by Gayle Roper
The book would be a bestseller, no question. Even if Jason’s writing was lousy, several publishers would pay megabig bucks for a book that exposed Mike and hire someone to make it read right.
Jason Peoples on The New York Times bestseller list. Harl laughed to himself. Even the thought of that would give Mike a coronary! If the cost wouldn’t be equally as high for Harl himself, he’d enjoy seeing his leader swinging in the wind.
Harl returned to the present with a thud when Mike swore, surprised not only by the volume but the choice of words. Mike’d worked hard to rid himself of any vestige of his street days. He was now a spiritual man of impeccable behavior and unimpeachable standards—don’t make me laugh. Coarse language was forbidden to all at the compound.
“He’s writing an insider’s look at The Pathway.” Mike was outraged.
Well, what did Mike expect? “What? That’s awful!” Harl knew it was worse than awful. He’d read what was there, and just thinking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.
For the briefest moment Mike looked uncertain. “What made him turn on me, Harl? On us? I don’t understand it. After all I did for him!”
Harl shrugged, careful to keep his face neutral while he marveled at Mike’s stupidity, at least about Jason’s motives. Any fool could see that Jennie was Jason’s backbreaking straw, and reading the chapter about her confirmed that. If Mike hadn’t refused Jason’s request to marry her, the guy’d still be alive, a happy camper, and that incendiary missing item wouldn’t be missing.
Harl waited while Mike scrolled through chapter headings.
“Jennie?” Mike looked at Harl, then opened the file and began to read.
It wasn’t pretty, Harl knew. In it Jason accused Mike of the rape of a young follower. He accused him of being responsible for Jennie’s death, even going so far as to call it murder.
“I did not murder her!” Mike’s face turned red with fury. “She fell. She had an attack of some kind.”
Harl nodded, but he remembered the situation more as Jason did. After all, Harl had seen everything from his position in the video room where he controlled the three cameras that recorded the initiation ceremonies of all The Pathway brides-to-be. The two of them often joked that Harl had almost as much fun as Mike on these prewedding nights.
Sometimes he saw the night Jennie died in his dreams, heard Jennie’s pleas, her screams, her sobs. He heard Mike order her to shut up and submit. He heard Jennie’s defiance and her fear.
“Please, please don’t make me marry the man you selected! Let me marry the man I love. Please!”
He saw the slaps and then the fist to the jaw. He saw her fall, saw Mike fall on her, saw her violation, saw Mike’s hand over her mouth and nose to stifle her screams, saw Jennie’s deathly stillness.
When Mike rose and Jennie didn’t, Mike had panicked. He yelled for Harl, knowing he’d seen what happened.
Harl raced to Mike’s bedroom where the two of them stared down at the dead girl. When their shock receded, they came up with the story of Jennie’s seizure and fall. Who knew epilepsy could just appear like that? They cleaned her up and dressed her, arranged her on the floor in the sitting area of the bedroom as if she’d fallen there. The bed was made as immaculately as if Marty, wife number one and a saint if ever there was one, had done it.
In their haste to cover up the crime, manslaughter at the very least, though Harl thought a good case could be made for murder, they both forgot the camera that kept recording everything on a DVD. When Harl went to retrieve the DVD several hours later, it was gone.
For two days they waited for the sky to fall, but nothing happened. Harl found himself wanting to believe the missing disc was a case of cosmic intervention to preserve Mike and The Pathway. And him.
Then came Jennie’s funeral followed a day later by Jason’s disappearance. Oh, Jason tried to cover his flight with the phony accident that fooled no one. The police contacted The Pathway about the burned car because the license plate led them to the organization. The sign-out sheet indicating who was using one of The Pathway’s cars then led them to Jason.
Once Harl’s heart started to beat regularly after the fear-based rush of adrenaline at the cops’ appearance, he got a kick out of Jason’s daring attempt at vanishing.
“There was no one in the car when it burned,” the cops said. “Nothing burns completely. There would be some indication if someone had been trapped.”
Jason, Jennie, a stolen DVD—it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.
Mike told the followers that Jason was killed in the fiery crash. They even had a memorial service for him at which Mike eulogized Jason in a voice that shook with emotion. Harl smirked in the back row. Anger could make the voice quiver much like sorrow.
“He must be found,” Mike raged to Harl in the privacy of his office. “He’s too dangerous to be allowed to live. Find him! Get that DVD at all costs.”
Harl began his quest locally, showing Jason’s picture at airports, train stations, and bus depots. Nothing. He broadened his search to used car dealers and car rental agencies. He checked newspapers for individuals who were selling cars privately.
The whole time he searched, he kept coming back to the issue of money. How could Jason buy a car or a ticket without money? Any time he was sent to town for supplies, he used The Pathway’s credit card. Careful checking of records showed he hadn’t been foolish enough to use the card for his escape.
So where had he gotten the necessary money?
On a whim Harl hired a private investigator in New Jersey to check out Jason’s parents. He couldn’t believe Jason would be foolish enough to go someplace so obvious, but he might have talked them into wiring him funds.
Bingo! Three weeks after he disappeared, Jason was spotted in Seaside. Harl found it strange that Jason seemed to be leading a normal life, going to college and working at some restaurant. What was he waiting for? What did he hope to gain by keeping the DVD secret? Blackmail? The thought chilled Harl’s blood.
“We’re going to Seaside,” Mike had announced as they sat once again in his luxurious office, relaxed in the wake of the private investigator’s report. Mike was leaning back in his leather executive chair, feet resting on his desk, while Harl sat on the plush sofa along the wall. Harl often wondered what would happen if the women living in those sterile dorms across the compound could see how well Mike lived.
“You want to go to Seaside?” Was he nuts? “Come on, Mike. You can’t go flying off to New Jersey. You can’t be anywhere near Jason. We’ll stay here and use the same PI to find the DVD.”
Mike stood and walked across the room, his footsteps muffled by the deep pile of the rug. He poured himself two fingers of scotch. He rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed. “No one but the two of us must ever know about that DVD, Harl. No one. We have to find it.”
Harl hated it when Mike’s arguments made sense. What if the private investigator looked at the thing? Disaster.
Mike poured himself another glass. “We need to make several videos that can be posted to YouTube while we’re gone so everyone thinks we’re here. And for the followers here, we’ll make a big deal of going to the retreat house to commune with God.”
Mike smiled that arrogant, smug smile Harl hated. “We’ll find the DVD and go fishing. Maybe do some other business while we’re at it. Check for good deals.” And he walked out.
If he wouldn’t be brought as low as Mike, Harl would wish the DVD went viral on YouTube. It was exactly what Mike deserved.
24
I set my coffee cup down on Greg’s table. I still found it hard to believe that I had actually caught some of our golden brown, crunchy, and delicious dinner. I decided I liked fishing. Talk about a good ROI—return on investment.
Conversation during the meal had been general—what television shows we liked and why, what channel had the best newscasts, who were our favorite actors. I allowed him a slight crush on Gwyneth Paltrow and he ignored my swoon over Ewan
McGregor.
Earlier I had been much more open than usual about my growing-up years, but I’d wanted Greg to realize the worst about me. If who I was and where I came from were too much for him, we both needed to know that before we became any more involved.
Of course my emotions were seriously engaged already. I thought of the old saying about it being as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man, and I disagreed. Falling in love seemed to be something beyond a person’s control, at least this person’s.
One individual called out to you on some elemental level, and something in you responded. Why a melancholy ex-cop/widower who disliked his current career appealed to me I didn’t know. He came with so much emotional baggage, baggage I wasn’t certain he’d ever jettison. That scared me, but it didn’t stop the pull he exerted on me. He was the magnet, and I was the iron filings; he was the moon, and I was the tide. Clichés, and corny ones at that, but true nonetheless.
Greg placed his knife and fork across his plate and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got a question for you, Carrie. It’s highly personal, but I hope you’ll answer because it’s part of my crusade to learn all about you.”
I could feel his intensity rolling across the table, and I shivered. My stomach lurched. Maybe the fried fish wasn’t that great after all.
“Go ahead,” I said, wary. My hands gripped each other in my lap.
“How’s your mom doing today?”
I sighed. “I was afraid you were going to ask me something about her.”
“Hurtful topic.”
“You have no idea.”
It would have been nice if he’d said something about seeing that his question upset me so he was changing the subject, but he didn’t. He sat watching me, face grave, waiting.
I hunched my shoulders, knowing I might well be killing any good thoughts he had about me. “I have no idea how she is.”
I also had no idea where she was or whether she still lived at the last address we’d shared. Given her record for nonpayment of rent, she’d probably skipped in the middle of the night for a new place to lease and not pay on.
Greg stood and took his dish to the sink. He was frowning as he scraped the crumbs into the garbage disposal. He turned to me. “When was the last time you saw her?”
I couldn’t look at him, and I had to force the words out. “Seventeen years ago.”
It was clear my answers to his questions about Mom troubled him. They troubled my counselor and my pastor too, and I found myself getting defensive with Greg just as I had with them. After all, what did he with his loving family know about mothers like mine? Nothing!
“That’s a long time,” he said, voice mild. “Do you even know if she’s alive?”
I watched him return to his seat. “No, I don’t.” And I don’t care!
I knew he didn’t understand, maybe even thought I was terrible, but he didn’t know what it had been like. Protecting myself and Lindsay from Mom’s men was only part of the story. There were constantly things, like the time I’d saved money from my job sweeping the floors and straightening the shelves for the mom-and-pop grocery down the street. I was saving to buy the cleated shoes, leg guards, and a hockey stick I needed so I could be on the junior high field-hockey team when school started in the fall. The day I got the final amount needed, I hurried home, excited to be able to buy something I needed and wanted. I opened my bureau drawer to get the envelope I hid the money in, but I found only the envelope, empty and torn.
“Oh, I borrowed it,” Mom said when I questioned her. She and her guy du jour were pulling bottles of Grey Goose and Absolut from paper bags. “I needed it because we’re going to have a tasting contest to see which of these is best at getting you drunk fast.” She held up the vodka bottles. “Have some, and you can vote too.”
I was thirteen.
There was the time in third grade I got up the nerve to invite home a friend from school and we found Mom and her boyfriend on the living room floor, half dressed and wholly toasted. My friend was never allowed at my house again.
Or the time she swore a blue streak at my teacher when the concerned woman called to talk about my belligerent attitude.
Or the time she came to school so drunk she swayed as she talked to the principal.
Or the time she offered to find me a guy to introduce me to the mysteries of sex.
So I didn’t care where she was or even if she was, but I was aware how my attitude made me look to others. Most of the time I ignored the fact that the few who knew how I felt about Mom thought me cold and unfeeling, but Greg was different. I wanted his good opinion, and I wanted it badly. But I also wanted him to give it in spite of who I was. I would be honest with him and hope he could accept me as I was and forgive my intransigence.
“Shouldn’t you try to make some effort to rebuild bridges here?” he asked. “Isn’t that what everyone says is the emotionally healthy thing to do?”
I nodded. “Everyone tells me I have to go see her. My counselor, Pastor Paul, Mary P. The only one who doesn’t is Lindsay.” I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. I carried my dishes to the sink, where, dishes still in hand, I stood staring out the window at the black night. The color of my soul where Mom was concerned? “But I can’t!”
“Why not?”
Was there anything worse than a reasonable man when you’re feeling anguished and threatened? “Because!”
“Because why?”
“Because I’m afraid.” I slapped a hand over my mouth and looked at him with appalled eyes. I’d voiced something I rarely acknowledged to myself.
He stood, took my plate from me, and placed it in the sink. He reached for my now-empty hand and brought it to his chest where he held it over his heart.
“But from what you’ve told me about her, Carrie, she’s not going to hurt you, at least not physically. And you’re an adult now. You don’t have to be afraid. Even if she’s got some guy with her, you’ll be okay.”
I blinked back tears at his gentle manner. I deserved for him to lecture me about how a good Christian should honor her mother, care about her and for her, not reject her. Forgive her.
“I’m not afraid physically.” Could I make him understand something I had difficulty understanding myself? “I’m afraid emotionally.”
He thought for a moment and nodded.
I swallowed the tears burning the back of my throat. “As long as I’m away from her, I can handle what happened. I can say I’ve forgiven her for exposing us to all the garbage we faced, and I can even mean it. Distance is what makes forgiveness possible.”
“But is that forgiveness?”
It was a fair question. “Probably not. But it’s as good as it gets for me.”
He ran a hand over my hair. “She did a number on you, didn’t she?”
I gave a sad little smile. “Understatement.” And I’d thought he had a lot of unresolved baggage.
“What do you think would happen if you saw her? To you and to her?”
“To her, nothing. She barely noticed we existed when we were there, so I doubt she’s ever missed us. As for me, I’m afraid all the resentment and anger I can control from a distance is going to overwhelm me.”
“But if you’ve forgiven her—”
“I know, I know. If I’ve forgiven her, it should be all finished. Forgiveness is supposed to be once for all, like Christ’s forgiveness of us.” I sighed. I hated this part of myself, this fist that held tight to my right to be angry and bitter. “But it’s not that simple. There are the memories of all those nights of fear, the days of want and hunger, the humiliation of everyone knowing what she was like and looking at Lindsay and me like we were bound to be as bad. And then there’s the knowledge that I stole because of her and the guilt over that behavior.”
His thumb made sweet circles on the back of my hand. “What if I went to Atlanta with you?” he asked as if he were asking about going down the block to the convenience store on the corner for a quart of milk.
“I think I’d do most anything for you.”
He said it so simply my insides melted. “Oh, Greg, I’m such a bad risk. Ginny was so wonderful. I’m such a mess.”
“Not in my book. I think you’re brave and amazing. You’re even strong enough to tell the truth.”
I started to cry. He wrapped his arms around me and held me while I wept all over his shirt. When I started to calm down, he kissed me on the temple. I turned my face up, and our lips met.
25
As night closed in, Harl Evans sat back and watched Mike as he continued to read from Jason’s laptop. The set of the man’s jaw and the narrowing of his eyes told Harl that if Jason wasn’t already dead, he would be soon. He’d seen Mike angry before, but never like this.
“How dare he!” Mike looked up and glared at Harl. “You won’t believe what he’s written. About me!”
Harl fought to keep his expression neutral, swallowing his incredulity at Mike’s naiveté. Of course Jason hated him. Who wouldn’t after what Mike had done? The man had begun to believe his own press releases, statements he’d made up himself:
“Michael the Archangel, the messenger God has sent to give you abundant life!”
“Listen to the anointed words of Michael, God’s archangel, and find life!”
“Let Michael the Archangel pray for you, and God will rain blessings beyond belief.”
Harl had always liked that one with all the b words at the end. So did Mike. “Blessings beyond belief” had become one of his favorite lines, as in, “Send your gifts, and I will give you blessings beyond belief!”
Not God; Mike.
For a charlatan as sharp as Mike at shearing the sheep, it was amazing how he craved the approval and adoration of the shivering and newly poor lambs. Why one lamb might turn into a snarling wolf was a mystery to him.
