped into the starlit bedroom.

  In a quick study of the shelves of bask
ets, she found one labeled “Dixie.” Sliding it out, she found her clothes inside—yes!—slipped out of the workout pajamas—into her jeans, shirt. Her watch told her she’d slept a few hours; it was now three thirty-seven A.M. As she pulled on her socks, Dixie continued scanning the baskets—Alice, Angela, Charlotte, Dolores, Edna.

  She tugged the basket off the shelf and removed the lid. Nothing inside.

  Following a vague hunch, she opened Angela’s basket. Under a neat stack of clothing, she found a small bag containing lipstick, moisturizer … and a bottle of brown hair rinse. The temporary kind that shampoos out. With her blond hair dyed brown, Angela could easily be the first Granny Bandit.

  She could never have masterminded the robberies—Angela didn’t have the mentality. But with her sweet, childlike desire to accommodate, she could’ve followed directions precisely, as she did at The Winning Stretch.

  Whose directions? Mike’s? Did he conspire with Lucy and Edna to rob Texas Citizens’ branches? Or had the pair become so enamored of the Church vision that they dreamed up the scheme on their own as a way to hasten the project?

  Mike claimed he hadn’t known Lucy Ames. And the women Dixie’d met tonight—last night?—how long had she slept?—only remembered Lucy from the news.

  Shoving the baskets back in place, dressed but carrying her boots, Dixie stopped for one last look at the architectural rendering. How far would the robbery money go toward completing the Church of The Light? Not nearly as far as Edna’s nine-hundred-thousand-dollar bequest.

  She eased the door open and slipped into the empty hall. After the brighter dorm room, the intense blackness rendered her blind. But in her mind’s eye, she retraced her steps as Angela had led her from Mike’s suite. Left turn, right turn, right, left…

  Mike wouldn’t be the first charismatic leader to encourage the transfer of all worldly goods to the Church and to expect sacrifice or even theft from his followers. Breaking man’s laws to do God’s will was considered necessary and respectable by many fringe religious groups.

  Silent in her cotton socks, Dixie followed her instincts. By the time she reached the second left, her night vision had returned. At the room she believed to be Mike’s, she checked around the door for light seepage.