“The rise in popularity of fundamentalist Christianity. The economy had a lot to do with it, of course. Layoffs. Plant closings. Downsizing. Poverty and economic insecurity are very stressful. But that isn’t the only source of worry. People at every economic level are feeling anxiety due to shifting social norms. Relations have changed between men and women, within families, between generations.”
She ticked the points off on her fingers.
“The old explanations are breaking down and new ones haven’t been established yet. The fundamentalist churches provide solace by presenting simple answers to complex questions.”
“Satan.”
“Satan. All the world’s evil is due to Satan. Teenagers are being recruited to devil worship. Children are being abducted and killed in demonic rituals. Satanic livestock killing is spreading across the country. The Proctor and Gamble logo contains a secret satanic symbol. Grass roots frustration locks on to these rumors and feeds them so they grow.”
“So, are you suggesting that satanic cults don’t exist?”
“I’m not saying that. There are a few, what shall we say, high-profile, organized Satanist groups, like that of Anton LaVey.”
“The Church of Satan, out in San Francisco.”
“Yes. But they’re a small, small group. Most ‘Satanists’”—she hooked both index fingers in the air, placing the term in quotation marks—“are probably just white, middle-class kids playing at devil worship. Occasionally these kids get out of line, of course, vandalize churches or cemeteries, or torture animals, but mostly they perform a lot of rituals, and go off on legend trips.”
“Legend trips?”
“I believe that term came from the sociologists. Visits to spooky sites, like cemeteries or haunted houses. They light bonfires, tell ghost stories, cast spells, maybe do some vandalism. That’s about it. Later, when police find graffiti, an overturned gravestone, a campfire site, maybe a dead cat, they assume the local youth are all in a satanic cult. The press picks it up, the preachers sound the alarm, and another legend takes flight.”
She was, as usual, totally composed, but her nostrils dilated and contracted as she spoke, betraying a tension I hadn’t seen before. I said nothing.
“I am suggesting that the threat of Satanism is vastly overblown. Another subversion myth, as your colleagues would say.”
Without warning her voice rose and sharpened, causing me to jump.
“David! Is that you?”
I hadn’t heard a sound.
“Yes, ma’am.” Muffled.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway, his face concealed by the hood of his parka and an enormous muffler wrapped around his neck. The hunched form looked vaguely familiar.
“Excuse me a moment.”
Jeannotte rose and disappeared through the doorway. I caught little of their conversation, but the man sounded agitated, his voice rising and falling like a whining child’s. Jeannotte interrupted him frequently. She spoke in short bursts, her tone as steady as his was volatile. I could make out only one word. “No.” She repeated it several times.
Then there was silence. In a moment, Jeannotte returned, but did not sit.
“Students,” she said, laughing and shaking her head.
“Let me guess. He needs more time to finish his paper.”
“Nothing ever changes.” She looked at her watch. “So, Tempe, I hope your visit has been helpful. You will take care of the diaries? They are very dear.” I was being dismissed.
“Of course. I’ll return them by Monday at the latest.” I rose, slid Jeannotte’s materials into my briefcase, and collected my jacket and purse.
She smiled me out of the room.
In winter, the Montreal sky displays mainly gray tones, shifting from dove, to iron, to lead, to zinc. When I stepped out of Birks Hall moist clouds had turned the day a dull pewter.
I slung my purse and briefcase over my shoulder, stuffed my fists into my pockets, and turned downhill into a raw, damp wind. Before I’d taken twenty steps tears filled my eyes, making it hard to see. As I walked, an image of Fripp Island flashed across my mind. Palmetto palms. Sea oats. Sunlight glinting on the marsh.
Knock it off, Brennan. March is windy and cold in many parts of the planet. Stop using the Carolinas as a baseline against which to measure the weather of the world. It could be worse. It could be snowing. With that, the first fat flake struck my cheek.
As I opened the car door, I looked up to see a tall young man staring at me from the far side of the street. I recognized the parka and muffler. The hunched form was that of David, Jeannotte’s unhappy visitor.
Our gazes locked for a moment, and the raw anger in his eyes startled me. Then, without a word, the student turned and hurried off down the block. Unnerved, I climbed into the car and locked the doors, thankful he was Jeannotte’s problem and not mine.
On the drive back to the lab my mind went through its usual paces, rehashing the immediate, and worrying about things undone. Where was Anna? Should Sandy’s concerns about a cult be seriously considered? Was Jeannotte right? Were satanic cults little more than youth clubs? Why had I not asked Jeannotte to elaborate on her remark that Anna was safe? Our conversation had gotten so fascinating I’d been sidetracked from asking further about Anna. Was that deliberate? Was Jeannotte purposefully concealing something? If so, what and why? Was the professor merely shielding her student from outsiders prying into a personal matter? What was Anna’s
