The Prophet Motive (36 page)
Jonestown survivors and the relatives of victims took turns at a microphone sharing remembrances of the deceased, or offering words of comfort. The daughter of Congressman Ryan spoke, as did one of the sons of Jim Jones. John only listened.
By the time the service ended the fog had thickened. People broke up into small groups or headed back to their vehicles. Marilyn recognized a young male reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle who’d conducted an interview with her back in September. He was heading straight for John. She rushed over to block his path.
“Leave him alone, today of all days. He hasn’t granted any interviews anyway.”
“Ah, Doctor Michaelsen. Well, I’ll agree if you’ll answer a few questions yourself.”
“Deal.”
“Okay, then. Is it true you’re heading up a team that’s attempting to help the Earthbound members cope with the loss of L. Rob Piper and the knowledge that he’d been exploiting them?”
“I’m merely coordinating the effort. We have mental health professionals volunteering from UC Berkeley, from Tulare County, where the farm is located, and from Get Back, a non-profit based in Berkeley, and dedicated to assisting former cult members.”
“What’s been done so far?”
“Well, we’ve sent in a team of exit counselors, psychotherapists, and psychologists to work with the cult members. We’ve documented for them the true reason why they were donating blood and sperm and reproductive eggs. We’ve explained how their minds had been captured and controlled by L. Rob Piper. And we’ve offered them assistance in contacting their families, and in finding a new place for themselves in society.”
“How’s it going?”
“We’ve met with only limited success,” she said. “But that’s to be expected. Cult members, you see, are conditioned to hate and mistrust the outside world. So when outsiders maintain that their dead cult leader was a fraud, rather than a messiah, they react with a great deal of skepticism. They may stay in denial for years afterwards. That’s why there are still Branch Davidians, for example, years after the Waco tragedy.”
John stood by the monument now, reading its inscription. The reporter said, “I’ve heard that fully one-third of the twelve hundred Earthbound members have migrated to Mexico to follow a new leader? Someone claiming to be L. Rob Piper’s brother?”
“Correct,” Marilyn said. “Piper had purchased some land down there to start another human body farm. We don’t know who the new leader is, but Piper had no siblings. The United States government is trying to convince the Mexican authorities to seize the property, because it was purchased with blood money, if you will. I don’t know whether that effort will prove successful. If you’ll excuse me now . . .”
Marilyn shouldered past the reporter and approached John, calling his name. He glanced up at her, smiled, and returned his gaze to the monument. She came to a stop by his side.
“First time I ever came to one of these,” he said. “This is where I would’ve ended up, you know. My mother and father were identified—they’re over in Berkeley—but at seven, I didn’t have any dental records yet.”
“I never said thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You look good,” she said. “Where’d you get the tan?”
“Fishing. I’m living on my uncle’s boat. Spending lots of time out on the water. A hundred years ago, all the Richetti men were fishermen.”
“Sounds like you’re really connecting with your past.”
He laughed. “About time, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why’d you leave the force, John?”
He shrugged. “It was awkward whenever I stopped by the precinct. So I quit stopping by. Eventually, I realized it would always be awkward, so I called it a career. Thanks to this bum leg, I got full retirement benefits.”
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t know.” He turned and looked out over the bay, half-hidden in a swirl of dense fog. “I’m open to suggestion.”
“Aren’t we all?”
THE END
Read more novels by Eric Christopherson. Below is the opening chapter to his psychological thriller, “Crack-Up,” which earned Best Mystery, Red Adept’s Annual Indie Awards, 2010
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Excerpt from CRACK-UP by Eric Christopherson
Of this much, at least, I’m sure: My story begins more than a year ago now, aboard a gold-plated Gulfstream corporate jet I’d borrowed for a quick business trip to Thailand. The Gulfstream belonged to Helms Technology, or HT, the computer software giant. It’d been lent to me by the company’s founder, president, and CEO, John Helms. That’s right—the wealthiest person in America. John was a client of mine. I protected him. Life and limb.
That is to say, my security firm did. And my trip to Thailand had been to do the advance work for John’s own upcoming visit. He was to meet with regional business leaders as well as speak at a computer science symposium sponsored by Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok.
The country had a large Muslim population, a number of Islamic extremists, and growing trouble with terrorism. John’s fame and wealth and nationality would make him a tempting target to those at war with the so-called decadent West. But Thailand wasn’t at all on John’s mind when he phoned me during my return trip, while the jet sat refueling in Austin, Texas.
“I’m disappointed,” John said in his nasal twang. “Mighty disappointed. You hear me, son?”
Son
. That’s what he called me. We were born the same year. “What’s the matter, John?”
“I’ve got spies under my own roof is what’s the matter!”
“Now hold on. Are you sure?” My firm was on retainer to prevent industrial spying. We also conducted the background checks on potential new hires.
“Yes, I’m sure. Damn sure.”
“Then why don’t you start from the beginning.”
John proceeded to tell me, at length, and in hardcore computer Geek-speak—which I understand nearly as well as three year-olds understand their native tongue—about a
backdoor
he’d discovered hidden in a new software program that HT had recently custom developed for a Wall Street consortium.
A backdoor is an unauthorized, undocumented way to gain access to a computer program, an online service, or an entire computer system. It’s usually written by one of the computer programmers who write the software code. But all the programmers on the project had denied creating it.
“What do I pay you for?” John said in conclusion. The plane had by now refueled, three local HT executives had come aboard for the final flight leg, and the jet had begun its runway taxi.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this, John.”
“But I pay you to prevent shit like this from happening in the first place.”
The pilot called for all electronic equipment to be switched off. Outside, the engines screamed, and I could feel the plane gathering speed on the runway. To the scolding flight attendant, hovering over me, I held up a forefinger—as if to say, “I’ll hang up in a second” or “I’m a major asshole,” take your pick.
I sure felt like a major asshole, but John Helms was my biggest client and—you could sooner forget eggplant growing out of his nose—the Forbes certified WPIA! What else could I do?
“Let’s not get too excited,” I said. “Might be nothing.”
“I don’t see how. You even listening to me, son?”
“I’m tired, John. I’m on my way back from Bangkok, from setting up that trip for you.”
“Bangkok? Oh, right. That thing.”
The flight attendant’s frown—and the angle I viewed it from—brought back ancient memories of grade school teachers. “Like I said, John, I’m on a plane right now—your plane—and we’re about—”
“Now you listen to me, Argus, I don’t want to hear there isn’t any problem.”
“We’re on the runway, just about to take off—”
“Because I know there is.”
“Honest to God, John, the flight attendant’s ready to stamp on my cell phone like a cigarette butt.”
“What? Oh, hell. Call me back.”
“Will do, John, but don’t you worry—”
John hung up. I tucked my phone away, apologizing to the flight attendant’s trim backside as she rushed off. But I didn’t think she heard me. The engines were screaming real loud by now, louder than you’d expect from such a small aircraft.
If the Gulfstream had been a commercial jet, it would’ve held fifty passengers or more, but the opulent design of the interior limited the maximum seating capacity to ten. The aft cabin, at the plane’s rear, which was not being used, contained a small conference table and four chairs, along with a fold-out beige leather sofa for sleeping. The forward cabin contained four beige leather armchairs, each with a small, mahogany writing desk. The lavatory included a full shower.
The plane was airborne and nearly horizontal again when I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply, ridding myself of a little mental pollution, a bit of the long flight’s accumulated stress.
What does John Helms really have to worry about
? I asked myself.
Ever? Give me sixty billion dollars—or even a little less, say Malaysia’s GNP—and I’d be the sweetest, mellowest son of a bitch since Mister Rodgers
.
“Madre de Dios!” said the Hispanic guy across the aisle from me, crossing himself during a bit of turbulence.
Mother of God
!
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Statistically speaking, you could take this flight once a day for almost ten thousand years before you could expect to be involved in a crash.”
He turned to me and smiled. He had shiny, straight from a swim-like jet black hair and teeth I remembered from Seabiscuit. He wore a medium brown suit with a white shirt and a bolo tie.
“Thanks. I hate flying. I’m Rob, by the way. Rob Ramos.”
“Argus. Argus Ward.”
“You from headquarters?”
“Not exactly.” I explained who I was.
“Interesting,” he said. “How’d you get into that line?”
“I started out in the Secret Service.”
For a moment his eyes fit the size of his teeth. “You don’t say. So what’s John Helms really like?”
I shook my head. “There’s a rule in my business, Rob. Never gossip about the protectee.”
He smiled so wide I nearly had to squint. Then he changed the subject. He told me he was a new marketing executive and on his way to a three-day training conference at Helms Technology’s world headquarters, outside Washington, DC, our destination.
The turbulence died away, like our small talk, and I soon drifted off to sleep in my comfortable chair, waking more than an hour later when the flight attendant emerged from the galley that separated our cabin from the cockpit to take drink orders.
She’d been on board when I’d been picked up in Bangkok, but hadn’t spoken to me—her only passenger for more than three thousand miles—except in a professional capacity. Her smile, which had always been pleasant, now seemed to strain her—as if her skin had become a quick-hardening clay. It made me worry about engine trouble with the plane. I’m like that.
Her face was almost heart-shaped, thanks to prominent cheek bones—high and wide and rouged—and a delicate, pointed chin. Her hair—straight and thick and dirty blonde—was very cute, styled after the Dutch boy on the paint cans. And she had doll-like oval blue eyes. I put her age at thirty-two or so. Yet she was teenage slender. Which made it hard to see her curves in that boxy, dark blue uniform.
“Drink?” she asked me after taking orders from the other three passengers. Her doll eyes—watery, darting—left little doubt that she was nervous about something. I hoped it wasn’t me—the major asshole. I ordered scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. It’d been a long flight.
Before the drinks arrived, I stretched in my seat a bit and peeked at the two new passengers who hadn’t bothered to introduce themselves to anyone. Cattle trotting through a chute are more intimate than people on planes. Intimate planes included.
The woman who sat in front of Rob Ramos, madly keying away on her laptop, wore a sweeping, ankle-length cotton skirt of the kind favored by women from the South. She was in her forties somewhere, a little plump, but curvaceous, with Texas-size big hair of the brightest auburn, a great burning bush. Of the man seated directly in front of me, all I could see was the back of his head, tinseled thinly with silver.
Remembering some paperwork I had yet to do, I switched on my overhead light. I was reaching down for my briefcase when I noticed the flight attendant emerge from the galley. I noticed because she’d left her boxy uniform behind. Her underwear too. The woman was totally nude and carrying a full drink tray.