"It's like we're taught in Special Forces – if you're captured, only give up name, rank, and serial number. Anything more than that, they have a wedge to pry you open."
"With brainwashing at least you know you're in the hands of the enemy. Mind control – what Leah's up against – is more insidious." He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, put them back on. "These situations – especially with a sole leader like TD bent on absolute control – only go in one direction."
They sat quietly for a few moments, and then Bederman said, "Remember the Heaven's Gate mass suicide down in San Diego? I was one of the first people through the house. Thirty-nine bodies, young and old. The smell…Jesus, the smell. You know that smell?"
Tim studied his hands. "Yes."
"As you well know, you can't get rid of them, those moments. I testified in a case early in my career where a six – year – old girl with Down's syndrome was flayed to death in a church. Johanna Yarbough. There were fifty adults present, including her mother. They took turns as the other children sat in the pews and watched. They were exorcising evil spirits from the girl. I always wondered what she was thinking, Johanna, when it was happening. Looking out at all those faces. That's what she knew of the world. That's what the world looked like to her."
"You hate them, don't you? The zealots?"
"Sometimes." Bederman's face looked weary; his jowls sagged. "But sometimes the oppressors are only victims who've advanced in the ranks. Sometimes you lose perspective, start hating them all."
Tim glanced around the room. The antique churn in the corner. Bows of raffia around porcelain candlesticks. A spray of dried flowers deadening the mantel. It was like something painstakingly replicated from a magazine photo or a childhood memory, a stab at some notion of archetypal domesticity.
"In the late seventies, I was a deprogrammer. There wasn't much literature about cult psychology yet and what there was was primitive. I had a 'patient' abducted and subjected to involuntary deprogramming in a locked hotel suite. I was young and enthusiastic and knew all the answers. On the third day, Joel slashed his wrists using glass from the bathroom mirror. They teach them that, you see, because it gets them to the hospital, where they can phone the cult leadership. The cult shows up with lawyers, frees the member, presses charges – you get the picture. But Joel was overzealous. After seventy-two hours, I can hardly blame him." A doleful grin. "He lost too much blood." His hands parted, then clapped faintly together. "I came apart afterward – spent a few years mired in self-loathing. My marriage didn't survive."
Tim glanced around – no pictures in sight.
"I'm a doer, you see. Just like Tom Altman." Bederman's tone regained its briskness. "My wife's remarried now, her high-school sweetheart. They're good enough to send a card every year at the holidays. And so it's just me and this little house. All these years I've been unable to change it. I keep wanting to do something to make it my own, but I suppose…I don't know. I put everything I have into my work, trying to get it right this time around, and the next, and the next." A melancholy chuckle. "I suppose I hope that'll redeem me."
"I know that hope."
They sat silent for a few moments.
Finally Tim said, "I want to save Leah, and I want to keep her intact."
Bederman's smile warmed his face. "She's not just a passive victim. She's a sensitive, intelligent person with feelings and doubts of her own. Encourage her to imagine other possibilities. Make it safe for her to express her doubts, to reconnect with her former life, with herself."
"How?"
He laughed. "How much time you got?"
"Until eight A.M. tomorrow."
He favored Tim with a little dip of his head. "You've got to play them as they play you, staying one step ahead of the game. A key strategy will be winning the confidence, even the trust, of the group. Leah has to know you're able to see it from her perspective. Once you know the Program doctrine, you'll be able to identify internal hypocrisies and inconsistencies. Stay focused on how cult members behave, not what they believe. You'll be interacting with her in a milieu where everything is carefully orchestrated to control her. See if you can establish enough trust to get her to agree to a consensual intervention, a meeting on neutral ground with family, friends, former cult members if you can find them, and a counselor."
"Maybe when I'm done doing all that, I could end world hunger."
"World hunger is passe. I'd recommend striving for peace on earth. Then if you perform well in the swimsuit competition, you can write your own ticket." With a professorial tilt of his head, he took note of the discouragement on Tim's face. "I'll help you."
Before Tim could express his gratitude, the doorbell rang.
"My eleven-o'clock."
Tim moved to rise, but Bederman gestured for him to stay put. He made his way to the adjoining foyer. On the doorstep waited a kid in his early twenties gripping a briefcase and wearing a black knit tie, a short-sleeved button-up, and dark slacks. The gold lettering on the bound book he clasped threw off a glint of the morning sun.
"Hi, Glen. Matthew Gallagher from the Brotherhood of the Kingdom. I came by Thursday evening…?"
"Yes, of course. Come in." Bederman stepped back, letting the kid enter. "I appreciate your agreeing to come back to see me on a Sunday."
"It's vital to spread the word, no matter the day or hour."
Bederman rested a hand on his back. "Impressive nonetheless. I'd bet you've always found outlets for that initiative."
Matthew moved stiffly, with little bend at the elbows. "I guess. But I'm here today to talk with you about the Kingdom of the Spirit."
"My friend here would like to join us. I trust that's all right with you?"
"The more the merrier." Matthew shook hands with Tim, sat on the opposing couch, and began to spread out pamphlets on the coffee table.
Settling back into his chair, Bederman folded his hands across the slight bulge of his belly and shot Tim a wink. "Well," he said, "we'd best get started."
Chapter twenty-five
Greeting him at the Hennings' front door was a bodybuilder duo; it seemed at first glance that Rooch had been cloned in Tim's absence. Tim managed to distinguish Rooch from his thick-necked playmate an instant before the squeaky articulation removed all doubt. "Mr. Henning expecting you?"
"No."
Behind them the tile floors amplified a baby's cries. Rooch's twin chomped his gum. The bulge beneath his knockoff jacket was a pretty good indication that the death threats had rattled the Hennings more than they'd let on. His voice, accompanied by a waft of fruity breath, was better suited to his build. "You in the practice of just dropping in on people Sunday afternoons?" He offered a broad ledge of a grin, his dark hair pulled tight against his skull and taken up in a rabbit's foot of a ponytail. He was the kind of guy who'd had his ego rewarded enough that he'd arrived at the conclusion that his dickhead temperament constituted a kind of charm.
"Listen, princess, when you're teaching etiquette, I'll be sure to sign up. In the meantime, tell him I'm here."
"It's not that simple."
"Have it your way. Please inform Mr. Henning that I'm no longer available to speak with him. This was his window, and he missed it."
Tim started down the walk. He didn't get three steps before Rooch's hand clamped down over his shoulder, squeezing so tight he felt the bones grind. "Come on, hard-on. Don't let Doug scare you off."
"Doug just annoys me, Rooch. Does he scare you?"