by Pat Powers
A quick call told me they were in. I told the father, who had answered the phone, that I had some moderately good news in the case that indicated that April might well be alive. And that I had some questions for the April's family.
April's sister was at work in an office in Marietta, a suburb near Roswell, but her parents were at home, manning the phones in case anybody called. They didn't say about what, they didn't have to. April's sister would be happy to leave work to meet with me.
I found myself liking Bulloch's intervention theory better and better the more I thought about it as I drove to the Dancer household. One problem I'd had with the way the case was going was that I couldn't see the ideologues I'd been investigating as cold-blooded kidnappers and/or murderers. But I could see them involved in some kind of harebrained intervention scheme. That fit like a glove with the impression I'd formed of them.
What didn't fit under the intervention theory was the spook talking to Furnsome. Spook-style "interventions" generally involved murders, kidnappings and the toppling of governments. Then again, when you thought of interventions as a form of brainwashing, it fit a little more naturally into the pattern. Not all spooks were the idiot cowboys whose exploits turned up in the newspapers and on TV. A surprising number of them were conscientious gatherers of information who avoided violence and bloodshed where possible.
Then again, going on an extracurricular joint like this was more the mark of an idiot cowboy than the cool-headed intelligence agent.
The house April had been born and raised in was a nondescript older home in a suburban development that appeared to date from the 1980s, one of those that were built just prior to the arrival of "McMansions" (like the one April lived in now.)
April's parents had that stunned look that all parents have when their children, of whatever age, are endangered or seriously hurt. I had seen that look a lot during my days as a police detective, and I counted not having to see it so often as one of the perks of being a private investigator.
April's sister May drove up while I was making my way up the walkway. It didn't surprise me, there had been a nasty fender bender on I-20 and getting past it had taken some time.
I sat down in the living room with the Dancers and was impressed by the beauty and vitality of the women in April's family. Her mother Jean's dark brown hair was streaked with gray, but her skin glowed, her eyes were bright and clear and her figure was still very nice. April's sister May dressed a lot more conservatively than April and didn't wear so much makeup, and clearly didn't get the same amount of exercise that April did, but she was still very nice-looking, especially her dark brown eyes.
April's father Arthur, on the other hand, was a rail-thin man with a vaguely disconnected, almost dried out air to him. It was a fairly common phenomenon in households with a gaggle of lively women and just the husband/father representing the Y chromosome bearers. Men, I had found, were not well suited for the constant internecine battles and concerns that women engaged in sometimes. After hearing, "My god, why did you have to say THAT to her?" for about the ten thousandth time, many men just gave up and said nothing. They might be considered the strong, silent type, but in fact they were mostly just ... silent.
I felt a little bit guilty about using the pretense of good news about April to get the family in a talkative mood, but only a little bit. The good news was real, and it might really help to get their tongues oiled.
Without naming names, I told them that the investigation had turned up evidence that two groups had conspired to kidnap April, and explained to them why that was unlikely in a simple kidnapping for ransom.
"We're starting to consider the possibility that this may have been set up as an intervention at some point," I said. (May's irises narrowed for a moment and her whole body tensed a little -- a microscopic bit, but it registered big time on my detective radar.) "That's why I've come to talk with you. You see, it's pretty standard practice in interventions to get a close relative to authorize it. This provides legal cover for the kidnappers -- they're unlikely to be charged if they can put the kidnapping in terms of a family-sponsored intervention out of concern for the health and well-being of the individual. It also helps if the individual kidnapped switches their opinion as a result of the intervention, hence doesn't want to press charges."
"Are you saying that one of US might have authorized April's kidnapping?" asked Jean.
"I'm saying it's possible that someone did so unwittingly, and I'm here to find out if it happened" I said.
"That's insane," Jean said.
"Not necessarily," I said. "Families do authorize interventions on behalf of a family member when they feel that their loved one has been led astray by some fringe group, like the Goreans."
"That's ridiculous, I've met Jeff many times, he's a fine man,"said Jean, "and believe me, nobody could ever lead April astray, if she didn't want to go astray in the first place."
"All right, you didn't authorize any interventions," I said. "What about you, Mr. Dancer?"
"I can't say that I have," Dancer said dryly. "I wasn't crazy about her going out on dates, much less getting kidnapped."
"Arthur!" cried Jean.
"Dad!" cried May.
Arthur remained passive. He was used to hearing tones of outrage when he spoke.
"OK," I said, "what about you May? Have you authorized any interventions?"
"Of course not," said May a little too quickly. "Well, not exactly."
"What do you mean, not exactly?" I asked.
"Well, I did talk to some people," said May.
"Who did you talk to?" I asked.
"I can't tell you," said May. "I promised not to."
"What did they want?" I asked quickly, sidestepping pressuring her to talk for the moment.
"They said that they represented some friends of April's who were concerned about the reputation she was developing because of her dancing," May replied. "They said they could help her reconsider her life and come to a better, more moral lifestyle."
"What reputation?" Jean asked. "What reputation did they mean?"
"Come on, mom, what do you think?" asked May. "People see her doing all those slinky moves, dancing around on TV in what's little more than a thong bikini ... you can't figure out what kind of reputation that might give a woman?"
"No, I can't," Jean said. "I used to dance myself, you know. I had a reputation, but it was one to be proud of. I know what you're saying, May -- some people will think that of anyone who doesn't go through life in a sackcloth and ashes is a slut, but their opinions really don't count for a lot with me."
"Sure, mom," said May in a resigned tone that indicated that this argument had probably proceeded many times before.
"What did they want you to do?" I asked.
"They wanted me to give them written permission to perform an intervention on April," said May. "But I didn't of course."
"Why didn't you tell us about it?" asked Jean, aggrieved.
"I didn't think it was important, since I didn't give them permission," said May. "The thing is, though, I said some things. I was just trying to be nice, but they might have misinterpreted. They seemed awfully eager."
"What did you tell them?" I asked.
"Just that I was glad to see that April had friends that were so concerned for her welfare, and that April probably did need some help. But I never explicitly said they could kidnap her."
"And you never signed anything, any kind of document at all that they presented to you?" I asked.
"No," May said firmly. "I wasn't sure exactly what an intervention is, and I didn't want to set April up for one unless I knew what was involved."
"That's very wise of you," I said. "For the record, an intervention involves kidnapping the person being intervened with and making intense efforts change the viewpoint of the person. Some people have likened it to brainwashing, and they have a point. The really good thing here is that in most interventions, there's no intent to kill or harm the victim -- the goal
is to change them, not hurt them."
"Oh that's WONDERFUL news," said Jean.
"It is, if it's true," I said. "We don't have definitive proof, just some strong indicators. And there are also some signs that she may be in more danger than is normally the case here. There are political factions involved. And politics, like religion, can drive people to do some terrible things."
"Still, it's much better news than if April were kidnapped by some nut," said Arthur.
"We don't KNOW she wasn't," I said. "There could well be an unbalanced person among her kidnappers. Such people tend to show up in affairs like this. Or maybe they just bring out the craziness in people. April is still in danger of her life -- her chances of survival are just a lot better if this is in fact an intervention. What you have to realize is, these people who have been representing themselves as April's friends are NOT her friends. They're political ideologues. We think they don't mean her any physical harm, but these extreme political types are capable of murder if they feel it's politically justifiable. April still is in great danger."
"Now, if this IS an intervention, as we all hope it is," I continued, "it's a sure bet that these people have given themselves legal cover by getting someone very close to her to sign off on it. I know it's not the Goreans who've signed off -- in an intervention scenario, the position they occupy is like a religious cult. That's why I am sure that if this kidnapping is an intervention of some kind, one of you three gave someone written permission to do it. And I know you didn't mean to do it, and in fact intended to help her, but you have put her in deadly danger as a result. You HAVE to tell me who you signed up with, because if April is harmed it will be forever on you conscience, and that is just too great a burden to bear. Giving them permission isn't such a bad thing, because you didn't know how much danger she would be in when you did it. But now you know that April is danger of her life with these people. If you don't tell the truth now, you bear responsibility for any harm she comes to. And she's very likely to come to harm of some sort in the present situation."
I fell silent. It was an old interrogation trick -- press your point home, then fall silent and wait for the person you're grilling to come up with something.
"I KNOW no one in this family would do such a thing to April," Jean finally said.
"Did anyone approach you about it, Jean?" I asked.
"No," Jean said. "And if someone had, believe me, I would tell you."
"What about you, Arthur?" I asked. "Anybody asking you about interventions?"
"No," Arthur said dryly. I watched him carefully as I could, but couldn't detect any telltales. Still, Arthur had a stiff, wooden kind of face that didn't ordinarily reveal much. A "poker" face as they say.
"All right, then," I said, "I'll need everything you can tell me about the people who contacted you, May."
May stared at me.
"I promised them I wouldn't say?" said May uncertainly.
"Did you also promise them you would take part of the responsibility if April is killed or hurt?" I asked. "Because you will."
"You HAVE to tell us, May," said Jean, her voice full of emotion.
"They extracted a promise from you, when you did not know all the consequences of what they were asking," I said. "April's life may be at stake here. No reasonable person would hold you to such a promise." (When I had learned interrogation technique in the Atlanta PD, this had been called "sliding in the justification." That was what people needed when they were ready to talk. A justification, however slight. This one just happened to be a very strong one.
"You HAVE to tell us, May," Jean repeated.
May shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She was not one to betray a promise lightly.
"All right," May said. "They came to visit me a few weeks ago. They said they were a church group, "Concerned Citizens for Cultural Change" was what they called themselves. They said they were worried about April's soul, and about the effect that she was having on the souls of others."
"How many people were there?" I asked.
"Two," said May.
"What were their names?" I asked.
"Jack and Wendy," said May. "They didn't give last names."
"What did they look like?" I asked.
"Jack's a tall man, in his forties I'd say, with thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache," said May. "He was a little overweight, but not extremely so. He dressed in a casual business suit, nothing flashy. She was a little younger than him, blond, wore a nice teal skirt and blouse combination. She looked like a tennis mom -- you know, very tanned, almost leather skin, ropy muscles on her arms, very fit looking with bright, sharp eyes."
I knew the type. They ran in droves in the wealthier suburbs.
"Any distinguishing marks?" I asked. "Scars, tattoos, anything like that?"
"I didn't notice scars or birthmarks," said May. "Wendy had a lot of brown spots on her arms, I think they're pretty common among people who get real tanned and then get old. And tattoos? Not likely with these two. They did not look like the tattoo sort. More like bankers."
"Gotcha," I said. A fairly generic pair. Pros in intel, maybe? Or people vetted by intel pros? Hard to say. I grilled May very carefully on what Jack and Wendy had said, hoping they'd let slip some detail that I could use. I got a few things. And as I grilled May, I noticed that every time I got a detail out of May, her father tensed up noticeably.
So when I got my next clue -- May said that Wendy had let slip that she had once worked as a nurse at a Catholic hospital, I responded almost gushingly, telling May that that could well be the clue that could break the case wide open, as some of my suspects were religious in nature.
Arthur, finally goaded beyond measure said, "May, you don't have to tell him every last little detail." He said it in an aggrieved voice, as if he were saying "shut up."
I cocked an eyebrow at this. Jean immediately caught on to the implications of Arthur's outburst.
"Arthur?"she asked, "Do you have something to tell us?" in an icy voice.
"I signed her up,' he said, "I signed her up for that intervention, and that's all I'm going to say."
Jean looked at Arthur with pure, unbridled fury, while May's expression was just horrified. I just tried not to smirk, my trick had worked perfectly.
Chapter 31
All trussed up and no way to come
They would not let April sleep. They were not torturing her, but they would not, would not, would not let April sleep. And by the second day of captivity in the place, whatever it was, it was the only thing she wanted to do.
The people who harangued her for hours on end did not seem mean enough to do the things that were done to her to keep her awake when she wasn't being yelled at, or "educated" as they called it. They pinched her and poked her and prodded her constantly, with an almost professional resoluteness.
It was not as though they were trying to get information from her. They wanted to change her mind about being Gorean, and being a dancer.
She TRIED to tell them what they wanted to hear, but they didn't believe she was sincere about it. Well, of COURSE she wasn't sincere about it. They were asking her to deny who she was. She did her best to feign sincerity, and under the circumstances, she didn't have to work very hard to express willingness to please her captors.
But April was not a skilled liar, in fact, she wasn't much of a liar at all. Her honesty was in part what had led her to be a dancer and a slavegirl, but now it was a problem for her, because some really convincing lying might have gotten her some sleep, and she really wanted to sleep.
She was beginning to suffer so badly from lack of sleep that wakefulness itself had become dreamlike. She had trouble sustaining a coherent thought line. The thoughts she did have tended to have a dreamlike cast to them.
It was in fact almost pleasant at times when she was sitting there being awake for her captors, when her mind was actually off in some half-dreaming state, where her memories and her reality and her fantasies were merg
ed together.
It would have been hard for her to resist her captors under these circumstances, but the fact that she was not resisting consciously made it somehow more difficult.
The situation was made even more difficult by the fact that they never removed her hood. They could not simply look at her face to determine her state of wakefulness with her eyes blindfolded, so they insisted she keep her head upright and they checked how responsively she followed orders they gave her, like "wiggle your finger!" and "wiggle your toes!" and "nod your head up and down!" She always did as she was told, when she was awake enough to know what she was being told. But she nodded off constantly, she couldn't help it, and they they'd pinch her or douse water on her or shake her vigrously until they were satisfied she was awake, which was often well after she was awake.
Perhaps because they harangued her so vigorously on her dancing and her Goreanism, but more probably because she so greatly enjoyed memories of those better days, April found herself increasingly prone to fall into a half-dream about her early days as a dancer and a slavegirl ...
..."Belly dancing? You have to be KIDDING! You?" cried her best friend Jamie.
"Yeah, me, why not?" asked April calmly.
"But that's just for strippers and old women who're trying to get their husbands back from, um, strippers," said Jamie.
"No, it's not," said April. "All different kinds of women belly dance. A lot of normal girls do."
"How do you know that?" asked Jamie.
"I saw it for myself," said April. "I went to a class last Saturday."
"How'd that happen?" Jamie asked.
"My mom's friend Linda takes the class, she came over last week and mentioned that she was going to one, talked about what fun it was and the moves she'd learned. Mom picked up a few moves from some fellow dancers when she was a dancer, but not the whole thing."
"The whole thing?" asked Jamie.
"Well, there's a lot of stuff other than moves to belly dancing," said April. "History, philosophy, that kinda thing."
