Under Cover of Darkness (47 page)

"My name is Alicia Santiago," she said.

Beth shut it off, her hand shaking. Ten seconds into the video and she had seen enough. The woman was gone, but the television screen was glowing with a dark blue background. It enabled Beth to see her reflection in the glass. She hadn't seen her likeness since her arrival. She brought a hand to her face and felt the contours of her cheeks, the curve of her mouth. She touched her hair. The short, dark hair. It was obvious now why they had cut it. The resemblance was chilling.

Beth looked almost exactly like the woman in the video.

She switched off the television and returned to darkness.

Chapter
Sixty.

Monday was slipping away, and Gus had yet to hear from Meredith. He had the money for Blechman's manuscript, twenty-five thousand dollars. He found it hard to believe she would just walk away from that much cash. She had warned him not to call, but he was beginning to worry. From his home office he dialed her number.

No answer. That could have meant any number of things--none of them good.

Again he picked up the phone and hit speed dial. "Carla, it's Gus. Can you come over and watch Morgan? I need to go out for a while."

Andie was alone in her unit when she heard a knock on the door. Felicia had gone to some kind of meeting. It was Tom, and he looked angry.

"We need to talk, Willow."

She felt threatened by his tone. "Okay," she said, but she didn't invite him in.

"Inside."

"Is there a problem?"

"You know what the problem is." He quickly had her by the arm, led her inside, and nearly pushed her on the bed. "What are you doing?" she asked.

He was pacing, getting more worked up. "You got Felicia in one hell of a lot of trouble, you know that? Steve is giving her what-for right now."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it," he snapped.

"I--deny what?"

"That phone call you made from the grocery warehouse. You were being watched."

Watched was okay. It was listening that Andie worried about. "So . . . they heard?"

"We don't have to hear. We know you weren't calling for the time and weather. Who was it? Your mother again?"

She struggled to contain her relief. She lowered her head. "Yes," she peeped, as if ashamed. "I promised Mom I would call home first chance I got."

"I knew it."

"I just didn't want her to worry." She flashed her repentant, sultry look. It worked.

He stopped pacing. His voice lost its edge. "Darn it, Willow. You have to stop worrying about people and things you've left behind."

"I've only been here a few days. You can't expect miracles."

"A clean break is the only way. If you try to wean yourself a little at a time, you'll never make it."

"Is that how you did it?"

"That's how we all did it."

"Didn't you miss some things?"

"Yeah. My pickup truck."

"You had to give up your truck?"

"That was my contribution when I joined the group. We all make contributions to keep the cause financed. One woman gave over her house."

"I wish I had something to contribute."

"That's not important. Right now all that matters is that you follow the rules. Phoning your mother . . . well, that's a lot worse than sneaking a cigarette now and then."

He cracked a faint smile to make her feel better.

She returned the smile, then turned serious. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I've been wondering about something for a while. That talk we had this morning only made me more curious." "What is it?"

"It just seems I hear a lot of talk about sacrifice and giving up earthly desires. The purpose is to get to the next level, right?"

"Right."

"So let's say I do everything right. I stop calling my mother, I let go of all the selfish inclinations that make me so human, I do all the things I'm supposed to do. What happens next? How do I get from this level to the next?"

He looked away, hedging. "That's really getting way ahead of your program."

"But maybe it would help me be more disciplined if I knew. Those things you told me this morning about the echoes were ahead of schedule, and they really helped me."

"I really can't discuss the transformation with you."

"There must be something you can tell me. Is it like traditional Judeo-Christian beliefs, where they say you have to die before you can go to heaven?"

"No. It's not like that at all."

"So the transformation comes when you're alive?"

"Yes." He hesitated but then seemed compelled to explain. "But we're not like many of the ufologists who believe that you must be fully conscious." .

"I don't understand."

"You've heard of these groups who believe that a UFO will come down and take those who are ready to the next level. They believe you must be fully conscious to make that journey."

"Blechman has said all along he's not a ufologist. So what is he?"

"I can't explain everything to you, but trust me. It makes so much sense."

"It makes no sense. If he doesn't believe you have to die, but he doesn't believe you have to be conscious, what is he saying? You need to be in a coma?"

He became deadly serious, as if offended by her remark. "He's saying there is a window of opportunity between life and death. You've heard of people who were near death and who claim their whole life passed before their eyes?"

"Sure."

"These flashbacks are the echoes that Steven talks about. Your entire life echoes before you, and in this one lucid moment you understand where you have come from and where you are going. Now, you've also heard people say they have passed over to the other side and seen a white light or were embraced by the light?"

"Yes."

"Those people are going nowhere, Willow. If they don't see the echoes, they have no understanding. They don't reach the next level."

Things were starting to make sense to her--specifically, the hangings. "Is it the same window of opportunity no matter how you die? Or is it beneficial to linger for a time between life and death?"

"That's something I can't talk about."

She nodded, backing off. "I understand. This was helpful. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I need to get back to the house, check on Felicia."

As he started for the door, she gave him one more of those disarming smiles. "Hey, Tom?"

"Yeah?"

"Just out of curiosity, what kind of pickup truck did you used to have?"

"Ford. Hated to lose it, but--hell, it's not important." "Good night."

"Good night," he said, closing the door behind him.

She remained seated on the bed, thinking. Maybe the truck wasn't important to him, but it was to her. The physical resemblance was part of it, his brown eyes and graying hair. But it was the personal data that had triggered the recognition, the little things she had put together from conversations with him and others. He was divorced. Early fifties. He had even driven the same vehicle, a Ford pickup.

Tom was a match for the serial killer's two male victims.

Chapter
Sixty-One.

Gus reached the Borge residence in under an hour. Dex followed separately and parked a short distance up the road, out of sight in the darkness. If Meredith was home, it was important that Gus appear to be alone. If something was amiss, alone was the last thing he actually wanted to be
.

Her car was parked in the driveway, but the porch light was not burning. No lights were on inside either, as far as Gus could tell. The house was completely dark.

He walked up the front steps, rang the doorbell, and waited. No one answered. In fact, he didn't even hear the bell ring. He knocked, but still no one came. He cupped his hands to the oval window in the front door and peered inside. It was too dark to see past the foyer. He backed away from the door, thinking he had heard an approaching car. The gravel road was deserted. A door slammed, and he realized it had come from a neighbor's house on the next road over. Sounds traveled well in this rural area, just one or two houses on each long and curving unpaved street.

He signaled up the road to Dex, who was watching from a distance through night-vision binoculars. Gus climbed down the front steps and continued around to the back of the house. It was even darker in back than in front, farther from the streetlight. A rattling from the trash cans sent hi
s h
eart leaping to his throat. A hungry raccoon scurried away. In the return to silence he gathered his wits. Once again all was quiet. Certainly quiet enough for his knocking to have been heard. If she was home. If she could still hear.

He sidestepped the spilled trash and checked the back door. He was about to knock, then stopped. One of the small rectangles of glass was shattered--the one right above the door lock. It looked as though someone had forced their way inside.

His instincts said run, but his feet wouldn't move. "Meredith?" he called out. His voice sounded hollow even to him. There was no reply. He tried again, louder. "Meredith Borge?"

Dex came quickly from the other side of the garage, his voice filled with urgency. "Electricity's been cut! Call nine-one-one!"

The door flew open as Gus reached for his cell phone. It was an explosion without explosives, like horses out of the gate. The door and whoever was behind it sent him tumbling backward down the stairs. He was suddenly wrestling on the lawn with a man in a sleek black body suit.

"Freeze!" shouted Dex, his gun drawn.

A gunshot pierced the night. Dex went down. Falling, he fired off several return rounds. The attacker fired back as he raced across the yard and leaped over the fence.

Gus hurried to Dex, who had been hit in the shoulder and was writhing in pain.

"Did I hit him?" asked Dex.

"I don't think so."

"Damn! Who the hell was that?"

"Sure wasn't Meredith. Are you going to be okay?"

"I will be," he answered, groaning. "But my shoulder's DOA. Call nine-one-one already."

The phone had landed just a few feet away in the scuffle.

Gus grabbed it and dialed. "Yes, operator, there's been a shooting at the Borge residence on Rural Route sixty-seven."

"Is there a better address?"

"That's the best I can do."

"Someone was shot with a gun, you say?"

"Yes, a man."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes. It's a shoulder wound."

"Was anyone else hurt?"

He glanced at the house, thinking of Meredith. "Quite possibly."

"Exactly how many people have been injured, sir?"

"I don't know. One for sure. For God's sakes, are you coming or not?"

"I'll dispatch police and paramedics right away." "Thank you. Hurry." He hung up and dialed home. His sister answered.

"Carla, is everything okay there?"

"Yeah, everything's fine."

"Something terrible has happened."

"What?"

"Just--that's not important. I want you to grab Morgan right now. Both of you get in the car and drive to the police station as fast as you can."

"Gus, what's going on?"

"Just do it!"

"All right, all right."

"I'll meet you there as soon as the paramedics arrive." "Paramedics! Gus--"

"Get going, Carla!"

"Okay. I'm leaving right this second."

I hope that's soon enough, he thought, but he didn't dare say it.

Across the lawn, Dex lay languidly across the sidewalk, his shoulder bathed in blood. Gus went to him and drape
d h
is coat over his body to keep the chill off and prevent shock.

"One more call," Dex said weakly.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's time you told the FBI about that note on your windshield."

The warning in Beth's handwriting suddenly blazed in his mind: Stay away from Meredith Borge. Or I end up like her daughter. That it had been signed "Flora," however, still complicated matters.

Dex grabbed him with newfound strength. "You have to call them. Even if it does make it look like Beth might really be part of that cult."

Gus grabbed Dex's gun. "First I have to check on Meredith."

"You're not going in that house."

"I have to check on her. It could take ten minutes for the cops to get out here in the sticks. If she's hanging by her neck, another minute could make all the difference."

"And if there's another guy with a gun in there, you're both dead. Don't risk your life to save that woman."

"That woman might know where my wife is!"

"Face it, man. Your wife joined a cult."