BISENTIENT, page 7
“How are you finding the accommodation?” he asked. “Room comfortable?”
“Yes, pretty good really.” replied Zach, now totally off balance. He’d expected a grilling. The apparent ease with which Braberson had covered the incident made Zach uneasy.
“Excellent.” went on Braberson. “If progress continues as it has so far, we may be able to shorten our stay here and get back home ahead of schedule.”
“Oh, good.” said Zach.
“If you speak to Williams he will provide you with the programming for the Aronson chip.”
“Er great, thank you, sir.” said Zach.
Braberson had begun punching a number into the phone on his desk. When he noticed that Zach hadn’t moved he covered the mouth piece and said:
“Anything else Zach?”
Zach suddenly realized their interview was over and hurriedly left. Something was still worrying him about why he’d been let off so lightly. He should have completed an online request to access the data on Aronson’s papers as they were outside his authorized access areas. This was a significant security breach and yet Braberson had treated it as a minor indiscretion. Offering to let Zach see the programming was an unexpected bonus, but he knew he’d now need to provide a report comparing the functionality as it related to his own area, just to maintain the lie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KATHLEEN MORAN BUSIED herself washing some dishes and tidying the small kitchen. Time was her greatest enemy. Nordstrom had strongly advised that she stay indoors, at least for the first two weeks as he feared that the Church of the Reclamation would be looking for both her and her daughter. Nordstrom was sure that the Church knew of some of the safe houses the Cult Recovery Network, or CRN, used in Texas but this one was a recent addition, so he felt it was indeed safe.
Nordstrom had been waiting for a blood analysis of the sample he’d drawn when Dawn was first lifted. It was not unusual these days to find cult members being fed a cocktail of synthetic drugs to manage their behaviour. Nordstrom didn’t think that Dawn was drugged but he needed to be sure.
Kathleen Moran saw the huge Dodge pickup as it turned into the street. Even in the wide suburban Fort Worth streets, the truck was a monster. It lurched up the driveway and stopped a few feet from the kitchen window.
“Hi Kathleen.” said Nordstrom and kissed Kathleen Moran on her cheek.
“Hi Erik, coffee?”
“No, I want to get straight on with Dawn if I can. How is she today?”
“Quiet, I tried to talk to her when I took her food, but she was just lying on the bed.”
“You didn’t go in?” said Nordstrom.
“No, I just passed it through the slot. You said…”
“That’s right, until we know more about her state of mind it’s important that we limit contact, for everyone’s safety.”
Nordstrom headed down to the basement, carefully emptied his pockets and removed his watch. As he opened the door, he caught movement from inside. Dawn made a sharp movement of her hand against her arm. When the door swung wider, he saw the blood. It was a standing rule that nothing breakable was to enter the room. Erik saw the remnants of a broken pottery mug on the floor, it was the mug Dawn had made at school, her mother had shown it to him while they'd talked about Dawn’s early years. Kathleen must have given Dawn a drink in it by mistake. The blood was coming from Dawn’s wrists and as she rolled onto her back it could be seen squirting more than a foot into the air as it pumped from her. Erik ripped his t-shirt from his body and wrapped it frantically round the thrashing girl's wrist. She was clawing at him with her other hand, bitten fingernails raking his face. Erik began shouting for Kathleen to call 911. She appeared at the doorway and needed Erik to shout at her again to call the emergency services before she caught herself and ran back upstairs.
Dawn now lay quietly on the bed, smiling up at Erik. They both knew why she had done this. They both knew she had waited until Erik came in so that he could help her. She was fortunate that he acted so quickly. Now she would have to go to a hospital and once there, she could call her friends at the Church and they would come and get her. This also meant her mother and this deprogrammer would be arrested for kidnapping her and holding her against her will.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HER SKIN WAS smooth under his hand. The dip of her waist and the climb to the crest of her hip as she lay on her side, facing away from him. Not wanting to disturb her, Plater rolled onto his back but, too excited to sleep, propped himself on his hands behind his head. He realized he was smiling. He was happy, really happy, for the first time in a very long time.
She was much younger than him but that didn’t seem to matter to either of them. He was feeling more like a man than he had for more than five years. In his newfound peace, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, his heart missed a beat. Reflected in the mirrored door on the opposite wall of the bedroom was a figure. It was wearing a hood, but Plater soon realized it must be standing close to the window to one side of the bed. Without a second thought, he rolled off the bed and faced the intruder. Plater was naked and the intruder had their back to him. Plater reached forwards but the figure spun round to face him. It was wearing a cowled robe and the face was completely hidden. In its hand was a slim, black object that looked like an artist’s paintbrush. Before Plater realized what it was, he felt a sudden jolt in his chest which knocked him over backwards.
Plater woke with a start. At first, he had no idea where he was. It was barely light outside, just a faint brightness around the edges of the blinds at his window. He reached for his watch on the bedside table. 06:55.
Then he remembered the intruder, but almost before he’d glanced to where he’d seen him, he realized it had been a dream. His mouth was dry but his neck was damp with sweat. He flopped back to the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Damnit. The disappointment was tangible. He glanced over but the other side of his king-sized bed was unoccupied. Just as he was about to roll out and head for the shower, he remembered the book. He found the page for today and started to write.
Although he’d only been writing his recollections down for a week or so he’d already got to the stage where he hardly saw the need. For him, there was now a new problem. He was beginning to have difficulty in separating reality from dreams in his memories but also occasionally during his experiences. He was so convinced that an intruder had been in his bedroom that after his shower, he’d examined the area where he’d seen the figure for physical evidence. Of course, Plater found nothing. He sat on the side of the bed with his head in his hands for a few minutes. He’d thought that he was getting a handle on this thing but just as he began to feel he had control, it was slipping away.
He finished dressing and, before going downstairs, looked in on Molly. She’d stopped in after work to check on his progress with recording his dreams. They’d talked about how much they believed all that Raymond Bartholomew had told them. In fact, by the time they stopped it was into the early hours so it seemed natural that she stayed. He could make out her sleeping form from the door.
Two fried eggs began sizzling in a small pan while the toaster worked on two slices of bread; the coffee machine spluttered and dripped. Then Plater remembered it was Wednesday. He hurried into the sitting room and scooped up the envelope from the mantelpiece. He paused, wondering if he should wait until Molly got up then decided he couldn’t. He ripped open the thick, old-fashioned envelope and pulled out the sheet of high-quality writing paper. Written in the same flowing hand and distinctive purple ink was:
Mason,
If you have done as we agreed you should be ready to take your next step towards fulfilling your potential.
Tonight, before retiring, you must try to memorize the following information:
Mr Black had Blue shoes, Mrs White had Red shoes, Mr Green had Yellow shoes and Mrs Brown had Orange shoes.
It is very important that you memorize this exactly. We will be waiting.
With very best wishes,
Raymond
Plater read the letter a second time. It seemed like nonsense. He read the sentence over a few times, then put the letter aside. What was the chance that he was actually going mad? Why hadn’t this special ability been noticed before, if he had such a thing? Why now? The woman, Gail, why couldn’t the crew have chosen someone else? None of this would have happened then. Plater’s biggest decision today would have been whether he needed to go grocery shopping rather than contemplating a meeting in some other world or dimension. Thoughts began racing through his mind. Thoughts of his sons, his work and Molly asleep upstairs. His life so far. He suddenly saw in a wider context of his house, then his street then London then the UK then spiraling out like Google Maps until he flashed on the view of Earth from space.
“Is there enough for two?” asked Molly, piling her tousled hair onto her head before letting it fall again. She padded into the kitchen barefoot and wearing one of Plater’s shirts.
“I’ll put some more on.” said Plater.
She sat at the table and Plater poured her some coffee.
“Thanks.” she said “Hey, it’s Wednesday, have you looked at the note?”
“Here.” said Plater passing the letter to Molly. “God knows what it means, looks like nonsense to me.”
Molly seemed to be reading the letter more than once.
“I see what you mean.” she said. “Well you’ve got about 12 hours to memorize it.”
“Are you going to work?” asked Plater.
“What time is it?”
The clock on the wall read 07:45.
“I’d better put in an appearance this morning.” said Molly. “We’re bidding for a corporate multimedia contract and there’s a possible comedy series for Channel Five. Meetings until about one. We could meet for lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll test you on your homework.” said Molly, with a smile.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PHONE CALLS had started the evening of his interview with Rev. Ethan Daniels. Calm but assertive in the beginning. But by the next afternoon, after speaking to his source in Miami on the phone, they became more threatening. Still nothing that would alarm a court, but the thinly disguised menace was unmistakable to an old stager like Warren Gatts. In his twenties he’d been threatened by any number of unscrupulous businessmen, con men and small-time local gangsters, and he’d taken it as a badge of honour. If he was rattling their cages enough for them to come after him, he must be doing something right.
Now in his late forties his attitude had changed. The fires of right and the desire to bring some of these shadowy figures out into the light still burned within him, but he had a kid to support from his failed marriage. She needed help paying doctor bills since she’d been hit by a drunk driver twelve years before and his insurance ran out long ago. His ex-wife never let him forget why she left him. His work meant more to him than his family.
Sitting in his cramped office surrounded by old files and an unhealthy amount of dust, he thought she might have been right. He opened a drawer and took out the photograph that used to stand on his desk, before the encroaching papers left no room. His wife and daughter, she would have been about ten, were posing outside Disney World. That had been a good holiday, one of the best. But he got little credit from his ex-wife for that either. Just because he was investigating staff conditions within the Disney leisure empire and spent a couple of afternoons poking around. What she hadn’t understood was that they couldn’t have afforded that holiday if he hadn’t been on expenses and spent his advance for the article.
He slid the photograph back into the drawer and put new batteries in his mini recorder. He grabbed his battered shoulder bag and was driving into the parking area of the Fort Worth Sheriff’s offices within twenty-five minutes.
“But I called yesterday and spoke to Ralph.” said Gatts to the disinterested Deputy who continued reading some yellow forms.
“Listen Deputy….” Gatts craned to read the badge on the Deputy’s shirt. “…Mallory, I spoke to Ralph…Sheriff Benjamin yesterday and he said I could speak with the suspect at 3 p.m. and it’s 3.05. Why don’t you give him a call?”
The Deputy glanced up at Gatts then back to the forms.
“Sheriff Benjamin is not here right now, sir. There is no record of your visit in the diary.”
Gatts was about to say something he shouldn’t when the swing doors admitted the sturdy figure of Sheriff Ralph Benjamin.
“Warren.” said the Sheriff in a gruff greeting. “You here to see that boy?”
“Yeah.” said Gatts.
“Deputy, would you show Mr. Gatts here into interview room 3 and bring him the abduction suspect please?”
Gatts thought he kept the smile under wraps, but the Deputy wasn’t impressed. Still young and thinking that everything should be done by the book. A couple more years dealing with the detritus of Fort Worth might loosen him up a bit.
Interview Room 3 had a table and four chairs. One either side of the table and two against a wall along with a small reinforced glass porthole in the heavy door and recessed neon lights. Gatts prepared the recorder as he waited for the suspect. He didn’t bother with the niceties of asking if he could tape the interview. No point, the interviewee might say no.
Erik Nordstrom came in in handcuffs, trailed by a deputy.
“Sit.” said the deputy and Nordstrom slumped into a chair by the table. His cuffs thudded onto the heavy wooden tabletop.
“I’ll be right outside so don’t cause no trouble, y’hear?”
Nordstrom shot the deputy an almost quizzical look. He had the air of someone slightly bewildered to be in his situation.
“Mr. Nordstrom my name is Gatts, Warren Gatts.” Gatts offered his hand then realized the awkwardness and withdrew it. “I’m glad to have this chance to speak with you, Mr. Nordstrom…”
“Erik.”
“…Erik, because I am investigating incidents that are associated with the Church of the Reclamation myself.”
“What incidents?” said Nordstrom.
“I can’t say at the moment. I’m afraid, but I understand that you have had dealings with the Church before?”
Erik looked at Gatts and wondered why he didn’t just come out with whatever it was he wanted to know.
“If you mean have I tried to help people that have fallen for their bullshit then yeah, so what? Look where it’s got me.”
“I wonder if you’d mind looking at some photographs I have here.” Gatts laid out nine photographs of people, six men and three women. They were clearly surveillance pictures.
Nordstrom looked at them.
“Have you seen any of these people before?” asked Gatts.
Nordstrom picked up one of the pictures of a man.
“Yeah, this guy.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Before we picked up Dawn, we spent three weeks watching the CoR’s Dallas properties. This guy was a regular visitor. “
“Do you know his name?”
“’Fraid not.” said Nordstrom replacing the photograph amongst the others.
“You haven’t seen any of the others?”
“Nope.”
“While you were watching the Church’s offices, did you by any chance keep a log of people coming and going? Did you write anything down?”
“We’re not the FBI, Mr. Gatts, we don’t have stakeout teams, we’re just some private citizens trying to save some kids that have taken a wrong turn.”
“Yes, of course.” said Gatts. “Can you tell me what first got you interested in the Church of the Reclamation?”
Nordstrom thought for a moment.
“I guess it was six years ago we first heard of it. There are folks that tell us about stuff they’ve seen on the in’ernet and there was this kid, a girl, whose brother had upped and left home to join some Church. She wrote on the in’ernet that she’d tried writing to her brother but he replied at first, then nothin’. She used to speak to him by phone sometimes then one day she called and was told he’d moved to another location. They wouldn’t tell her where.”
Gatts noticed a tired wariness in Nordstrom’s eyes.
“So, what happened?” asked Gatts.
“One of our folks that spends time on the in’ernet sent her an e-mail and she came in to talk to us. It was obvious this Church was nothin’ but a cult setup, being used to take money off these poor misguided kids. We agreed to help.”
“But what could you do?”
“Nothin’ at first, we just watched and found the girl’s brother out at some Church property in Louisiana. They were working at a Church sponsored refuge for the homeless, handing out food and spiritual guidance. One of our guys went along, pretended to be homeless, got talking to the boy, Michael I think his name was. Anyhow, Michael tried to help our guy and they would talk most days. Turned out Michael wasn’t so sure about the Church anymore. He’d seen and heard about some stuff he didn’t like but they made sure he had no time to do much more than work and sleep.”
Nordstrom bowed his head.
“Our guy, Sam was his name, he managed to persuade Michael that he should leave the Church, just walk away. So they arranged to meet one afternoon behind this warehouse between the Church headquarters and the homeless refuge. Michael was just going to leave, that day, with Sam.”
Nordstrom stopped.
“What happened?” asked Gatts.
“Well, the official report said that a retaining wall of the old warehouse collapsed on them. Buried them. When they dug ‘em out they were a mess. Couldn’t hardly tell ‘em apart, except for their clothes.”
“You don’t think it was an accident?”
Nordstrom looked up at Gatts.
“We had a second postmortem done on Sam. They found small puncture wounds in his neck. Like from a needle, a syringe.”
