"Right here – UCLA Med Center. I helped get him admitted."
"I'd like to speak with him today if that's possible. Could you help me?"
"If he's still there, I'm sure I could. Though I didn't do much, his family feels indebted to me. I don't know what good it will do you. He's nearly catatonic – not your usual cult survivor. More a cult victim."
"I'd appreciate that very much."
Bederman flipped through an old-school Rolodex, its cards written in code, then punched a number into the phone and spoke briefly with the charge nurse. He hung up and regarded Tim. "Even if you can locate this girl, there is a very specific skill set you'll need at your disposal. You'll need incredible patience. She won't have access to the thoughts and feelings you'll expect her to. If you push, you'll cause her to retreat further or melt down altogether. If you try to reason with her, she'll likely fight the process with meditation or thought stopping."
"I'm not planning on reasoning with her."
Bederman rocked forward in his chair, arms resting on his blotter, his voice warning of impending outrage. "What do you mean? How do you plan on getting her out?"
"By any means necessary."
"Oh, no, no, no. Abducting her would be a grave mistake. You law-enforcement types have three approaches – force, force, and more force." Bederman seemed unnerved by Tim's silence. "You can't show someone that coercion is wrong by coercing her in the opposite direction."
"She's clearly not thinking for herself. What if a recovery operation is the only way to get her the help she needs?"
"It's never the only way." He'd come up out of his chair with the exclamation; he took a moment to ease himself back down.
"What matters is getting her out."
"It's not that simple. The process by which a person gets out from under the cult's dominance is essential. She'll be crippled by implanted phobias about leaving. You might wreck her in the process of trying to save her." Bederman cocked a snowy eyebrow. "Force may work when tracking down crooks in stocking caps, but it doesn't stand a chance when you're up against mind control, psychological coercion, phobias. Take it from me, Deputy. You can very easily, very quickly get in over your head here."
Chapter five
The institute's bleached tile, white walls, and the antiseptic chill of fluorescent overheads all contributed to the serene mood. Tim drifted down a corridor past a bank of windows looking in on a cluster of people in gowns, twisting, bending, and extending their arms in slow motion, a sculpture garden coming sluggishly to life. A social worker with sharp, attractive features and shiny black hair met him at the reception console, wielding an immense visitors' log. After he signed in, she led him to her office, where she called Ernie Tramine's father and confirmed approval for the visit.
"Ernie hasn't spoken in weeks. I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish." Her voice was pleasant and observational.
"It's part of an investigation." Tim immediately regretted sounding like an uptight TV cop; her polite interest in his badge at reception had made him feel like a kid showing off a tin sheriff star.
"Take a seat behind my desk. I'll bring Ernie right in."
The office's single window overlooked a treetop canopy six stories below. A prepackaged Zen garden on the desktop tirelessly cycled water. Tim sank into Ms. Liu's chair, which tilted accommodatingly under his weight. He pushed "redial" on her telephone, and a number popped up on the Caller ID screen as it dialed. He punched the number into his own cell phone to save it and hung up the receiver before the call rang through.
A few minutes later, Ms. Liu entered again, guiding Ernie in front of her. Tim was struck immediately by how young he looked – he couldn't have been over twenty-one. His chiseled features and dark eyes had probably served him well in the past. He looked like a kid whose biggest concern should have been how many girls were showing up to the next three-kegger, and yet here he was, rocking and mute, his feet encased in paper slippers. He wore a few days' scruff and an incredibly blank expression, as if his facial muscles had atrophied.
Ms. Liu steered Ernie into the interview chair facing the desk, and Ernie immediately began to rock. "I'll be right outside," she said.
The door clicked behind her. Ernie's eyes focused on his tight-clasped hands.
"Hi, Ernie. My name's Tim Rackley. It's nice to meet you."
Ernie swayed rhythmically.
"I have a few questions I'd like to ask you." Tim might as well have been talking to a watercooler, a fire hydrant, his father. He realized how foolish he'd been to ignore Bederman's and Ms. Liu's hesitations.
"I'm looking for a girl who joined up with a group of people. I think she was recruited off campus at Pepperdine. You went to Pepperdine, right?"
Ernie leaned forward in his chair, zoned out. Tim drew nearer in an attempt to engage him, resting his elbows on the desk. He brought his face within a few feet of Ernie's, but still Ernie didn't look up to meet his eyes.
"What was the name of the group you joined?"
The lulling whisper of the trickling water.
"Do you remember joining a group?"
Ernie's gentle rocking continued, regular as a heartbeat. Tim studied his eyebrows, his pupils, the occasional flicker of his lids.
"Can you tell me anything about the Teacher?"
Ernie snapped forward violently, screaming, his face inches from Tim's. Tim jerked back, elbow striking the Zen garden and sending it crashing to the floor. He rolled back until the chair collided with the wall. Ernie paused only to suck in a deep, screeching breath and then continued. Ms. Liu burst through the door, looking uncharacteristically flustered, and Tim heard the pounding footsteps of approaching backup.
Ernie continued to scream, so loud his voice was already flattening into hoarseness. He bobbed fiercely in his chair but made no move to attack Tim or Ms. Liu.
Two burly psych techs skidded into the room, followed by a jogging doctor.
One hand raised calmingly toward Ernie, Ms. Liu glared at Tim. "I think you should leave."
When one of the psych techs grabbed Ernie's arm, he threw himself off the chair, thrashing on the floor. As Tim stepped out into the hall, he heard the doctor calling for a Haldol cocktail.
His heart still pounding from the scare, Tim headed toward the exit, moving against the stream of responding workers.
The reception console stood vacant. Giving a glance in all directions, Tim slipped behind the reinforced glass, locating the overburdened visitors' log beneath the front counter. Ernie's screams continued to echo up the corridor.
Tim flipped through the sheets, finger scanning down the "Patient Name" columns. Where Ernie Tramine appeared – a few times on each page – Tim cross-referenced the "Visitor Name" box. Jennifer Tramine. Pierre Tramine. Pierre Tramine. Mikka Tramine.
Footsteps approached, several sets.
"- never seen him that agitated -"
"- Haldol should take the edge off -"
Tim moved furiously through the last few pages. Jennifer Tramine. Pierre Tramine. Reggie Rondell. He stopped at the last name, checking the corresponding date – 2/05. About two months ago.
Tim tossed the log beneath the counter and stepped out of the console just as the charge nurse rounded the corner, flanked by psych techs. Passing the patients' disrupted yoga session, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and hit "send."
A male voice. "Yes?"
He shoved through the door, exiting the NPI. "Pierre Tramine?"
"Yes?"
"Hello. My name is Tim Rackley. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal." The flush of pride he felt at announcing himself as such evaporated when he remembered his temporary status. "Dr. Bederman directed me to your son."
"Yes, Janet mentioned something about that. Listen, anything you can do to find the bastards who did this to Ernie…"