“Take your hands off my daughter. I’ll pull the trigger, I swear.”
“That’s Rosa’s gun,” said Blechman. “It isn’t even loaded. Is it, Rosa?”
She struggled nervously. “That’s right. It’s not even loaded.”
Blechman said, “Go ahead. Pull the trigger.”
Gus could see Morgan was beginning to lose consciousness. Blechman had been restraining her with his right arm around her torso, but the hand was now up around her throat. “Let go of my daughter!”
Blechman’s eyes locked on Carla, as if they controlled her. “Tell him. Tell him to go ahead and squeeze the trigger.”
Her voice shook, but she didn’t dare disobey him. “Go right ahead, Gus. The gun isn’t loaded.”
He could tell she was lying. If he didn’t somehow keep them talking, he’d have to shoot his own sister. “What did you do with my wife?” Gus shouted.
“She’s been a grave disappointment to me,” said Blechman. “I put up with her disobedience for a very long time. She had a special look. She could have gone far. But Morgan looks an awful lot like her. In due time, she may go further.”
His perverse intentions were suddenly laid bare. On impulse, Gus shoved Carla down the stairs, just far enough to force Blechman to drop his guard in self-defense. It was only for an instant, and it would call upon every bit of experience he’d ever had with guns, but Gus had an opening. He fired a shot that snapped Blechman’s head back in a crimson explosion.
He fell into the darkness, taking Morgan with him.
“Morgan!” Gus leaped down the stairs. Blechman hadn’t moved. Morgan was squirming on the cement floor, her hands and feet bound, her eyes and ears still covered. Gus ripped the headphones off and held her close.
“It’s Daddy! It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything’s okay.”
At the foot of the stairs, Carla was on her knees at Blechman’s side, weeping softly. Gus grabbed Blechman’s gun and shoved it in his belt. He took Morgan in his arms and stepped past his sister, leaving the duct tape over his daughter’s eyes so she wouldn’t see the carnage. Carla never moved as he and Morgan climbed the stairs.
At the top step he stopped and looked down into the basement. Carla leaned forward and kissed Blechman’s bloody lips, then glanced up at Gus.
“You murdered my husband,” she said in a voice that cracked.
Gus looked at her with both contempt and pity. She’d gone from bad to worse, from an abusive old boyfriend who used to beat her into submission to a psychopathic cult leader who controlled her very mind. From that depth, sadly, there could be no return.
Gus closed the basement door and locked it. Sirens blared in the driveway as the police arrived. With Morgan cradled tightly in his arms, he simply waited.
Sixty-eight
More than a dozen dead.
That daunting tally confronted Andie when she returned to the office in Seattle just before sunrise the following morning. Two men and three women had been brutally murdered—two more if you counted Shirley and Meredith Borge. The cult had lost another eleven members, including Blechman, Felicia, and Tom. Some had died in the fire before the FBI could evacuate them. Some had hanged themselves in the frenzy.
Andie hadn’t slept all night, but her adrenaline was still pumping. Peering through the one-way glass outside the FBI’s interrogation room, she finally had an opportunity to see Victoria Santos operate in top form. Isaac had called her in late last night to interrogate Gus’s sister after several other agents had elicited only blank stares. Carla had never asked for an attorney, so further interrogation was legally proper. It was just a matter of finding someone with the skill and expertise to break through to a devoted follower who had just lost her beloved leader, her cult husband. Isaac thought of Victoria. And he was absolutely correct.
Andie watched for nearly a half hour, catching the tail end. Victoria seemed rejuvenated and in old form. Andie would have liked to believe what Isaac had told her earlier—that Andie had been the catalyst for the rediscovered energy, that Victoria had seen her old self in Andie and pushed through the burnout. It probably wasn’t true, she figured, but it had been nice of Isaac to say it.
Just after eight, Victoria finally emerged. Andie, she, and Isaac met in a conference room across the hall. Victoria looked tired but was still running in high gear, like the winner of a dance marathon. It reminded Andie that she herself hadn’t snagged a discerning look at her own face since entering the mirrorless cult. The prospects were frightening.
“How did it go?” asked Isaac.
“Good enough for the state attorney to bring murder charges against her.”
“For which killings?”
“Not any of the five you’re thinking of. Seems the string of murders goes back further than those two men who resembled Tom the lieutenant and the three women who resembled Beth Wheatley.”
Isaac nearly groaned. “Don’t tell me everyone in that damn cult has killed this way.”
“No. It was intended as a rite of passage to Blechman’s inner circle only. But it was an evolving concept.”
“Evolving from what?”
“From what I was able to gather, Carla was the first member to reach this higher level. Originally, Blechman’s thinking was that to truly rise above the level of human, you not only had to separate yourself from the people who held you back, but you had to eliminate the things—the person—who was syphoning your energy. In Carla’s case, that was her abusive ex-boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t fit with the echo killings,” said Isaac. “The victims resembled the cult member and didn’t even know them. None were old boyfriends or the like.”
“That’s right,” said Victoria. “The way Carla explained it, Blechman realized right away that it was too dangerous for his followers to try to kill the actual person who was holding them back. He would eventually end up with a group of followers whose mothers or boyfriends or husbands or wives had all been murdered. That would be a red flag for police. So he changed his initiation rites. He decided to use symbolic victims.”
“Symbolic of what?” asked Isaac.
“The victim represents your old self,” said Andie.
“I see,” said Isaac. “The way those two men resembled Tom. And the way the three women resembled Beth Wheatley.”
“Except Beth wasn’t a willing participant,” said Andie.
Isaac stroked his chin, thinking. “Unwilling…maybe. You’re assuming everything she told you in your debriefing was true.”
Andie said, “As traumatized as Beth was, I don’t think she could possibly have kept her composure to stick to anything close to a lie.”
Isaac looked skeptical. “She’s still here in the building, right?”
“She and Gus are in the west conference room. They’re willing to cooperate, but they’d love for me to tell them it’s time to go home.”
“Do you think Mrs. Wheatley would agree to talk to Victoria?” asked Isaac.
Andie started to answer, but Victoria beat her to it. “I don’t see the need. I trust Andie’s take on the situation.”
Andie swelled inside. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. You did truly excellent work here.”
“Well, I…” She stopped the aw-shucks routine, recalling Victoria’s remark the first time she’d praised her—how compliments were scarce in the bureau, so just shut up and take one. “Thank you.”
Victoria glanced at Isaac. “I’m bushed. If you need me anytime over the next two hours, I’ll be sacked out in the infirmary downstairs. If anyone else needs me, I’m in Milwaukee.”
“I’d say you’ve earned some shut-eye.”
She shook Andie’s hand. “Not that I sit around praying for more serial killers, but I do hope we’ll have the chance to work together again.”
“So do I.”
Victoria headed for the elevator. Andie and Isaac exchanged glances. He didn’t say it, perhaps because he thought it would pale in comparison to a pat on t
he back from Victoria Santos. But she could feel how proud he was of her.
Andie said, “Let’s go see the Wheatleys, shall we?”
They walked in silence down the hall to the west conference room and stopped outside the door. The venetian blinds on the rectangular window on the door were opened just enough to see inside. Gus and his wife were seated side by side, their backs to the door. He had his arm around her. Her head lay on his shoulder.
Andie smiled with her eyes. Watching too, Isaac said, “You really do believe her, don’t you?”
“Are you still undecided?”
“Just one thing bugs me. Her explanation of how her fingerprints ended up on that pay phone in Oregon. The whole idea that Blechman forced her to handle a mouthpiece while she was captive in Yakima, only so he could screw it onto the payphone in Oregon and make it look like she was there.”
“Makes sense to me. After all, Beth’s prints were found only on the mouthpiece and not on the buttons that had been used to punch out the ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ message on Morgan’s phone. Planted evidence like that would make it look like she was involved in the cult, make it impossible for her to return to her old life.”
“You’re satisfied, then?”
“If you’re asking whether I think she’s innocent, the answer is yes.”
“Completely innocent?” he pressed. “As in, everything she told you was the truth?”
“I don’t think I could possibly know her well enough to know if everything she told me was the truth. But he does,” she said, pointing with a nod toward Gus.
They watched through the window as Gus and Beth embraced. It seemed genuine, not staged in the least. They were alone inside, completely unaware of Isaac and Andie watching from the outside.
“All right,” said Isaac. He sounded as if he were just then making up his mind. “Tell the Wheatleys they can go home.”
“Good instincts, boss.” Andie stepped toward the door.
“Hey,” said Isaac, stopping her. She looked back. He seemed confused, as if there were something he wanted to say.
“Take the rest of the day off,” he said.
“Thanks.” She reached for the doorknob.
“Hey,” he said again.
She stopped again, met his eyes.
He blinked twice, then asked, “You free for dinner?”
It was the expression on his face that had confused her—a certain nervousness that made it seem as though he was actually asking her out, not just buddies after work. “Tonight?”
“I was thinking maybe…Saturday night.”
She smiled wryly. “I know a great little place that makes awesome camas cakes.”
“What cakes?”
“Never mind. You pick the place. Just be sure the reservation is for two. Kira and Willow are staying home.”
“Two it is, then,” he said, smiling.
She gave a wink, then turned and entered the conference room.
Autumn
“Wheatley and Partners,” the receptionist said into the phone.
Gus had a spring in his step as he passed her desk in the main lobby. Over the past eight months he’d probably heard his receptionist answer a thousand calls the same way, and the sound of it still tickled him. His own firm.
With eighteen lawyers, it wasn’t Preston & Coolidge. That was the good news. They were big enough to do the same quality work, small enough to run their own lives and actually have a life beyond time sheets. Most had come over with Gus from P&C. A few were old friends of Gus’s, talented lawyers who could never have gotten hired by the old firm, like Jack Shode, the bankruptcy guru who spent weekends on lead guitar in one of the hottest local bands. Maybe he didn’t fit the old P&C mold, but who could have possibly known more about debt than a guy surrounded by rock-star wannabes?
“Nice earring, Jack.”
“Nice wing tips, chief.”
It was their standard tongue-in-cheek greeting every afternoon as they passed in the hall on their way to the coffeemaker. For Gus, it was a pleasure just to have time in the day to get off the phone and get his own cup.
It hadn’t been all smiles, of course. The end of the “Echo Killings” had been an enduring media event in Seattle. Everyone from Isaac Underwood to Steven Blechman’s fifth-grade teacher had been on television. It was like the silly season, till the losses were tallied. So many innocent people had been hurt, from the murder victims themselves to the mortified families of misguided cult members. The prosecutor was determined to put the cult permanently out of business, having brought first-degree murder charges against Carla. She’d spent the last eight months in jail awaiting trial.
Neither Gus nor Beth had done much talking to the media. Just a short statement from Gus that they were sorry for the victims and were moving forward with their lives. It had taken months for the press to leave them alone, but life finally had started to take on some semblance of normality.
Their lives were changed forever, but that wasn’t a bad thing. They had more time together, more dinners as a family, longer talks that reached well beyond the obligatory “how was your day?” They’d even moved to a smaller house—one with no echoes. Progress had come more quickly than expected, and not just because Gus had heard it both from Carla and Blechman that Beth had never actually joined the cult. The truth was, they had fallen out of love, but they had never stopped loving each other. Getting back the spark would just take time, and it was perhaps right around the corner. He’d noticed that Beth had recently taken to wearing those little diamond-chip earrings again, the ones he’d given to her on her twenty-first birthday. They were practically worthless, but the way Beth used to wear them on important occasions—birthdays, anniversaries—had always served as a reminder of what was good about their marriage.
It was nice to know she was sending him little reminders again.
“Excuse me, Gus?” It was his secretary poking her head into his office. Gus looked up from his desk.
“Yes?”
“Your wife’s on line one. She’s calling from the shop.”
The shop was a fine-linen boutique in Bel Square that Beth had patronized for years. She was now the assistant manager and thinking about buying it from the seventy-year-old owner, who was about to retire. Getting into business was a good way to rebuild her confidence and focus on the future. Gus was all for it.
He picked up the phone. “Hi. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry, but things are completely crazy here this afternoon. I’m tied up with the accountant for at least another hour. I know it’s my turn to pick up Morgan today, but you think you can pinch-hit?”
“Sure.”
“She gets out at two-thirty.”
“Actually, on Tuesdays she gets out at three.”
She paused on the line, as if both pleased he’d remembered and embarrassed she hadn’t. “I guess I forgot.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Are you sure you can get away?”
“Well, the boss is a real tyrant over here, but maybe just this once I’ll look the other way while I’m sneaking out the door.”
He could sense she was smiling. She said, “I’ll be home around six-thirty.”
“See you then.”
He hung up and got his coat. He had plenty of time to pick up Morgan, but it was best to duck out early. If he was late, she would blame Beth, and he didn’t want that. He was packing his briefcase when the phone rang. He signaled to his secretary that he’d “already left,” but she overruled him.
“It’s Ben Albergo,” she said in the tone reserved for the pope. “He’s calling from Washington.”
It wasn’t often Gus talked to Ben, one of the true friends he had left in high places. Ben was a power broker in the new administration, a golfing buddy to the president’s chief of staff.
He closed the office door and answered, “Hey, Ben. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Believe it or not, I’m calling about Martha Goldstein.”
“No, listen. She’s on the president’s short list for appointment to undersecretary of Treasury.”
“Martha? That’s a bit over her head, isn’t it?”
“Your old firm is pushing her very hard.”
“I’m surprised. I heard they can’t stand her over there.”
“That’s putting it mildly. She’s driving them all nuts. But from what I hear, a couple of dopes on the management committee exchanged some unbelievable e-mails about her. The ‘B’ word all over the place. The upshot is, they can’t fire her without being sued for discrimination.”
“So there’s only one way to dump her,” said Gus.
“Exactly. Call in all their political markers and get her appointed to a plum position here in Washington.”
“What does it have to do with me?”
“You’re obviously aware the president ran his campaign on a platform of moral integrity.”
“Yeah, the ‘I-only-sleep-with-my-wife’ president.”
“It works for him. But his standards have bitten a few of his appointees in the butt. We just can’t take the embarrassment of another crash-and-burn nominee who hasn’t exactly followed the president’s fine example.”
“Is this headed where I think it’s headed?”
“I’ve heard scuttlebutt that Martha can’t withstand scrutiny.”
“Are you asking if she and I had an affair?”
“This is completely confidential, Gus. Personally, I don’t even think she’s qualified for the appointment. She’s not worth fighting over. If there’s dirt out there, tell me. I’ll put a bug in the president’s ear, we’ll cross her off the short list, and move on to the next candidate. I don’t intend to make this a public spectacle for you.”
“So, you’re saying that if I confirm to you right now that Martha has a skeleton in her closet, she loses the appointment?”
“Yes.”
“Which means that my old friends over at Preston and Coolidge will be stuck with her as managing partner for life.”
Under Cover of Darkness Page 38
