The Birth of a new moon
Laurie R. King
Anne Waverly, university lecturer and sometime FBI consultant, lives with the curse of a tragic past—the horrific deaths of her husband and beloved daughter Abby in a mass suicide pact. No one knows what she has suffered better than Glen McCarthy, an FBI expert in cult behavior.
As a professor of new religious movements, Anne is called on by McCarthy over the years to help solve certain FBI cases and Anne, in an attempt to atone for the long-ago tragedy, has never refused him. Until now.
But Anne finds she can't say no to this particular case: a religious community out in the desert that looks as though it has the seeds of dangerous fervor. Slowly Anne works her way into the life of the community, and there meets two children, one of whom reminds her strongly of Abby, and suddenly she finds herself involved at a level that could be fatal…
___________________
The success of the novel comes from its slow revelation of the back story, which illuminates the major players: Anne Waverly, Glen McCarthy, and the people of Change. King brilliantly portrays the psychological split that drives Anne to self-destruction, both in her sexual relationships and in her self-effacing work for the FBI. Though a respected university professor and expert on cults, Anne Waverly was once a cultist herself. For 18 years she has struggled with personal tragedies that wrenched her from that experience, and she has dedicated herself (through academic labor and her covert work for the FBI) to saving the lives of others who become embroiled in religious fanaticism. Now, despite a vow that she has ended her relationship with the FBI and its work in defusing cults, she returns for one last effort at the request of Agent McCarthy. Anne cuts her hair, changes her name, and gradually loses herself in her new role as a member of Change. But her investigation soon becomes a journey into her own psyche, into the dark places of her past, as she sees her own life played out again in the members of the cult.
The Birth of a new moon
Laurie R. King
Book 1 in the
Anne Waverley
Series
THE BIRTH OF A NEW MOON
Anne Waverly, university lecturer and sometime FBI consultant, lives with the curse of a tragic past—the horrific deaths of her husband and beloved daughter Abby in a mass suicide pact. No one knows what she has suffered better than Glen McCarthy, an FBI expert in cult behavior.
As a professor of new religious movements, Anne is called on by McCarthy over the years to help solve certain FBI cases and Anne, in an attempt to atone for the long-ago tragedy, has never refused him. Until now.
But Anne finds she can't say no to this particular case: a religious community out in the desert that looks as though it has the seeds of dangerous fervor. Slowly Anne works her way into the life of the community, and there meets two children, one of whom reminds her strongly of Abby, and suddenly she finds herself involved at a level that could be fatal…
With thanks to Jane-Marie Harrison and Paul Harrison, Bronwen Buckley, Jack from Freedom Independent Service, Alverda Orlando, and Mark Jacobs from Intertec Publishing.
And particular gratitude for the clever hands and eyes of Ken Orrett and Nathanael King, who brought to life the vision of Anne Waverly and Jason Delgado.
Section headings are taken from The Compound of Alchymie by Sir George Ripley, collected in Theatrum Chemicum Brittanicum by Elias Ashmole in 1652 (reprinted in a facsimile edition by Kessinger Publishing Co., Kila, Montana, 1991). Some of the archaic spelling has been modernized by the current author.
Section definitions are from Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary.
I
Praeparatio
prepare (vb) The action or process of making something
ready for use or of getting ready for some occasion,
test, or duty.
O Power, O Wisdom, O Goodness inexplicable;
Support me, Teach me, and be my Governor,
That never my living be to thee despicable…
Grant well that I may my intent fulfill.
Chapter One
In this country, we have the right to religious freedom. The nation was given its form by men and women who came here to escape religious persecution. When their descendents joined together in independence to frame a constitution, they recognized the right to freedom of religion as the very backbone of the nation: take it away, define just what a religion is permitted to look like and how the people may worship, and the entire basis of constitutional government is threatened. Argue as we might with Satanists or witches, followers of disagreeable mullahs or believers in the efficacy of comets to conceal alien spacecraft, from the beginning it has been made clear that, so long as the doctrine involved does not interfere with the country's legal system, a religious community has the right to define its own beliefs: In this country, heresy is not a concern of governmental agencies. Madness may even, at times, be a relative definition; after all, two thousand years ago the Roman government and the Jewish authorities judged a middle-aged rabbi to be criminally insane.
Still, laws must be obeyed, and the dance of what may and what may not be allowed keeps the courts very busy and law enforcement agencies torn between the need to intervene in a community that is behaving in an unlawful manner and the need to preserve the rights of individuals to act out their beliefs in any way short of the unlawful. For example, a community has the right to treat its children as adults when it comes to matters of worship and the determination of authority; it does not have the right to violate the state's child labor laws or treat minors as adults in matters of sexuality.
In investigating the legality of a community, the key element is information, accurately obtained and accurately interpreted. We have all seen the tragedies that occur when law enforcement personnel simply do not share a common language with a group of believers; the only choice in that situation is
From the notes of Professor Anne Waverly
The woman at the focal point of the tiered rows of red and blue seats in the lecture hall did not at first glance seem the type to hold the attention of two hundred and fifty undergraduates at the slump time of three in the afternoon. She was small and her hair was going gray, and her figure, though slim, was long past the litheness of youth. Her voice was quiet and deliberate, which in another speaker would have lulled the back rows to sleep, and the subject of her lecture was more cerebral than kept the average twenty-year-old on the edge of his chair.
The number of sleepers were few, however, and the percentage of spines inclined forward over the tiny writing surfaces attached to the chairs was high. There was an intensity in her that proved contagious, a vivid urgency in her voice and her body that overcame her undistinguished appearance and the torpor of the unseasonably early warmth of the day, transforming her limp into the stately pace of a sage and the wooden cane she leaned on into the staff of a prophetess.
In the eyes of her undergraduates, at any rate.
"What the hell is she talking about?" whispered the woman standing high up at the back of the hall, speaking to the man at her side. The two were not undergraduates; even if their age had not disqualified them, her skirt and blazer and his gray suit made them stand out in the denim-clad crowd.
The man gestured for her to be quiet, but it was too late; they had been noticed. A nearby girl glanced over her shoulder at them, then openly stared, and turned to nudge the boy next to her. The woman saw the girl's mouth form the word "narcs", and then she felt her temporary partner's hand on her elbow, pulling her out the door and out of the lecture hall. Professor Anne Waverly's voice followed them, saying "In fourth-century Israel this concept of a personal experience of God came together with the political—" before her words were c
ut off by the doors, and then the police officer and the FBI agent were back out in the watery sunlight.
In truth, neither was a narcotics officer, although both had worked narcotics cases in the past. Glen McCarthy made for a bench just outside the building and dropped into it. Birdsong came, and voices of students walking past; in the distance the freeway growled to itself.
"Did you understand what she was talking about?" Gillian Farmer asked idly, examining the bench closely before she committed the back of her skirt to it.
"Merkabah mysticism as one of the bases for early Christian heresies," Glen answered absently.
She shot him a dubious glance and settled onto the edge of the bench.
"And what is mer-whatever mysticism?" she asked, although she was less interested in the question than in the underlying one of how he came by his easy familiarity with the subject of Professor Anne Waverly's arcane lecture. She listened with half an ear as he explained about the Jewish idea of the merkabah, or chariot, mystical experience, the "lifting up" of the devotee to the divine presence. The scattering of early flowers and one lethargic bee held more of her attention than his words, and he either saw this or had little to say on the subject, because he kept the lecture brief.
After a moment's silence, the bee stumbled off and the subject Gillian really wanted to talk about worked its way to the surface.
"This whole thing has got to be unconventional, at least," she said finally.
"I suppose it looks that way."
The mildness of his answer irritated her. "You don't think that hauling a middle-aged professor of religion out of her ivory tower and into the field to investigate a cult is a little unusual?"
"I wouldn't use the word "cult" in her hearing if I were you," Glen suggested. "Not unless you're interested in a twenty-minute lecture on the difference between cult, sect, and new religious movement."
Gillian Farmer was not to be diverted. "It still sounds like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, not at all like a setup the FBI would come within a mile of."
"The bureau has changed since the days of J. Edgar. Now we do whatever works."
"And you think this will work?"
"It has three times before."
"And, as I understand it, once it didn't. People died."
"We were too late there—the final stages were already in motion before Anne could work her way in. I don't think even she can still feel much guilt about that one."
"Why on earth does she do it?" Gillian asked after a while. "Undercover work has got to be the most nerve-racking job in the world, and she's not even a cop."
But the man from the FBI was not yet ready to answer that question.
Seven minutes later, the double doors burst open and the first students tumbled out into the spring air, heading for the coffeehouse. After a pause, they were followed by the main body of participants, walking more thoughtfully and talking among themselves. When this larger group began to thin out, Glen got to his feet and turned to face the hall, pausing to run his palms over his hair and straighten his necktie. This was the first sign of nerves Gillian had seen in him, and it surprised her; since they had met ten days before, she had found McCarthy more idiosyncratic than the caricature of the FBI man, but every bit as cold and competent as the most stiff-necked of them.
Agent and police detective walked back through the double glass doors and down the hallway to the big hall, where they again took up positions on the flat walkway that circled the top tier of seats. Gillian was seething with impatience; she did not at all like the feeling of being kept in the dark. McCarthy had his hands in his pockets, his feet set apart and his head drooping as he gazed down the length of the hall at Anne Waverly, who was now discussing papers, projects, and reading material with the six or eight remaining students.
She put off noticing the intruders for as long as she could—until, in fact, one of the students touched her arm and leaned forward to speak into her ear. She stood very still for three long seconds, then with great deliberation pulled off her reading glasses and slowly raised her eyes to the two figures on the high ground at the back of her lecture hall.
Her expression did not change, but even from on high Gillian Farmer could feel the impact their presence had on her. When the woman bent her head again and slid the glasses back onto her nose, she still looked strong, but she seemed older, somewhat flattened, and her uncharacteristic distraction from the words of her students was obvious. The young men and women knew that something was up and grew taut with a curiosity that verged on alarm; however, when eventually she wished them a good week, they could only disperse, reluctantly, and make their slow and suspicious way up the stairs and past the two intruders.
One boy, however, found retreat more than he could bear. He scowled at Glen as he went by, and then turned back to the podium to ask loudly, "Do you want some help, Dr W?" His stance even more than his words made it obvious that he was offering an assistance considerably more physical than merely carrying her books, but McCarthy was careful not to smile, and Gillian Farmer merely glanced at the boy.
The woman he had called "Dr W" did smile. "Thank you, Josh, I'll be fine,"
Their protests unvoiced, the students left, with a furtive rush of low conversation that was cut off when the glass doors shut behind them. The lecturer turned her back on McCarthy and Farmer, gathering up her papers from the table and pushing them into an old leather briefcase. She buckled the case, took it up in her right hand and the cane in her left, and started for the steps, her very posture vibrating with displeasure.
Each stair was deep enough for two short footsteps, which was how she took them, leading with her right, bringing her left foot up, and taking another step with her right foot. She seemed to depend on the cane more for balance than sheer support, Gillian decided while watching the professor's slow approach. And it was the knee, she thought, rather than the hip that was weak. Other than that, she was in good shape for a woman in her mid-forties, perhaps a vigorous fifty. Her back was straight, her graying hair worn as loose as that of her students, curling softly down on her shoulders. Her clothing, though, was far from a student's uniform of jeans and T-shirt. She was dressed in the sort of professional clothing a woman wears who does not care for dresses: khaki trousers, sturdy shoes that were almost boots, a light green linen shirt that seemed remarkably free of creases for the tail end of a day, and a dark green blazer shot through with blue threads. The clothes seemed a great deal more formal than those of the other adult women on the campus, Gillian thought, and found herself wondering about the professor's status in the tenure stakes.
At the top of the stairs, the woman neither paused nor looked up, but merely said to the carpeting, "Come to my office, please."
They followed obediently, submitting to the hard looks of the handful of students who hovered in the distance to be quite sure their professor did not need assistance. She ignored them, as did McCarthy. Farmer tried to avoid looking as though she was escorting a prisoner, with limited success.
They went down the paved path through some winter-bare trees and past a small patch of lawn, and into another building designed by the same architect as the hall. The lecturer unlocked a door and they followed her in, and Gillian revised her speculations: If her recollection of academia was correct, this was not the office of a woman with reason to fear a lack of tenure. The room looked, in fact, like that of a high administrator or department chair, a corner office complete with Oriental carpet and wooden desk—although surely an administrator would not be surrounded by shelves sagging under the weight of books and piled high with untidy heaps of journals and loose manuscripts. The professor slammed her briefcase on the desk, dropped the keys she had just used into her jacket pocket, hooked her cane over the edge of the desk, and sat down.
"Close the door, Glen."
McCarthy shut the door and settled into one of the three chairs arrayed in front of the desk. Gillian Farmer tucked the strap of her shoulder bag over the back of o
ne of the other chairs, hesitated, and took a step forward with her hand out.
"Gillian Farmer," she said. "San Francisco Police Department."
The professor looked at the hand for a moment before reaching out to take it with her own. "Anne Waverly, Duncan Point University. And occasionally FBI. Glen, what are you doing here? I thought I was finished with you."
He did not say a word, but without taking his eyes from hers he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a thick, oversized manila envelope. This he laid softly on the wooden surface between them, allowing his fingers to remain for some seconds on the buff paper before he pulled his hand back. Anne Waverly tore her gaze away from his and stared at the envelope as if it might sprout scaly skin and rear up to strike her. When eventually she looked back at him, for the first time since she had seen them standing at the back of her lecture hall she gave them an expression, one that lay somewhere between exhaustion and loathing.
"Get out of here, Glen."
He immediately stood up. "My cell phone number's in there. Don't wait too long to call—Farmer here has to get back to her caseload,"
The two intruders left the office. McCarthy closed the door quietly behind them and strode off down the hallway.
"So much for 'whatever works'," Gillian Farmer said when she caught up to him. Her mind was already moving toward what she could do next, now that Anne Waverly had turned them down. She did not have many options left: the thought of being forced to do nothing filled her with deep apprehension.
"She'll do it," McCarthy sounded completely sure of himself.
"For Christ sake, Glen, she threw us out of her office,"
"She won't be able to keep away,"
"Oh, right," she said sarcastically. "She sounded so enthusiastic,"
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