by Kathy Reichs
Yes!
I aimed the nozzle at the flames and in less than a minute the fire was out. The alarm still screamed, the sound like shards of metal piercing my ears and dragging across my brain.
I opened the back door and the window above the sink, then crossed to the table. No need to open that one. The panes were shattered, and glass and splintered wood covered the sill and floor. Tiny gusts of wind played with the curtains, tugging them in and out of the jagged opening.
Circling the thing on the floor, I turned on the ceiling fan, grabbed a towel, and fanned smoke from the room. Slowly, the air began to clear.
I wiped my eyes and made an effort to control my breathing.
Keep fanning!
The alarm shrieked on.
I stopped waving the towel and looked around the room. A cinder block lay beneath the table, another rested against the cabinet below the sink. Between them were the charred remains of the bundle that had been burning. The room reeked of smoke and gasoline. And another odor I knew.
With shaky legs, I crossed to the smoldering heap. I was staring, not comprehending, when the alarm stopped. The silence seemed unnatural.
Dial 911.
It wasn’t necessary. As I reached for the phone I heard a distant siren. It grew louder, very loud, then stopped. In a moment a fireman appeared at my back door.
“You O.K., ma’am?”
I nodded and folded my arms across my chest, self-conscious about my state of undress.
“Your neighbor called.” His chin strap dangled.
“Oh.” I forgot my nightie. I was back in St-Jovite.
“Everything under control?”
Another nod. St-Jovite. Almost a synapse.
“Mind if I make sure?”
I stepped back.
He sized it up in one look.
“Pretty mean prank. Know who might have heaved this through your window?”
I shook my head.
“Looks like they broke the glass with the cinder blocks, then chucked that thing in.” He walked over to the smoldering mound. “They must’ve soaked it in gasoline, lit it, and pitched it.”
I heard his words but couldn’t speak. My body had locked up as my mind tried to rouse some shapeless notion sleeping in the core of my brain.
The firefighter slipped a shovel from his belt, snapped open the blade, and poked at the heap on my kitchen floor. Black flecks shot upward, then rejoined the rubble below. He slid the blade below the object, flipped it over, and leaned in.
“Looks like a burlap sack. Maybe a seed bag. Damned if I can tell what’s inside.”
He scraped the object with the tip of the shovel and more charred particles spiraled up. He prodded harder, rolling the thing from side to side.
The smell grew stronger. St-Jovite. Autopsy room three. Memory broke through and I went cold all over.
With trembling hands I opened a drawer and withdrew a pair of kitchen scissors. No longer concerned about my nightie, I squatted and cut the burlap.
The corpse was small, its back arched, its legs contracted by the heat of the flames. I saw a shriveled eye, a tiny jaw with blackened teeth. Anticipation of the horror that the sack held made me begin to feel faint.
No! Please no!
I leaned in, my mind recoiling from the smell of burned flesh and hair. Between the hind legs I saw a curled and blackened tail, its vertebrae protruding like thorns on a stem.
Tears slid down my cheeks as I cut further. Near the knot I saw hairs, scorched now, but white in spots.
The half-full bowls.
“Nooooooooooooooooo!”
I heard the voice, but did not connect it to myself.
“No! No! No! Birdie. Please God, no!”
I felt hands on my shoulders, then on my hands, taking the scissors, gently pulling me to my feet. Voices.
Then I was in the parlor, a quilt around me. I was crying, shaking, my body in pain.
I don’t know how long I’d been sobbing when I looked up to see my neighbor. She pointed at a cup of tea.
“What is it?” My chest heaved in and out.
“Peppermint.”
“Thanks.” I drank the tepid liquid. “What time is it?”
“A little past two.” She wore slippers and a trench coat that didn’t cover her flannel gown. Though we’d waved to each other across the lawn, or exchanged hellos on the walk, I hardly knew her.
“I’m so sorry you had to get up in the middle of the nigh—”
“Please, Dr. Brennan. We’re neighbors. I know you’d do the same for me.”
I took another sip. My hands were icy, but trembled less.
“Are the firemen still here?”
“They left. They said you can fill out a report when you feel better.”
“Did they take—” My voice broke and I felt tears behind my eyes.
“Yes. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You’ve been very kind.”
“I’m sorry about your damage. We put a board across the window. It’s not elegant, but it will keep the wind out.”
“Thank you so much. I—”
“Please. Just get some sleep. Perhaps this won’t seem so bad in the morning.”
I thought of Birdie and dreaded the morning. In desperate hope I picked up the phone and dialed Pete’s number. No answer.
“You will be O.K.? Shall I help you upstairs?”
“No. Thank you. I’ll manage.”
When she’d gone I crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep with great, heaving sobs.
* * *
I awoke with the feeling that something was wrong. Changed. Lost. Then full consciousness, and with it, memory.
It was a warm spring morning. Through the window I could see blue sky and sunlight and smell the perfume of flowers. But the beauty of the day could not lift my depression.
When I called the fire department I was told the physical evidence had been sent to the crime lab. Feeling leaden, I went through the morning motions. I dressed, applied makeup, brushed my hair, and headed downtown.
* * *
The sack contained nothing but the cat. No collar. No tags. A hand-lettered note was found inside one of the cinder blocks. I read it through the plastic evidence bag.
Next time it won’t be a cat.
“Now what?” I asked Ron Gillman, director of the crime lab. He was a tall, good-looking man with silver-gray hair and an unfortunate gap between his front teeth.
“We’ve already checked for prints. Zippo on the note and blocks. Recovery will be out to your place, but you know as well as I do they won’t find much. Your kitchen window is so close to the street the perps probably pulled up, lit the bag, then threw everything in from the sidewalk. We’ll look for footprints, and we’ll ask around, of course, but at one-thirty in the morning it’s not too likely anyone was awake in that neighborhood.”
“Sorry I don’t live on Wilkinson Boulevard.”
“You get into enough trouble wherever you are.”
Ron and I had worked together for years. He knew about the serial murderer who had broken into my Montreal condo.
“I’ll have recovery go over your kitchen, but since these guys never went inside, there won’t be any trace. You didn’t touch anything, I assume.”
“No.” I hadn’t gone near the kitchen since the night before. I couldn’t bear the sight of Birdie’s dishes.
“Are you working on anything that could piss folks off?”
I told him about the murders in Quebec and about the bodies from Murtry Island.
“How do you think they got your cat?”
“He may have run out when Pete went in to feed him. He does that.” A stab of pain. “Did that.”
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
“Or . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Last week I thought someone might have broken into my office at school. Well, not exactly broken in. I may have left the doo
r unlocked.”
“A student?”
“I don’t know.”
I described the incident.
“My house keys were still in my purse, but I suppose she could have made an impression.”
“You look a little shaken up.”
“A little. I’m fine.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then,
“Tempe, when I heard about this I assumed it was a disgruntled student.” He scratched the side of his nose. “But this could be more than a prank. Watch yourself. Maybe tell Pete.”
“I don’t want to do that. He’d feel obligated to babysit me, and he doesn’t have time for that. He never did.”
When we’d finished talking, I gave Ron a key to the Annex, signed the incident report, and left.
Though traffic was light, the drive to UNCC seemed longer than usual. An icy fist had hold of my innards and refused to let go.
* * *
All day the feeling was there. Through task after task I was interrupted by images of my murdered cat. Kitten Birdie sitting upright, forepaws flapping like a baby sparrow’s. Birdie, flat on his back beneath the sofa. Rubbing figure eights around my ankles. Staring me down for cereal leavings. The sadness that had plagued me in recent weeks was deepening into unshakable melancholy.
After office hours I crossed campus to the athletic complex and changed into running gear. I pushed myself as hard as I could, hoping physical exertion would relieve the ache in my heart and the tension in my body.
As I pounded around the track my mind shifted gears. Ron Gillman’s words replaced the images of my dead pet. Butchering an animal is cruel but it’s amateur. Was it merely an unhappy student? Or could Birdie’s death be a real threat? From whom? Was there a link to the mugging in Montreal? To the Murtry investigation? Had I been drawn into something far bigger than I knew?
I kicked it hard and with each lap the tightness drained from my body. After four miles I collapsed on the grass. Breath rasping, I watched a miniature rainbow shimmer in the spray of a lawn sprinkler. Success. My mind was blank.
When my pulse and breathing had slowed, I returned to the locker room, showered, and dressed in fresh clothes. Feeling better, I climbed the hill to the Colvard Building.
The sensation was short-lived.
My phone was flashing. I punched in the code and waited.
Damn!
I’d missed Kathryn again. As before, she’d left no information, only a statement that she’d called. I rewound the message and listened a second time. She sounded breathless, her words tense and clipped.
I played the message again and again, but could make nothing of the background noise. Kathryn’s voice was muffled, as though she were speaking from inside a small space. I imagined her cupping the receiver, whispering, furtively checking her surroundings.
Was I being paranoid? Had last night’s incident sent my imagination into overdrive? Or was Kathryn in real danger?
The sun through the venetian blinds threw bright stripes across my desk. Down the hall, a door slammed. Slowly, an idea took shape.
I reached for the phone.
“THANKS FOR MAKING TIME FOR ME THIS LATE IN THE day. I’m surprised you’re still on campus.”
“Are you implying that anthropologists work harder than sociologists?”
“Never,” I laughed, settling into the black plastic chair he indicated. “Red, I’d like to pick your brain. What can you tell me about local cults?”
“What do you mean by cult?”
Red Skyler slouched sideways behind his desk. Though his hair had gone gray, the russet beard explained the origin of the nickname. He squinted at me through steel-rimmed glasses.
“Fringe groups. Doomsday sects. Satanic circles.”
He smiled and gave me a “carry on” gesture.
“The Manson Family. Hare Krishna. MOVE. The People’s Temple. Synanon. You know. Cults.”
“You’re using a very loaded term. What you call a cult someone else may see as a religion. Or family. Or political party.”
I had a flashback to Daisy Jeannotte. She, too, had objected to the word, but there the similarity ended. In that interview I sat across from a tiny woman in a huge office. Now I faced a large man in a space so small and crowded I felt claustrophobic.
“All right. What’s a cult?”
“Cults are not just groups of crazies who follow weird leaders. At least the way I use the term, they are organizations with a set of common features.”
“Yes.” I leaned back in my chair.
“A cult forms around a charismatic individual who promises something. This individual professes some special knowledge. Sometimes the claim is access to ancient secrets, sometimes it’s an entirely new discovery to which he or she alone is privy. Sometimes it’s a combination of both. The leader offers to share the information with those who follow. Some leaders offer utopia. Or a way out. Just come along, follow me. I’ll make the decisions. All will be fine.”
“How does that differ from a priest or rabbi?”
“In a cult it’s this charismatic leader who eventually becomes the object of devotion; in some cases he’s actually deified. And as that happens, the leader comes to hold extraordinary control over the lives of his followers.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed each lens with a square of green material he took from his pocket. Then he replaced them, wrapping each bow behind an ear.
“Cults are totalistic, authoritarian. The leader is supreme and delegates power to very few. The leader’s morality becomes the only acceptable theology. The only acceptable behavior. And, as I said, veneration is eventually centered on him, not on supreme beings or on abstract principles.”
I waited.
“And often there is a double set of ethics. Members are urged to be honest and loving to each other but to deceive and shun outsiders. Established religions tend to follow one set of rules for everybody.”
“How does a leader gain such control?”
“That’s another important element. Thought reform. Cult leaders use a variety of psychological processes to manipulate their members. Some leaders are fairly benign, but others are not and really exploit the idealism of their followers.”
Again I waited for him to go on.
“The way I see it, there are two broad types of cults, both of which use thought reform. The commercially packaged ‘awareness programs’”—he gestured quotation marks—“use very intense persuasion techniques. These groups keep members by getting them to buy more and more courses.
“Then there are the cults that recruit followers for life. These groups use organized psychological and social persuasion to produce extreme attitudinal changes. As a result they come to exert enormous control over the lives of their members. They are manipulative, deceptive, and highly exploitative.”
I digested that.
“How does thought reform work?”
“You begin by destabilizing a person’s sense of self. I’m sure you discuss this in your anthropology classes. Separate. Deconstruct. Reconstruct.”
“I’m a physical anthropologist.”
“Right. Cults cut newcomers off from all other influences, then get them to question everything they believe in. Persuade them to reinterpret the world and their own life history. They create a whole new reality for the person, and in so doing they create a dependence on the organization and its ideology.”
I thought back to the cultural anthropology courses I’d taken in graduate school.
“But you’re not talking about rites of passage. I know in some cultures kids are isolated for a period in their lives and subjected to training, but the process is meant to reinforce ideas the child has grown up with. You’re talking about getting people to reject the values of their upbringing, to toss out everything they believe in. How is that done?”
“The cult controls the recruit’s time and environment. Diet. Sleep. Work. Recreation. Money. Everything. It creates a sense of dependency, of powerlessness
apart from the group. As it does that it instills the new morality, the system of logic to which the group adheres. The world according to the leader. And it is definitely a closed system. No feedback allowed. No criticism. No complaints. The group suppresses old behaviors and attitudes and, bit by bit, replaces them with its own behaviors and attitudes.”
“Why does anyone go along with that?”
“The process is so gradual the person isn’t aware of what’s happening. You’re taken through a series of tiny steps, each one seemingly unimportant. Other members grow their hair. You grow your hair. Others speak softly, so you lower your voice. Everyone listens docilely to the leader, asking no questions, so you do the same. There is a sense of approval by the group and of acceptance into it. The new recruit is totally unaware of the double agenda that’s operating.”
“Don’t they eventually see what’s happening?”
“Usually new members are encouraged to break all contact with friends and family, to cut themselves off from their former networks. Sometimes they’re taken to isolated places. Farms. Communes. Chalets.
“This isolation, both physical and social, strips them of their normal support systems and increases their sense of personal powerlessness and need for group acceptance. It also eliminates the normal sounding boards we all use for evaluating what we’re being told. The person’s confidence in his or her own judgment and perception deteriorates. Independent action becomes impossible.”
I thought of Dom and his group on Saint Helena.
“I can see how a cult has control if you live under its roof twenty-four hours a day, but what if members work outside the headquarters?”
“Easy. Members are given instructions to do chants or meditation whenever they’re not working. Lunch hour. Coffee break. The mind is occupied by cult-directed behaviors. And outside the job all their time is devoted to the organization.”
“But what is the appeal? What drives someone to reject his past and turn himself over to a sect?”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around this. Were Kathryn and the others automatons, controlled in their every move?
“There is a system of rewards and punishments. If the member behaves, talks, and thinks appropriately he or she is loved by the leader and by the peer group. And, of course, he or she will be saved. Enlightened. Taken to another world. Whatever the ideology promises.”
