Free Cult by Warren Adler Page A

came toward her now, kneeling beside her.
    â€œCome on, Nay. What do you truly think? Do you think I share the blame?”
    Does he really want me to answer that?
    When she did not answer, his head toppled in her lap, and she felt the heat of him in the center of her, then the moisture of more tears soaking through her dress. Reaching out, she slid her fingers through his hair, caressing the tight softness of it, pressing him against her. Great sobs convulsed him and she buried her lips in his hair.
    â€œI’m afraid,” he whispered when the quake within him ended. Still, she held him. Another woman’s man.
    â€œShe’s not dead,” she whispered. Inexplicably, he forced a smile as he rubbed his face dry.
    â€œOne of the people I visited had lost a daughter to the Glories,” he said, his voice hoarse, then clearing. “Never got her out. I went to their house and spoke to both them the mother and the father. They were devastated. Couldn’t even muster a brave front. They had pictures of the daughter everywhere. I had to see them all. They even showed me her room and a ruler nailed to the wall that marked how high she had grown from time to time. It was awful. I don’t know why, but I opened a drawer in her room. It was empty.” He shook his head. “You discover you’re only a tiny link in a long chain of terror. You know what the mother said?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “‘Mourn your wife.’”
    He stood up, taking deep breaths.
    â€œI will not mourn her,” he declared. “She is not dead. I’m going to save her. I don’t know how… but I’m going to save her.” Again, he faltered, struggling for control. She sensed that he was searching inside of himself for all the courage he could find. “I’m going to get my wife back.” He raised his eyes to hers and found them. She saw his fear, his pleading. “I don’t know how I can do it alone,” he whispered.
    She wanted to hesitate, to mull over the idea in her mind. But his passionate resolve, his ordeal and struggle were reminiscent of all of the people and causes she stood up for. It spoke to her.
    â€œYou won’t be alone, Barney.”

Chapter 5
    Sheriff T. Clausen Moore tapped his warm plastic phone, still moist with his palm print. He had been thankful for the interruption. Exposure to this kind of anguish had a near-toxic effect on him.
    The man before him looked slightly yellowed, soiled by desperation. He knew the look. He had seen it many times before, especially back in Appalachia, from where he and Gladys had fled years ago. It still lived inside of him, the memory of those mountain people, cast into hopelessness by events beyond their forgotten world. He had also seen it here, on the faces of these crushed and grieving people searching for their lost loved ones. Beside the gloomy man sat a woman. She appeared cooler, more in control. Studying the pad on his desk, he refreshed his mind with the man’s name.
    â€œIt’s private property, Mr. Harrigan. You can’t enter it without an invitation. And you can’t break in or forcibly enter and bring anyone out. Could be a kidnapping rap, a hostage rap. Be surprised what these guys can cook up. The people must come out only of their own free will.”
    In the long pause of uncertainty that always followed, he sighed and pictured what he had seen many times, hoping it would not trigger the depressing images stored in his mind. Glassy-eyed young people, exhausted, some barely coherent, herded like sheep.
    He was also sparing loved ones the pain of it. He knew the scam, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it except warn people to keep away. Hell, he’d fought them as hard as he knew how. And had lost. Sometimes he felt he would drown in the ocean of tears that had been shed at the other side of his desk. It didn’t matter. His words would always have