Free The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) by Donna White Glaser Page A

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