I would have to be on my toes for a while.
The four-wheeler continued around the side of the house to the entrance of the cellar. Like many old houses, the cellar was accessed directly from the outside via a set of storm doors that angled into the earth. After parking the ATV, the guys went inside to change clothes.
I waited a few minutes, then joined them in the cellar. While Eli’s cellar was dark, it was also meticulously clean and surprisingly spider-free. Two large round metal water tanks had been filled and set up as the koi’s winter residence. While Eli and EZ bumped the barrels down the cement stairs on a dolly, I perched on the top of the chest freezer, watching the process with interest. The two worked with ease and the koi were transferred with relatively little fuss. A few fish made suicide leaps, but either one or the other sibling caught them with the dexterous grace of natural athletes.
Observing their lighthearted energy made me realize how bone-tired I was. Nights spent struggling with and days spent hiding my fears had sapped my strength. Watching the two brothers banter back and forth while effortlessly completing a task was strangely soothing. I relaxed. Big mistake.
If they had needed to use signals between each other, I might have stood a chance. I was trained in reading body language, after all. But using sibling telepathy, the two converged, snagging me like a guppy in a net, and dumped me in the fish tank. I didn’t even have time to shriek until after I sputtered to the surface.
Revenge sucks.
Eli was in a much better mood for the rest of the night. He loaned me a Pink Floyd T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants while my clothes tossed around in the dryer. After EZ left, we curled up on the porch swing and listened to the crickets.
As an advanced state of coziness set in, I told Eli about the afternoon at Beth’s, about Reggie and Maggie and the group Maggie joined, and finally about Beth’s suggestion that we help Reggie find her daughter. I skimmed over the extent of my reaction to it.
“What do you think Beth wants?” he asked.
With my head tucked under his chin, his already deep, gravely voice sounded like muted thunder. If I could keep him talking a few minutes, I’d fall asleep. He waited for my reply though.
“She was suggesting we go snoop around the group or cult or whatever it is. She wanted us to, I don’t know… investigate? She wants us to get involved, like with Trinnie.”
Eli tensed. “You didn’t have a choice about getting involved in finding Trinnie’s killer. The guy was coming after you.”
“I know.”
“Did she actually come out and say that?”
“No. Not straight out. Do you think I misunderstood?”
Eli knew Beth almost as well as I did. Part of me wanted him to say yes. I would much rather be wrong than deal with the alternative.
Crickets. Real ones, though. There was an irony there that I was too tired to enjoy.
“You’re probably right,” Eli finally said. “I think, out of all of us, Beth was the least affected by what happened. And don’t forget, she is Reggie’s sponsor. She’ll be worried about Reggie relapsing over this.”
“I just don’t understand how she could even consider getting involved in something like this. After everything we went through? It’s crazy.”
“You have to look at it from Beth’s point of view. It was exciting, challenging, a way to set things right.”
Fear and betrayal scalpeled through my heart. I pulled away from him, sitting up. “Are you saying I should have said yes?” My voice sounded as tight and frozen as my heart felt.
“No.” His hand reached out to mine. “I’m saying your experience was not hers. What happened to you…” He faltered, hesitating to venture into the normally forbidden territory. Before continuing, he drew me down, held me close.
“You almost died. You aren’t going to be able to step back and look at anything other than that. And I certainly don’t blame you. I can’t, either. But Beth can. It wasn’t as bad for her, so she can see other aspects of that period. And those things—the excitement, the friendships—those were good for her.”
“What about you? What do you see?”
“I almost lost you,” he said simply. “That’s all I can see.”
Sometime after midnight, I forced myself back into my car to head home. Exhaustion made me fearful of another panic attack.
I made it home without mishap. Over the next few days, I kept busy with scheduled clients whose crises and problems kept my mind off my own. In between sessions, however, I would find myself brooding over Beth’s suggestion. As the week wore on, I vacillated between concern for Reggie’s daughter and irritation—anger, really—at Beth for putting me in such an impossible position. Trying to, anyway.
By this time in the week, Beth and I would have normally chatted over the phone several times, had coffee at least once. Instead, I screened her calls and ignored my voice mail. And while I knew it was childish, I rationalized that I needed to better understand my conflicting reactions before facing her or Reggie.
Going to the Saturday night Open Speaker meeting was unavoidable, however. One of the members of my home team was presenting, and I needed to show my support. I timed my arrival with bare seconds to spare, thus avoiding conversation with anyone.
After the meeting, Beth was waiting. She planted herself in the center of the doorway that led to the lobby, forcing people to stream around her. The only other exit was through the back bathrooms and would require crawling through a teensy window, hoping my ass didn’t get stuck, and dropping to the ground head first.
I thought about it.
Then I decided it was time we talked. After several false starts and a lot of let’s-pretend-we’re-not-pissed-at-each-other observations regarding the meeting, I forced the issue and asked about Reggie.
“Not good,” Beth answered. “She still hasn’t heard from Maggie.”
“I can’t do what you’re asking, Beth.”
“I know.” She was uncharacteristically subdued. “I probably shouldn’t have asked. I just… Well, anyway, I’m sorry.”
It looked like things were going to be left unsaid on her part as well.
“I’m still willing to research cults,” I said. “And there are colleagues I can consult. I just can’t go through that. Not again.”
“I know. I understand. It was a crazy idea, I guess.”
“So, what are you going to do?” I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know.
“Do?” Beth echoed. “I don’t know what there is to do. But it might help to learn how cults operate. If you really are okay with that.” Beth’s eyes smiled into mine.
When we said good-bye, I felt the best I had in days.
Chapter Three
I didn’t get around to cracking the books until Tuesday. The Internet was swollen with an ocean of words ranging from scholarly dissertations to survivor chat lines. The cults themselves even hosted websites. Militaristic survival groups and racial hate groups vied for cyberspace with Eastern religions, UFO seekers, and prosperity-minded schemers.
Paranoia had gone high tech.
Even though I wasn’t sure whether the Elect’s focus was on Eastern mysticism, esoteric New Age-ism, occult or your basic, garden-variety neo-Christians, it didn’t matter. The techniques used by all were surprisingly similar.
Secrecy, deception, a charismatic authority figure, inducing a heightened sense of belonging, and, of course, plain, old-fashioned brainwashing were the favored techniques for luring people whose vulnerabilities—whether circumstantial or because of inherent personality traits—made them easy marks.
Milieu control seemed necessary too. Creating a closed, insulated system made people focus on the “message,” while isolation kept members dependent and malleable. Secret languages rich with symbolism and hidden meanings created a sense of exclusivity, and inner knowledge, and further constricted independent thought.
Fascinating stuff. Moving from the Internet, I delved into my stack of college texts, pr
ofessional journals, and training books. There was surprisingly little information, even on treatment issues with traumatized former members.
By late Wednesday afternoon, I was tired of written words and sat back in my chair to ponder whom I might consult about this subject. I knew plenty of colleagues who worked with depression, anxiety, eating disorders—but cults? Not so much. Calls to various coworkers netted me nothing. I even tried the Yellow Pages.
Finally in desperation, I put a call in to a local pastor who referred me to a priest who gave me the name of a Christian counselor who operated out of a church office. I left a message with my office and home numbers on her voice mail and set the problem aside. I decided I had met my obligation, anyway.
An hour or so later, Eli and I met at Northwoods Pub and caught up with each other’s lives. Eli attended law school in St. Paul. Although doing well academically, he was starting to hate the commute and, in some way, the events of this summer had created doubts about the direction his schooling was currently taking. The midsemester grind, however, was keeping him so focused on maintaining his grades that he didn’t have a whole lot of time left for pondering the bigger question of career choice. The reservations he had been having, his avoidance at taking a deeper look at what they would mean for him, were additional rocks that the current of our relationship swelled around and over.
That night was peaceful, though. We discussed a paper he was working on and chatted about how the koi were responding to their new environment. When he asked about the situation with Beth, I filled him in on our encounter at the Saturday night meeting. Everything was fine until I mentioned that I had offered to research cults for her.
“You what?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“What?”
“What did you agree to do?”
I did a split-second scan of the conversation to pinpoint the source of his irritation: Beth, research, cults? No clue. Did he think I was planning to take on a more active role?
“I told her I would check out some books and talk to some colleagues,” I clarified.
“Why?”
“I don’t get it, Eli. What’s wrong? Why wouldn’t I just look some things up?”
“I thought you didn’t want to get involved. You come out to the house, all upset because Beth is trying to—”
“So I’m not supposed to come to your house, or I’m not supposed to get upset?”
“I didn’t say that. Of course I want you to come to me when you’re upset. My point is that you didn’t want to get involved in this mess. And now you are.”
“I don’t want to investigate this. I’m not—”
“And researching this stuff isn’t investigating?” His turn to interrupt.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I sat fuming, staring off at a stuffed moose head, trying not to cry. I didn’t want things to be like this: tense, tiptoeing around taboo subjects, exhausted by the past. Wadding up my napkin, I caught the waitress’s eye. She sped right over and took our plates, chattering pleasantries and working hard at ignoring the churning atmosphere. Plunking the check down, she made her escape.
As fast as it hit the table, Eli whisked it up and took it to the front register. Moving more slowly, I gathered my purse and followed.
The ride home was quiet and took forever.
I trudged through Thursday like it was sludge. I had few clients and spent most of my day pretending to do paperwork. I tried. I really did. My mind just wouldn’t stop circling back to various imaginary speeches I wished I had made the previous night. Ranging from stern lectures on my independence and the inalienable right to make my own decisions to humorous deflections of Eli’s anger to gentle remonstrances that exuded quiet dignity and strength—the internal monologues shared one commonality that rarely occurred in real life. In my imagination, my arguments—in whatever form—changed Eli’s mind and restored harmony to our relationship.
Knowing the uselessness of these mental regurgitations didn’t stop me from brooding most of that day and into the evening. That night I was in such a funk that when the phone rang I debated letting it go to voice mail. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stand myself anymore and was desperate for a distraction.
The name didn’t register at first, but then it kicked in. Tracy Grand, the Christian counselor I had left a message for. She was making “hope it’s okay that I called you at home” noises, and I assured her it was fine. Wonderful, even.
“Your message indicated you were interested in cult formation?” Her voice was pure Midwest twang and friendly openness.
I took some time to fill her in on the general background and our concerns about Maggie. Out of habit, I left names and identifying features out.
“Sure sounds interesting,” she commented. “As long as you know that I’m not an expert in this field.”
Having dispensed with the formalities, we agreed on lunch the next day. Hanging up, I gave a little mental humph to the question of what Eli would say. So who’s telling?
Viewed from across the restaurant, Tracy looked like a farm girl in somebody’s dress-up clothes. A closer inspection showed a woman in her midfifties with strawberry-blond hair, wide Slavic cheekbones, and an aura of raw health that made me think of apples and sunshine. What first looked like blush turned out to be the wind chapped cheeks of an outdoor enthusiast.
We spent the first part of the meal each delicately probing the other’s professional credentials and schooling. While we had both pursued undergraduate degrees in the UW system, she had chosen a small Christian college for her masters level while I had attended Madison and partied my way through.
We soon felt comfortable enough to move from the general to the specifics. A few quick questions determined that she was not aware of the group calling itself The Elect of the Returning King.
“That’s not saying a lot though,” she said. “I don’t consider myself an expert by a long shot. Unless I was working with a family member or someone who broke away from the group, I would have no reason to hear of them. I don’t keep a watch on the various sects and groups, although I could probably put you in touch with people who do.”
“You’re the only person I’ve found with any experience at all. Can you tell me, in general, what sorts of cases you’ve worked?”
Tracy toyed with her silverware. “Just two, really. The first time I worked with the family of a person involved in a sect that they claimed was a cult. I have no way of knowing for sure if it was. The issues we worked on had more to do with their sense of helplessness and need for acceptance of their daughter’s decisions. The treatment didn’t go well from my perspective. We had differing opinions on the treatment goals. They were looking to retrieve their daughter while I felt we should be working on acceptance of her choices.
“The other situation was an individual who sought counseling after having left a group after a twelve-year involvement. She also used the term ‘cult,’ but, based on her description, I was more willing to agree with the label than the previous case. Our work together lasted considerably longer and focused on rebuilding her confidence in her own decision making and in dealing with her regrets at what she called the lost years.”
“Why the hesitation in accepting the first case’s use of ‘cult’ for the group their daughter was involved in?” I asked.
Again a pause while Tracy deliberated. When talking about herself, her responses came easily. Discussing clients slowed her down as she sorted out what she could ethically reveal without breaking confidentiality. When she began again, the tutorial veered away from actual case histories in favor of theory.
“I don’t have to tell you: words have power. In my opinion, the word ‘cult’ has been overused, leached of its true meaning. Any remote little group who strikes the general public as in any way different from the norm is labeled a cult and then treated with suspicion, even hostility, because of it.
“The public,” she continued, “or I should say the media forget that there are legitimate reaso
ns people are drawn to communities who share their beliefs, goals, and concerns. Not to mention the fact that grown adults get to make their own decisions about their lifestyles, religious affiliations, and level of commitment to an organization.”
“Then what do you think qualifies as a cult?” I asked.
“I think when most people use the word, they are referring to groups with unorthodox and therefore, to them, frightening political or religious beliefs. The word ‘cult,’ on the other hand, comes from the Latin, cultus, meaning care or adoration. When that adoration gets twisted through manipulation and exploitation, it devolves into the true meaning of a cult. The key for me is exploitation.
“Sects or other legitimate organizations rely on informed consent and voluntary participation. Quite the opposite of cults. Cults seek out those with vulnerabilities and subject them to experiences where only a select few are aware of the mechanics behind the interactions, and those few use hidden agendas to manipulate their unsuspecting targets. One of the most common practices when luring people in is called ‘love bombing.’ Happened to my former client. She’s feeling awful about life and meets a group who literally swarmed over her with affection, flattery, and sweet talk. It just plain feels good to belong, especially to an exclusive group.
“But again there’s that hidden agenda,” Tracy went on. “Obviously, neo-Christian groups target people who are searching for deeper meaning in their lives and, in particular, in their relationship with Christ. If that were all there was to it, there would be no problem. But the key to what makes a religious group a cult is that underneath the apparent message of salvation are a bunch of philosophies and practices that go completely against true Christianity.”
I looked a question.
“For one thing, the essential basis for Christianity is that faith in Christ alone results in salvation. That’s it; done deal. Cults give lip service to that while simultaneously convincing their members that only certain tasks like raising or donating money, unquestioning obedience to the leader, as well as enlightenment and so on, are what’s needed to be a true believer.
The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4) Page 2
