The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (3 page)

That night was peaceful, though. We discussed a
paper he was working on and chatted about how the koi were responding to their
new environment. When he asked about the situation with Beth, I filled him in
on our encounter at the Saturday night meeting. Everything was fine until I
mentioned that I had offered to research cults for her.

“You what?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

“What did you agree to do?”

I did a split-second scan of the conversation to
pinpoint the source of his irritation: Beth, research, cults? No clue. Did he
think I was planning to take on a more active role?

“I told her I would check out some books and talk
to some colleagues,” I clarified.

“Why?”

“I don’t get it, Eli. What’s wrong? Why wouldn’t I
just look some things up?”

“I thought you didn’t want to get involved. You come
out to the house, all upset because Beth is trying to—”

“So I’m not supposed to come to your house, or I’m
not supposed to get upset?” 

“I didn’t say that. Of course I want you to come
to me when you’re upset. My point is that you didn’t want to get involved in
this mess. And now you are.”

“I don’t want to investigate this. I’m not—”

“And researching this stuff isn’t investigating?”
His turn to interrupt.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I sat fuming,
staring off at a stuffed moose head, trying not to cry. I didn’t want things to
be like this: tense, tiptoeing around taboo subjects, exhausted by the past.
Wadding up my napkin, I caught the waitress’s eye. She sped right over and took
our plates, chattering pleasantries and working hard at ignoring the churning
atmosphere. Plunking the check down, she made her escape.

As fast as it hit the table, Eli whisked it up and
took it to the front register. Moving more slowly, I gathered my purse and
followed.

The ride home was quiet and took forever.

I
trudged
through Thursday like it was sludge. I had few clients and spent most of my day
pretending to do paperwork. I tried. I really did. My mind just wouldn’t stop
circling back to various imaginary speeches I wished I had made the previous
night. Ranging from stern lectures on my independence and the inalienable right
to make my own decisions to humorous deflections of Eli’s anger to gentle
remonstrances that exuded quiet dignity and strength—the internal monologues
shared one commonality that rarely occurred in real life. In my imagination, my
arguments—in whatever form—changed Eli’s mind and restored harmony to our
relationship.

Knowing the uselessness of these mental
regurgitations didn’t stop me from brooding most of that day and into the
evening. That night I was in such a funk that when the phone rang I debated
letting it go to voice mail. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stand myself anymore and
was desperate for a distraction.

The name didn’t register at first, but then it
kicked in. Tracy Grand, the Christian counselor I had left a message for. She
was making “hope it’s okay that I called you at home” noises, and I assured her
it was fine. Wonderful, even.

“Your message indicated you were interested in
cult formation?” Her voice was pure Midwest twang and friendly openness.

I took some time to fill her in on the general
background and our concerns about Maggie. Out of habit, I left names and
identifying features out.

“Sure sounds interesting,” she commented. “As long
as you know that I’m not an expert in this field.”

Having dispensed with the formalities, we agreed
on lunch the next day. Hanging up, I gave a little mental humph to the question
of what Eli would say. So who’s telling?

V
iewed from
across the restaurant, Tracy looked like a farm girl in somebody’s dress-up
clothes. A closer inspection showed a woman in her midfifties with strawberry-blond
hair, wide Slavic cheekbones, and an aura of raw health that made me think of
apples and sunshine. What first looked like blush turned out to be the wind chapped
cheeks of an outdoor enthusiast.

We spent the first part of the meal each delicately
probing the other’s professional credentials and schooling. While we had both
pursued undergraduate degrees in the UW system, she had chosen a small
Christian college for her masters level while I had attended Madison and
partied my way through.

We soon felt comfortable enough to move from the
general to the specifics. A few quick questions determined that she was not
aware of the group calling itself The Elect of the Returning King.

“That’s not saying a lot though,” she said. “I
don’t consider myself an expert by a long shot. Unless I was working with a
family member or someone who broke away from the group, I would have no reason
to hear of them. I don’t keep a watch on the various sects and groups, although
I could probably put you in touch with people who do.”

“You’re the only person I’ve found with any experience
at all. Can you tell me, in general, what sorts of cases you’ve worked?”

Tracy toyed with her silverware. “Just two,
really. The first time I worked with the family of a person involved in a sect
that they claimed was a cult. I have no way of knowing for sure if it was. The
issues we worked on had more to do with their sense of helplessness and need
for acceptance of their daughter’s decisions. The treatment didn’t go well from
my perspective. We had differing opinions on the treatment goals. They were
looking to retrieve their daughter while I felt we should be working on
acceptance of her choices.

“The other situation was an individual who sought
counseling after having left a group after a twelve-year involvement. She also
used the term ‘cult,’ but, based on her description, I was more willing to
agree with the label than the previous case. Our work together lasted
considerably longer and focused on rebuilding her confidence in her own
decision making and in dealing with her regrets at what she called the lost
years.”

“Why the hesitation in accepting the first case’s
use of ‘cult’ for the group their daughter was involved in?” I asked.

Again a pause while Tracy deliberated. When
talking about herself, her responses came easily. Discussing clients slowed her
down as she sorted out what she could ethically reveal without breaking
confidentiality. When she began again, the tutorial veered away from actual
case histories in favor of theory.

“I don’t have to tell you: words have power. In my
opinion, the word ‘cult’ has been overused, leached of its true meaning. Any
remote little group who strikes the general public as in any way different from
the norm is labeled a cult and then treated with suspicion, even hostility,
because of it.

“The public,” she continued, “or I should say the
media forget that there are legitimate reasons people are drawn to communities
who share their beliefs, goals, and concerns. Not to mention the fact that
grown adults get to make their own decisions about their lifestyles, religious
affiliations, and level of commitment to an organization.”

“Then what do you think qualifies as a cult?” I
asked.

“I think when most people use the word, they are
referring to groups with unorthodox and therefore, to them, frightening
political or religious beliefs. The word ‘cult,’ on the other hand, comes from
the Latin,
cultus
, meaning care or adoration. When that adoration gets
twisted through manipulation and exploitation, it devolves into the true
meaning of a cult. The key for me is exploitation.

“Sects or other legitimate organizations rely on
informed consent and voluntary participation. Quite the opposite of cults.
Cults seek out those with vulnerabilities and subject them to experiences where
only a select few are aware of the mechanics behind the interactions, and those
few use hidden agendas to manipulate their unsuspecting targets. One of the
most common practices when luring people in is called ‘love bombing.’ Happened
to my former client. She’s feeling awful about life and meets a group who
literally swarmed over her with affection, flattery, and sweet talk. It just
plain feels good to belong, especially to an exclusive group.

“But again there’s that hidden agenda,” Tracy went
on. “Obviously, neo-Christian groups target people who are searching for deeper
meaning in their lives and, in particular, in their relationship with Christ.
If that were all there was to it, there would be no problem. But the key to
what makes a religious group a cult is that underneath the apparent message of
salvation are a bunch of philosophies and practices that go completely against
true Christianity.”

I looked a question.

“For one thing, the essential basis for
Christianity is that faith in Christ alone results in salvation. That’s it;
done deal. Cults give lip service to that while simultaneously convincing their
members that only certain tasks like raising or donating money, unquestioning
obedience to the leader, as well as enlightenment and so on, are what’s needed
to be a true believer.

“One way or another, their messages are rejections
of the forgiving Holy God. The most obvious is the elevation of their leader to
a godhead. In order to do this, they manipulate scripture to prove their
message.

“One of the biggest indicators, though, is a dual
set of ethics. They nearly always have an ‘us’ set of rules and an ‘everybody
else’ set. A practice that scripture tells us used to infuriate Jesus when he
came up against it.”

Tracy’s burger was getting cold, so I released her
from her lecture for the time being and we returned to small talk. I was
interested in her private practice, especially her focus on Christianity and
how that worked in therapy.

“I’ve had some clients ask if I was Christian,” I
said. “I knew it was important to them, but I really wasn’t sure how to answer.
I mean, boundaries and all.”

“I know,” Tracy replied. “It’s a shame, but our
profession seems to have no problem asking about sexual orientation but gets
hung up on spiritual beliefs. I’m constantly surprised at colleagues who have
no problem recognizing how physical symptoms—chronic pain and depression, for
example—can affect a client’s treatment but can’t accept that religious beliefs
can do the same, if not more. People have no problem talking about holistic
approaches when they discuss crystals, shakras, or meditation, but bring Jesus
into it? They freak out.

“Basically though,” she went on, “I feel better
when God is in the process too. As far as I’m concerned, God heals; I just ride
shotgun.”

She laughed at herself. “Did I go overboard?
Sorry. Just remember you invited me here for my opinions.”

“I remember,” I said, picking up the check. “I’m
still buying.”

Later, as I was mulling over all that I had
learned, I realized I had driven all the way back to work without once worrying
about having an attack. I couldn’t remember how long it had been since that had
occurred. In between clients, I dove back into the Internet.

I felt alive again.

O
n Monday, work
started as a test of endurance. Marital truces that had been established
between clients the week before disintegrated into an audition for War of the
Roses II. A colleague’s bipolar client abruptly went off his medications, and
another client suffering from depression upped hers—all without benefit of
medical advice. Another colleague had two clients seek “permanent pain relief”
through near-miss suicide attempts.

After listening to our therapists’ assorted tales
of woe, our receptionist surfed to the weather link and confirmed the presence
of a full moon. While most of us chuckled over the absurdity of the notion, we
all secretly felt relieved at the chance to blame outside—hopefully
transitory—factors to the widespread hysteria flooding the clinic.

With all the unrest at work, it took me until late
Tuesday night to realize I hadn’t heard from Beth. We had seen each other
briefly over the weekend at our A.A. “home,” the HP & Me club, but she had
been about to meet with Reggie and I hadn’t wanted to keep them. She had seemed
pleased when I told her I had met with Tracy.

Either she’d forgotten to call or she hadn’t left
town, but if she had canceled the trip, it was even stranger that I hadn’t
heard from her. A glance at the clock confirmed that, barring an emergency, it
was too late to call. No matter how I worked it, I couldn’t make a three-day
silence meet the requirements of an emergency, but it bothered me. I didn’t
sleep well.

I left three messages the next morning, trying to
catch Beth between errands or appointments. When she didn’t answer her cell
phone either, I started to wonder if she was angry with me after all.

It wasn’t until I was driving home after work that
I finally got a response from the Collier residence. Jimmy, Beth’s husband,
picked up on the fourth ring, just before it would have clicked over into voice
mail. 

My relief died quickly, however. When I asked
Jimmy when he expected Beth home, he responded with a very un-Jimmy-like
awkwardness that set my heart thumping wildly.

“Jimmy? What’s wrong?” My fears that Beth was
shutting me out flooded back, and I barely heard his reply. It didn’t matter
though because the more he talked, the less sense he made. It finally broke
through to me that Beth wasn’t mad. She wasn’t avoiding me.

Beth had disappeared.

Chapter Four

C
onsidering the
stress I was under, I needed a meeting. Instead of heading to the Club, I drove
across town to the UW-Eau Claire campus and started to search the community
bulletin boards. I found what I was looking for on the second one. A notice for
the “Living Peace” workshop told me the Elect held their meetings in the back room
of a coffee shop in town. They offered lectures once a week, seven p.m. on
Wednesdays.