Read Online The Prophet Motive by Eric Christopherson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Christopherson
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See you in the morning.” He gave a quick wave then disappeared through his dark narrow passageway behind the podium.
Filing out, John’s head felt light, his legs, a little wobbly. He saw rapture in the other faces, or else beatific grins. The psychologist fell in beside him. Her grin seemed to be the plain old amused kind, and for a brief moment, she aimed it squarely at him.
Chapter 8
He was a cop in search of murder suspects. He was a fugitive from the pressures of divorce—from bitterness and morose moods and increasingly bad habits. He was a son hoping to understand his deceased parents better. He was a fool too, John suspected, for coming here.
The cult leader had already knocked him off balance. For hours after meeting The Wizard, John had debated with himself whether the man was a genuine psychic, someone whose mere gaze could diagnose health problems invisible to the naked eye.
Then the trance had worn off, and his cynical cop’s mind had returned. The truth had come to John after the other men in his dormitory had fallen asleep and he had lain silently on his bunk bed for hours in the dark, replaying the day’s events. The truth was that some of the cult members had rifled through his personal belongings. His and every new recruit’s. Secretly. Here in the dormitory, at a time when they knew it would be empty. At dinner time, most likely. They’d found his bottle of insomnia pills. Found Mick’s pills too. Then The Wizard had been informed—of the medical items found, and who they belonged to, based on some brief physical description—prior to his speech. There had been that short, whispered conversation behind the podium just before the cult leader’s introduction. That might’ve been the moment.
Zzzzzz . . . Someone began snoring. It was Mick, he determined, sleeping in the bunk overhead. On a different night, John would’ve shaken the kid’s bedsprings from below until the noise stopped. Instead, he pushed the nightglow feature on his Timex wristwatch. It was 1:59 a.m., or half an hour from rendezvous time. His local contact, a Tulare County deputy named Roger Fry, would soon be waiting on the farm’s perimeter—waiting for him and his so-called partner, Doctor Michaelsen—at a prearranged location, selected together over the phone using survey maps.
John perked his ears and peered through the darkness around him. Is every last man asleep ? He heard nothing but scattered snores. Saw no movements. It’d been a long, draining day. Only another insomniac would be awake. He sat up, slipped off his thin, cotton blanket, and shifted into a sitting position on the side of the bunk.
With painstaking slowness, to reduce the sound of his own rustling, he dressed in his new shirt and overalls, in his old socks and shoes. His shoelaces he tied in double knots so they wouldn’t accidentally come loose and clatter, or trip him up. Then he stepped across the floor. Gingerly. He was grateful to have cement beneath his feet, rather than creaking floorboards.
At the front door, he turned the knob by small degrees to avoid metal squeaks. But soon the knob didn’t want to turn any further. He applied more pressure. More pressure still. But to no avail. It wouldn’t budge. He was locked in. The cult had locked them all inside!
Marilyn stared at the stubborn brass doorknob in disbelief. It shined radiantly, caught in a shaft of moonlight slanting through a nearby window. It seemed to mock her.
Not much of a sleuth, are you ?
The cult was really playing hardball. Earthbound wasn’t taking any chances that some of their new recruits—the ones who knew they were too weak to withstand a direct confrontation—would run off into the night.
She thought of John Richetti in the next dormitory and pictured him staring at his own brass knob. The mental image made her smile. She smiled some more at the memory of that little trick The Wizard had pulled on John earlier. Maybe now John
Filing out, John’s head felt light, his legs, a little wobbly. He saw rapture in the other faces, or else beatific grins. The psychologist fell in beside him. Her grin seemed to be the plain old amused kind, and for a brief moment, she aimed it squarely at him.
Chapter 8
He was a cop in search of murder suspects. He was a fugitive from the pressures of divorce—from bitterness and morose moods and increasingly bad habits. He was a son hoping to understand his deceased parents better. He was a fool too, John suspected, for coming here.
The cult leader had already knocked him off balance. For hours after meeting The Wizard, John had debated with himself whether the man was a genuine psychic, someone whose mere gaze could diagnose health problems invisible to the naked eye.
Then the trance had worn off, and his cynical cop’s mind had returned. The truth had come to John after the other men in his dormitory had fallen asleep and he had lain silently on his bunk bed for hours in the dark, replaying the day’s events. The truth was that some of the cult members had rifled through his personal belongings. His and every new recruit’s. Secretly. Here in the dormitory, at a time when they knew it would be empty. At dinner time, most likely. They’d found his bottle of insomnia pills. Found Mick’s pills too. Then The Wizard had been informed—of the medical items found, and who they belonged to, based on some brief physical description—prior to his speech. There had been that short, whispered conversation behind the podium just before the cult leader’s introduction. That might’ve been the moment.
Zzzzzz . . . Someone began snoring. It was Mick, he determined, sleeping in the bunk overhead. On a different night, John would’ve shaken the kid’s bedsprings from below until the noise stopped. Instead, he pushed the nightglow feature on his Timex wristwatch. It was 1:59 a.m., or half an hour from rendezvous time. His local contact, a Tulare County deputy named Roger Fry, would soon be waiting on the farm’s perimeter—waiting for him and his so-called partner, Doctor Michaelsen—at a prearranged location, selected together over the phone using survey maps.
John perked his ears and peered through the darkness around him. Is every last man asleep ? He heard nothing but scattered snores. Saw no movements. It’d been a long, draining day. Only another insomniac would be awake. He sat up, slipped off his thin, cotton blanket, and shifted into a sitting position on the side of the bunk.
With painstaking slowness, to reduce the sound of his own rustling, he dressed in his new shirt and overalls, in his old socks and shoes. His shoelaces he tied in double knots so they wouldn’t accidentally come loose and clatter, or trip him up. Then he stepped across the floor. Gingerly. He was grateful to have cement beneath his feet, rather than creaking floorboards.
At the front door, he turned the knob by small degrees to avoid metal squeaks. But soon the knob didn’t want to turn any further. He applied more pressure. More pressure still. But to no avail. It wouldn’t budge. He was locked in. The cult had locked them all inside!
Marilyn stared at the stubborn brass doorknob in disbelief. It shined radiantly, caught in a shaft of moonlight slanting through a nearby window. It seemed to mock her.
Not much of a sleuth, are you ?
The cult was really playing hardball. Earthbound wasn’t taking any chances that some of their new recruits—the ones who knew they were too weak to withstand a direct confrontation—would run off into the night.
She thought of John Richetti in the next dormitory and pictured him staring at his own brass knob. The mental image made her smile. She smiled some more at the memory of that little trick The Wizard had pulled on John earlier. Maybe now John
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