"We push too hard, the guy could melt down all over your fine vinyl seats."
The sky had lightened to slate by the time they pulled past the motel parking lot. Bear took the rig around the block once; everything looked clear.
The jangling bells announcing Tim's entrance sent the papers in Reggie's hands flying. "Sorry. I'm a little jumpy."
Though the carpet had been cleaned, it still squished beneath Tim's shoes. The place smelled like a bad sushi joint.
Reggie flicked the bent red plastic hands of a smiley – faced I'll – Be – Back – By clock to 6:00 and propped it on the cheap blotter. He pulled the brown paper bag from the drawer and carried it out with him, tucked under an arm like a clutch purse. "I don't take them, the downers. I don't need to, as long as I know they're here with me."
Reggie led them down the walk running along the lot's edge, key dangling from a plastic medallion with 5 stamped on it in flaking gold. Tim noticed he kept his eyes on Bear in the truck, only glancing away briefly to navigate. Through the reflections off the windshield, Bear offered a cheery wave, which turned to a middle finger when Reggie rotated to jiggle the key in the knob. Bear made his trademark "what the fuck?" head dip about the locale switch, aped by Boston beside him, but Tim gave them both the flat hand, indicating everything was okay.
A few more tugs and pushes and the door swung open. An index card hanging from a length of yarn affixed to the ceiling slapped Reggie in the face when he stepped inside. It read: Lock Door Behind You.
"Right," Reggie said, speaking to the card. He stepped aside, letting them in, then bolted the door.
They were literally ankle deep in clothes and trash. The floor was likely carpeted, given the slight yield beneath Tim's feet; the bed and bureau he distinguished mostly by shape and location. A yellowed poster of the Department of Agriculture food pyramid sagged through its tacks, cheerfully declaiming, MEAT AND POULTRY – 2-3 SERVINGS A
DAY.
Keeping an eye on Reggie, Tim took a quick turn around the room, glancing into the bathroom and open closet.
Reggie pulled back the comforter, dispersing unopened mail and cheeseburger wrappers, and sat. "I think there's a chair over there."
Tim found it beneath a raincoat and a sweatshirt, which he set respectfully atop the TV before sitting.
Upsetting a glass of water, Reggie grabbed a worn spiral notepad from the nightstand. He flipped through it, finger tracing down the pen-marked pages. "Damnit. I forgot to deposit my check today." He squeezed the bridge of his nose. "But it's okay. I can learn from this. There's a lesson here."
"Reggie."
"Oh, right. Right." He propped himself up on some pillows. "Tell me about the girl."
"She's nineteen years old. Sensitive, vulnerable. A dreamer. Her parents are tougher than most but provided her more than the basics. A good worker – she was studying computer science at Pepperdine. She liked flowers, simple pleasures. Not the coolest girl in the dorm, maybe the last to get asked out, but the kind the guys'll regret ignoring when the ten-year swings around. Clean, pretty features, a touch goofy, but growing into herself every minute."
Reggie closed his eyes, leaning back against the wicker headboard. "God, I know the type. Ripe and willing. There are so many of them. You can choke the life out of them, just like that." A groan colored his sigh. "When you exit or get deprogrammed or whatever the fuck you want to call it, they say, 'At the time you were doing the best you could with the information you had.' I tell myself that when I think about all the kids I recruited, all the people tangled up and dismantled in there because of me. I tell myself that, but I'm also full of shit." He was gone for a few minutes, and then his head tilted forward. "How long's she been in?"
"Three months or so. Involved another month or two before that."
"There's still time. She could get out less damaged."
"Less damaged than who?"
His smile genuine but dead in the eyes, Reggie made a gun with his hand and pointed the barrel at his reflection in the spotted mirror on the opposite wall. "Nightmares, panic attacks, fainting, blackouts, exhaustion, difficulty concentrating, involuntary body shaking, episodes of dissociation, migraines. I'm a walking case study."
"But you're walking."
Reggie swallowed hard. "Look, the thing is, when you're…like this, it's hard to talk to anyone. It's embarrassing. To be seen, even."
"I'll be patient with you."
Reggie sniffed a couple of times and cleared his throat. Rather than look up, he flicked his hand inward – bring it on.
"Were you and Ernie in a cult together?"
A nod.
"What's the name of the cult?"
He snapped upright, eyes darting to the windows, the door. "I'm not talking specifics. No way, man. You can leave right now."
"Okay. Relax. We can take this at your pace. You won't give me any names? The cult leader, members?"
"They'll come after me. I'm the only one, you know. Me and Ernie, but what's Ernie anymore?"
"You're the only what?"
"The only nonsuicide. Not that I haven't tried." Reggie pushed up his sleeve, revealing a white worm of a scar on the underside of his forearm. "I slit my wrists, tried to hang myself."
"Both attempts since you've been out?"
"About twenty minutes apart, actually. I'm a fast clotter." He let out a shaky laugh. "Then the fucking knot didn't hold. The rope slid, left me dangling with my wrists scabbing up and my toes on the ground. I had to call for help. Isn't that the most pathetic fucking thing you've ever heard?" He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Whew. Haven't had a chuckle like that since I don't know when. Yeah, we all kill ourselves, pretty much."
Tim felt a stab of concern. "Did a girl join that group recently?"
Reggie waved a finger at him like a schoolmarm.
Tim wanted to see if Leah's name would draw a reaction, but giving it up entailed too many risks. "Why do you kill yourselves? Or try?"
"Shit, you're a babe in the woods, asking a question like that. Look around, man. You see anything appealing? I had money lined out -my dad's in land development. I used to drive a Porsche. Now I'm this. Here. My family's had it with me, and I don't blame them. They did their part already when I limped my ass back home fifteen months ago, so they can wash their hands of me now in good conscience. I want to pay them back for the cost of the deprogramming, but I can't even do that. It's all I can do to drag myself down four doors and work the counter. They're still in my head, man. They implant shit in your cells. They replace your identity. Problem is, once you're out, it's tough finding your old one. That's why no one leaves."
"You miss the cult?"
"Fuck, yeah I do. Part of it. It's like getting high. The meditation felt like melting into a river. You get hooked on it, that peacefulness, you know? Even when everything else is going to hell, you still felt like you were part of something special. And like it was a part of you."
He'd relaxed a little; Tim wanted to keep him talking. "How do new members join?"
"We find them. You have to bring in a certain number of Neos -that's what we call them – or you're a failure. I sorta had…sorta had a breakdown, under the pressure of it. I had a chronic 'need' to be weak and dysfunctional. You can imagine how that went over."
"What do you look for in a Neo?"
Reggie threw up his hands. "I'm done talking."
Using cult lingo back to Reggie was clearly a bad call. Tim had been trying to make Reggie talk to him like an insider but had only succeeded in putting him on guard by indicating how closely he was listening. Good job, Columbo.
"Listen," Tim said, "I'm not pressing you for any specifics here. I just need to know how it works. In general."
He regarded Tim warily. "I'll talk in general."