Andie stepped out and toweled off. She stood and faced what should have been the mirror, that space right above the sink. But there was none.
She stepped out, wrapped in a towel. Felicia was seated on the bed. Laid out atop the towel resting on the bed were a brush, a comb, and scissors.
“Did you know there’s no mirror in here?” said Andie.
“We don’t have any.”
“No mirrors?”
“Come, sit here.”
Andie seated herself on the bed. Felicia said, “How you see yourself is not important.” She started combing Andie’s hair in a way Andie had never combed it, parting it on the wrong side. “What matters is how he sees you. We groom each other in the way that pleases him.”
Andie froze as her new partner reached for the scissors. She wanted to protest, but she quelled her instincts. She had to submit. Kira would submit.
“Are you saying every woman who comes here has changed her appearance?”
“Every woman and every man.”
The thought chilled her. She had looked carefully, but perhaps not carefully enough. It was entirely possible that she had already seen Beth Wheatley and not recognized her. Then again, maybe she was one of those less accessible members at the higher level.
With a snip of the scissors, long strands of wet hair began falling to the floor.
The pea-gravel driveway was empty at the home of Meredith Borge, and no one answered when Gus knocked on the door. He had decided against an advance call for fear that she might not want to see him. He thought it best to catch her cold.
Meredith lived in a rural area at the end of a gravel road, just one of two houses on the entire route. The driveway was rather ill-defined, just two dirt ruts in the ground that cut across the lawn and ended at the front porch. Gus parked near the culvert at the turn-around at the end of the road and waited. Through a thin stand of pine trees he could see the house clearly. An hour passed, and not a single car came or went. The rain started and stopped a dozen times before a twenty-year-old pickup truck finally pulled into the driveway. A woman stepped down and walked up the pathway. She appeared to be in her forties, slim and brunette, right in line with Dex’s description. Gus jumped out of his car.
“Mrs. Borge?”
She stopped and turned but did not respond. Her suspicious gaze stopped Gus in his tracks. “Excuse me for bothering you,” he said. “But I’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“I know. I’m sorry about her death.”
“You are? Why?”
“My name’s Gus Wheatley. My wife disappeared two weeks ago today. Your daughter and I were involved in some discussions about her possible whereabouts before she died.”
Her stare was ice-cold. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Mrs. Borge, please.”
Gus followed her halfway up the front steps, but her glare only intensified. “Get off my property before I call the police.”
“It’s important that we talk. Please, just a minute of your time.”
She unlocked the door. For an instant it seemed she was about to say something, more nervous than hostile.
“Please,” said Gus.
“Do us both a favor. Go away.” She stepped inside and slammed the door, leaving Gus alone on the front porch.
Andie hadn’t eaten since early Saturday afternoon, but there was no breakfast or lunch on the Sunday menu. On the retreat they had kept her up late and woken her early, allowing her little more than seven hours of total sleep since Thursday. Rest, however, was not on Sunday’s schedule either.
Felicia was her constant companion. Neither one of them left the unit. They spent hours together sitting on the floor, eyes closed and legs crossed. Felicia taught her several breathing exercises to help her relax and meditate. Every half hour or so she would ask Andie to join her in repeating three times aloud, “I am going to rise above and overcome my human desires and activities and transform my being into something more than physical.” They had no other conversation. The goal was to channel Andie’s thoughts and energy. Her thoughts were definitely focused, though all Andie could think was, What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
By late afternoon, sitting in the same posture had left her legs cramped and her knees on the verge of explosion. She had already passed the hunger stage when Felicia announced it was time to eat. They didn’t have to leave the room. Felicia opened the door, and a tray with two camas cakes was waiting on the door step, seemingly on cue. Felicia took one and offered the other to Andie. She ate neither quickly nor slowly, matching Felicia bite for bite.
When they finished, Felicia again led her in the same chant, I am going to rise above and overcome…
Andie joined her. She could hear herself speaking but no longer felt her mouth moving. The light in the room suddenly gave way to a black buzzing. She felt dizzy and disoriented. In the background she heard Felicia’s voice, but it was the very distant background. Andie focused, as if the words from Felicia’s mouth were her life line back to reality, as if she could see herself climbing hand over hand from the dark, swirling hole.
Finally, the dizziness passed. She was shaking but coherent. Her eyes opened. Felicia was staring at her, checking her out. Andie could still feel the tingling in her fingertips. That was no ordinary camas cake.
Or had she simply experienced a breakthrough?
“It’s time,” said Felicia.
“For what?”
“Your meeting with Steven Blechman.”
“One on one?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my gosh. Am I ready?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be,” said Felicia. “The first meeting is the same for everyone.”
“What happens?”
“He just gives you a lie-detector test.”
Andie rose, feigning eagerness, hiding her true feelings. Now what do I do?
Fifty-four
Gus had waited outside Mrs. Borge’s house for only ninety seconds before realizing he didn’t need a stalking charge piled upon his alleged spouse abuse. She had told him to get lost and seemed to have meant it. A failure, he drove away reluctantly to think through his options.
Once home, it was immediately obvious that he wasn’t the only one haunted by the fact that this Sunday afternoon marked two weeks since Beth had dropped off Morgan for tumbling class and disappeared. Gus needed to get his daughter out of the house. The Sonics were in town, and Gus had season tickets that he routinely gave away to clients and rarely used for himself. Morgan was more into soccer than basketball, but it turned out to be a pretty effective way of keeping her focused on something other than Beth. The same could not be said for Gus. His mind was barely on the game.
It ended with a Sonics victory, which left the fans in an upbeat mood on the way out of the stadium. Gus carried Morgan through the heavy foot traffic, but she wanted to walk once they got outside. He led her by the hand as they flowed with a thousand others to the parking garage across the street.
“That was fun, Daddy.”
“Yeah. We’ll do it again soon.”
Their car was just ahead. No sooner had these words left his lips than he noticed the ticket on his windshield. He swallowed several bad words in Morgan’s presence, wondering what horrible offense the traffic gestapo had nailed him for. Parking too close to the line? Forgetting to straighten his wheels? Failing to run over the visiting team’s fans?
He put Morgan in the backseat and checked his prize beneath the wiper. It wasn’t a ticket at all. It was a note, much like the pizza flyers and other junk he’d often discarded without even reading. This one, however, caught his attention. His name was written on the outside. He opened it and froze.
Stay away from Meredith Borge. Or I end up like her daughter.
Icicles ran up his spine. He scanned the garage instinctively, as if whoever had placed it there mig
ht actually be stupid enough to hang around and watch him read it. He saw only happy Sonics fans on their way to their cars. Carefully, he placed the note in his jacket and got in the car.
“What was that, Daddy?”
“What was what?”
“That thing on our windshield.”
He had to gather his wits to answer, still shaken. “It was…just nothing, really.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“Because there’s no garbage can. I’ll throw it out when we get home.”
“Can we stop for ice cream on the way?”
“Not tonight, sweetie. We have ice cream at home. Daddy has to get back.”
Gus wasn’t sure if he should call the police or his investigator. He had to do something, but not in front of Morgan. He merged aggressively into traffic. With a little attitude behind the wheel, he could have them home in fifteen minutes. As they cruised up I–5, Gus dissected the note in his mind, particularly the last part. Or I end up like her daughter. Shirley Borge had committed suicide. Why would his discussions with Meredith Borge prompt another suicide?
Or maybe that was the point. Shirley’s death had not been a suicide.
“Daddy, can I get a cat?”
He checked her in the rearview mirror. A couple of years back Morgan had asked for one. The answer had been no. “We can’t get a cat, remember? Your mother’s allergic.”
“Are you ’lergic?”
“No.”
“Is Aunt Carla ’lergic?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t we have one now?”
She was testing him to see if he thought her mother was really coming back. If he hadn’t been so distracted, if the whole damn situation hadn’t been so sad and pathetic, he would have thought she was a pretty clever kid.
“Morgan, if we get a cat, we would just have to get rid of it when your mother comes home.”
She wasn’t satisfied. She knew her trick had been foiled.
The iron gate at the end of their driveway opened, and the car pulled up to their house. Once inside, Morgan went to her room. Gus went straight for the telephone.
The red light on his answering machine was blinking. One message. He hit the PLAY button. “This is Meredith Borge calling for Gus Wheatley.”
There was a long pause. Gus moved closer to the machine, as if willing her to continue. Finally she said, “Meet me in the coffee shop at the Red Lion Hotel by the airport at eight o’clock tonight. Just you. I got no interest in talking to the police.”
More silence, then the digital voice announced, “End of messages.”
It was a cryptic message, all the more eerie on the heels of the note on his windshield. Gus wasn’t sure what to make of the pair. Bizarre coincidence? Some kind of setup? He checked his watch. Not quite six. Plenty of time to drive out to the airport and meet her.
Car keys in hand, he picked up the phone and called his investigator.
“Dex, we need to meet. Someone left a note on my windshield this afternoon. It’s signed by someone named Flora. But I’d swear it’s Beth’s handwriting.”
Fifty-five
The chill of night had covered the valley, yet Andie felt numb to the cold as Felicia led her to the main farmhouse. It was either the fortified camas cake or the apprehension over the lie-detector test. Or both.
Andie knew polygraphs could be beaten. The problem was, she wasn’t sure she could beat one.
They walked around to the back of the house and stopped at the cellar doors. They weren’t actually going inside the house. It was off limits to the likes of Felicia and certainly Andie. Those were the rules, she knew, but that didn’t take the edge off the thought of being trapped in the basement with a possible serial killer.
Felicia opened the cellar doors. “He’s waiting for you.”
It was one of those defining moments for an undercover agent. Andie hadn’t been at it nearly long enough to know when to step out of role and run for it.
“Are you coming with me?”
Felicia shook her head. “Just you and Steven.”
Andie glanced down the dark cement staircase, then back at Felicia. “Wish me luck.”
“There’s no such thing as luck, Kira.”
Then why do I feel so shit out of it? thought Andie. She started the climb down into the cellar. The instant she reached the bottom stair, the doors closed behind her. Total darkness. She waited for the eyes to adjust, but there was no adjustment to the complete absence of light. Her heart raced. She was about to make a dash for the doors, somewhere up the stairs behind her. Then a light switched on.
Steven Blechman was standing just three feet in front of her. She started, nearly panicked.
“Welcome,” he said as he extended a hand.
She struggled to bring her adrenaline under control. “You scared me.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Yes, it is. Fear is a human bondage I shed long ago.”
“I guess I’m not quite on your level yet.”
“That’s okay. You’re learning.” He took a half step closer, again offering his hand. “Come.”
Andie met his gaze. Funny, but he didn’t have yellow eyes, blazing eyes, eyes that glowed in the dark. He looked like just a normal guy.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere. We’re staying right where we are.”
“Do we have to do this down here? It’s kind of cold.”
“You’re nervous,” he said with a half smile.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Sure. Everyone is.”
“So, Felicia was right? You give everyone a lie-detector test.”
“Absolutely.”
Andie looked around. The lighting from the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling was dim, at best. Still, Andie could see everything in the cellar. A sump pump. A couple of old bicycles. Two chairs. But nothing that resembled a polygraph.
“Where is your equipment?”
“My what?”
“Your polygraph equipment.”
He chuckled. “You thought I was going to hook you up to all that mechanical stuff?”
“Yeah. I don’t know of any other way to give someone a lie-detector test.”
“I do.” Something in his response had chilled her. He turned and went to one of the two chairs behind him. “Sit down, Kira, and face me.”
Slowly, Andie came forward. Only when she sat did she notice that her chair was a few inches higher than his, leaving them exactly at the same eye level. Blechman stared into her eyes. Andie blinked.
“Don’t look away from me,” he said.
Andie met his stare. It was a penetrating gaze, as though he were looking inside her.
He extended his arms toward her. “Grab my wrists.”
She reached forward, and their hands interlocked. Each of them had the other by the pulse, right hand to left wrist, left hand to right wrist. Still, Andie was more aware of her own racing heartbeat than his.
“Now just relax,” he said.
She took a deep breath. It was okay that she was shaking. Kira would be shaking.
“Do I frighten you, Kira?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you afraid of what I might ask you?”
“No.”
His grip tightened around her pulse. “You’re lying.”
“I’m just…nervous.”
“How old are you, Kira?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Where were you born?”
“Seattle.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Andie concentrated. It was crucial to recite her phony background accurately. Should Blechman check, she wanted to make sure she checked out.
“My mother taught high school for over thirty years. She’s retired now. My dad
worked at Boeing most of his life, till he died six years ago.”
“What kind of relationship do you have with your mother?”
“Normal.”
“Do you have your own apartment?”
“No.”
“You think it’s normal for a twenty-seven-year-old woman to live with her mother?”
“So long as you’re a little embarrassed by it, I guess it is.”
He didn’t crack a smile. “Where does your mother live?”
“Tacoma.”
He asked a series of questions about her mother’s background and lifestyle. It would all check out. The FBI had enlisted a retired agent to pose as Kira’s mother.
“Do you love her?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Did you love your father?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever loved anyone outside your immediate family?”
They were outside the phony FBI background now. Andie thought of her ex-fiancé. “I would say no.”
He smirked. “I would say yes.”
Andie flinched. Blechman bore down. “You’ve recently ended a relationship, haven’t you?”
“I’ve never been married, if that’s what you mean.”
“A broken engagement?”
She squirmed, amazed he had figured that out.
Blechman said, “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
“There’s not much to talk about.”
“Let’s go back where you feel safe, then. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
She hesitated for an instant. Again, the real world was closing in around her. Truthfully, she didn’t know. She gave the FBI’s answer. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I would know if I had brothers or sisters.”
“Were you adopted, Kira?”
The insight floored her. He continued, “Do you sometimes wonder about your real parents?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
His stare tightened. “The green eyes are a nice cover.”
“They’re not a cover. They’re mine.”
“How does an Indian girl get green eyes?”
Under Cover of Darkness Page 32
