The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (8 page)

She smoothly evaded the second of my questions.

“Like… moving in with the Elect?” I said.

“Yes. That would take a fuller commitment, both to
the church and to Fa— Dr. Abe.”

“I don’t know.” I made a show of hesitating. “That
seems kind of hasty.”

I didn’t want to seem too eager; Cheryl was eager
enough for the both of us. And would an insecure fraidycat just up and agree to
dump everything and move in with these people?

“You’re right,” Rachel said. “It
is
a big
commitment. I’m glad you understand that. In fact, it’s probably the biggest
decision you’ll make in your life. It takes a certain kind of person, really.
You have to be ready. But I think you are, Letty. I think you would benefit a
lot from the safety and security of a strong community of believers.” She hit
on my vulnerabilities, real and supposed, with dead-on aim. This was exactly
what would attract me to a religious group. I smiled wistfully at her.

“It sounds so wonderful,” I said. “I have to think
about it.”

“Go ahead and take your time, Letty. Father is
closing up Corinth House at the end of this coming week, but there’s no hurry
for you to decide. Like I said, you can always find me at one of the lectures.”

“Or I could call you?” I asked.

“You could leave a message for me on the phone
here at Corinth, but only until this Thursday. After that, you’d have to
contact me through the meetings. If I’m not there, you could send a note with
one of the others.”

When we rejoined the others at the table, I saw
Rachel shoot Myrtle a “look.” While we had been out on the porch, Cheryl had
ditched her shy wallflower mannerisms and had become nearly manic with
excitement. She giggled at odd moments. Surprisingly, she asked very few
questions about her prospective new home. The ones she did ask were answered
briefly with coy glances between her and the group’s members, and then the
subject quickly changed. It dawned on me that since I hadn’t fully committed,
she had been told to keep quiet about certain things in front of me. Pretty
smart. It immediately created an “us vs. them” mentality in Cheryl and had the
potential to play on my jealousy and insecurities.

One thing stood out. No one in the group was about
to give up the community’s main address or even a phone number, and they were
very skilled at deflecting requests for them. If I was going to find Beth, I
would need to commit myself to this venture completely. No turning back.

Chapter Eight

E
xhausted beyond
reason by the time I made it home, I threw myself down on my bed, burying my
face in the quilt. I needed to get up and make notes of the whole episode so I
wouldn’t forget anything when I met with Tracy. And I was going to do that.
Right away.

I slept hard until eleven-thirty on Sunday morning.
I woke fully dressed, smelling more than a little rank, with a neck that blazed
with pain whenever I turned to the left. Left was bad. I took a hot shower and
tried to massage my own neck, but what good is that? I needed somebody else,
and my official somebody else hadn’t returned my calls in three days. Also not
good. I had already left two messages and decided that calling a third time
would look desperate. Would be desperate. He had been in contact with Jimmy.
There was no reason why he couldn’t have called me. Except that he had chosen
not to.

I pushed the fear of losing Eli into a big box
labeled PAIN in my mind and focused on making a plan.

The biggest issue to deal with was taking a leave
of absence from my job. Not an easy task, since psychotherapists weren’t
quickly replaceable. I didn’t have a lot of time. More big guilt. More being
pulled in two directions. If I was looking to make a move to the Elect, I had
to face that I was letting people down who had placed their trust in me.
Vulnerable people.

I would have to talk to my supervisor first thing in
the morning. I needed a lie. A big one. One that would cover the abruptness of
my departure, even if it didn’t excuse it. Mulling over several possibilities,
I settled on the old standby: a death in the family. Preferably my mom’s, which
might be the only upside to the whole venture. Unless she ever heard about her
“untimely demise,” in which case she might recognize my killing her off as an
exercise in wish fulfillment. She could be touchy about things like that.

I made a list of my clients and spent a good chunk
of the day deciding which colleague each individual might best be paired with
in my absence. At the end, I was left with three clients whom I didn’t feel
comfortable referring in-house. Tracy might be a good match. I would make sure
they had her name and number before I left.

The rest of the week was spent avoiding thoughts
of Eli and making arrangements for putting my life on hold for an indefinite
period of time. I met with Tracy again. I cleaned. I did the laundry. Packed.
Read the Bible and the research books. Tried to reconcile myself and my clients
with my abrupt departure.

 I spent a lot of energy avoiding my boss too.
Even while she commiserated with me on my “loss,” she let me know what a
disservice I was doing to the clinic and my clients. Not much I could say. She
was right.

One of my bigger problems was solved when I met
again with Jimmy. He agreed to act as power of attorney over my finances. Not
that he would have a lot to manage. His main responsibility would be depleting
my savings to pay bills and keep my creditors at bay.

I refused to think of my savings. I had never
saved during my drinking years, financial responsibility not taking priority
over getting high. Every little bit that I could squirrel away put more
distance between me and my past. I could only hope that it would last until I
could get back to my real life. I wanted Eli to take over in that area, but he
continued to avoid me.

I also wanted to see if he’d watch Siggy. I ended
up calling Paul, an A.A. buddy whose recent and entirely unexpected romance had
left him so twitterpated that I had been afraid that he would forget about
Siggy altogether. I should have known better. Paul turned out to be a “cat person,”
whose love of all things feline bordered on idiocy. Siggy would have to put up
with baby talk and nose kisses, but Paul would be most diligent about attended
to Sig’s needs.

I met with Tracy on Tuesday afternoon before
attending another Peace lecture later that evening. Rachel told me Corinth
House was closing for sure on Thursday, but if I needed more time to prepare
for the move, we could arrange a pickup date at a later time. Still no hint of
the location. I fought to project an aura of dewy pink trustworthiness,
difficult to do since every cell in my body was frothing in panic and leaking
my own special brand of terror from my sweat glands.

I suggested Monday. 

Choosing a pickup spot proved difficult, too. For
some unspoken reason, Rachel balked at setting the rendezvous outside Corinth
House. Evading an explanation, she suggested they pick me up at my place.

Not good. I didn’t want them anywhere near my
private life. After deft maneuvering on both our parts, we finally settled on
the Wal-Mart parking lot at two p.m. Monday.

No sooner had we agreed on the arrangements when
Doctor/Father Abe/Abraham took his place at the podium. Although he didn’t look
directly at Rachel and me, a palpable beam of displeasure sliced through the
room at us, the only ones not seated or waiting for his grand entrance in an
attitude of submissive reflection.

In a grotesque parody of musical chairs, I flung
myself into the closest metal chair forcing Rachel to clamber over my legs to
grab a seat. Wrenching my head down in obeisance, I peeked sideways at her
mortified expression. She jettisoned all dignity in the wild scramble and
flashed the crowd a good bit of bare leg to boot. I fought against a fit of
high-schoolish giggling until the realness of her distress registered. Ragged
breathing, face as red as a baboon’s butt, and white-knuckled hands clutching
each other in her lap told me there was more going on here than I understood.

Even after Father preformed the ceremonial
greeting, Rachel kept her eyes downcast. Periodically as he spoke, Father would
lazily sweep his eyes across her figure. Each time, she tensed. Except for
those periodic flinches, for the two hours, her only movement was the shallow
rise and fall of her breath.   

  Tracy had warned me that followers are often
seduced into giving up property and possessions, so I left my car at Jimmy’s
for safekeeping. The only other precious thing I possessed was currently
getting his chin tickled and feasting on “real” canned salmon.

On Monday, Jimmy dropped me off at Wal-Mart. We
argued on the way over. A scared man is an angry man, and Jimmy, regardless of
his usual urbane personality, was scared. 

“I don’t like it. We just keep feeding people to
this church and they don’t come back out. Didn’t A.A. teach you about insanity?
It’s doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. That’s
what you’re doing.”

“Don’t quote A.A. at me, Jimmy.”

He subsided into a troubled silence. I understood
his conflict. Originally, in his fear and anger over Beth’s safety, he had
pushed for my involvement. Now he was caught between his fear for his wife and
his guilt over sending me into the same unknown danger.  

“I’ll find some way of getting a message to you,”
I said as we pulled into the parking lot. “The cult connects to the real world
somehow, even if it’s just buying food at a grocery store or something.”

“I’m sure that’s what Beth thought,” Jimmy said,
wearing a troubled expression and a custom-made business suit that would’ve
covered my mortgage payment for a month. Maybe two.

I got out and stood on the sidewalk next to my
stack of belongings, bending down to say good-bye to Jimmy through the window.

“Letty, are you sure about this?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Tell Beth… Just tell her…” His lip quivered.

I reached in and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll tell
her. Now, you better get going. I don’t want any questions about why I’m
getting dropped off by a handsome banker in a BMW.”

Jimmy smiled wanly at my weak attempt at humor,
looking as if he had five hundred different things he wanted to say. Whatever
they were, he swallowed them down and drove off.

I watched the car disappear down the street before
dragging my jumble of suitcases over to a metal bench tucked along the
cinder-block wall of the store. The air had a thin end-of-October crispness to
it, making me shiver in my jean jacket. The sky hung gray, threatening snow,
although it was early for it. I tucked my hands between my knees and hoped it
would be a short wait.

Perching with my butt on the backrest, feet on the
seat, gave me a bird’s-eye view of the parking lot, but drew attention as well.
Shoppers heading into the store glanced curiously at me and my haphazard nest
of belongings. Not a common sight in small-town Wisconsin. When we made eye
contact, folks would smile slightly, and we would share a friendly “howdy” nod.
Most looked puzzled, obviously trying to work out how I could possibly have
misplaced my U-haul, but were too polite to comment.

A
fter a half
hour of chilly breezes blowing up my skirt, my legs were chicken-fleshed and my
butt numb. A beat-up blue van that looked like it could comfortably seat four
soccer teams and their moms shuddered to a stop in the fire lane in front of
me. The driver stepped out, smiling. He was tall and rangy with thick, dark
hair and a clipped beard. Easter play directors would cast him as
Jesus—probably a handy image in a cult—but he looked more like a cowboy. A sexy
cowboy.

Still in the van, Rachel thrashed in a wicked
battle with the unyielding passenger-side door. I could hear her thumping and
kicking from inside. But Cowboy, intent on introductions, ignored the uproar.

“Maranatha,” he said. “Are you Betty?”

“Letty,” I corrected him. “Is, um, Rachel okay?”

He turned as if realizing his companion’s
predicament for the first time. “Oh, hey. Sorry about that.” He hauled the door
open with a wrenching creak, and Rachel lurched to the pavement. Her brief
struggle for self-control gave her a constipated look, but she erased the
irritated expression from her face with an effort.

Cowboy and I shook hands, and I learned his name.
Justus’s hand felt like he had been holding it against the van’s heater the
whole way here. His delft-blue eyes splashed color over the dreary day. I stood
too long staring at them, causing a knowing grin to flash across his face. Oh,
boy.

Like me, Rachel was in a calf-length skirt, which
snapped around her legs. The dropping temperature spurred us into action. As we
slung my bags into the back of the van, I noticed a sticker fixed to the rusty
bumper that warned “In Case Of Rapture, This Car Will Be Unmanned.”

Well, there’s a cheery thought.

After making such a mystery of the group’s
location, I half expected to be blindfolded. Instead, we headed north up
Highway 53 and then northeast for another hour. It was a depressing ride. The
beautiful autumn color had been leached from the trees, leaving the dullness of
browns and tans to muddy the landscape.

The Midwest has more than four seasons, but we
don’t usually talk about the others. There are long, dreary spans of time that
bracket both ends of winter. The days we fight to slog through—head down, feet
dragging—just to get to the other side. Newcomers fear ice, snow, and the cold
of winter. Locals don’t. Winter is crisp and clear. Unambiguous. Winter can
kill you, but you’ll see it coming. It’s the gray days that we dread. Gray days
pull us down with the demise of green things, the monotony of slush.