by Rick Dakan
“We’ll see. I’ll try,” I said, doubting just watching the house would do much good, but not sure what else would.
“Good, good. OK, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tonight. We’ve got to keep on this.”
“OK, Conrad,” I said. “Later.” I hung up and crawled back into bed, wondering if there was any way I’d be able to actually concentrate on work for the rest of the day. In the end, I couldn’t.
I did swing by the compound that day, but not to stake the place out. I rang the bell at the gate and waited for a few minutes before yet another face I’d never seen before cracked the barrier open just enough to see me. I asked for Cara, was told she wasn’t there, and handed him an envelope to give to her when she returned. I assumed Shelby or someone would probably open it, so all it contained was my name and number, but I hoped having a physical piece of paper to give to Cara when she returned might help Shelby’s minions remember to give her the message. Then at least she’d know there was someone else besides Shelby and his church that cared about how she was doing.
The next morning I made my usual tour of Web sites as I drank my second cup of coffee. More comments on the Cthulhu Manifesto’s Wiki and some more chatter on discussion forums, but nothing that new or interesting. The real news came when I checked the Weekly Voice’s Web site to see if Wendell Locking had anything to say about the anti-Shelby letter to the editor from the day before. As Conrad had predicted, Locking had not only noticed it, he’d pulled together a lot of the pieces.
A New Cult for a New Generation?
Sleepy, sophisticated, sun-drenched Sarasota is the last place you’d expect to find Gothic death cults rearing their black-dyed heads, but it seems Sarasota’s own Shelby Tyree is aiming to bring a little occult culture to town. You might remember a few weeks back when I blogged about a particularly obnoxious “art opening” Tyree put on, which he called “The Cthulhu Cult.” Alas, this blood-drenched display of bad taste and even worse art was apparently not a one-time-only affair. Tyree and company have printed up copies of their own “Cthulhu Manifesto,” which they’re giving away all over town. Indeed, several hundred of these tactless tracts were secretly slipped inside of the Weekly Voice while they were on the newsstands. Weren’t unlucky enough to get one when you picked up the latest issue? Well, apparently they’re all over town in all the best places: head shops, comic book stores, video game stores, and some bars. Someone told me they even saw some in the give-away racks at the public library. I do give Tyree points for ingenuity and persistence, but this is not the kind of stuff that most parents want their kids reading, as one concerned mother noted in the op-ed pages of The Daily Paper We Must Not Name concerning these poorly composed Cthulhu Manifestos. And while, nine times out of ten, I’m more sympathetic towards free speech than “won’t someone think of the children,” given Tyree’s sordid past and equally sordid recent past and no doubt even more sordid present, it’s not the kind of things most Sarasotans want going on in their community. Is Tyree really a cult leader? Or is this all some ingenious publicity stunt? Or maybe both? How will we ever find out for sure? Well, I don’t want to give anything away, but it seems like just the kind of thing that might make a good story for an investigative report in a certain free weekly newspaper. Make sure to check out the newsstands next Wednesday.
I called Conrad as soon as I finished reading the piece.
“You were right,” I said as soon as he picked up. “Locking picked it up and blogged about it.”
“I know. I e-mailed him the link to the manifesto after we talked yesterday.”
“What? Why?” I asked, surprised.
“More pressure on Shelby. And whatever Shelby’s up to, if there’s pressure then maybe it’ll keep him from doing anything stupid. I didn’t want to leave it up to chance that no one else would follow up on that letter to the editor.”
“Jesus, Shelby’s going to be pissed,” I said, not sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
“If he’s pissed, then that’s good too. It means he’s being sensible and that maybe this is all some crazy stunt. What I’m worried about is if he’s not pissed. If he really believes all this insane Cthulhu crap, then it won’t matter to him what the rest of us think. And if that’s true, then Cara and anyone else who falls in with him and Kym could be in for real trouble.”
“Maybe,” I said. “That makes some sense. Although even if it is all fake and he’s doing it for publicity or something, he might not mind a little bad press — the people he’s trying to attract will actually be more interested if his church has some sort of social stigma attached to it. Maybe. I don’t know. But I’ll bet he’ll still be mad at you either way for writing that reporter — he’s going to see it as you trying to screw with his plans.”
“Well, there’s no way he’s going to find out. I sent the tip anonymously and I’m not going to tell him.”
“OK, well, you’re covered there then. But hey, I’ve got a question. What do we do if this Locking guy comes asking you or me questions?”
“Why would he?”
“Well, both of us gave statements to the police in the original thing at the old house last year. And your wife’s law firm represents Shelby’s church, at least on the paperwork. So if this guy really digs into the story rather than just Googling a few things and writing a puff piece, he might come ask us about Shelby.”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure,” said Conrad, before going silent for a few moments. “There’s an idea. Whether or not the reporter does his job and follows up with us, we can pretend that he did. We can use the threat of it to maybe get some actual face time with Shelby. If he’s really not online at his compound, he probably hasn’t seen this blog post, right?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“So we go over there and say that this reporter called us. That he wants to interview us about our old friend Shelby Tyree. He’ll have to let us in and talk if he wants to try and control what we say. We’ll know a lot more once we’ve had a chance to talk with him and hopefully Cara too. If it is all some big prank or theater thing or whatever, then fine. But I think something else is going on, and if he evades us or throws us a line of bullshit, then we’ll know we’ve got real reason to be worried.”
“That’s actually a good idea.” I thought Conrad’s plan might really work, and if we got in past the gate, I could talk to Cara if she was there and find out if she really was in trouble or not. “When do you want to go over?”
“I’ve got a house showing this afternoon, so I thought I’d head over this evening,” he said. “Want me to pick you up?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter 13
Conrad picked me up in the late afternoon, less than an hour before sunset. When he knocked I scrambled down the stairs from my office and out the door to his waiting SUV. The engine was still running. We didn’t talk much on the way over, just a few quick sentences going over what our story would be: reporter snooping, concerned friends, scandal brewing. My stomach churned in nervous anticipation as he drove too fast down the winding road to the dead end of Shelby’s compound, hidden away behind the high gates. Conrad parked his truck within inches of the gate, blocking any traffic that might try to enter or leave. As he rang the bell I stood at his side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
After Conrad’s ringing had gone on for what seemed like over a minute, the same young man’s pompous voice I’d heard before finally called over to us, “Present yourself!”
“Conrad Laughton and Rick Dakan,” Conrad shouted back. “We need to see Shelby. It’s urgent.”
“The Hierophant is not seeing visitors. You must leave.”
“No we must not leave. We must see Shelby and we need to see him today. Now.”
The doorman held his ground, shaking his head with solemn exaggeration. “That’s not possible. Now please leave.”
Conrad started ringing the bell again. “Sorry, no. Is there anyone else in there? Can I sp
eak to your manager?”
“Manager?” The voice sounded nonplussed, and broke character. “I don’t have a freaking manager.”
“Someone higher up the food chain then. Whoever it is who makes you come out here and answer the gate.” Conrad rang the bell louder.
“Will you cut that out?” the voice asked, frustrated and shouting over the bell.
Conrad stopped ringing but raised his own voice almost as loud. “Will you just let me talk to someone? It’s important! Listen, I am a lawyer and there are going to be serious legal consequences for all of you if I can’t warn Shelby about what’s coming down. And no, I can’t just leave you a message. This is privileged attorney client stuff. So, please. Go. Get. Shelby.”
“Fine, hold on.” We heard his feet crunching on the gravel, receding toward the house.
“Lawyer?” I asked Conrad.
“Always works for Lauren.”
We waited five minutes before Conrad grew frustrated and started ringing the bell again. Then he had me ring the bell while he went to honk his horn. I looked around and saw several neighbors watching from doorways with annoyed interest and stopped ringing. Conrad may or may not have noticed, but he didn’t stop honking for another thirty seconds, by which time the gate was finally opening anyway. I stepped back as I heard the latch clink and saw the sturdy wooden barrier ever so slightly vibrate as it scraped open along the driveway just enough to let someone step out from within. It was Cara.
“Hey, you,” she said with a smile, reaching forward to hug me. She wore a low-slung, gauzy green and purple peasant skirt and a kind of short leather vest that exposed her midriff in a most distracting way. So distracting that it took a moment for the fresh black ink of the tattoo on her hip to register — the branch or arrow-like design that I’d seen tattooed on Kym and Shelby. “What’re you doing here?” she asked as she released me from her embrace.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said, fighting to keep my tone accusation-free. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
She gave me a thin smile. “I know, I got your messages, and I’ve been meaning to call, but I just got back into town today and I’m still getting settled in.”
“So you’ve moved in with Shelby and Kym?”
“I have, yes.” Now her smile blossomed into a full grin. “It’s really amazing in here. What they’re doing? It’s mind-blowing. Like nothing I’ve ever done or tried to do or even thought about. It’s totally what I needed. A complete change.” She sounded happy and enthused and maybe even something just shy of blissful. But then, isn’t that how all new cult converts sound? And then there was the tattoo. That spoke volumes to me. I couldn’t believe that Cara would fall under Shelby’s spell so quickly, but then again, I didn’t really know anything about her other than she was in a very vulnerable state. Perhaps in her mind it was a totally logical thing to do. Looking at it from the outside where I was, I knew she was making a terrible mistake.
“We need to see Shelby,” Conrad said, striding up beside me and giving Cara a good look up and down. “It’s important.”
“I’m sorry, he’s just not seeing anyone right now. He’s in a deep meditative state and unless there’s some real emergency, I’m not supposed to disturb him or Kym. Do you want to give me a message for them?”
Conrad pulled a printout of the online piece about Shelby out from his pocket and handed it to her. “Show him that and tell him that the reporter has been around asking a lot of questions. He wants to talk to me and Rick about Shelby’s background and some of the things that went down last year. We’re putting him off for now because we want to talk with Shelby first. You know, let him know what’s up and get his side of the story out. It’s really important that we talk to him.”
“I’ll pass it on, sure,” Cara said, taking the paper. “But I’m positive he won’t mind your talking to reporters. He’s got nothing to hide. Besides, he doesn’t care what the papers say about him or us. None of us do. Tell the reporters whatever it is you want to, as long as it’s the truth. As it says in the Cthulhu Manifesto, ‘The truth might be terrifying, but it’s always true. Words are but words. Thoughts are but thoughts. They may be unpleasant, but they won’t hurt us.’”
The way she quoted Shelby’s book with such practiced ease was how I imagined Manson’s followers sounded when they talked about Charlie’s teachings. It felt like ice-cold ants were crawling along the back of my neck and I’m sure my eyes went wide. Was she really so far gone as that? I’m not sure how I would have responded on my own, but Conrad must have been thinking something similar, and he was never quite as tactful as me.
“Have you gone nuts?” he said to her, voice dripping with barely-concealed disdain. “You’re quoting that silly comic book of Shelby’s like it’s the Goddamned Bible!”
She smiled at him, a friendly enough look for the most part, with just a hint of condescension. “Conrad, honey, calm down. Please, it’s certainly no Bible. It’s just more words. But they’re words that make a lot of sense to me. Not just to me, but also to many others. What we’re doing here isn’t about what some newspaper reporter writes. It’s just not a concern.”
“Cara, what happened to you?” Conrad asked. “When we were dating you were never like this, into these kinds of things. You would have been merciless with your jokes and teasing if someone you knew was doing what you’re doing now.”
“I don’t know that that’s true at all, Conrad. Just like I don’t quite remember that you and I ever actually dated per se. Did we even kiss? But that’s not important, is it? I thought a lot of silly things when I was a child that I don’t think now. I would hope the same is true for you.”
When Conrad didn’t answer at once I looked over at him and he seemed somehow shaken, his shoulder slumped and mouth slightly agape. But he quickly recovered, and came back at Cara with renewed focus, his tone a little more subdued but still serious. “Listen, I’m not here to debate philosophy. I’m here because I’m worried about you, Cara. Rick and I both are.”
“Then let me put your worries to rest, Conrad. I’m fine. I’ve never been better. My vision of the universe is expanding to finally encompass the truth, and while that’s kind of scary, it’s also exhilarating. Liberating.”
“I know you’re in a fragile place,” Conrad said in low tones, ignoring what she’d said. “I know you’ve got the divorce thing going on and you lost your job. It’s got to be a tough time. But that means you have to be extra careful about making any kind of… ”
“How do you know all that?” Cara’s voice had snapped out of the dreamy, metaphysics-laden haze it had been in and was all of a sudden angry and accusing. I realized at once that Conrad had made a huge mistake. How could he explain knowing all that stuff about her without admitting to hiring a private investigator? And how could he then justify prying into her private life like that?
Conrad was at a loss for words as the same thoughts no doubt occurred to him thirty seconds too late. I tried to salvage the situation as best I could. “I’m not sure what Conrad’s talking about, Cara. But you’ve got to admit, this does all seem very strange.”
She narrowed her gaze at Conrad before shifting her attention to me. “It is strange, yes. But, so what?”
“So what?” I asked. Wasn’t the strangeness alone cause for concern, I wondered.
“So what if it’s strange?”
“It’s strange like a cult,” Conrad said, recovering. “It’s like you’re in some sort of cult.”
That seemed to just piss her off. “We’re not a cult! This is not about religion, or Shelby, or anything like that. We’re about opening minds to the reality of the universe. We’re about exploring the true nature of existence, not getting caught up in the false realities most people build in their minds to shield themselves from the truth.” She gave both of us a disgusted look that made it quite clear she thought we were in fact totally clueless.
“You don’t even realize who Shelby and Kym are
,” Conrad said. “They’re frauds. I’m telling you, Cara, you’re getting into something that may be a lot more sinister than you think.”
“The past is past,” Cara said. “I’ve put my past behind me and I don’t care in the least about Shelby’s or Kym’s.” She turned back towards the gate, clearly done with the pair of us.
A long, loud gong sounded from somewhere beyond the gate. Cara looked back over her shoulder at us both, her eyes flashing a moment’s anxiety. “You need to go. You can’t be here now, so please, go.”
“What’s happening?” Conrad asked as the gong sounded again.
“The sunset ritual is starting soon. I need to seal the gates.” I noticed she said “gates” not “gate” and I was put in mind of not of the wooden barrier in front of me, but the mystical gates from the Call of Cthulhu game that were used to summon forth extra-dimensional monstrosities from their alien planes of existence. “I’m serious,” she said. “It would be bad for you to stay here. Something bad might happen to you.” She then slipped back through the gate and I heard her locking it. Conrad moved forward to push on it just to make sure, but it didn’t budge.
I was still trying to sort out what I thought about what had just happened, while Conrad was climbing up onto the hood of his SUV. “What are you doing?” I asked, although it was now obvious. From his perch atop the Ford, he could peer over the fence and into the compound.
“She’s gone back into the house. I can’t see anything else moving.” It was starting to get dark now and the gong sounded a third time. “There are no lights anywhere in there. I can’t tell where the damned gong is coming from.”
“Conrad, get down from there. The neighbors will see!”
“I can’t see anything from here anyway,” he said as he clambered down. “Too many trees blocking the view towards the back.”
