Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  “You’re welcome. And again, I apologize for my stupid comments about cults and your mixed heritage. I was out of line.”

  “Forget it. It’s just complicated when you’re adopted. You wonder about different things, like brothers or sisters who might have been raised elsewhere. Maybe their lives were more difficult than mine, but maybe they also understand who they are better than I do. Does that make any sense?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat in silence, as if there had been enough said about that. Andie checked her watch. “If it’s a go, then I’d better pay the tech guys a visit.”

  “Definitely.”

  She rose and started for the door.

  “Oh, Andie?” he called.

  She stopped and turned. Isaac shook his head, half smiling and half scowling. “Damn it, Kira. You flunked your first test.”

  “That will never happen again, sir.” She smiled and gave a mock salute as she left the office. At least I hope not, she told herself, her smile fading to concern.

  It was a foggy Friday morning on Puget Sound. The sun wouldn’t rise for more than an hour, so the thick gray shroud hovering over the Washington Corrections Center for Women hadn’t even begun to burn off. In the pre-dawn silence, the bare cement floors and cinder-block walls were at their coldest.

  Most inmates were asleep in their cells. Several dozen, however, spent the night in the large common sleeping area, a temporary arrangement to alleviate overcrowding in the minimum-security unit. Row after row of metal beds stood draped in white sheets and blue blankets. The unlucky women near the security lights lay with pillows over their eyes to block out the perpetual glow. Those bunked beside the snorers had their ears stuffed with wadded toilet paper.

  At five A.M. a corrections officer passed through for a head count. He walked at such a slow and steady pace that the rhythmic clicking of his heels was like the ticking of a giant clock. He passed each row, disturbing no one. Most slept right through the inspection. The few who were awakened quickly rolled over and went back to sleep. His pace slowed even more as he reached the back row. It was darker there, farther from the security lights and harder to see. The head count continued without pause till he reached the ninth bunk. It looked lumpy but strange. He switched on his flashlight. The bed was empty. By itself that wasn’t cause for panic. It wouldn’t have been the first time an inmate had stolen away to the bathroom or crawled in bed with her lover. But then he noticed something else. He pulled back the blanket. The bed sheet was gone.

  That did alarm him.

  He grabbed his walkie-talkie and alerted the command center in a voice filled with urgency. “Security breach in unit one! Lights on!”

  The pulsating alarm sounded as the emergency lights switched on to full intensity. Dozens of drowsy inmates grumbled and rolled out of bed. A team of correctional officers raced down a secured corridor to the sleeping area. As the electronic doors slid open, they broke into pairs and dispersed throughout the unit in systematic fashion.

  “Line up!” they shouted. The inmates stood at some semblance of attention as the guards checked off each one and searched under the bunks. They found only one per bunk; no one was caught sharing. That meant one inmate was still missing.

  Three guards rushed into the bathroom. Their footsteps echoed off the bright white walls. “Anyone in here?” shouted the senior guard.

  A quick visual inspection revealed no one at the long row of sinks or toilets. They entered the large community shower room and froze.

  The missing bed sheet was taut and twisted like a rope, tied to a water pipe overhead. A woman was hanging by the neck, her toes dangling just six inches above the shower drain. She was completely naked, her clothes balled up and stashed in the corner.

  “Get her down!”

  The biggest guard supported the limp body as the others unfastened the makeshift noose around her neck. They laid her on the floor and checked the pulse. There was none. In desperation one of the guards started CPR, but the other stopped him. The body was too cold. She was clearly beyond resuscitation.

  The senior guard stepped away and shook his head, angry and distraught. “Damn it, Shirley. What in the hell made you go and do that?”

  Part Five

  Forty-nine

  The bus left Yakima at ten A.M. It was an old yellow school bus that had been painted a dull blue. The windshield had a long, elaborate crack in it that resembled the Big Dipper. The rubber flooring had worn away to bare metal in the most heavily trafficked spots. Years of juvenile graffiti covered the seat backs. JOEY + DONNA. DONNA STUFFS. JOEY IS A HOMO.

  Andie recognized two men and three women from Tuesday night’s gathering. She counted six other women and five men, including the driver. Based on the familiarity they demonstrated toward one another, she presumed these eleven were already members. Felicia and Tom, the two who had spoken to the group on Wednesday, were in charge. They had made sure everyone was accounted for, that their baggage was stored properly, and that each recruit had taken the appropriate seat on the bus. Seats were assigned. There did seem to be a plan and structure.

  As they headed out of town, Felicia stood at the front of the bus and addressed the group over the rumble of the noisy old motor. “Now that we’re finally underway, I want to officially welcome each one of you and thank you for coming. Retreats are a time for newcomers to find out what we’re all about and for existing members to revitalize their energy. For some of you, this could be the most important weekend of your life. Don’t be frustrated if you don’t immediately feel changes in your flow of energy or your level of vibration. Look at this weekend as a first step, not the complete journey.

  “The bus ride should take about three hours. We’ve tried to mix the bus evenly with experienced members and newcomers. So please take the time to meet your neighbors. Talk if you like. Or just look out the window and relax. Any questions?”

  The group was silent. Finally, an old man raised his hand, the guy Blechman had teased at Tuesday’s meeting. His wife wasn’t with him. “Exactly where are we going?”

  That was something Andie, too, had been wondering. Their precise destination had never been disclosed.

  “The source.” Felicia paused, as if to emphasize that nothing more needed to be said, then smiled smugly and returned to her seat.

  For the first ninety minutes of the bus ride, Andie made small talk with the man behind her and two women across the aisle. None of them struck her as particularly loony. The women were young, practically girls. They had worked a variety of odd jobs, not sure of what to do with their lives. The man was a musician who played nightclubs in second-rate hotels. Andie talked only of her recent experience at the Second Chance clothing store, which was as far back in Kira’s employment history as she needed to go. It wasn’t long before Andie realized that undercover work was a lot like dating. To be successful, all you had to do was act interested and get the other guy talking about his favorite subject—himself.

  Throughout the ride Felicia had been making her way from the front to the back, stopping to visit individually with each newcomer for ten or fifteen minutes. Andie was about two-thirds of the way back. Felicia reached her at the two-hour mark, right on schedule.

  “Can I join you for a minute, Kira?”

  “Sure.”

  Felicia took the seat on the aisle but said nothing. Andie surmised it was her job to ask the questions.

  “So, how often do you have these retreats?”

  “About once a month. Sometimes twice a month in the summer.”

  More often than Andie would have guessed. The fact that they were having a retreat the same week she had gone to work at the used-clothing store wasn’t quite the lucky coincidence she had thought it was.

  “Is this a good turnout?”

  “Pretty decent, yeah.”

  A million questions swirled in Andie’s head, but she didn’t want to come across as overly inquisitive, too much like a cop. After a minute of silence, Felicia aske
d, “Anything special you’d like to know, Kira?

  Where the hell is Beth Wheatley? she thought. “Nothing specific that comes to mind. I’m just taking your advice. You know, taking things one step at a time.”

  “That’s really the only way. One step at a time.”

  “Just out of curiosity, how many steps are there?”

  Felicia smiled, as though the question were naive. “That depends on the individual.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how many steps have you taken?”

  “One of your goals is to figure that out for yourself. By the end of this weekend you should be able to interpret the energy given off by others and determine their level of vibration.”

  “Does that mean you know my level of vibration?”

  “Yours is the most basic level, Kira. Very human. But don’t be discouraged. We all started at the beginning. Even Steve Blechman.”

  “He’ll be here this weekend, right? When I asked at the orientation meeting, you said Steve was coming.”

  “He’s coming.”

  “Why isn’t he here on the bus?”

  “He just has to be very careful on retreats.”

  “What do you mean?

  “He has to limit the time he spends with us.”

  “We’ll all get to meet him, right?”

  Felicia hedged. “I’m afraid you won’t. None of the newcomers will.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’ll be spending his time with the more experienced members.”

  “He can’t even take the time to say hello to us?”

  “It’s not that simple. Before you go one-on-one with Steve, you have to be prepared. Without the proper preparation, newcomers tend to feed too strongly off his energy. They become leeches. That sort of overindulgence is not what this is all about. You must know exactly how much to take. And you must take no more.”

  “How do I begin my preparation?”

  Felicia seemed pleased that she had asked, as if her eagerness were a good thing. “You will begin tonight.”

  “I can’t wait,” she replied, and she truly meant it.

  News of Shirley’s death had left Gus numb. Friday was the day he had planned another visit to follow up on her lawyer’s insights about the conspiracy to commit murder. Whether she was in a gang or not wasn’t all that crucial. He simply wanted the names of her co-conspirators. He wanted to find out if they, like Shirley, had known Beth. Perhaps they even knew what had happened to her. Shirley and her unnamed co-conspirators had seemed like his best lead. Until this morning.

  Throughout the morning Gus repeatedly phoned Andie and left messages, but she didn’t return any of them. He did finally get a call back from Agent Haveres, who said he had taken over Agent Henning’s responsibilities on the Wheatley case. That didn’t sit well with Gus. Something was amiss, and he wasn’t getting any answers by telephone. At lunchtime, he headed to the FBI building downtown and demanded to speak to Andie’s supervisor.

  Lundquist kept him waiting in the lobby for almost an hour. Finally, when it was clear Gus wasn’t going to give up and go home, a receptionist brought him back to the supervisor’s corner office. The introductions were brief, the small talk nonexistent. Gus got directly to the point.

  “Where is Agent Henning, and why won’t she return my calls?”

  The bluntness startled Lundquist. “She’s been reassigned.”

  “To where, Siberia?”

  “To a case and location that is confidential. Just as Agent Haveres told you this morning.”

  “He didn’t tell me squat. All he said was that he’s taken over Andie’s cases.”

  “That’s really all you need to know, isn’t it?”

  “What I need to know is why the sudden change in the way the FBI treats me? At the beginning I felt totally informed. Ever since my wife called from that pay phone in Oregon, it’s as if somebody has cut the phone lines.”

  “There’s a balance we have to strike, Mr. Wheatley. On the one hand, the FBI wants to keep the victim’s family up to date. On the other, we can’t jeopardize the investigation with leaks.”

  “I’m part of the investigation. If I’m in the dark, we can’t help each other.”

  “That’s why I encourage you to pass along any information you have, no matter how trivial you think it might be.”

  “And all I expect in return is for the FBI to answer a few questions for me.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Does Agent Henning’s sudden disappearance have anything to do with the fact that Shirley Borge was found dead this morning?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You all think Shirley was part of some group that has something to do with Beth’s disappearance.”

  His insight surprised Lundquist. “I’m afraid that’s not on the table for discussion.”

  “Andie is working undercover, isn’t she?”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Would you rather have me speculating about it? In public?”

  Lundquist shot a nasty look. “It’s not in the best interest of your wife or Agent Henning for you to go shooting your mouth off about a cult.”

  “A cult? I thought it was a gang.”

  “Why would you think there’s a gang involved?”

  He was about to mention Kirby Toombs but dropped it. “I don’t anymore. So stop playing word games and tell me what makes the FBI think this is cult activity.”

  “Many things, most of which I’m not at liberty to delineate. Suffice it to say that certain evidence suggests to our experts that we could be dealing with some kind of group agenda that is effectuated through homicide.”

  “What do you mean, like the Manson family?”

  Lundquist did not respond, but he didn’t have to. Gus said, “My God. Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  “Mr. Wheatley, I don’t want you to spend a lot of time worrying whether there’s a cult involved in these killings. For you, the question boils down to something far more personal. Something that should perhaps help you understand why the flow of information between you and the FBI hasn’t been quite what it used to be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You need to ask yourself the same question we’re asking. Is your wife a victim? Or is she an accomplice?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  With that, the proverbial line in the sand had been drawn at his feet. Gus was suddenly glad he hadn’t mentioned his talk with Kirby Toombs. If his wife was some kind of suspect, he had to be very careful about the things he told the FBI. He needed to leave before saying something he’d regret.

  “Thank you for your candor,” said Gus, rising.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Gus started for the door but stopped. “Let me say just one thing to you and the whole damn FBI. If you think for one second that my wife had anything to do with these murders, you’re out of your mind.”

  “We’ll see,” he said coolly.

  Gus glared across the office till the agent blinked. He closed the door on his way out, nearly slamming it in his wake.

  Fifty

  They were somewhere in north-central Washington, exactly where Andie didn’t know. They had traveled the last half hour without so much as a road sign. Although the trip had taken three hours, she sensed they were nowhere near a full three hours from Yakima. The journey had been circuitous. Had she wanted to turn back and go home, it would have been impossible. If she had wanted to retrace her journey three weeks hence, that, too, would have been impossible. To that extent, the meandering had a certain paranoid logic to it.

  It was more in the hills than the mountains. Nine rustic cabins with stone chimneys overlooked an ice-cold river that snaked between bumps on the terrain. With the first day of spring less than two weeks away, clusters of blue and yellow wildflowers were starting to push through the earth’s brown winter crust. The g
round had that spongy, thawing quality that sucked boots right off your feet. By nightfall the hilltops would freeze over. Plenty of snow still covered the mountains in the not too distant background. The bus would never have made it through the back roads above the snow line. Surely, Blechman had been aware of that when he’d promised a retreat “in the mountains.” A little white lie to make sure those who stayed behind were left with misinformation as to the actual destination.

  Andie was assigned to a cabin with three other women, all newcomers. Two of them were the young women Andie had spoken to on the bus. The other was a fifty-something widow named Ingrid. Andie checked for a bathroom, but there was none. The only source of water was a hand pump in the kitchen. A single outhouse for nine cabins was in the woods near the river, mercifully downwind. The cabin had no phone or electricity either. Three small windows and a candle on the mantel provided the only light. The fireplace evidently worked, still holding the charred remains of someone else’s fire. The beds were merely canvas cots, no mattress. They were preassigned, avoiding any arguments over sleeping arrangements.

  Everything they would need for the weekend had been laid atop their bunks and was waiting for them upon arrival. A blanket. A bar of soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. A pair of boots and set of clothes, neatly folded. They weren’t new clothes, but they were clean and in good condition. They looked like the stuff Andie had been selling at the Second Chance. Some of it undoubtedly had come from there.

  “Everything okay?” asked Felicia as she entered the cabin.

  “Fine,” they answered in unison.

  “Thanks for the extra clothes,” added Andie.

  Felicia said, “They’re not extras. They’re replacements.”

  Ingrid, the older woman, inspected her replacement sweater, probing a hole the size of a golf ball with her finger. “I kind of prefer what I brought.”

  Felicia ignored her and handed each of them a paper shopping bag. “Change into your new clothes and stuff everything you brought with you into the bag. The welcome dinner is outside in thirty minutes. Bring the bag with you.” She left without another word, closing the door behind her.