Under Cover of Darkness (41 page)

"That's not what I'm doing."

"You may not realize it. But that is what you're doing." "You're starting to make me mad."

"Don't be mad at me. Don't be mad at the FBI either. With that phone call from Beth, her shoplifting and her clothes found in a thrift shop where Agent Henning is working undercover, it seems plausible that a cult or a gang could have played a role in these murders. And that Beth might be . . . involved."

"Beth couldn't hurt anyone."

"She could have played a more passive role. She is an attractive woman."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm just talking hypothetically here. Remember, the serial killer's first two victims were men killed in their homes. No sign of forced entry at the second one. Sending an attractive woman to the door is a good way to catch a man off guard, get inside. I've used that ruse myself. Hired myself an attractive cocktail waitress who pretends her car broke down, knocks on some guy's door, and asks to borrow the phone. Once inside, she plants a bug for me."

"You're saying Beth is the one who opened the door for a serial killer?"

"All I'm saying is that she doesn't have to strangle someone with her own hands to be involved in these killings."

"Yet another possibility," said Gus. "Someone wants the police to think she is an accomplice. He is planting evidence of Beth's involvement, like that phone call to Morgan."

But why?"

"I don't know. Maybe to throw the cops off the track. Maybe to make the FBI think they should be looking for a cult in Yakima when they should be chasing down Shirley's little gang in Seattle. That's just one more thing I have to find out."

"You want me to tackle that one?"

"I just want you to find Shirley's mother. Can you do that fast?"

"Piece of cake."

"Call me when you do," said Gus.

It was an unusually warm Saturday afternoon for early March. The valley had been in winter's icy grip since Thanksgiving, but over the last week or so temperatures had been steadily rising in anticipation of spring. The humming of lawn mowers could be heard in the nearby town of Selah, the first cut of the year. It was time to store away the snowmobiles till next season, a good day to leave the jacket inside and feel the warmth on your skin.

It was Flora's first day out of the house in more than a week.

There was always plenty of work to do around the farm, and today was no exception. Two hundred newly hatched chicks had been delivered to the coop last week. In six weeks the pullets would be grown and tender and ready for slaughter. This afternoon her job was menial but necessary. In a way, it was even philosophical. They called it culling. Every delivery of chicks included some infirm ones. It wasn't wise to wait for the weak to infect the strong. Every day someone had to walk down to the coop, select the weaklings, and snap their necks. As cliched as it sounded, it really was all in the wrist. The fuzzy little body fit easily in one hand. A little squirming, a few innocent chirps. With one quick jerk it was all over.

She had hated it at first but had grown accustomed to it. It wasn't so much the killing that bothered her anymore. It was the odor. Nothing smelled worse than a chicken coop.

To her credit, she could at least come and go without holding her nose, a vast improvement over her first visit to the compound more than a year ago.
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Of course, it wasn't the thought of raising chickens or picking apples that ha
d d
rawn her there. It was the typical laundry list of personal problems. Trouble at home. An unhappy marriage. A husband who had become a stranger. She'd attended dozens of enlightenment workshops and lectures, none of which had lasted more than a day. Over time she had found herself drawn to a different kind of family, to the group's teachings. Working in the orchards or tending to the farm was therapeutic, though _ she had never honestly planned on staying.

Now leaving was out of the question.

"Flora?" the man's voice echoed from the farmhouse. He was standing on the back porch nearly a quarter mile away.

She didn't answer. He called again, this time more sternly. "Flora!"

The second time it hit her. He was calling her. Despite the drilling, she wasn't used to her new name yet.

Quickly and without a word, she tossed the last of the dead culls into her basket and obediently started toward the house. This was the part she dreaded. She knew the pattern by now. Every time he gave her something, like free time, he laid another burden on her. The burden of guilt.

Her steps grew heavier as she crossed the yard, knowing what to expect when she returned to her room. The photographs. The innocent victims. More mind games to play on her conscience. Those women had been strangers to her at one time. By now, however, she knew their names, their faces, and every detail of their horrible deaths. Most disturbing of all, she knew there would be more. That much was clear from what he'd told her all along. "Only you have the power to stop it, Flora. It's in your hands."

With her head down she climbed the back steps and entered the house, feeling anything but power. Feeling like anyone but "Flora."

Andie was exhausted. They had spent the morning diggin
g f
or camas roots to make cakes. At this higher elevation, th
e g
round was frozen in spots, half-frozen in others, which made it a chore. Still, they had managed to pull out more than the eight bushels with their long, hooked knives. They were quite an efficient tool. Andie couldn't help but wonder how efficient they might be as a weapon.

By late afternoon her knuckles ached from pounding the roots into meal with large stones. She and her roommates had shaped the meal into cakes until it became almost mechanical. By mid-afternoon the cakes were drying in the sun. Felicia came by and gave her approval. Ingrid and Andie's two younger roommates went back to the cabin to clean up. She held Andie back to talk.

"You're a good worker," said Felicia.

"All four of us worked hard."

"Not really. The girls think this is just fun. Ingrid--I'm surprised she lasted all day. But you have the seriousness of purpose that we like."

"Thank you."

She invited Andie to sit on the ground atop a blanket of dried leaves. Facing one another, Felicia asked, "Why are you here?"

"You mean, on this earth, or at this retreat?"

Felicia smiled. "I like the way you think. At this retreat."

Andie sensed she was being quizzed. She wanted to give the right answers; "I'm here to learn more about your group."

"What have you found out so far?"

She checked her battered hands. "That getting back to the source can cause blisters."

"What else?"

Andie turned more serious. "That whatever it takes, it's worth it."

"How do you know that?"

"I have good instincts."

"Congratulations, Kira. You've taken the first step: learning to trust your instincts."

"What's the next step?"

"That is something that will come to you in the normal course. After you have focused your energy."

"How do I focus?"

"Through meditation and reflection."

"What do I reflect on?"

She was staring into Andie's eyes, but it was more of a warm gaze than a cold glare. "Let me tell you something about us. We are not about comets or the passing of the millennium or other such things that have driven the hundreds of ufology groups that have come and gone in recent times. We don't believe that a spaceship is going to come down to earth and take us all to the next level beyond human. By changing our own level of vibration, we strive for a connection with a higher source, which requires an emotional disconnection from the negative energy that keeps us on the wrong life paths."

"Where does that negative energy come from?"

"Frankly, the usual source is the traditional family. A controlling parent, a manipulative spouse. But for each individual it's different. You must analyze and reflect on the sources of negative energy in your own life."

It sounded as though Felicia were fishing for something about Andie's past. She had her phony background memorized, but the more she talked, the higher the risk of eventually being caught in inconsistencies. Andie answered vaguely, "That sounds like a very insightful way of thinking."

"Yes. But I assure you, it is utterly impossible to identify the true source of negative energy in your life if you return to your same old environment."

"That's logical. One has to step back in order to be objective."

"That's exactly the opportunity I'm offering you." "I don't understand."

"The retreat ends tomorrow morning. Most of the new
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corners will return home. They will never evolve beyond their present selves. But you are different, Kira."

"How so?"

"We'd like you stay with us. Come back to the farm and continue your journey."

"What about the others?"

"Don't worry about the others. You have been chosen, not them."

"I don't know what to say."

She squeezed her hand. "Say yes."

Andie hesitated, not wanting to appear overeager. "Okay. I accept."

"Of course you do." Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if yes were the only acceptable answer.

"Thank you, Felicia."

"Don't thank me. Thank Steve."

"I'm not sure I know how."

"You will learn," she said in the same flat tone. "That I can promise you."

Chapter
Fifty-Two.

The bus returned to Yakima early Sunday morning. Of the six newcomers, Andie and one of the men, the aspiring lounge musician, were the only ones invited back to the farm. The others were dropped at the parking lot where they had left their cars on Friday.

The bus would leave for the farm in fifteen minutes, just a short break to give everyone time to use the bathroom after the three-hour ride back to the city. Andie knew she had to make a phone call before they reached the farm. Her supervisors hadn't authorized an undercover assignment beyond the weekend. She considered just going to the pay phone and calling, but she didn't want the others to get suspicious. She pulled Felicia aside to be up-front with her in an undercover way.

"I have to call my mother," said Andie. "I told her I was going away just for the weekend. If she doesn't hear from me, she'll worry."

"Why call her?"

"Like I said, she'll be worried. Heck, who knows? She might even call the police and report me missing."

"I understand. Whenever we invite a newcomer back to the farm, we encourage them to notify their family of their decision for precisely that reason. But phone calls can be problematic. We prefer that you simply write a letter."

"You don't know my mother," said Andie. "She will never believe this was my decision if she just gets a letter in the mail. She'll want to hear it straight from my own mouth."

Felicia shot a judgmental look, as if to say that Andie's mother was one of those controlling family members with negative energy who needed to be eliminated. "All right. Call her if you must. But be strong. Do not let her talk you out of something that you know is right."

"Thank you." Andie started for the pay phone across the street.

"Kira?" she called, stopping her. "Tell her you won't be calling home again. Tell her that if she hears from you again, it will be by letter."

"I will:' she said, then continued toward the phone.

The phone rang at the Underwood residence. Isaac was in the kitchen with his daughter cooking breakfast and watching Sesame Street. It was one of his two weekends a month, one of just two dozen annual opportunities to prove that divorced men can do Sunday morning pancakes. He lowered the volume on the TV and took the call while tending to the griddle.

It was Andie, which relieved him. The word from his technical agents--that the transmitter in Andie's ring had been stationary all weekend--had worried him. Andie explained the ceremonial burning and more, glancing every now and then toward the bus to make sure no one could overhear.

Isaac said, "What you're saying blends with the updated profile from Quantico."

"What does Santos think now?"

"She's getting back to the fact that all of the victims display wounds consistent with personal-cause homicides. The killer is acting out of personal anger against the victim. The killings may not be random, as Santos had originally thought. The killer--or killers--may have a very specific agenda. That's especially interesting when you're talking about a cult."

"Which is why I need to stay on this assignment." "What?"

"I'm sorry not to run this through the usual channels, but the fact is, I have just one phone call, my contact agent doesn't have the authority to extend my assignment, and Lundquist's balls are barely big enough to get him into the men's room. So what do you say?"

"How long?"

"As long as it takes."

The pancakes were burning. Isaac snatched up the griddle and dumped the smoldering mess into the sink. "Andie, as long as there's the threat of a serial killer making another hit, you're going to have to move fast. Normally, I'd say take some time to build contacts. In this case you're going to have to be aggressive, which means you could blow your own cover."