Under Cover of Darkness (35 page)

He waited again. The silence was palpable.

"I see some doubtful faces." He smiled again at the old couple up front. "Look at Bob, everyone. He's got that look on his face again. 'Ethyl, get your coat. The guy's off his rocker.'"

Blechman smiled. Others smiled with him. Then he turned serious. "But am I? In this universe, how does something get from one place to another? How does one thing become another?"

The question lingered. "Energy, right? All living things have energy. In casual conversation, you've heard people say they can feel your vibes. Or they might say, he or she is giving me bad vibes. The Beach Boys even wrote a song about it. Well, there's something to that, folks. Each one of us is constantly vibrating with energy. We vibrate at different levels, depending on how connected we are to the source of that energy. A proper connection to the source, ladies and gentlemen, is vital to our ability to transcend our humanness, to move up to the next level."

He returned to the podium and sipped water from a glass. To Andie, even his drinking seemed calculated, designed to make the audience thirst for his next word.

"Many things can break our connection with the source. Temptation. Greed. All of the worldly possessions that delude us into thinking that being human is the ultimate form of existence. That self-absorbed outlook is what keeps us vibrating at a human level, a lower level of energy."

A few people lowered their eyes, seemingly embarrassed, as if he had touched a nerve. He softened his tone. He was no longer judgmental.

"But perhaps the most important point for you to understand is that you don't have to be a bad person to be disconnected from the source. Strangely enough, the most kind and giving people are often the most disconnected. Why? Because the most dangerous break between humans and the source is caused by people we allow to rule our lives, dictate our emotions, and literally suck the energy right out of us. People who profess to love us but are only parasites."

All eyes followed as he walked from one end of the room to the other, then back to the podium. "So, I return to my original question. Are you so connected to the source of energy in this vast universe that if you left this earth today you would transcend to the next level, the level beyond human?" He looked again toward the audience, locking eyes with each member. "I can tell you this. If you cling to the things that define you as a human. If you pander to others who enslave you as human. If there is anything or anyone on this planet you could not bear to leave behind. Then you are not so connected."

He was looking right at Andie, or so it seemed. She forced herself not to flinch and was glad he moved on to someone more enthralled.

"What does all this mean?" he asked in a voice that wa
s h
ushed for effect. "It means you must prepare yourself fo
r t
he long and difficult road ahead. The good news, folks, i
s t
hat each and every one of you has the power to succeed.

Just go back to the source. You can do it. I know you can."

He smiled warmly, not overdoing it. "Now I'd like yo
u t
o meet some friends of mine. Two people who, not lon
g a
go, were sitting in the audience like you are tonight. Two people whose lives have been transformed. They can help you understand what this journey is all about. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Tom and Felicia."

The audience applauded. Andie applauded, then froze. Felicia was the woman who had been kicked out of the thrift store.

They looked like two very normal people. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt; she wore slacks and a sweater. They weren't great public speakers, but they talked intelligently, honestly. The man spoke first, then Felicia. She was particularly interesting. Earlier, Andie had been right on the money when she'd guessed the woman was out of place in a thrift store. It was no surprise she walked with polish. Felicia was a college graduate. She had run her own travel agency for nine years. She had been married to an architect who lived in Seattle. She hadn't been unhappy. Just disconnected. She gave it all up for one simple reason.

"Steve Blechman changed my life."

"No, no," said Blechman. "You changed your life."

"Right," she said, as if he were always right. "I did it."

Blechman thanked his friends and opened the floor to questions from the audience, which took another twenty minutes. Most people asked legitimate questions. A few were cynics who just wanted to rattle him. Friend or foe, Blechman treated each of them with respect. His message never wavered. He never lost his cool. It was impressive. The man could talk.

Felicia explained his gift. "He's better connected to the source than you or I."

Blechman smiled modestly and laughed it off. He checked his watch. Their hour was up. He returned to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hope this has been more than just a form of entertainment for you. For me, Tom, Felicia
,
and many, many others, it is a lifelong cause. As we've stated all along, we do not recruit members. We leave it up to each of you to decide for yourself whether you want to take that big first step. If anyone is interested, we are having a retreat this weekend. We leave Friday night and return Sunday. It's not a pleasure trip. There are some cabins in the mountains. It's cold, but there are wood-burning stoves and plenty of blankets. There's no fast food, only what nature provides. It's about getting back to the source. The purpose isn't for you to learn more about us. It's a chance to learn more about yourself. We'd love to see you there. Thank you all for coming."

Blechman left the room to a warm but not overwhelming ovation. A few people didn't applaud at all. They headed straight for the exits, shaking their heads. Others were more intrigued. They milled about the exit, taking more pamphlets and asking questions of the girl at the door. She had a sign-up list for people who wanted to receive additional information in the mail. Several people signed. She also had videotapes for sale, for those who wanted to relive the studio version of tonight's experience or share it with their friends. Andie bought one, then followed the dozen or so others who drifted toward the front of the room. Tom and Felicia were answering questions. Tom had a clipboard with a sign-up list for the retreat.

Andie made her way toward Felicia, who was talking to a college-age man, telling him what to pack for the weekend and what to expect. Andie waited behind him. When they finished, Andie moved up. Felicia immediately recognized her.

"Hello. You work at Second Chance, don't you?"

Andie smiled shyly. "Yeah. Sorry about what happened."

"That's okay. Mrs. Rankin doesn't think much of our group."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Rankin doesn't think much of anyone."

They shared a laugh. Felicia asked, "What's your name?"

"Kira."

"Well, Kira, are you going to join us this weekend?"

She wanted to appear indecisive, unsure of herself. The kind of person they'd prey upon. "I don't know," she said with a shrug.

"Come on. I think you'd be perfect."

"You really think so?"

"I know so."

Andie blinked demurely. "Will Steve be there?"

Felicia smirked. Another smitten young woman. "Of course."

"Well, what the heck? What do I got to lose?"

"Atta girl. Just check in with Tom. He's got the sign-up list and all the info."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll see you Friday."

Andie drifted toward Tom. He was talking to the old couple Blechman had teased during his presentation. The wife was lukewarm, but the husband was excited and ready to sign up. Andie, too, was excited, though she tried not to show it. She had a sixth sense about Blechman and his teachings. Beth Wheatley's disappearance was taking on a whole new face. She couldn't wait for Friday.

Just remember your name is Kira. *

Chapter
Forty-five.

Gus met his investigator for an early Wednesday breakfast. Dex picked Cafe Rene again, his favorite. It was starting to grow on Gus, too. There was something endearing about a place so unpretentious that it printed its dubious review from Seattle Weekly right on the menu: "The food and service are equally bad, but at least the atmosphere's lousy."

Dex gorged himself on a thick slice of Canadian bacon and a mountain of scrambled eggs smothered in ketchup. Gus nibbled on a side order of toast as they hashed out Shirley Borge.

"First thing," said Dex with his mouth full. "You gotta decide just how important Shirley really is."

"There's only one way to read that polygraph. She may not know for certain where Beth is. But she either knows some people or knows something about Beth that gives her a pretty good idea what happened to her."

"Maybe she'll cool off in a day or so and talk to you." "I don't think so."

Dex added even more ketchup. "You could play hardball. Get the FBI to put some pressure on her till she comes back and talks to you. Solitary confinement. Move her to a cell with a backed-up toilet. One thing about life in prison. It can always get worse."

"Those kind of games might just push her further away." "Or maybe she'll just cough up what she knows."

"Or she'll be even more ticked off and Beth will ge
t k
illed."

Dex gulped down half his glass of orange juice. His eyes bulged as the stomach erupted in scrambled-egg revolt, but he managed to keep it silent. "You got two choices. You either gotta go through Shirley Borge or around her."

It sounded like mindless jock talk. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Shirley has information you want. You're telling me you can't beg it, force it, or buy it out of her. So go around her. Find someone else. Someone who knows her secrets."

"Like who?"

Dex shrugged. "The usual suspects. Friends. Lovers." "That's a list I don't have."

"Don't need the whole list. Just one person she might have confided in somewhere along the line."

Gus sipped his coffee, thinking. Then his eyes brightened.

Dex smiled thinly. "You got one already?"

Gus lowered his cup, then answered, "I think maybe I do."

Sympathy got Gus an immediate meeting with Kirby Toombs. Rarely did he make himself available on a moment's notice, but he made an exception for a fellow member of the bar whose wife was missing.

Kirby had read about Gus's plight in the newspapers. Though he had seen the reward advertised, he was completely unaware that Shirley Borge had responded to it. After Gus explained his predicament on the phone, Kirby couldn't blame him for wanting to talk to the lawyer who had represented her.

Kirby had been a rookie public defender at the time of Shirley's trial. Many talented lawyers had come out of the
P
. D
.'s office, but Kirby wasn't one of them. He'd been fired four months ago, couldn't find a job, and was now in the process of setting up a solo criminal defense practice. From the looks of things, he had a long way to go. His office was near the state courthouse in a decaying brick building that looked ready for the wrecking ball. Gus knew it well, since one of his clients owned it and was waiting on a historic designation that would make renovation worthwhile. About half the building was vacant. The rest was filled with questionable tenants, many of whom weren't even paying rent. The sign outside Kirby's door read VENTURA ENTERPRISES, the name of a former tenant, probably not even the most recent former tenant. Gus rang the buzzer outside the door. It didn't buzz. He tapped on the glass. Kirby answered from behind the closed door.

"Who is it?" He sounded as though he were talking into a trash can.

"It's Gus Wheatley. I just got off the phone with you."

The chain rattled. Three dead bolts clicked. The door opened. Kirby was standing in the doorway. He was perhaps two years out of law school, still sporting the chubby look of a kid who drank too much beer in college. He wore a bad brown suit, the exact shade Gus told the young lawyers in his firm never to wear unless they wanted to look like a walking turd.

"Come on in."

Gus thanked him and entered. The dowdy suite bore no resemblance to a law. office. It was two rooms, counting the tiny reception area. There was no receptionist, just an ugly metal desk and an answering machine.

"Want some coffee?"

The pot on the credenza looked as if it had been there since Mr. Coffee was in diapers. "No, thanks."

Kirby poured himself a cup and led Gus to the main office. Dusty venetian blinds cut the morning sun into slats on the rug. Overloaded banker's boxes were stacked on th
e d
esk and couch. Kirby made room for Gus on the couch and took a seat in the squeaky desk chair.

"Just moving in?"

"No," he said, a little offended.

"I'm sorry. I just thought--"

"I know, I know. It doesn't look like the cherry-paneled offices of Preston and Coolidge."

"That's not what I was going to say."

"You didn't have to. It was written all over your face." "Really, it's not like that at all. I have a lot of respect for a young guy who tries to strike out on his own."