"This will be fine." Tim sat on the bed opposite her, a sheetless mattress. "Was this Leah's bed?"
Katie nodded. "When you get dropouts or suicides, they let you have your own room for the whole year. It kind of rules."
Makeup bottles blanketed one bureau; the other was blank. Katie's bed was covered with flowery pillows and teddy bears. A single window overlooked the well-kept track with its rubber runway and lush grass oval. Beyond it the hill dropped away steeply. A line of palm trees reared up in the distance, the bursts of fronds silhouetted against the backdrop of the Pacific like fireworks.
"Tell me about Leah."
"We sort of got stuck with Leah. Assigned roommate. She was pretty sweet when we first got here, but she wouldn't rush the sororities, and we sort of left her behind, you know? Socially." She cupped a hand by her mouth and stage-whispered, "She was, like, the big V."
"The big V?"
"A virgin. Which is cool, but we tried to bring her around guys, and she was just so…I don't know, geeky. Playing on her computer all day and stuff – total code monkey. And her clothes – her clothes were bad. And then she started acting weird."
"Weird how?"
"She sort of turned her back on her friends – what friends she had. These dorky kids from her classes, they stopped calling. And she got really anal. Like, on time to the minute. And really neat -lining up the edges of her notepaper and stuff. When we first started as roommates, she was way more casual. I never would have lived with her if she was like how she ended up."
"When did you notice this change?"
"Like, maybe a month to six weeks before she split."
"How did you know she got in with a cult?"
"She kept asking us to come to meetings with her. Stuff like that."
"Where were the meetings?"
"I don't know. Off campus, I'm pretty sure. We didn't listen, really."
"What did you do?"
"Laughed at her mostly." A flicker of remorse in Katie's sea-green eyes. "Hey, I'm being honest."
"Did you meet anyone in the cult?"
"No."
"Notice her with anyone new?"
"No."
"Do you know the names of her friends? Here on campus?"
"Like I said: What friends?"
"Did she mention the names of anyone in the cult with her? Or refer to someone as the Teacher?"
"No."
"Have you heard from her? Or has anyone seen her?"
"No." Katie smiled. "No. No, no, no. I don't know anything about where she is. I just know she's gone." She checked the tag on her inner wrist with a shrug of her hand.
Tim jotted down his cell-phone number on the back of a generic Marshals Service card with the Spring Street address and main phone line.
"If you think of anything else, give me a call."
Katie relinquished her hug hold on a big white bear and took the card.
Tim stood, giving a last glance at Leah's half of the room. Bare mattress, empty shelves, empty nightstand.
The thought of growing up in the house of Will and Emma Henning left Tim cold. So did the thought of living here with these veiled bullies, painting their lashes and nails and talking in code like cackling hens. Girls too pretty and rich and white to require empathy. Girls hell-bent on maintaining a status that required riding the top of a social hierarchy.
His first case since Ginny – he wasn't exactly keeping the misplaced protectiveness in check. He decided, staring at the left-behind Scotch tape on the blank wall, that if the empty rooms of girls hastily departed now struck a nerve, he would allow himself that.
He flipped his notepad closed. "Thanks for your help."
Katie scurried after him to the door. "What? I called. Her parents wouldn't even know she was missing if it wasn't for me. I did my part." The hard, pretty shell of her face shifted for a moment, and he saw the softer features of a girl who hadn't yet been trained in cruelty. "It's not my fault she went off and joined some cult." She reached down and scratched the skin beneath her anklet, the letter cubes bouncing on the leather cord.
"What does WWJD stand for?" Tim asked.
She lowered her eyes uncomfortably. "What Would Jesus Do."
Bear was correct in his assessment – the landlady was a cranky old broad. Tim might even have proposed a more canine term. Her apartment, from what he could see through the barely open door, housed a virtual conservatory of hanging plants. It smelled of stale coffee and cat piss, as did Ms. Adair Peters, sovereign of the Fleur-de-Lis of Van Nuys, a cracked stucco rise with smoked mirrors in the entry and ornate crown molding in the halls.
She emerged from her apartment, nightshirt trailing from the hem of a corduroy blazer she'd thrown on, breathing hard and clasping the lapels in a fist as if she'd been evicted in a blizzard. She ushered Tim into the elevator and slid the collapsible gate closed. The smell, in close quarters, was nearly blinding.
An interminable ride to the second floor.
At Leah's former door, Adair fussed in her pockets, withdrawing a ring of keys. She tried them each, muttering and overcome with the exertion. One finally turned, and she threw the door open, trudging inside. Tim followed.
A single room with a sidebar kitchen and a bathroom so small the open door rested against the toilet. The rusting coils of the radiator lurked under a sole window facing a Ravi Shankar billboard on which some mental giant had spray-painted OSSAMMA BEN LADEN IS A DUM SAND
NIGGER.
Clearly, once Leah had moved from Pepperdine, she'd turned over the rest of her money to the cult.
"I was hoping you were a prospective tenant," Adair repeated for the fourth and, Tim hoped, final time. "I have to show the unit enough as is." She finger-teased her pink-tinted bouffant, glancing around. "Can't say I notice much of a difference with her being gone."
"The neighbors mentioned she wasn't around often."
"Barely ever. I only even saw her a few times. Sneaking out in the early morning, tiptoeing in at all hours. She had a full dance card, that's for sure."
"Ms. Henning advertised a moving sale at this address. Does that ring a bell?"
"She didn't have the common decency to inform me she was moving out, but I knew she was selling a few things. I remember telling the big fella to stop propping open the front door for anyone to walk in."
"The big fellow?"
"The lug who helped her with her little sale. No, more like he oversaw her. A weird name. Skip. Skeet." Her knobby fingers snapped. "Damnit. I can't remember. He wore a frayed shirt to show off his muscles, had some kind of chain around his neck, like that Mr. T fella."
"Gold chains?"
"Don't think so. Had beads."
"Do you remember anyone who bought stuff from them? Someone from the building, maybe?"
"Nope." Her lipstick was feathered around the edges. "Look, exciting as this is standing around an empty room, do you think you could move it along? You're not a tenant or anything, and I have responsibilities I have to get back to."
Including letting her cats resume their routine of pissing on her leg.
From the Hennings to the Katie Kelners to this sad box of a room, Ms. Adair Peters ruling supreme from upstairs. With these options, Tim would've hopped the first flight to Jonestown.
The pay phone from which Will had received the threatening call sat in a Lamplighter lobby six blocks up Van Nuys Boulevard. Was the caller a friend of Leah's or her guard? The big guy who helped her move? The P.O. box was in the neighboring town – maybe cult headquarters was in the vicinity.
Something scraped against the pane. Tim crossed the room despite Adair's labored sigh and opened the window, which gave with some reluctance. Duct-taped to the sill outside were three homemade vases, made from glossy cardboard rolled into thin cones. The wind had claimed the contents of the first two, but a dead carnation leaned from the third, its brittle bud half eroded from rubbing the pane.
Chapter four
As soon as Tim entered Haines Hall o
n UCLA's North Campus, he heard a voice amplified off a lecture-hall ceiling. He followed the sound down a corridor and entered the arena-style room, standing with his back to the wall. Dr. Glen Bederman was pacing down below on a brief throw of stage, his hands clasped behind his back, bent slightly at the waist, studying the floor like a New England botanist on a stroll. A well-dressed man in his sixties, he walked gracefully, a microphone clipped to his oxford shirt.
A podium stood ignored, home to a second mike and a small bottle of mineral water. Bose speakers adhered to the ceiling piped out Bederman's voice a bit too loudly. The students attended his words diligently.
"In Jonestown, children were kept in a six-by-three-by-four-foot plywood box for weeks at a time. They were dragged out, thrown in a dark well, and told that poisonous snakes awaited them there. Husbands and wives were punished if caught talking privately. Do you know how? Their daughters were forced to masturbate in front of the entire population."
A few hushed exchanges among the students. A girl raised a tentative hand. "But the cult heyday has passed. I mean, they were all over in the seventies and stuff, but now they're kind of gone, right?"
Bederman scowled thoughtfully, as if considering her point. "How many of you have been approached at some point on this campus by someone ready to tell you about a wonderful way to take control of your life?"
Easily half of the students raised their hands.
Bederman drew his lips tight and gave the girl in the front a little nod. "There are more than ten thousand destructive cults operating today. The terrorist campaigns that have so changed our world were hatched inside groups where cult mind control is law. As we've just seen illustrated, countless cults still operate insidiously all around us in our community. And – even better – mind-control techniques and hypnotic inductions aren't even illegal. Literally millions of people are manipulated and indoctrinated without giving informed consent every year, and it's all completely lawful."
He walked to the edge of the stage. "Let's get back to Jonestown. Why did people obey? Why did they drink the Kool-Aid they knew would end their lives? Why did they squeeze cyanide from syringes down the throats of their own babies?"
"Because they were sociopaths?" a student called out.
"All nine hundred ten of them?" Bederman shook his head. "No. Because they were healthy."
A chorus of disbelief from the crowd.
"Stage hypnotists," Bederman said, "will choose the most ordinary volunteers. At all costs they'll avoid neurotics, who are all but impervious to suggestion. Con men and cult leaders go after similar targets. Statistics show that two-thirds of people who join cults are from normal, functioning families – whatever those are – and were demonstrating age-appropriate behavior at the time they joined. You see, the healthy remain attuned to the shifts around them, to suggestive cues in their environment. The human brain is a magnificently evolved tool, designed to adapt to an ever-changing -"
He stopped abruptly and shaded his eyes, squinting up toward the back of the hall at Tim. The students shifted in their chairs, turning around. At once Tim felt the discomfort of five hundred sets of eyes on him.
Bederman chuckled, and the students turned back to him, confused. "I just influenced the behavior of every last one of you. I indicated that there was key information over there – maybe a threat, maybe an opportunity – but something important enough to disrupt a lecture. Further, I am your professor, your authority figure. And if you believe you're not impressed with authority, permit me to impart one of my favorite facts: Students perceive professors as being two and a half inches taller than students of the same height. When I, your towering professor" – a self-deprecating grin – "looked to the rear of the hall, most of you followed my lead, bringing social pressure to bear on the rest. We are wisely influenced by information around us. That's what helps us function as healthy humans. Cults gain inroads to your brain by exploiting precisely such natural, unthinking reactions."
"Following your gaze is one thing," a serious young man in a wool sweater called out. "But it's not like we'd kill ourselves if you asked us to."
"Of course not. First I'd have to gain control over your thoughts, your emotions, your behavior. I'd get you off your turf and exploit the hell out of you." Bederman rapped the podium with his knuckles. "That would disrupt the key markers by which you understand your world. Your neurotransmitters would reset at high levels, your stress hormones would burn out from continuous activation and stop secreting. I could traumatize you so greatly and repeatedly that your brain would be forced to call into question all it had ever learned. And then, everywhere you looked to gather information, I would present your new skewed reality."
The student shook his head, his long hair swaying. "There's no way you could argue me into a cult."
"Of course not. Arguing's not nearly seductive enough." A few students tittered nervously. Bederman continued to pace. "What's your name?"
The student tapped his pen against his notebook. "Brian."
"I would set out to create a new Brian. Cult-Brian. In his new world, Cult-Brian is rewarded for everything he says, does, and thinks by everyone around him. And True-Brian is punished for everything he says, does, thinks, or remembers. Pretty soon I'd have created a dominant cult personality much like everyone else's in my cult, trained to obey me. Why are you susceptible, Brian? You're a healthy, well-adjusted male, unburdened, I'd guess, by dire psychological problems. I need worker bees. I need bang for my buck. I wouldn't waste valuable time and energy indoctrinating someone who wasn't strong, caring, and motivated. Your active imagination, your creative mind, your ability to focus and concentrate – all the better to hypnotize you with, my dear. You're struggling to assert your individuality. Look at how well you've done so here in this forum. Wonderful. Come assert it with me and mine. We're rebels. We'll take on all of society, do things our own way, you and me and our nine hundred and nine friends. Your positive characteristics are merely tools for me to exploit. Within a few weeks, you'll think the cult's the greatest thing that ever happened to you. You'll never want to leave. You'd just as soon…" – he halted onstage, his momentum lost; the air seemed to go right out of him – "die."
A side door banged open. A man with a stocking over his head ran past the stage, screaming, "Fascist Nazi persecutor!" He threw a water balloon that exploded at Bederman's feet, spraying him with white paint. The assailant flashed out the emergency door, tripping the alarm.
Seemingly unfazed, Bederman pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his paint-flecked spectacles, shouting to be heard over the din. "Okay. Here we go again! File out neatly and orderly! And remember to read Chapter Six for Thursday's lecture!"
Attache in hand, Bederman made his way calmly up the stairs. Tim braved the outward rush of students. "Dr. Bederman!" he shouted. The alarm was so shrill it hurt his teeth. "I'm Tim Rackley from the U.S. Marshals Service. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Bederman nodded and took Tim's arm. They spilled out of Haines into the quad as several security guards trotted inside. "I would apologize for the ruckus, but I've grown accustomed to it. Its reliability is refreshing."
"This happens all the time, I take it."
"Paint balloons, fire alarms, bomb threats, files ransacked. Cults have an enviable amount of manpower at their disposal, especially for an old dragonslayer like me. They've canceled my hotel and airline reservations, sent fraudulent letters to the board of state medical examiners. Once, after one of my expert-witness testimonies, I received seventy-two hours of continuous phone calls. I've elected to find the attention flattering." He paused, sizing Tim up. "But let's get down to business. I'm so glad you got back to me."
"I'm sorry?"
"About my stolen mailing lists. They were encrypted, of course, but -"
Tim finally managed to slide in a sentence. "I think you have me confused with someone else."
"You're responding to my complaint? You're with LAPD, correct?"
&nbs
p; "No, sir. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. I contacted you because I need your help with a case I'm working on. I haven't received any correspondence from you."
"Oh." Bederman stopped walking. "Oh, oh, oh. How terribly disappointing." He studied his folded hands thoughtfully. "We see what we want to see."
"I'm trying to help a girl who got tangled up in a cult. I'd like a few minutes of your time."
"Let's see that badge."
Bederman examined it closely, then Tim's credentials. He handed them back and strode the path, Tim moving to keep up. "If you're making an effort to bust up a cult in a way that's real, I'll help you. If you're poking around, asking the usual questions to file the usual report that sits on the usual desk, I won't."
"My task is to locate the girl and get her out. I can't promise more than that."
"Can you promise me some turpentine?" He swept a hand through his white beard, and it came away spotted with paint. "That was a joke."
"Pretend I laughed politely."
He halted and looked at Tim. "I like you. No tough-guy routine, no unrealistic promises, no polite laughter. And you could have taken advantage of my misunderstanding about your identity."
"I've been taken advantage of too many times in my life."
"So you feel bad for others?"
"I don't like the feeling it gives me when I do it to others."
"Very good, Deputy Rackley. Very good." Nodding at a passing faculty member, he hurried down a set of stairs. "Tell me about this girl."
Tim had mostly filled him in by the time they entered Franz Hall. He couldn't help but think of the horrible evidence he'd discovered in this very building a year ago in William Rayner's office. With some effort he refocused on Bederman's words.
"The good news is, there are signs that this girl is receptive to leaving the cult. The timing might be good. You say she went home for a day. Even if she fled, that shows she's at least open to other options on some level. She's probably just too afraid to seek them -she's likely been programmed to believe that her life is worthless outside the group. Did she have any new allergy problems, asthma, or ailments when her parents saw her?"
The Program tr-2 Page 4
