The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (6 page)

As Tracy motioned me to a seat, I noticed she kept
a clear path between her and the door. A good habit, especially in a setting as
isolated as this. Or maybe I looked as unstable as I felt.

She only had an hour, so I didn’t waste time. She
listened intently, only occasionally asking for clarification. Somewhere in the
middle of my monologue, my purpose for coming here shifted. Instead of
agonizing between the two opposing forces my friends created, a decision had
been made.

“What can I help you with, Letty?”

“I need advice on how to infiltrate the Elect,
avoid detection, and get back out,” I said.

Her reaction was a subtle lifting of her eyebrows
and a therapeutic tell-me-more hum.

“Don’t start therapy with me now; I’ve only got
twenty-five minutes left.”

“If this was therapy, I’d be arranging a psych
admit.” She grinned. “What do you want to look at first?” 

“I don’t think getting in will be a problem.
They’ve already made overtures, and it’s following the same course I’ve seen
before with others. I guess I’m wondering about how to prepare myself. Not just
educationally, but emotionally as well.”

“By ‘educationally,’ you mean…?”

“Research. What do I need to know? How much?
Should I spend more time learning about cult formation or Bible scriptures?”

“And in order to be emotionally prepared?”

It took longer to answer this one. I had been so
action-oriented that I had managed to ignore this issue. If I was really going
to do this, I had to face the demons I had been running from for months. Like
most powerful psychological insights, this one evolved at the end of the hour
when there was little time to explore it.

Since I didn’t have the luxury of time, I forced
myself past my usual dread of identifying my weaknesses.

“I have PTSD,” I said, looking out the window.
“Panic attacks, ongoing anxiety. I’m not housebound, but I’ve started avoiding
crowds or places I’m not really familiar with. I don’t like driving too far
from home either.”

I stopped. Admitting my weakness was like
releasing the evil genie. My heart began to thump blood in staccato bursts, all
the moisture in my mouth relocated to my pits, I felt myself begin to
separate… 

Tracy leaned over to me and grasped my hands. She
began to speak softly, using a steady cadence, soothing. I wrenched my focus
away from the consuming fear and reached out with my mind to meet her voice. As
I centered on the thread line of her voice, it came to me that she was calling
on Jesus to release my body from the captivity of fear. Although she followed a
typical pattern of relaxation techniques—controlled breathing, the sequential
release of muscle tension, and so on. She also interwove a heartfelt prayer for
peace and security in Jesus Christ. A feeling of serenity descended. I came out
of it more quickly than ever before.

The residual effects of the experience buoyed me
through the night. The drive home was ridiculously easy. Nearly drunk with
relief, I floated through the evening. In the vacuum created by their absence,
the power my symptoms wielded over my life was never more apparent. And never
more resented. I looked forward to the next morning and the second meeting I
had scheduled with Tracy.

I felt so good, I called Eli as soon as I got
home. Despite our fight, he would want to share this with me. He didn’t pick up,
and I was stuck with leaving a message.

Crawling into bed, I tried to remember the last
time I had prayed. Really prayed, that is. Not just the infrequent thought of
gratitude I tossed UP whenever something good happened. Not even the foxhole
prayers screamed from the front seat of a car sinking into the black murkiness
of a quarry pond.

Where to start? Taking direction from yet another
A.A. cliché, KISS, I decided to keep it simple, stupid.

God? I’m not really sure how to do this.
I
was right.
I felt stupid. But I kept on.
I’m scared. All the time.
And I can’t take much more.
I felt a shift in my psyche—or maybe my soul. 
God,
there are some things I’m going to have to do, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to
need your help. Please. Okay, then. Amen.

Chapter Six

S
aturday morning
was one of those crispy-clear days that are perfect for a long-sleeved T-shirt
and a jean jacket. As I headed in from the church parking lot, I could smell
the smoky autumn perfume of leaves burning in the neighborhood. Aromatherapy.

Again the door was unlocked in that Midwestern
belief that only good things would come in. Tracy puttered around the kitchen
making dark roast coffee. More aromatherapy. Armed with warmth and caffeine, we
headed back.

“Okay, Letty, let’s look at this,” Tracy started
off before we had even sat down. “My thoughts on the easy issue first.
Regarding a knowledge of scripture, I think you need some understanding of the
more obvious Bible prophesies. The books of Revelations, Daniel, Matthew, and
First Thessalonians, for example.” She ticked each book off on her fingers as
she spoke. “But that’s not a complete list. The thing is, you aren’t an expert
and you shouldn’t try to pass as one. They’ll nail you as a fake right away. Go
in as an initiate and let them instruct you in their message, which is what
cults want to do anyway. In fact, if you’re too knowledgeable, you would
probably be considered a threat to their power base. 

“That said,” she continued, “you do need a
thorough grounding in cult formation and the theoretical positions regarding
the End Times. I’ve got several books for you to read starting with these.”

Tracy indicated a stack of books teetering on the
office desk. If not for graduate school, it would have been daunting, but I’m a
“knowledge is power” kinda girl. The stack appeared to be evenly divided
between cult-centered titles with words like rapture and Israel sprinkled
through them. I was pretty sure they weren’t talking about a Jewish love story.

“Two last pieces of advice: if you don’t already
have one, get a study version of the Bible. Something with life application
notes, with profiles and historical footnotes. I recommend an NIV version, even
though the group may not like that particular translation.” She saw the
question in my eyes and clarified. “New International Version. It’s just easier
to read. Fundamentalist groups often reject most modern translations.

“The second thing I want to say is that your
research skills are going to be needed the whole time, not just to prepare for
entry. Cult members are not stupid. Many have spent a lifetime seeking wisdom,
truth, and a higher purpose. Cults have to be able to offer philosophies that
make sense to the seekers while they simultaneously elicit strong emotional
responses. The thing that makes cults so attractive is that the deceptions they
rely on are wrapped around truths. Twisted truths, if you will.

“One of your biggest weapons will be the ability
to verify or discredit the information they’ll be feeding you. You may have to
sneak away and check out a library, or call me, or call a pastor. But be careful
with it. They aren’t fond of dissenters by any means, and if your friend has
already involved the police, they’ll be jumpy.”

Now I was daunted.

Laughing, she rose and ran her finger over the
bookshelves, hunting. “Here you go. Start with this one. It’s an easy read and
funny as heck.”

“Funny?”

She handed me a yellow paperback whose bright
orange title screamed POCKET GUIDE TO THE APOCALYPSE!

“Really funny,” she assured me.

“I thought I was supposed to be a novice,” I said.

“Yes, but in order to recognize if a theory is
twisted, you need to be aware of legitimate ones. You won’t be an expert after
reading these. That would take years of study. But you will be able to
recognize a scam when you see it. I hope.”

“I hope so too.” Rising, I started to reach for
the pile of books.

“Letty? That’s only one side of the coin, isn’t
it?” she asked gently.

Sighing, I sank back down. “I suppose you’re
referring to the whole emotional mess as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Me. I mean me. I’m the emotional mess,” I said.

Tracy sat quietly for a few minutes. Then she
said, “You mentioned yesterday that you needed to prepare emotionally for this
venture. What will be different in you that will make you feel prepared?”

I groaned. The “what will be different” question is
an excellent one for helping a client devise a specific goal, but it was weird
being on this side of it. Leaning my head back against the plump chair, I
examined the ceiling for an answer.

“I wouldn’t be scared,” I finally answered.

“You’d be silly not to be. In fact, I’d be more
worried if you weren’t.”

“Okay, I wouldn’t be incapacitated by fear. I
wouldn’t be embarrassed by freaking out for no apparent reason and making a
fool of myself.”

“Hmmm… Let me ask you this—what kind of people do
you think cults recruit?”

The shift in subject relieved me. “Well, you said
they weren’t stupid. Maybe people who want to belong, to find a place.”

“A place?” she prodded.

“A place to feel safe.”

“So if they aren’t safe now, that means they’re
what?”

“Vulnerable,” I said, suddenly understanding where
she was going with this.

“Just as your anxiety and panic attacks make you
feel vulnerable.”

“So are you saying I should use my fear?”

“I’m saying you won’t need a disguise. Your fear,
which is very real and would be difficult to fake, could actually be used to
establish credibility.”

Huh.

W
hen I got home
I checked my messages, hoping that either Eli or Rachel had called. Nothing. I
felt like I had been stood up twice.

I should have gotten busy on all the tasks I let
drop over the last few days. Instead, I curled up on the couch with the stack
of books from Tracy and the new Bible I had stopped to buy on my way home.

Siggy came to inspect my purchases, chewed on the
covers of several books, and seemed unimpressed with my dire predictions of
fire and brimstone if he ate the Holy Scripture. While I tried to read he
curled up on my lap, so he could bat at the pages as I turned them. This was my
punishment for using my fingers to hold a book instead of scratching kitty
itches.

After several hours I had given myself a headache
and decided to self-medicate with my current drug of choice: chocolate.

I was digging into the back of the drawer where I
keep the kitchen towels and, for some reason, my candy bars, when the phone
rang. From somewhere. I only had four rings to find it before it clicked over
to voice mail, because I had never been able to figure out how to reprogram it.
In my hunt-for-the-cordless-phone frenzy I cracked my shin on the table,
dumping coffee over my new Bible. Much cussing ensued. Siggy ran away.

I finally dug the phone out from between its nest
in the couch cushions in the middle of the fourth ring.

Rachel. Asking me to a Discussion Supper for that
very night.

During a brief stint as a
gotta-pay-off-those-college-loans telemarketer, I had been taught that smiling
projects a certain warmth into your voice, regardless of whether you could be
seen or not. However, given the number of times the other party slammed the
phone down in my ear, I wouldn’t vouch for the results. Still… Clenching my
teeth, I smiled past the pain and accepted the invitation. 

After hanging up, I tried calling Eli again. I
hadn’t heard from him since he stormed out the door the night before last, and
since it was Saturday afternoon, I knew he didn’t have classes. We had never
gone this long without talking since we’d met. Of course, we had never had a
fight of this magnitude either, but I wouldn’t have suspected Eli of being a
silent treatment kind of guy. I hated that.

Still no answer.

I checked for messages again and got the same
robot telling me no one loved me. Well, it said no messages. Same thing. Maybe,
I speculated, my voice mail was broken. It could happen. I used my cell phone
to call my home phone and left a message; ditto my house to my cell. After a
few minutes, my cell beeped, signaling a message. After clearing my own voice
from the cell, I called my home voice mail. One message: me. Well, hell. All I
had accomplished was confirming the worst.

I stood there with the phone in my hand brooding
over this latest complication when the thing rang and scared the living crap
out of me. I made one of those
nyannnnh
sounds and barely managed to
keep from throwing the instrument across the room. Ignoring my spastic
reaction, it patiently rang again.

Heart pounding, I gasped out a greeting.

“Uhhh… Letty?” Jimmy sounded a mite concerned. Not
surprising, since I sounded like I had been caught smack in the middle of a
lewd sex act, and Jimmy was nothing, if not conservative.

“Hi, Jimmy. What’s up?” I tried to play it off
using the same voice we all use when we vehemently deny being awakened from a
sound sleep. Fools no one. 

“I just wanted to check in,” he said. “I haven’t
heard from you since Wednesday. I was worried about how we left it.”

“I’m fine, Jimmy. Have you heard from Beth?”

“Not a word. I was hoping you had.”

“Sorry, no. But listen,” I said, “I’ve been
invited to Corinth House tonight. Did Beth ever mention someone called Rachel?”

“No. The only one she mentioned by name was Dr.
Abe.” Jimmy paused, then, “Are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?”

Duh. Of course, this wasn’t a good idea. Hadn’t I
been saying that all along?