“Laurie said they’ll do pre-production interviews with all of us. No cameras, for the most part. Just hearing our side of things so they know what to ask us once they yell ‘action.’ ”
“Sure, no problem.”
Did Rosemary imagine it, or had Nicole’s eyes just moved toward the staircase of her empty house? “You’re happy about this, aren’t you, Nicole? I mean, you and Madison were the only people my daughter ever lived with besides her parents. And, well, Madison was always sort of the add-on. Whether you wanted to be or not, you were the closest thing to a sister that Susan ever knew.”
Whatever distance Rosemary sensed in Nicole immediately vanished as her eyes began to water. “And for me, too. She was my friend, and she was… amazing. I promise you, Rosemary. I will help. Me, you, this show. If there’s any way to find out what happened to Susan, we’re going to do it.”
Now Rosemary was crying, too, but she smiled through the tears. “We’ll show Frank Parker and Keith Ratner what a couple of determined women can do. It has to be one of them, right?”
When Rosemary was ready to leave, Nicole led the way to the front door, and then wrapped her arm around Rosemary’s shoulder as she escorted her down the steep walkway from her front porch to the street.
Rosemary paused to take in the breathtaking view of the valley, all green trees backed by blue hills. “I don’t know whether I’ve ever told you this, Nicole, but I was so worried about you when you decided to leave school. I wondered whether you were, in some way, another victim of what happened to Susan. I’m so happy that things have worked out well for you.”
Nicole gave her a big hug and then patted her on the back. “You drive safe, okay? We have big things to look forward to.”
As Rosemary climbed into the driver’s seat, strapped on her seat belt, and pulled away from the curb, neither woman noticed the person watching them from the cream-colored pickup truck, two houses down.
The truck pulled away from the curb and followed Rosemary south.
23
Martin Collins worked his way down the aisles of his megachurch, conveniently located right off I-110 in the heart of South Los Angeles, shaking hands and offering quick hellos and blessings. He had delivered a rousing sermon to a packed house of four thousand, on their feet, their hands raised to God-and to him. Most could barely make rent or put food on the table, but he saw bills flying when the baskets were passed.
The early days of recruiting new members in tattoo parlors, bike shops, and sketchy bars and painstakingly converting them, reinventing them, were long over.
To see thousands of worshippers enthralled by his every word was exhilarating, but he enjoyed this moment-after the sermons, after the crowd dwindled-even more. This was his chance to speak in person to the church members who were so devoted to him personally that they would wait, sometimes hours, to shake his hand.
He circled back around to the front of the church, saving for last a woman who waited in the front pew. Her name was Shelly. She had first arrived here eighteen months ago, a walk-in who had found a flyer for Advocates for God in the bus station. She was a single mother. Her daughter, Amanda, sat next to her, twelve years old with milky skin and light brown eyes fit for an angel.
Martin reached out to hug Shelly. She rose from the pew and clung to him. “Thank you so much for your words of worship,” she said. “And for the apartment,” she whispered. “We finally have a home of our own.”
Martin barely listened to Shelly’s words. Sweet little Amanda was looking up at him in awe.
Martin had found a way to bring substantial funds into Advocates for God. Because they were now a government-recognized religion, donations were tax-free. And the dollar bills thrown from wallets in a post-sermon fervor were nothing compared to the big money. Martin had mastered a feel-good blend of religious and charitable language that was like a magic recipe for scoring high-dollar philanthropic contributions. He’d found a way to make religion cool, even in Hollywood. Not to mention the huge federal grants he landed with the help of a few like-minded congressmen.
The money allowed the group to back its mission of advocating God’s goodness by helping the poor, including supporting members who needed a safety net. Shelly had whispered her gratitude for a reason. Martin could not provide a roof for every struggling follower-just the special ones, like Shelly and Amanda.
“Still no contact with your sister?” Martin confirmed.
“Absolutely none.”
It had been two months since Martin had convinced Shelly that her sister-the last member of her biological family with whom she had contact, the one who told her she was spending too much time at this new church-was preventing her from having a personal relationship with God.
“And how about you?” he asked little Amanda. “Are you are enjoying the toys we sent over?”
The child nodded shyly, then smiled. Oh, how he loved that expression-filled with trust and joy. “Can I get a hug from you, too?” Another nod, followed by a hug. She was still nervous with him. That was okay. These things took time. Now that she and her mother were in an apartment that he paid for, he would increase the amount of time he spent with both mother and daughter.
Martin knew how to lure people in. He had been a psychology major in college. One course had an entire section of the syllabus devoted to battered woman syndrome: the isolation, the power and control, the belief that the batterer is all-powerful and all-knowing.
Martin had earned an A+ on that part of the course. He didn’t need the textbooks and expert explanations. He had seen those characteristics in his own mother, so incapable of stopping his father from hurting her… and young Martin. He had understood the connection between fear and dependency so well that at the age of ten, he had vowed that when he was older, he would be the controller. He would never be controlled.
And then one day he was flipping channels in the middle of the night and saw a minister of a megachurch on television, a 900 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen for donations. He made everything sound so black-and-white. Ignore the word of the Lord and burn, or listen-and donate money-to the nice-looking man on the television and earn a place with God. Talk about power.
He started watching that preacher every night, practicing the words and the cadence. He researched the IRS rules for religions. He learned about faith-based grants, which allowed churches to get government money by administering charitable programs. He whitened his teeth, joined a tanning center, and printed glossy brochures promising people closeness to God by helping the poor.
The only problem had been the police. They didn’t have any proof yet, but Martin’s predilections had come to the attention of Nebraska law enforcement, and he was tired of their slowing down when they passed his house or saw him near a playground. Off he went to Southern California, filled with lots of sunshine, money, and people searching for a way to feel good about themselves. Advocates for God was born.
And though he clothed himself in religiosity, he knew that the keys to his power had been learned in his own household, watching the way his father controlled his mother.
Ingredient number one: fear. This part was easy. Martin didn’t have to hurt anyone. A nondenominational yet fervently religious church like Advocates for God tended to attract people who were already afraid of the world as they knew it. They wanted easy answers, and he would happily oblige.
Number two: power and control. Martin was the “supreme” Advocate for God, a direct vessel for the voice of God. He, in short, was their god. When he spoke, they listened. That aspect of the church had earned AG more than its share of detractors, but Martin didn’t need everyone in the world to believe. He had sixteen thousand church members and counting, and a track record of raising more than four hundred dollars per year per follower. The math worked.