The Puppet Master

'Another place he lived is called 'the Ranch.' It's out in the Imperial Valley, backed up against the Vallecito Mountains, southwest of the Salton Sea. Supposed to be forty acres. I was there a few times when I was a courier in the church's Executive Communications Section. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence—HardSteel topped by razor wire—with little towers at the back corners where they weren't conspicuous. Watchmen sat in them with radios and guns, watching the fence. At night there were lights here and there along it so they could see if anyone came up to it, colored lights so they wouldn't seem like a security thing, although they were.

'Inside the fence it was beautifully landscaped. Had been when he got it. All the way around, there were rows of Washingtonia palms—the real tall, skinny ones—alternating with tall, stout date palms. And irrigated Bermuda grass lawns, and marvelous gardens. Fountains played constantly, and there were pools with exotic carp, red and white and gold. At night, colored lights would play on the fountains, except when Ray was stargazing. Then they were turned off.

'A really nice place. Makes being rich seem worthwhile. He'd go there off and on in the winter, though we never knew when in advance. Especially when L.A. had one of its stormy, rainy winters. On a February day when it was gray and wet and chilly at the Campus, it'd be sunny and warm at the Ranch. Maybe a little windy. He'd host rich churchies there, rich members, especially Europeans or Japanese or Brazilians, when he wanted to pitch some expensive project to them. He always preferred to spend other people's money.

'He'd had an observation deck built on the roof of his residence there—we called it 'the hacienda'—with an expensive telescope, and he'd go out and stargaze at night.' Hamilton laughed. 'I remember being shocked at a thought I had: If Ray can leave his body—that's the soul going for an outing, you understand, the body being left to run on automatic—if Ray can leave his body like that, which was supposed to be nothing for him, he should be able to go out into space and look at any star he wants to, from as close as he'd like. So why use a telescope? '

Hamilton chuckled. 'At the time it seemed like a terrible, heretical thought.

'There was a bigger tower near the back, screened from the hacienda by tall date palms. It was said to have electronic scanners, and supposedly surface-to-air missiles in case of aerial attack. That could have been a rumor, of course, the part about the missiles. It's hard to know.'

I interrupted. 'I've been told by a church member that in the church, rumors are rare.'

Hamilton laughed again. 'That may be true of rumors about controversial or negative matters; it's considered evil to pass along bad rumors. But there were always rumors about what wonderful things Ray was doing or was going to do. Churchies feed on them; they're nourished by them. They don't think of them as rumors.

'His third residence is called 'the Hideaway,' on 160 acres of private land inside the Willamette National Forest. In Oregon, in the Cascade Mountains. I was there just once, as a courier. There's a log lodge in virgin forest, beautiful, and the whole place is surrounded by a security fence. I guess you know how tough it is to get through a HardSteel fence, and any disturbance of it—someone climbing it, or a tree falling on it, anything like that—would set off alarms and flashing lights in the guardhouse. And of course, there's the usual razor wire on top.

'The fence is patrolled twenty-four hours a day, or it was, by armed patrols with German police dogs.' He chuckled. 'Makes Ray sound paranoid, and I guess he was, at least a little. But apparently people did try to get in. Supposedly several were injured on the razor wire at different times, trying to get over the fence at night. At least that's the story. Guards picked them up and called the sheriff, and meanwhile their injuries were treated in the little clinic at the lodge. When the sheriff got there, he hauled them to town.

'Ray didn't spend a lot of time up there; it was too far. But now and then he'd go, maybe during a bad hot spell in summer. And when there was a storm on the sun, and northern lights were forecast. Ray loved the northern lights. I think he got high on them. Oregon's a lot farther north, and there's no light pollution at the Hideaway. The word was that he'd fly up there to watch.

'There was a stony ridge that sort of wrapped around where the buildings were, with a foot trail up to the top. He'd had a little observatory built up there for stargazing. I've seen it. I guess Ray had a thing about the stars.

'He seldom traveled, except between those places. So if anyone kidnaped or killed him, it was probably at one of them, or traveling between them. Unless he changed his habits since three years ago.'

The waitress brought our food while he was telling me about the observatory, and we pretty much stopped talking to eat. When we were done, we skipped dessert. He sipped his tea and I worked on a refill of my coffee.

'Fred,' I said, 'I'd like to ask a personal question. Or maybe several of them. Tell me to stuff them if you feel like it.'

He grinned. 'Shoot.'

'How much do you make a year now?'

'Huh! It's hard to say for this year. A hundred and twenty thou last year.'

A hundred and twenty thou. About two and a half times the national average for families. 'I haven't talked to many New Gnus,' I told him, 'and most that I have talked to, worked for the church as staff members. I got the impression, though, that they weren't too bright. But the guy at Gnostic Withdrawal Assistance . . . ?'

'Gerald. Gerald Williams.'