The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (2 page)

A twist in the path opened to a view of the two
brothers standing hip high in the koi pond, trying to net its elusive
inhabitants. An ATV parked to the side had a small trailer hitched to it.
Various items of clothing were strewn along the ground and two blue plastic
barrels were set up under the shade of an apple tree. Each sibling had stripped
down to bare skin and soaked, cutoff shorts. That’s it.

Apparently my luck had turned. 

Eli shot me a wide, surprised smile. As he began
wading over to me, EZ shot his net out and neatly hooked his brother.

“Oh no, you don’t,” EZ growled. “You’re not getting
out of this that easy.”

“I’m just going to say hello,” Eli said.

“Bullshit. You know as well as I do if you get
out, you ain’t coming back in. This shit is freezing.”

I laughed. “I’ll wait over here.” I settled in on
my favorite bench to watch the show.

Eli, heaving a theatrical sigh, returned to his
task. “These aren’t even our fish,” he said. “Lainey was the one who insisted
Dad put in this pond. Two years later, she’s off to college and I’m stuck
dealing with these things year after year.”

Lainey was the oldest of the four Valentine
children and the only girl.

“Well, if you didn’t wait until nearly October for
Moving Day, it wouldn’t be so bad,” EZ said.

“I’m trying to kill them. Next year let’s use
spears.”

“That might not be so good for their health.”

“Any other goldfish dies three days after you
stick them in a fishbowl. These suckers live through anything. It’s northern
Wisconsin. What the hell are we doing with a koi pond, anyway?”

“You keep feeding them, don’t you?” EZ said.

Laughing to myself, I wisely refrained from
joining in with the siblings’ teasing. Eli was rarely in a bad mood and today’s
complaints seemed almost like a scripted routine. I could picture the two
saying the same lines every fall as they performed this chore.

“How come Manny isn’t helping?” I asked.

Manny, the youngest brother, was without question
the one with the most energy. He owned a bar in Chippewa Falls and often relied
on his brothers for help.

Shaking their heads in tandem, the two mirrored a
fondly disgusted look. Although dissimilar physically, their gestures and
expressions were reflections of the same gene pool.

“He falls in,” EZ explained succinctly.

Eli finally broke into a laugh. “And usually
manages to take EZ down with him.”

“He does that on purpose.”

They continued grousing and I tuned them out,
soaking in the beautiful autumn afternoon. The garden was a glorious riot of
flaming colors, and a breeze made the leaves rustle. The impulse that led me
here had been a good one. As a reward to myself for venturing out past my
fears, I meditated on the ethereal beauty of the setting. We all need more
rewards for good behavior.

I was wrenched out of my trance when EZ splashed
me with a handful of water.

”Wake up!”

My dirty look slipped off him like a fish through
weeds. “What?”

“Would you mind counting the fish we already
caught? We don’t know if we got them all yet.”

Lethargic and muzzy-headed, I walked over to the
two barrels. Sheets of tan cardboard anchored by field stones, presumably kept
the fish from flipping out onto the grass. I lifted one and looked in.

How the heck did they expect me to count the
swirling orange and silver masses churning around the bottom of the barrel? The
silly grins from the pair made me realize I had fallen for one of their pranks.
Okay, then. 

Hips swinging in exaggerated burlesque, I walked
over to their shirts and towels slung across a low branch. Tossing them across
my shoulder, I turned a silky smile back on the boys. Their laughter faded.
Ignoring their protests, I sauntered back up the path to the house, carrying
their clothing with me.

Revenge is sweet.

I waited on the front porch for them to finish up.
While not as nice as the garden, it had its own attractions. Comfortable
rocking chairs invited laziness up and down the length, and an old-fashioned
wicker swing hung from chains at the end. Not to mention bonus points for the
delightful view it offered of the shivering jokers as the ATV chugged up the
path. Pointedly ignoring me, they drove past. Nonetheless, I caught two pairs
of eyes slanting evilly at me.

I would have to be on my toes for a while. 

The four-wheeler continued around the side of the
house to the entrance of the cellar. Like many old houses, the cellar was
accessed directly from the outside via a set of storm doors that angled into
the earth. After parking the ATV, the guys went inside to change clothes.

I waited a few minutes, then joined them in the
cellar. While Eli’s cellar was dark, it was also meticulously clean and
surprisingly spider-free. Two large round metal water tanks had been filled and
set up as the koi’s winter residence. While Eli and EZ bumped the barrels down
the cement stairs on a dolly, I perched on the top of the chest freezer,
watching the process with interest. The two worked with ease and the koi were
transferred with relatively little fuss. A few fish made suicide leaps, but
either one or the other sibling caught them with the dexterous grace of natural
athletes.

Observing their lighthearted energy made me
realize how bone-tired I was. Nights spent struggling with and days spent
hiding my fears had sapped my strength. Watching the two brothers banter back
and forth while effortlessly completing a task was strangely soothing. I
relaxed. Big mistake.

If they had needed to use signals between each
other, I might have stood a chance. I was trained in reading body language,
after all. But using sibling telepathy, the two converged, snagging me like
guppy in a net, and dumped me in the fish tank. I didn’t even have time to shriek
until after I sputtered to the surface. 

Revenge sucks.

Eli was in a much better mood for the rest of the
night. He loaned me a Pink Floyd T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants while my
clothes tossed around in the dryer. After EZ left, we curled up on the porch
swing and listened to the crickets.

As an advanced state of coziness set in, I told
Eli about the afternoon at Beth’s, about Reggie and Maggie and the group Maggie
joined, and finally about Beth’s suggestion that we help Reggie find her
daughter. I skimmed over the extent of my reaction to it.

“What do you think Beth wants?” he asked.

With my head tucked under his chin, his already
deep, gravely voice sounded like muted thunder. If I could keep him talking a
few minutes, I’d fall asleep. He waited for my reply though.

“She was suggesting we go snoop around the group
or cult or whatever it is. She wanted us to, I don’t know… investigate? She
wants us to get involved, like with Trinnie.”

Eli tensed. “You didn’t have a choice about
getting involved in finding Trinnie’s killer. The guy was coming after you.”

“I know.”

“Did she actually come out and say that?”

“No. Not straight out. Do you think I
misunderstood?”

Eli knew Beth almost as well as I did. Part of me
wanted him to say yes. I would much rather be wrong than deal with the
alternative.

Crickets. Real ones, though. There was an irony
there that I was too tired to enjoy.

“You’re probably right,” Eli finally said. “I
think, out of all of us, Beth was the least affected by what happened. And
don’t forget, she is Reggie’s sponsor. She’ll be worried about Reggie relapsing
over this.”

“I just don’t understand how she could even
consider getting involved in something like this. After everything we went
through? It’s crazy.”

“You have to look at it from Beth’s point of view.
It was exciting, challenging, a way to set things right.”

Fear and betrayal scalpeled through my heart. I
pulled away from him, sitting up. “Are you saying I should have said yes?” My
voice sounded as tight and frozen as my heart felt.

“No.” His hand reached out to mine. “I’m saying
your experience was not hers. What happened to you…” He faltered, hesitating to
venture into the normally forbidden territory. Before continuing, he drew me
down, held me close.

“You almost died. You aren’t going to be able to
step back and look at anything other than that. And I certainly don’t blame
you. I can’t, either. But Beth can. It wasn’t as bad for her, so she can see
other aspects of that period. And those things—the excitement, the
friendships—those were good for her.”

“What about you? What do you see?”

“I almost lost you,” he said simply. “That’s all I
can see.”

Sometime after midnight, I forced myself back into
my car to head home. Exhaustion made me fearful of another panic attack.

I made it home without mishap. Over the next few
days, I kept busy with scheduled clients whose crises and problems kept my mind
off my own. In between sessions, however, I would find myself brooding over
Beth’s suggestion. As the week wore on, I vacillated between concern for
Reggie’s daughter and irritation—anger, really—at Beth for putting me in such
an impossible position. Trying to, anyway.

By this time in the week, Beth and I would have
normally chatted over the phone several times, had coffee at least once. Instead,
I screened her calls and ignored my voice mail. And while I knew it was
childish, I rationalized that I needed to better understand my conflicting
reactions before facing her or Reggie.

Going to the Saturday night Open Speaker meeting
was unavoidable, however. One of the members of my home team was presenting,
and I needed to show my support. I timed my arrival with bare seconds to spare,
thus avoiding conversation with anyone.

After the meeting, Beth was waiting. She planted
herself in the center of the doorway that led to the lobby, forcing people to
stream around her. The only other exit was through the back bathrooms and would
require crawling through a teensy window, hoping my ass didn’t get stuck, and
dropping to the ground head first.

I thought about it.

Then I decided it was time we talked. After
several false starts and a lot of let’s-pretend-we’re-not-pissed-at-each-other
observations regarding the meeting, I forced the issue and asked about Reggie.

“Not good,” Beth answered. “She still hasn’t heard
from Maggie.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking, Beth.”

“I know.” She was uncharacteristically subdued. “I
probably shouldn’t have asked. I just… Well, anyway, I’m sorry.”

It looked like things were going to be left unsaid
on her part as well.

“I’m still willing to research cults,” I said.
“And there are colleagues I can consult. I just can’t go through that. Not
again.”

“I know. I understand. It was a crazy idea, I
guess.”

“So, what are you going to do?” I wasn’t sure I
even wanted to know.

“Do?” Beth echoed. “I don’t know what there is to
do. But it might help to learn how cults operate. If you really are okay with
that.” Beth’s eyes smiled into mine.

When we said good-bye, I felt the best I had in
days.

Chapter Three

I
didn’t get
around to cracking the books until Tuesday. The Internet was swollen with an
ocean of words ranging from scholarly dissertations to survivor chat lines. 
The cults themselves even hosted websites. Militaristic survival groups and
racial hate groups vied for cyberspace with Eastern religions, UFO seekers, and
prosperity-minded schemers.

Paranoia had gone high tech.

Even though I wasn’t sure whether the Elect’s
focus was on Eastern mysticism, esoteric New Age-ism, occult or your basic,
garden-variety neo-Christians, it didn’t matter. The techniques used by all
were surprisingly similar.

Secrecy, deception, a charismatic authority
figure, inducing a heightened sense of belonging, and, of course, plain,
old-fashioned brainwashing were the favored techniques for luring people whose
vulnerabilities—whether circumstantial or because of inherent personality
traits—made them easy marks.

Milieu control seemed necessary too. Creating a
closed, insulated system made people focus on the “message,” while isolation
kept members dependent and malleable. Secret languages rich with symbolism and
hidden meanings created a sense of exclusivity, and inner knowledge, and
further constricted independent thought.

Fascinating stuff. Moving from the Internet, I
delved into my stack of college texts, professional journals, and training
books. There was surprisingly little information, even on treatment issues with
traumatized former members.

By late Wednesday afternoon, I was tired of
written words and sat back in my chair to ponder whom I might consult about
this subject. I knew plenty of colleagues who worked with depression, anxiety,
eating disorders—but cults? Not so much. Calls to various coworkers netted me
nothing. I even tried the Yellow Pages.

Finally in desperation, I put a call in to a local
pastor who referred me to a priest who gave me the name of a Christian
counselor who operated out of a church office. I left a message with my office
and home numbers on her voice mail and set the problem aside. I decided I had
met my obligation, anyway.

An hour or so later, Eli and I met at Northwoods
Pub and caught up with each other’s lives. Eli attended law school in St. Paul.
Although doing well academically, he was starting to hate the commute and, in
some way, the events of this summer had created doubts about the direction his
schooling was currently taking. The midsemester grind, however, was keeping him
so focused on maintaining his grades that he didn’t have a whole lot of time
left for pondering the bigger question of career choice. The reservations he
had been having, his avoidance at taking a deeper look at what they would mean
for him, were additional rocks that the current of our relationship swelled
around and over.