The gathering, p.9
The Gathering, page 9
“I’m sorry I had to watch. If there had been any other way, I would have chosen it.”
“It’s okay. It helped me, knowing you were there.”
“There was a moment though...” He was smiling now. “...when you pointed his gun at him. I don’t know why, but I thought you were going to fire. So did he.”
“Do you know what? For a moment, so did I.”
ELEVEN
“Before we start the planned interviews I would like to see Jordan Carey again.”
The public relations officer was a woman who had stepped in to replace her boss. Tall and angular, she looked to Beloved like a mantis, the kind that bites off the head of its mate after the act. “I’m sorry, we have made no provision for other interviews. In any event, Carey has nothing to do with it. He was not in that block.”
“I’ll judge what’s relevant,” Beloved said. “And I’ll see Carey first.”
The public relations woman drew herself up to her full, quite impressive height. “I’ll speak to the director.”
“I’ll be there with you,” Beloved said. She was not doing well with public relations people of the corrections fraternity.
After receiving the director’s permission and still being escorted by the now humiliated public relations person, Beloved was again seated when Jordan Carey entered. As before he had been escorted by four guards, but this time he had given them no trouble, walking sedately between them. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” he said.
“I’ve come for your advice.”
“My advice?”
“On the cause of the recent prison riot .”
“Mr Carey is not an authority,” the public relations officer said.
“Please be quiet,” Beloved told her.
Out of the corners of her eyes Beloved could see a resentful twitch of the woman’s shoulders. Carey shrugged and smiled victoriously. Any victory, no matter how small, was a triumph in his dealings with the prison authorities. “Some of the guys had just about enough,” he said, “and they had a go at the guards.”
“Had enough of what?”
“Look, Beloved...” Carey’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. “I thought you’d understand.” He seemed to decide that even she, who knew so much about prison life, did not understand what he saw as the one basic facts of every prison. “This is a war, the inmates on one side and the guards on the other. We are opposing soldiers who have to face each other every day. Those of us who have been found guilty are prisoners of war. Anyone who spends every day in a place like this knows that. The guards know it and we know it. Clever people like you from outside never understand it.”
“If what you say is true...” Beloved started.
“It is true.”
“Given that it is true, riots could break out at any moment in every prison.”
“If the inmates get the chance.”
“And they did this time?”
“Sure. There’s a balance in all our minds, on the one hand between satisfying ourselves by striking back and, on the other what that will cost. Eventually most of us settle down to do our time. The fucking cost is too high, Beloved.”
“And how did it satisfy them emotionally to set their mattresses ablaze?”
“One of the guards did that.”
“Absolutely not,” the public relations lady said.
“I can give you a name,” Carey said.
Beloved slid her note pad to Carey. “Write it down here so that this person can’t see it.” She tilted her head towards the public relations woman.
He wrote and handed the note pad back to Beloved.
“In an unrelated matter,” Beloved said. “You had some sort of religious experience as a teenager. You mentioned it.”
“It wasn’t exactly religious. They said they were going to fix everything for me. My life had been an unmitigated fuck-up, but they were going to make it right. Everything was going to be perfect. But they had so many rules you had to obey. It was worse than the straight world. You can’t discuss anything with them, nothing, never. They know it all. You just have to do what they say.”
“How long were you with them?”
“I dunno. Six months, maybe a year. Why do you want to know?”
Beloved told Carey about Jeanne Robinson’s disappearances and about the dead bodies that had been found.
“You got to find her and get her out of there. At least that mob I was with didn’t kill anybody.” For half an hour Beloved listened to how the cult had dominated Carey’s life and that the man he had killed in the road rage incident had also been a member.
“Did that come up in court?” Beloved asked.
“No. My lawyer said it was irrelevant. ”
“It’s relevant. And how it’s relevant. We’ll have to dig deeper into this, Jordan. I can see that.”
As they left Carey, the public relations woman had her own message. “You’ve made us late. We’re way behind schedule now. I’m going to tell the director that at my meeting with him tomorrow.”
“You can do it today. We’re going back to his office now so I can get rid of you.”
By the end of the first day Beloved had a picture of the cause of the riot in which neither side was guiltless. Each side had retreated into its own ranks, as Carey explained the situation to her, treating the other side as the enemy. He was a hell of a lot more intelligent than anyone, probably including his uncle, gave him credit for. As for who set the mattresses alight and so caused the deaths, she doubted Carey’s version. It seemed too convenient for the inmates. She would suggest in her report that the police treat the deaths in the riot as a homicide investigation. When she left the prison in late afternoon she had completed a day of interviews. She had no prepared questions, but that had proved to be no problem. Her experience of prisons ensured that the areas that needed probing came to mind easily.
With the intrusive memory of her encounter with Evers in her mind, keeping her thoughts on her work had been the difficult part of the afternoon. She hoped that Agents Needham and Graves were keeping their promise about deleting her adventure with Byron Evers from their digital memory banks. She believed they would. She was not sure about Philip though. She could not tell what was happening in that inscrutable technical mind.
Since Needham first told her about it, she had been troubled by the thought of Evers having been seen with Martha Robinson. Without planning it, she drove from the prison to the house where Jeanne had grown up.
The sun was showing itself timidly between the clouds, but at least it was not raining. Martha was busy in the garden. It seemed to be her favourite place and tending her flowers was her favourite occupation. She was down on hands and knees, trowel in hand, but rose immediately when she saw Beloved.
Oh God, this was a mistake, Beloved thought. She saw what she thought was hope in the older woman’s eyes. You have some news about Jeanne, her eyes asked. “Beloved?” The question resided in that single word.
“No, Martha, no. I still know nothing.”
“Oh.” She stood still, her trowel hanging from the fingers of one hand, her shoes and apron muddied. “Will she be found, do you think?”
“I don’t know. But I am doing what I can, and I have assistance now.”
“Yes, Inspector Needham told me he was helping.”
“Agent Needham.” Beloved was glad Needham had made contact with her. It probably meant that he was keeping his promise to protect her.
“That’s right, Agent Needham.”
Martha led the way to a garden bench and they sat down next to each other. “Agent Needham spoke about a young man who was seen in your company at a flower show,” Beloved said.
“Yes, at our local fuchsia show. Freddie is his name.”
“Big fellow, burly, light hair colour.”
“That sounds like Freddie. Do you know him?”
Beloved considered the question. “I’ve met him a few times.”
“Such a nice boy. And he is also a friend of Jeanne.”
“Does he know she’s missing?”
“Oh yes, he’s very concerned.”
“How did you meet him?”
“We were looking at the fuchsias – at the show – and just got chatting. It was very pleasant. He’s a good boy and he loves fuchsias. He asked if he can see mine.”
“Has he come?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since then. But he told me he’ll come. My plants are in bloom at the moment. They are really lovely. I hope he comes soon.”
So, Beloved thought, Byron Evers, Charles Williams, Freddie – how many other names are there for such a nice boy? She wondered if she should ask about someone guarding her, but decided against it. Needham may be doing it, but not telling her.
“I’m sure Freddie will come soon. But, Martha, will you do something for me?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“When he calls and makes an appointment to see your fuchsias, please tell Agent Needham.”
“All right, my dear, but Freddie is just a nice boy.”
“Still, it’s very important to keep Agent Needham informed about everything.”
“Certainly, Beloved, if you insist. Oh, there’s something I want to give you.”
Beloved followed her through the front door, but waited at the foot of the staircase while she went up to her daughter’s bedroom. Martha emerged immediately, holding something in both hands. At a glance Beloved recognised it as the photograph that had been lying face down at the girl’s bedside.
Martha came carefully down the stairs, one hand sliding along the bannister and the other holding the picture. She held out the photograph to Beloved, as if it were a gift. “I want you to have this. I want you to look at it every day to remember who you are trying to find and how beautiful she is. I also want you to have it because what you are doing is such a fine thing.”
Beloved took the gift and held it against her chest. “We will find her,” she said. “I’m sure we will.” But in her mind there was no certainty at all. Oh Christ, Martha, she thought, I hope when we do she is not in the same condition as these others.
In a moment Martha’s face brightened. “Would you like to see my fuchsias?”
“I’d love to.”
Martha’s fuchsias were as beautiful as she claimed. Beloved left with one in her hair.
At the gate, Martha stopped her. “I think to find Jeanne the police should talk to her new friends. I think they will know.”
“Have you given them names and contact details of her friends?”
“Oh, my dear, I don’t know them. I’m sure the police can find them though.”
Beloved was less sure about that. On her way out she saw a man in a parked car, half a block from Martha’s front gate. She hoped he was Needham’s man and considered she should tell Martha to be careful and see that her doors are locked when she goes inside.
Checking her special cell phone she found a text message. “Are you free tonight? I’ve been invited to the home of one of the friends I’ve been telling you about. If you’d like to come, I can pick you up. Charles.”
She responded: “That sounds wonderful. I’ll come in my own car. Just send me the address.”
Almost immediately he responded. “No, Beloved. I can’t let my special girl arrive all by herself. You don’t treat a princess that way. I’ll take you.”
She forwarded all the messages to Needham and told him about the man who appeared to be watching the house..
TWELVE
Early evening, and the rain had started again, falling softly under a grey sky across large tracts of the city. Beloved dressed slowly, wondering what sort of image she needed to project. She settled on black, a severe suit that could almost be masculine. The one concession to glamour she allowed herself was to leave her hair hanging loose. Against the background of the suit, the curling, golden-blonde waves that hung to just below shoulder level, held the eye like no other part of the production. If this cult was made up of people who were not trivial or superficial, perhaps her outfit would help to persuade them that she was someone like them.
She wondered how Evers would be dressed and how formal a meeting of cult members was likely to be. She had just finished dressing when her regular phone signalled an incoming call. Needham was on the line and he sounded alarmed. “He’s on his way to you,” the agent said. “But he has someone with him and they are using a different car. We don’t have a tracker on it.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Some of Needham’s alarm had transferred itself to her voice.
“Switch off your lights and don’t open to them. I’m sending someone to you.”
Beloved heard the sounds of the elevator. The soft hum of the electric motor was followed by the doors opening, and closing again.
“My people are on the way. I’m coming too.”
He was still speaking when she heard the first knock on her door, loud and repetitive, followed by the determinedly jovial sound of Evers’s voice. “Beloved, it’s me. Hi, Sweet One, it’s your lover boy. Open up.”
Needham must have heard him over the connection. “Don’t go. Whatever you do, don’t go. Waste time. We’re coming.”
Beloved cut the connection. It’s a bit late, Agent Needham, she thought. And if he did come in time, that would end the investigation too. Rescuing her from Evers would be too obvious. She looked at the door on which Evers was still pounding happily. “It’s me, Beloved. How about opening?”
The muffled, complaining voice of one of the building’s other occupants came from the stairwell. Evers responded, “Sorry, Buddy. I’ll tone it down.” It was followed by the tenant’s voice again, inaudible to Beloved.
“All right, Buddy.” Evers sounded conciliatory. “We’re quiet now, quiet as a mouse.”
Waste time, Needham had said. Just exactly how do I manage that? And should I? Beloved wondered.
Evers knocked again, but more softly now. He whispered, possibly through the keyhole. “Beloved. Are you there, my love?”
Should I answer? she asked herself. How long can I leave him waiting? Tonight is my chance, maybe my only chance, to see inside this cult. If he leaves now, the chance may be gone permanently. If Needham arrives first it certainly will be.
“Come on, Beloved.” He had gone over to pleading, the plaintive sound of his voice little more than a whisper.
She had not had the time to follow Needham’s instruction to turn out the light. I have to answer, she told herself. If he goes, the whole investigation goes with him. Maybe Jeanne’s life goes with him too.
The door seemed a long way across what was a small room. Beloved hesitated a moment longer. To do what Needham said, was impossible. How the hell can I waste time without arousing suspicions? she wondered. And then there was her own curiosity. Apart from all other considerations, Beloved knew she had to see inside this cult. For her own sake, she had to know what it was about. She knew there were dangers. She had seen what they were capable of. But she had seen that at the start. She took the few steps to the door and opened it. Evers was wearing cream coloured slacks and a turtle-neck sweater. Attraction to him, and repulsion for him struggled against each other. She had to admit that he looked good. At the sight of her he took a step back. “Wow,” he said. “Sensational. But you always are.”
“Charles, you look very elegant, I have to say.”
Behind him, a second man of about the same age and height, but not as powerfully built or as elegantly dressed, was moving uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Evers turned to him, still grinning. “This is my friend, Steve.”
“Steve.” Beloved shook a large, bony hand.
“You name is Loved, I think,” he said.
“Beloved.”
“Beloved,” he repeated. “I’ve never met someone with that name before.”
“I have met a few Steves.”
Evers clapped his hands together. “Right. Are we ready to go?”
Beloved smiled at him. “I think so.” Waste time, she told herself. But Needham and his boys had to travel across town. And did she really want to be rescued and, at the same time, lose the confidence she had built up in Evers?
“What about a drink?” she suggested. “One to loosen us up for the evening.”
“I like the sound of that,” Evers said, “but we can’t be late. Maybe afterwards. What about afterwards?”
Beloved doubted that any time-wasting device was going to work. She picked up her purse, passed into the hallway, closed and locked the door. The elevator Evers and Steve had used was still waiting. Beloved stepped into it with the two men following. She stood in the back with both of them, each a head taller than herself, facing her at no more than arm’s length. Without raising her head, her view of them was of shoulders and throats. She considered that if she had intended not to go she should never have opened her apartment door. The elevator moved and travelled down smoothly. On the third floor it stopped and let in a man in a grey overcoat. He turned to face the door, keeping his back towards them. “Good evening,” Beloved said. He grunted an unintelligible response. It was not a city in which people expected to be greeted by their neighbours. As a time-wasting device it was ineffective.
The car with which they had come was a top-of-the-line BMW. Evers skipped across the sidewalk, held open the back door for her, and got in after her.
It was only when he spoke that Beloved saw the black velvet strip he was holding. “I’m sorry, but first time visitors have to be blind folded on the way to the Gathering. We’re a bit neurotic about people joining our meetings for the first time. There are such strange types around and we have to be careful.” He was holding the blindfold in both hands. “Just while we’re travelling, I promise. And I’ll be right next to you all the time.”
Beloved looked at the blindfold, then at Evers. “Am I one of your strange types?”
“Of course not. I’m so sorry. You’ll have to wear it for just a few minutes and I’ll be with you all the time.”
A car entered the road from a side street a few hundred metres away and accelerated hard towards them.
