Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  Even with proof that Mike encouraged the bank robberies, the law might not be able to touch him. All religious organizations were protected by constitutional rights. But Dixie wanted desperately to believe Mike was the healer, the nurturer she’d seen in his classroom and whose inspiration she’d witnessed through the eleven vibrant women at dinner.

  No light under his door. So far, Dixie’d encountered no locks anywhere inside the house. She slowly turned the knob. The latch clicked. She froze, listening.

  Hearing only the pervasive music, she eased the door open and slipped inside the room. Ahead, the glow from the lighted garden softened the darkness. To the right, a screen saver on Mike’s PC played a patch of colored images on the corner wall.

  Dixie padded silently to the desk. She hadn’t determined earlier which direction Mike’s sleeping quarters might be, but the wall directly behind the office seemed most likely. She swiveled the monitor forward and searched for a sound button on the speakers that flanked it. Locating the button, she turned it all the way left, praying this would mute the usual beeps and pongs.

  A click of the mouse brought up a dialog box requesting a password. Dixie had no techno-snoop experience, but she typed the first word that came to mind: LIGHT. After a moment, a new message appeared: UNABLE TO LOG IN. The cursor blinked beside the request for a password. Dixie typed: CHURCH. No dice. Then: STRETCH. This time the hourglass symbol stayed on the screen an instant longer, followed by the dual message: UNABLE TO LOG IN and PLEASE ENTER YOUR ID.

  Stumped, and worried that Mike would see this new dialog screen and realize someone had tried to access his files, Dixie keyed the START button to reboot. Maybe he’d think a power surge caused a glitch.

  Turning her attention to the desk, she noted a scanner and microphone connected to the PC, a cup filled with pens and pencils, a simulated leather surface protector, and a telephone. Nowhere else in the house had she seen a phone, nor had she heard one ring since she’d arrived.

  As the computer screen blinked through its start-up sequence, she opened drawers. In shadowy light, she saw a stapler, letter opener, rubber bands, paper clips, notepads—nothing more ominous. Invitations to The Winning Stretch. In a lower drawer, she found a lockbox. Dixie lifted it to the desk and examined the simple lock. No problem opening it. She bent a paper clip to the right shape, and seconds later the latch snapped open. Light from the computer monitor glinted off an array of glass vials. Some held dark, coarse powder. Others were empty. The box also contained a plastic bag filled with a pale leafy mixture, a laboratory flask and condenser, and a supply of sterile hypodermic needles. Drugs? If so, they didn’t resemble anything Dixie’d seen. She sniffed the finely ground leaves in the plastic bag—not pot.

  She returned the relocked box to its drawer, then opened the next drawer up. It contained two thin smooth-edged notebooks, the pages still blank. Her searching hand brushed another volume that must’ve slid behind the first two. Dixie pulled it into the screen-saver light.

  A spray of tropical flowers embellished the satiny cover. Edna’s missing journal! Dixie tilted the pages toward the meager light and recognized her neighbor’s rounded, almost girlish penmanship.

  Hearing a creak somewhere in the house, she slid the book under her shirt and wedged it in the waistband of her jeans. When no other sounds issued, she searched the final drawer, found nothing of interest, and decided she’d pressed her luck far enough—

  A step sounded nearby.

  Dixie slid off the chair and scanned frantically for a place to hide. A broad-leaf philodendron in a fat pot offered the only cover. She scooted backward, keeping low, as she saw a door open in the wall behind the desk. Mike stepped from the shadows.

  He circled the desk and snapped on a small lamp. Dixie huddled lower behind the pot. After a moment, she heard the clickety-click of computer keys, then the rip of paper being torn from a notebook. She ventured a peek through the philodendron. Seated, Mike guided a page into the scanner. A few passes with the mouse, then he fed the page into what Dixie had thought was a wastebasket. A shredder whirred into action. Three pages later, he laid the notebook on the desk, snapped off the lamp, and rose.

  Dixie shrank as small as possible.

  When Mike’s footsteps receded toward the living area, she darted a look. He must be in the dining alcove.

  Dixie glanced at the outer door, mentally measuring the distance. Six long strides. No cover. She recalled the noisy latch … glanced back at the alcove … he would surely hear if she opened the door.

  His silhouette glided in front of the window to the lighted garden. Dixie held her breath and peered between the wide philodendron leaves as he walked toward her.

  He passed her. The noisy door latch clicked open … and a moment later clicked shut.

  Dixie ventured a look. Mike was gone.

  Now go! Get out!

  No … not yet. She might bump into him in the hall.

  Waiting, counting the seconds, her legs going numb beneath her … she noticed the light from the monitor was motionless. Mike hadn’t exited from his program. That meant he’d return shortly … or … that his password-protected screen saver would start up automatically after a brief period of non-use.

  Dixie craved another chance at that computer.

  She glanced back at the door … and decided to risk it.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  When Dixie touched the mouse, the monitor remained lighted, the program active. Okay, good. She pointed the cursor at the OPEN FILE icon and scanned the list.

  Ames. A coincidence? Not very damn likely.

  When Dixie clicked on the file, a dialogue box appeared requesting her password. She clicked on the PINE file and got the same request. Well, shit!

  Clicked on DELGADO: The file opened.

  JOSÉ DELGADO, NEUROPHYSIOLOGIST, YALE UNIVERSITY. ELECTRONIC STIMULATION. BY IMPLANTING A SMALL PROBE INTO THE BRAIN, DELGADO WIELDED ENORMOUS POWER OVER HIS SUBJECTS. USING A DEVICE HE CALLED THE STIMOCEIVER, OPERATED BY FM RADIO WAVES, HE ELECTRICALLY ORCHESTRATED A RANGE OF HUMAN EMOTIONS, INCLUDING RAGE, LUST, AND FATIGUE.

  The file, which seemed to be notes from a research paper, went on for pages. Electronic implants? Sounded like a plot for Alien Invasion. Dixie clicked it closed and opened FORMULAS.

  What sort of formulas? The third column of progressive numbers ended in the letters EP. Edna Pine? The second column contained identical numbers ending in the letters LA—for Lucy Ames. Damn your lies, Mike Tesche.

  In the first row, the numbers were all larger and ended with AW, plus an extension, INJ. Dixie didn’t know Angela’s last name, or Alice’s—the other A at dinner—but she’d bet one of them began with W. Back at the menu, she clicked on WALLACE.

  PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD:

  Mike had password-protected his client files. Ames, Pine, and Wallace—all locked. Then who was RY? Scrolling down the menu to YENIK, Dixie realized she’d heard the name somewhere. She clicked on the file.

  PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD:

  Mentally reviewing the names of the women she’d met at dinner—Laura, Charlotte, Dolores—Dixie remembered none beginning with R.

  If the numbers were formulas, as the file name suggested, then formulas for what? The string 203050 added together equaled ten, or 20 + 30+50 equaled one hundred. The same was true of all the other numbers. Percentages? Twenty parts X, plus thirty parts Y, plus 50 parts Z equals the magic formula?

  The formula for the drugged tea, possibly?

  Dixie didn’t believe that tea would’ve made her rush out to rob a bank. But it had induced a sense of euphoria and a desire to be … helpful, was that the right word? She’d felt an intense desire to see the Church of The Light completed. Suggestible. Mike had suggested she’d make a “valued partner.”

  Why did the first row—Angela’s? Alice’s?—differ from the other three rows? Perhaps Mike changed his formula after the first trial. The INJ extension could mean …? Not many words began with INJ … inju
ry … injustice … injunction … injection—

  The hypodermic needles in Mike’s lockbox. Most drugs were more powerful when injected. Too powerful? Enough to advocate decreasing the dosage for LA, EP, and RY?

  Speculation, Flannigan. Mind-control drugs had proved ineffective, hadn’t they? Even sodium pentothal, the so-called truth serum, was unreliable.

  Scanning the remainder of the menu, Dixie recalled reading of a mind-control project conducted by the CIA in the 1950s—MK-ULTRA. Supposedly abandoned after a public outrage, the project had spawned a slew of espionage and sci-fi films. She opened the file.

  MK-ULTRA, CIA SUPER-SECRET PROJECT TO COUNTER SOVIET ADVANCES IN BRAINWASHING. TRUE CIA OBJECTIVE: STUDY METHODS BY WHICH CONTROL OF AN INDIVIDUAL MAY BE ATTAINED THROUGH “NARCOHYPNOSIS,” THE BLENDING OF MIND-ALTERING DRUGS WITH CAREFUL HYPNOTIC PROGRAMMING.

  The following text described interrogation techniques using all manner of narcotics, from marijuana to LSD, heroin, and sodium pentothal, to ensure that subjects would not remember being interrogated and programmed. The document described MK-ULTRA as an “umbrella project” with 149 “sub-projects,” and ended with a disturbing passage.

  NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 28, 1953. DR. FRANK OLSON, SCIENTIST FOR THE U.S. ARMY’S CHEMICAL CORPS SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION, THREW HIMSELF OUT OF A TENTH-FLOOR HOTEL WINDOW AFTER CONSUMING A TEST AMOUNT OF LSD. THE CIA INITIATED A 20-YEAR COVER-UP OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING OLSON’S DEATH.

  In the MARCHETT file, Victor Marchetti, CIA, 1977, revealed that mind-manipulation programs had not ceased as claimed.

  SUCCESSES ACHIEVED IN MK-ULTRA NARCOHYPNOSIS PROJECT COVERED UP BY CONGRESSIONAL SUBCOMMITTEE. CIA EFFORTS NOW FOCUSED ON PSYCHOELECTRONICS.

  The FREY file reported that Allen Frey, scientist, remotely induced sleep with electromagnetic waves and transmitted acoustic noises—booming, buzzing, hissing—directly inside a subject’s head. A major breakthrough for the deaf.

  Mike Tesche wasn’t old enough to have participated in any of these projects but had likely studied the notes for his own experiments. Dixie refused to believe he had succeeded in finding a mind-control drug that escaped discovery by the U.S. government.

  Then she read the EDWARDS file.

  JONATHON EDWARDS, EVANGELIST. INDUCED GUILT AND ACUTE APPREHENSION TO INCREASE TENSION. “SINNERS” ATTENDING REVIVAL MEETINGS WOULD BREAK DOWN AND COMPLETELY SUBMIT. TECHNICALLY, EDWARDS CREATED CONDITIONS THAT WIPE THE BRAIN SLATE CLEAN; THE MIND THEN ACCEPTS NEW PROGRAMMING. SUBJECTS ARE WIDE OPEN TO SUGGESTION.

  The text explained Pavlov’s progressive states of transmarginal inhibition, through which conditioned responses and behavior patterns turn from positive to negative or negative to positive.

  FIRST STEP: WORK ON THE SUBJECT’S EMOTIONS UNTIL THEY REACH AN ABNORMAL LEVEL OF ANGER, FEAR, EXCITEMENT, OR NERVOUS TENSION. THE PROGRESSIVE RESULT IS IMPAIRED JUDGMENT AND INCREASED SUGGESTIBILITY. THE MORE THE CONDITION CAN BE MAINTAINED OR INTENSIFIED, THE MORE IT COMPOUNDS. SECOND STEP:

  ONCE CATHARSIS, OR THE FIRST BRAIN PHASE, IS REACHED, EXISTING MENTAL PROGRAMMING IS REPLACED WITH NEW PATTERNS OF THINKING AND BEHAVIOR.

  Dixie had never prosecuted a cult member, but she’d studied occurrences in Texas during her term on the DA’s staff. In one case, tried in both Texas and Florida, a self-proclaimed minister, Ron Larrinaga, had insinuated himself into a family, winning over first the woman, then her husband, and keeping them psychological prisoners for two decades. Despite association with the outside world, despite periods of separation, Larrinaga retained a powerful hold over the parents and their children, who spurned their extended family and friends, submitted to physical, psychological, and sexual abuse, and devoted every moment to fulfilling the vision of a clever, charismatic leader.

  Described by the adult children who had grown up under Larrinaga’s influence, his techniques sounded exactly like Jonathon Edwards’. This was the sort of “mind control” Dixie knew existed—though it seemed impossible until you encountered it. With growing concern, she clicked on the last menu item, TECHNIC.

  USEFUL TOOLS AND TECHNIQUES: FASTING, RADICAL DIETS, PHYSICAL DISCOMFORT, REGULATION OF BREATHING, MANTRA CHANTING IN MEDITATION, SPECIAL LIGHTING AND SOUND EFFECTS, PROGRAMMED RESPONSE TO INCENSE, INTOXICATING DRUGS, PHYSICAL DISCIPLINE, ISOLATION, RITUAL PUNISHMENT.

  IMPORTANT NOTE: HYPNOSIS AND CONVERSION TACTICS ARE DISTINCTLY DIFFERENT. CONVERSION IS FAR MORE POWERFUL. MIXING THE TWO PRODUCES OPTIMUM RESULTS.

  REPETITIVE MUSIC: RANGING FROM 45 TO 72 BEATS PER MINUTE (CLOSE TO THE BEAT OF THE HUMAN HEART). GENERATES AN EYES-OPEN ALTERED STATE OF CONSCIOUSNESS IN A VERY HIGH PERCENTAGE OF SUBJECTS. SUBJECT IS HIGHLY SUSCEPTIBLE TO SUGGESTION.

  VOICE-ROLL TECHNIQUE: PATTERNED, PACED STYLE USED BY HYPNOTISTS WHEN INDUCING A TRANCE; WORDS DELIVERED AT THE RATE OF 45 TO 60 BEATS PER MINUTE MAXIMIZE THE HYPNOTIC EFFECT.

  Dixie knew lawyers who used the voice-roll technique to entrench a point firmly in the minds of jurors. The lawyers practiced talking to the beat of a metronome, emphasizing every word in a monotonous, patterned style. She’d also seen it work in church, the pastor generating excitement and expectation through repetition of key phrases.

  Drugged tea. Hypnotic relaxation music. If she’d correctly interpreted Mike’s notes, he began indoctrinating his subjects during aerobics classes—repetitive music, motion that induced relaxation. Then he tested them with a simple command. Your given name, the name on your birth certificate. Tell me. You won’t forget the Sundown Ceremony this weekend. Taken in context, such statements seemed entirely harmless. But the response enabled him to select promising subjects.

  In the Sundown Ceremony, they’d used the repetitive phrase, “I commit to …” And in Mike’s private quarters, encouraged by compliments and personal attention—along with the drugged tea and whatever-the-hell incense he used—Dixie had totally lost her intention to leave. Why entice her to stay the night, if not to be subjected to the music for a longer period? Leave now, woman!

  The computer’s digital clock read four forty-six A.M. She could return to her room, pretend sleep, and depart when the other women awakened. No reason to believe she’d be restrained from leaving after sunrise. Mike’s “programming” apparently worked in stages, the first stage enticing you to return for more. Yet she was already dressed, and while she truly didn’t expect to be susceptible now that she’d analyzed the techniques, why risk it?

  Out in the hall, she released the latch gently against the striker. Mike could be anywhere in the building, and if he caught her sneaking away from his private wing, he’d realize she was onto him. She hurried to the first turn, slowed to get her bearings, then continued through the maze of hallways. Turning away from the dorm, she found herself in another long hall and remembered being there with Mike. One of the doors ahead led to the spacious lounge area off the atrium, and then outdoors. But which? She’d have to try them all.

  The first door opened into an unfinished area, with bare rafters. Soon to be “long-term living quarters,” Mike had said. Another unfinished area lay behind the next, with additional doors leading in two directions. A ribbon of light seeped beneath one of them. Could that be where Mike had gone?

  To do what at this hour?

  Dixie itched to know what was in that room. Despite what she’d learned from his computer files, she had no proof that he’d instigated the robberies. Entering the unfinished area, she moved toward the lighted strip … Hey, Mike, I’m lost… where do you find an early cup of coffee in this place? While he’s talking, steal a glance in the room, see what he’s working on at this hour.

  What if he was with Angela, engaged in nothing more clandestine than a tumble in the sheets? Dixie listened at the door. Were those voices? She tapped lightly.

  “Yes?” A woman. Almost a whisper.

  “Ummm, hi. Guess I’m sort of lost here. Could you help me out?”

  “Go away.” Not Angela.

  “Yeah, well, that’s the problem. I can’t seem to
find my way, all these halls doubling back and forth. Could you maybe give me some direction?”

  “Go away. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “Oh, that part’s okay, I was invited. Didn’t we meet last evening, at the ceremony? I’m Dixie … you know, ‘I commit to Togetherness’? Are you Laura? Or Dolores?” What were the other names?

  “Go away! We’ll be punished.”

  Punishment, the last entry under “useful tools” in Mike’s notes. Larrinaga’s flock had been beaten, ridiculed, forced to stand for hours in dark closets. Dixie didn’t want to get anybody punished. She could no longer hear other voices in the room. Had they come from a television or radio? Or was Mike in there?

  Dixie was certain all eleven women had retired to the dorm. Had this woman been summoned here for some sort of training? Or discipline, another item in Mike’s list? Was she the client Mike was “counseling”?

  “You don’t have to stay here and be punished,” Dixie said softly. “Come with me.”

  “No, no! Go away. The Shepherd will hear.”

  The Shepherd? Was that Mike? “Are you locked in? Can you open the door?”

  “I won’t open the door. Go away.”

  “Okay, I’m going.” Dixie hesitated. She didn’t want to cause any more problems for this woman than she already had. She couldn’t force her to leave; cult members—and what else could you call these people?—were notoriously loyal to their beliefs and to their leader, even in abusive situations. If she burst into the room and Mike was in there, she’d have both of them against her—along with the entire household, once they heard the commotion.

  But Dixie had a hunch, and she had to ask.

  “I’m going right now, but could you just please tell me your name?”