Inside, the hardwood floor gleams with a high sheen, covered in the middle with an intricate Persian rug. The rug in turn is partially covered by a fuzzy gray Persian cat. It looks up as Delilah romps in and stalks away in a disgusted huff.
I like the cat.
“Link, we’ve got company,” Phoebe calls, and leads me into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Audrey,” says the judge with a smile. “Glad you could join us.” He hands me a plate.
I've already sampled the warm spicy aroma that wafts from the oven with my nose. Now my taste buds get some action. The scone is deep brown, sweet and gingery, with stripes of white icing that literally melt in my mouth. So much better than stale doughnuts or store-bought cookies.
I nod and smile around my mouthful. It's nice, talking to normal, friendly people. Relaxing. It makes me feel like an actual part of the human race. But small talk has never been my strong suit, and the case is at the forefront of my mind. Maybe Phoebe can cast some light on the more abstract, troubling aspects that have been chasing themselves around in my head.
Are you nuts? Oh wait, of course you are.
Chill. I’m not going to talk about myself. Not too much, anyway.
They ask me about my aunt and my family and past life. I tell them about my mother the architect, my father the cop. I explain that the house I’ve inherited belonged to my mother’s sister. But I don’t want to talk about my professional past, so I switch the focus.
“Phoebe, Link told me you’re a therapist.”
“Here and there. I’m a psychologist, half-retired, but still see some of my long-term clients.”
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Could I consult you — professionally?”
The judge coughs. “Looks like I’d better make myself scarce.”
“Oh, not for myself.” Let’s step on that idea before anyone gets the wrong impression. “I mean, I need some background for a job I’m doing.”
“What kind of job?” Phoebe asks.
“I used to be a cop, and I’ve taken on a private investigation.”
Link says, “Now I really had better leave. This sounds like a potential ex parte contact, and the last thing I want is to pick up any bias about a potential case.” He grabs his coffee and beats a retreat.
Great, I’ve already driven one neighbor out of the room, even if he’s got a valid excuse. “Phoebe? Do you mind?”
“What is it you need? I can’t comment on my patients, you know.”
“I get that. I don’t want to ask about a specific person.” At least, not yet. “I want to get your insight about cults. Leaders, followers, like that.”
She cocks her head. “Now I’m definitely intrigued. Okay, as long as general information is all you’re after, let’s go downstairs to my office and talk.”
Just what I asked for. And also what I dread the most. I swallow past the tightness in my throat.
Phoebe directs me to the outside stairs which lead down to another exterior door, the gateway to her office. It’s furnished with a leather-and-chrome lounge chair — the modern version of the head-shrinker couch, I guess — two comfortable armchairs, and an old-fashioned desk with a laptop and an ergonomic stool. The paint is a soothing cerulean blue, the carpet a deep-napped gray. Sunlight streaming through a window makes a bright rhombus on the floor.
The therapist points me to one armchair and sits behind her desk. “Now, ask your questions.”
I lean forward and steeple my hands. “What kind of person would join, or lead, a cult?”
Phoebe takes a handful of paperclips from her desk drawer and begins to construct a chain, linking them together. “I’ve never actually met anyone who was a cult leader, but some of the markers are pretty well known. Mind you, this is based mostly on testimony from cult followers. Not too many leaders want to be psychoanalyzed. In fact, they tend to reject any kind of close scrutiny.”
“I understand.” Nod, nod. Actually, this conversation feels good, two professionals exchanging information. I’ve consulted with experts galore in the course of my career, and now I’m back on familiar ground, investigating the possibilities. I uncross my legs and lean forward again.
Phoebe continues, adding a few links to her growing chain. “Your average cult leader tends to exhibit symptoms of a narcissistic personality disorder. They want adulation, control, power — and many are charismatic and know how to manipulate their followers into submission. Some are delusional, others are simply sociopathic. They often have a didactic dogma about life or religion that purports to be ‘the answer.’ Many will exploit their followers for money and sex.” She pauses, perhaps to gather her thoughts. Based on what I know so far about Victoria Harkness and her church, this doesn’t sound like a match.
Phoebe is speaking again, “You have to understand that this is at best a gross generalization. For example, I don’t think Marshall Applewhite — one of the founders of Heaven’s Gate — had sex with his followers. But, he did insist on celibacy, and he and some of his male congregants had themselves surgically castrated. So we’re still talking about sexual control. I would say the prime motivator for cult leaders is power, which is maintained by domination, manipulation, and aggression, and often justified by personal delusions of grandeur.” Once again she pauses. “What is it you are trying to figure out? Has someone gone off to join a cult?”
“Not exactly.” I wonder how much to tell her. “I’m trying to track down a missing person, who has associations with a religious group. I’m trying to get a handle on whether the disappearance is voluntary, and if so, where this person might go and what actions they might take.”
Thought you’d decided it wasn’t voluntary. Because, you know, the purse. No phone or keys.
It’s important to explore
