“One of my colleagues estimates that over the past two decades as many as twenty million people have had some involvement with a cult. She believes that at any given time the number is two to five million people.”
“Do you agree?” I was astounded.
“It’s awfully hard to know. Some groups inflate their numbers by counting as a member anyone who ever attended a meeting or requested information. Others are very secretive, and keep as low a profile as possible. The police discover some groups only indirectly, if there’s a problem, or if a member leaves and files a complaint. The small ones are particularly hard to track.”
“Ever hear of Dom Owens?”
He shook his head. “What’s the name of his group?”
“They don’t use one.”
Down the hall a printer whirred to life.
“Are there any organizations in the Carolinas that the police are monitoring?”
“Not my area, Tempe. I’m a sociologist. I can tell you how these groups work, but not necessarily who’s at the plate at any given time. I can try to find out if it’s important.”
“I just don’t get it, Red. How can people be so gullible?”
“It’s seductive to think that you’re elite. Chosen. Most cults teach their members that only they are enlightened and everyone else in the world is left out. Lesser in some way. It’s powerful stuff.”
“Red, are these groups violent?”
“Most aren’t, but there are the exceptions. There was Jonestown, Waco, Heaven’s Gate, and the Solar Temple. Obviously their members didn’t fare too well. Remember the Rajneesh cult? They attempted to poison the water supply in some town in Oregon, and made threatening moves toward the county officials. And Synanon? Those fine citizens placed a diamondback in the mailbox of a lawyer who brought suit against them. The guy barely survived.”
I vaguely recalled the incident.
“What about small groups, the ones with less profile?”
“Most are harmless, but some are sophisticated and potentially dangerous. I can think of only a few that have crossed the line in recent years. Does this have to do with a case?”
“Yeah. No. I’m not sure.” I picked at a hangnail on my thumb.
He hesitated. “Is it Katy?”
“What?”
“Is Katy involved with . . .”
“Oh no, nothing like that. Really. It’s related to a case. I came across this commune in Beaufort and they got me thinking.”
The border of my nail began to bleed.
“Dom Owens.”
I nodded.
“Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“No.”
“I can make a few calls if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Do you want a Band-Aid?”
I dropped my hands and stood.
“No, thanks. I really won’t keep you any longer. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Any more questions, you know where I am.”
* * *
Back in my office, I sat and watched shadows lengthen across the room, the feeling of an unformed thought still teasing my mind. The building was heavy with after-hours quiet.
Was it Daisy Jeannotte? I’d forgotten to ask Red if he knew her. Was that it?
No.
What was it that kept calling from the labyrinth of my neural wiring? Why couldn’t I drag it into consciousness? What link did my id see that I did not?
My eyes fell on the small collection of mystery writers I keep on campus for exchange with colleagues. What did these authors call it? The “Had-I-But-Known” technique. Was that it? Was tragedy approaching because of a subconscious message I couldn’t manage to retrieve?
What tragedy? Another death in Quebec? More killings in Beaufort? Harm to Kathryn? Another attack on me, with more serious consequences?
Somewhere a phone rang and rang, then stopped abruptly as the messaging service cut in. Silence.
I tried Pete’s number again. No answer. He was probably off on another deposition trip. It didn’t matter. I knew Birdie wasn’t there.
