Under Cover of Darkness (48 page)

"Shut the hell up! Or I'll shoot you in the other shoulder."

"Fine, be a hero. I just hope to hell she's alone." "And alive," said Gus as he started toward the house.

Chapter
Sixty-Two.

Andie hadn't moved from the bed. In her mind she was sorting through the talk with Tom, trying to reconcile the cult's philosophy with the physical evidence in the serial killings. Two dead men. Both resembled Tom. Three dead women. All resembled Beth. A cult premised on the notion that all worldly experience was like an echo and that transformation to the next level came about only during that window of opportunity between life and death--a window that was wide open while hanging by the neck.

If it was all that simple, then why wasn't Beth Wheatley on the farm? Or if she was there, why was she nowhere to be seen?

Andie tried to sleep but couldn't close her eyes, too many questions pounding inside her head.

Beth's room was black when the music started. She had no control over it, no more than she controlled the room temperature or anything else in her environment. Over the past two weeks various classical pieces had played over two large speakers in the ceiling, coming and going at different times of the day for no apparent reason. At first she had thought it was a reward of some kind. Lately, it seemed more like a way to keep her from hearing what was going on outside her room.

It seemed so long ago that she had dropped Morgan off at the youth center, driven to meet Carla for a Sunday lunch, and parked her car in the garage. It had all happened so suddenly. A few quick footsteps behind her, a strong arm around her neck, a rag to her face that smelled of chemicals. Some time later--she couldn't say how long--she'd awakened in this very room.

The lock clicked, and the door suddenly opened. Beth backed against the far wall. The man in the doorway was just a silhouette in the shadows.

"Who's there?" she asked in the darkness.

"It's Tom."

She knew a Tom from the early meetings, the ones she had attended voluntarily, before she realized it was a cult. Back then he had seemed like a nice man. She was less frightened but still cautious. "What do you want?"

He raised the lights from the outside, then closed the door. "Steve wants the tape."

So it was him. She had never been face to face with her nightly visitor, but she had suspected it was Blechman.

"You watched it," he said with surprise. He was holding the tape, which she had neglected to rewind.

"I--" she said nervously. "I thought he wanted me to." "He did. He's always wanted you to know."

"Know what? That I looked just like that poor woman?" "That you were destined to join his inner circle."

"I don't want to join anything. That's why I stoppe
d c
oming to the monthly meetings."

"You stopped coming because your husband made you stop."

"My husband didn't know anything about this."

"He is exactly the kind of domineering spouse that Steve warned us about. He controls you even when you don't realize you're being controlled."

"And I suppose this is a better way to live? Boxed up like an animal?"

"You have the power to free yourself, Flora."

"My name is not Flora. And I'm tired of hearing how Flora has the power to free herself. The power to stop innocent women from being killed. What power? All I want is to go home. Is anyone ever going to let me go home?"

He glared at her and said, "I've never liked you, Beth."

She blinked hard, shocked at the way he had spat out her real name. "What?"

"I knew you would never do what it takes to join the inner circle."

The madder he got, the more inclined he seemed to talk. It was risky, but she dug deep for courage and tweaked him good. "As if a dope like you would know what it takes to join the inner circle."

"I am the inner circle."

"Oh? And what did you do to get there? Promise to wash Steve's car for life?"

His face reddened. For a second she thought he would come after her, but he just clenched his teeth and said, "I killed for him. That's what it takes to make the inner circle."

She withdrew timidly. She'd seen the pictures of those murdered women.

He said, "Steve and I did, together. We cut the cord between my old and new family. I killed my old self."

"So, you didn't really kill anyone," she said, hoping tha
t t
he photos had been phonies. "It's all symbolic?"

"The process is symbolic. But the murders are real." "You . . . you actually killed someone?"

"And the real beauty is that the cops will never figure it out. I have no apparent motive. Never even met the victim. Chance resemblance is the only connection. He was fifty-one, so was I. He was divorced and lived alone, same with me. He represents my old self. The part that must die before you can reach a higher level of vibration."

"You just picked out some poor guy and killed him?"

"Steve picks.. He picked both victims."

"Both?"

"Of course. Steve would never ask his most devoted followers to do something he hadn't already done himself. He kills the first one and shows you the way. And you duplicate it."

"Like an echo," said Beth, recalling the allusions to Blechman's manuscript in the speeches she'd attended. "Now you're catching on."

She was almost too frightened to speak. "Is that why he killed those women, the ones in the photographs he showed me? He was showing me the way?"

"Yeah. Only he's tired of trying to lead you by example. He gave you three chances. Each time he told you the power to stop the killing was in your hands. All you had to do was follow his example. Kill your old self. And the echoes would stop."

"Why in the world would he think I was capable of murder?"

"You did steal for him."

She was suddenly queasy. The shoplifting from Nordstrom's. "Steve made it sound as innocent as those antisocial things you do for research in a college psychology class, like singing on a bus just to see the reaction of strangers."

"It was your first step toward breaking with your old self."

"And it obviously failed."

"Yes. Your failure is now obvious to everyone. Including Steve." He took the videotape and started for the door. "Wait. What are you going to do with me?"

His eyes narrowed as he clutched the videotape of that tortured woman who looked eerily like Beth. "That's entirely up to Steve," he said, then shut the door and locked it.

The light switched off from the outside, and she was again alone in the darkness.

Chapter
Sixty-Three.

Andie started at a noise outside her window. She looked out toward the main house. Past evenings on the farm had been tranquil to the point of dull. Tonight, however, the old farmhouse was filled with commotion. Lights were on. Doors were slamming, people coming and going. Men on ladders were bolting shutters to the second-story windows. The shutters appeared to be made of solid metal, not the old wood-slatted kind. From the way the men were straining to hoist them up, Andie would have guessed heavy-gauge steel.

Bulletproof? she wondered.

She stepped outside. A man was rushing by her unit, one of the young recruits. "What's going on?" she asked.

He stopped just long enough to catch his breath, winded but elated. "Preparations!"

"Preparations for what?"

He sprinted away without an answer. Andie called after him, again asking, "Preparations for what?"

He shouted back, "The transformation!"

As he ran toward the house, Andie stood and watched with a sinking sense of dread.

"Meredith?" Gus stood in the doorway, half inside and hal
f o
ut. The flashlight from his car was in one hand. The gu
n w
as in his right. The door was hanging by one hinge. Broken glass was scattered across the landing.

There was no reply. Not that he'd expected one.

Cautiously, he reached around the door frame and tried the kitchen light switch. Nothing. Dex was right. The electrical lines had been cut.

He switched on his flashlight and took just two steps inside. The narrow beam of light cut across the refrigerator and cabinets, then came to rest on the kitchen table. There were four chairs, but only one place setting. A good amount of food was on the plate. The water glass was nearly full. The napkin was neatly folded, seemingly unused. The intruder had apparently caught her at dinnertime. Or perhaps Gus had caught him at dinnertime.

Was that bastard cold enough to whack her and hang around to eat?

With each step forward, broken glass crunched beneath his feet. The thought of Meredith clinging to life, barely hanging on, drew him in. The thought of another intruder lurking around the corner made him freeze, in his tracks.

"I have a gun," he said loudly, as if that would scare a murderer into surrender.

He aimed the flashlight and leaned forward to see down the hall into the living room. The sofa was straight. No lamps were tipped over. No sign of any disturbance at all. No sign of Meredith either.

He walked the other way, across the kitchen and toward the dining room. Crystal and silver glimmered as the flashlight cut across the breakfront to the display cabinet. A collection of framed photographs stood like dominoes on the credenza, one after the other. A wedding picture. Some baby photographs. None recent. The flashlight zipped past the last one, then zipped right back. It was a five-by-seven of a woman and a teenage girl. The girl was Shirley, five or so years ago. But it was the woman who intrigued him.

He picked it up and studied it. The woman had to be
Meredith, though she barely resembled the skinny woman with short hair he'd come to know. Seeing what she looked like with long hair and an extra seventy-five pounds was a watershed for him.

He'd just made the connection.

Sirens and swirling lights in the front lawn interrupted his thoughts. The police had arrived and were pounding on the front door.

"Police, open up!"

Gus stole one more look at the old photograph, then stuffed it in his jacket and hurried out the back.

The Op Center at the FBI office in Seattle was up and running by the time Isaac Underwood arrived. The phone call from Gus was but one of the triggers.

"What do we got?" asked Isaac. He entered like the wind with two assistants in his wake.

Lundquist answered, "Meredith Borge is confirmed dead. Strangled."

Isaac moved to the big table in the center of the room. A bright light from the ceiling illuminated a detailed drawing of Blechman's farm and a series of aerial photographs. "What's the latest from Yakima?"

"Our surveillance agents report a high level of activity at the compound, especially for night. They're placing shutters on the windows of the main farmhouse," he said as he pointed at the corresponding box on the drawing. "They appear to be bulletproof."

"Any sign of Andie?"

"No"

Any chance she snuck away?"

Lundquist shrugged. "If she did, she hasn't made contact with us."

"Any concrete insights as to what the hell set these people off?"

"If we're to believe Gus Wheatley, Meredith Borge wa
s t
he one person who could link Blechman's group to his wife's disappearance. No doubt that got her killed. But maybe they're afraid they didn't shut her up soon enough and anticipate some kind of offensive from law enforcement. That scenario would be especially consistent with the theory that they're holding Beth Wheatley against her will."

"Yes. That's one possibility."

Both men were silent. Lundquist said, "I think we both know the other."

Isaac looked to the middle distance, speaking to no one in particular. "Or they finally figured out Andie is FBI."

"I'm afraid that's the way I see it too, sir. What do you want to do?"

"Start a dialogue."

"Specifics?"

"I want a negotiation team activated. Set up a mobile unit as our forward command post."

"Problem is, there's no phone service to the farm." "Then get a chopper to drop a cell phone on their fucking heads. If that doesn't work, use a loudspeaker. Just sta
y o
ut of sniper range."

"What about our own snipers?"

"Advance two of them. Just to observe at this point." Lundquist didn't jump.

"Let's move!" said Isaac.

"Isaac, I'm all for opening up the lines of communication. But let's not forget that somebody on that farm is in all likelihood responsible for the strangulation of at least five people. Six if you count Meredith Borge, seven if you count Shirley. If they know Andie is an FBI agent, talk isn't going to get her out."

They locked eyes, then Isaac said, "Put SWAT on alert. Two teams. If we have to go in, I want them in position." "Will do. Anything else?"

"Yeah," said Isaac, his voice low and serious. "No sho
w o
f force till I give the word. We negotiate as long as possible. In the meantime, be damn sure that SWAT stays out of sight."