e sunspots, they appeared to me as signs of a body in turmoil.
“Those tests don’t mean anything anyhow,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t be quite that categorical.” I was impressed by both his nsiveness and the fact that neither he nor his wife had asked me ngle question about their daughter. Had they been as genuine as ta thought they were, it seemed to me they’d be brushing aside my stions and grilling me for updates on their daughter’s whereabouts. I stared at him hard, forcing him to look at the floor. I wanted to advantage of whatever it was that was chewing at him. Convenally, that would mean giving them both the third degree on their vities on the night of the fire. It occurred to me, however, that in r eyes, the fire was not the monumental event it was to the police. ething else had brought this couple here, far from the decent dIe-class values they supposedly espoused back home, something had torn their moorings and had possibly forced them to desperate emes. It was that something I wanted to learn more about. “Tell about your daughter.” “What about her?” Wingate’s voice sounded like he was muttering out moving his lips. It wasn’t at all like the anger I’d seen explode ennie, but it revealed a brooding moodiness totally at odds with the appearance, and one which I’d already come to expect. I wond what he was like to work with or live with. Presumably, as a ker, he had to present the stereotyped blandness we’ve come to ect of that profession.
What outlet did he have for his other side?
did he blow off that excess steam? I doubted the answer was lthy-or harmless. “How old is she?” “Twenty-one.” “What kind of person is she?” “She’s very sweet,” her mother almost whispered. “Ever have any troubles with her?” “Like what?” Definitely a nerve there.
“Oh, I don’t know. Drugs, sex, hanging out with people you didn’t approve of-” “We didn’t permit that. We are a hard-working, God-fearing family.
Those things never crossed our threshold. Julie was a very. obedient girl.” “The threshold works two ways.
“My daughter didn’t do those things.” Ellie Wingate’s voice attempted to match her husband’s, an impressive show of dual indignation. I was now quite content to push this line of questioning to whatever limit it might reach.
“Then how did she end up here?” She pursed her lips. He answered.
“She was duped.” “Duped?” “At college by her supposed ‘friends.” They brainwashed her.
She was naive, just a freshman.” “Where?” “Boston College.” “Was she happy?” “Of course she was,” said Ellie, gaining strength.
“Brainwashing’s pretty difficult unless the subject is receptive, at least to a degree.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I raised my eyebrows.
“How did the Order approach her? How did you hear about it?” “We talked on the phone every week,” Ellie Wingate answered. “The three of us.
Just a few weeks after she got there, she started to talk about her new friends. It sounded nice at first.” “How long ago was this?” “When she entered college? Three years ago.” “And there was no mention of the Order?” “No. Just friends. We thought they were college friends.
People she was going to school with.” “How did she describe them?”
Wingate shook his head contemptuously. “You obviously don’t have children. They don’t describe their friends.” “They do talk about them, don’t they tell you what they’re doing?
Did they dance, go to the movies, attend religious services, protest in the streets?” “No, no. They were just friends-” Ellie’s voice trailed off.
“They talked. Bull sessions-typical college stuff.” “What about?” “I was hardly there, was I?” “You talked every week. She mentioned these new friends. What the context?” Wingate rolled his eyes. “I don’t see that it matters a good godn what the context was.” From the quick accusative glance Ellie e him, I gathered cursing was considered among the social diseases. n the other hand, found his increasing brittleness encouraging. “I think she mentioned these new friends and you told her to dump m sight unseen. So she stopped talking about them, and then pped talking to you altogether.
When did you last communicate with daughter?” It “vas a long shot. As Wingate had said, I didn’t have children of own. On the other hand, I had dealt with more troubled kids than ever would, and I knew that the bridges from children to their ents were among the first to be burned.
There was an embarrassed silence before Ellie Wingate murmured, wo and a half years ago.” Her husband gave her an angry glance.
Six months after she entered college. “How was that? A phone I?”
“A letter.” “And what did it say?” “A bunch of crap,” Wingate burst out.
“She was babbling about ing a higher plane and needing to cut her ties with her past. It was er nonsense.” “And it took you this long to find her?” They both looked at the floor and didn’t answer immediately. en Ellie finally did, it was in a whisper. “We didn’t look at first; we d to honor her wish to be treated as an adult. Later we tried to locate on our own, but we both work, and… there were some other ubles. We finally joined FTC, and Mr. Gorman introduced us to a ate detective. He found out last week that she was here, in Gannet.” I interrupted.
“What’s FTC and Mr. Gorman?” Wingate sighed, the impatient executive dealing with a dull-witted ordinate. “FTC stands for Freedom to Choose and Paul Gorman it. It’s a Boston counseling group for parents of children who have n brainwashed by cults. He’s like a deprogrammer and counselor bined he’s had a lot of experience in these matters.” I made a mental note of both names. The sudden introduction of programmer was significant, I thought, especially given their lessn-pristine reputation.
“Did you tell the State Police about Gorman?” Wingate’s tone was indulgent. “They didn’t ask.” **skip**I certainly would, but a little later. Right now, I wanted to get them back to the present. “And you saw your daughter for the first time two nights ago?” Mrs. Wingate was becoming almost conversational. “Yes. Mrs. Lynn has been letting us sit in her cafe so we can watch the street. We hoped we’d see her that way. We asked around at first, but those people wouldn’t talk to us.
Then the night before last, Bruce saw a large group of them headed into the woods. We figured there must be a meetingthey have a kind of church up there in the woods-so we waited by that small bridge near the street.
That’s how we found Julie. She just walked out in front of us.” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t talk to us, wouldn’t even look at us. It was as if we weren’t even there. All I can think is that they must have brainwashed her. It was as if she didn’t recognize us. Then her friends all grouped around and crowded us out. It was so frustrating…
after all this time.” She shook her head again. “She looks terrible.
We followed her to that house, but the others wouldn’t let us enter.
Finally, Bruce decided to go in anyway.
Wingate’s face tightened. “But Julie was gone?” “She must have gone out the back,” he answered. I thought of Fox’s self-confidence when he’d offered to let us search the cellar. I was pretty sure now I’d been outmaneuvered on that one. I also imagined Wingate being confronted by that same arrogant confidence, being denied access to the house, and to the daughter he’d been hunting for years.
It wasn’t hard to see how any father might have exploded. What hung in my mind, though, was his punching Rennie. Despite forcing his way into the house, and being forcibly ejected, Wingate’s punch had showed his rage to be still hot, and still uncontained. It made me wonder what he might do to quench that anger, and what he had done in the past when similarly denied. Wingate was by now struggling for self-control.