The Game Changer (37 page)

He held her stare.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she paused, ‘but call into the commune room beforehand, and meet some of the other members. It won’t take long.’

‘Okay.’

She closed the door, and he waited, counting each of her steps, until he couldn’t hear them.

STEPPING OUT OF THE SHOWER, HE EXAMINED HIS shaven face in the mirror. He wasn’t sure who was looking back at him. It certainly wasn’t the Addy who had come haphazardly to the island. All of a sudden, he was Addy with a plan.

He’d have to contact his mother soon, but that wasn’t going to happen without a mobile-phone signal. He also needed to get off the island. The fisherman who’d ferried him over had been paid by someone else, so Addy would have to find out how to arrange a crossing, and also to come up with a good reason for leaving, without too many questions being asked. None of it was going to happen until he talked to Aoife and was sure that Chloë was okay.

Reaching the commune room, he thought about knocking on the door, but then he remembered he was one of them now, so he turned the handle and walked in.

There were nine people in the room, and all of them stared at him simultaneously, but none asked any awkward questions, so he took a couple of tentative steps forward, letting the door close behind him. The room was flooded with daylight from the roof windows. With the walls a brilliant white, he wondered if his eyes were still adjusting from being down below. On the wall opposite the door there was a long cream banner: ‘Silence – Physical and Visual Communication Only’.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but before he could work out his next move, a girl he hadn’t met before walked over to him. She was about his age, and attractive with shoulder-length brown hair and large blue eyes. She stared at him before putting her arms out straight in front of her, indicating that he should do the same. He followed,
as instructed, and watched as she raised her arms to shoulder level, opening her palms, and facing them towards him. Again he did the same thing, their palms joining together, their fingers intertwined, as if they were about to do some kind of weird dance. The others in the room were doing the same thing, all in pairs.

After a couple of seconds, the girl moved her hands to the right, and then to the left, his moving with hers. Everyone followed suit, as if there was only one person in the room instead of ten. When he looked at the girl, there was warmth and kindness in her eyes, but something else, too – a form of blankness. The longer they stared at one another, the more he felt that her eyes could swallow him.

The hand-movement exercises lasted only a few minutes, but to Addy, they seemed to take an eternity, with every change of positioning done in unison, as if they had all assumed one identity.

Then, without explanation, everyone stopped and formed a circle, without touching, but standing side by side. A bald man with glasses lifted a small brass bell and rang it twice. Soon Addy realised they were working on facial expressions. The man held a wide-eyed stare, the others copied, and so did Addy. Then the man made a happy face, smiling, and again, they all did the same. Each time the facial features changed, the group followed, until the man rang the bell again, marking the end of the session, at which they all hugged each other in pairs, then did it collectively as a group, maintaining their silence throughout.

At least that was over with, he told himself, as he made his way back to his room. His phone was now fully charged, and turning to leave the room, he was surprised to see Aoife standing in the hallway waiting for him.

‘Aoife!’ He rushed to her and hugged her, but her stiffened body told him to back off.

‘You look well,’ was all she said, as she pulled away from him. ‘And you look distant.’

‘Do I?’

‘What’s going on, Aoife?’

‘Things have changed, Addy, that’s all. I’m a leader now, and I must act accordingly.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning I have other responsibilities. You will understand more when you’re part of the programme.’

He wanted to tell her the truth, that he had no intention of becoming part of any programme, but the girl standing in front of him wasn’t the Aoife he knew, the one he had fallen in love with. She was in there somewhere, and even though he hated admitting it, telling Aoife the truth was too big a risk.

‘Aoife.’

‘Yes?’

‘I was thinking of going back for a while, to talk things out with my mother.’

‘You should be careful, Addy. Some people find it hard to understand the steps in the programme. Rejection and criticism are burdens we have to bear.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘No. I’m needed here.’

‘But I need you. Does that not matter any more?’

‘I have to put the group first.’

‘Why?’

‘They are my family now.’

He wanted to shake her, to shout at her, to grab her and force her home, but even as he was thinking this, he also knew, if he wanted to get Aoife off the island, he’d have to try something different. Only he didn’t know what that was, not yet.

‘I need to go outside for a while,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I will see you later.’

He watched her walk away, knowing that the physical distance she was placing between them paled in comparison to her emotional detachment. This whole thing felt all wrong. He had to come up with another plan, but first, he needed to find out about Chloë, and
even though, officially, he wasn’t a helper now, talking to the guys felt safer than asking questions of the members.

Only Karl and Asan were left. The others had gone back to the mainland. They also told him there was only one more boat crossing planned. Addy asked casually if they were taking it. They weren’t. The boat was due to arrive in two days’ time. When he mentioned Chloë, neither of them had seen her, which was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to hear.

LEE’S DELTA AIRLINES FLIGHT WAS DUE TO LEAVE John F. Kennedy airport at 10.05 p.m.; with a transfer time of seven hours, it would arrive in Dublin at 5.05 a.m. New York time, or 10.05 a.m. Irish time. The terminal building was full of noise, messages coming over the tannoy system about departures or calls for late passengers, people talking, creating a communal hum, trolleys, suitcases on wheels, airport staff on mobile devices, all adding to the din, within a place populated by strangers with little in common other than that most were leaving town.

He checked the departure monitor. The flight was on time. He had no interest in shopping, and even less in engaging anyone in conversation. It would be another thirty minutes before boarding, and he despised waiting around. Putting his earplugs in, he leaned back in one of the black leather seats with aluminium arms and legs in the departure lounge, and let his mind drift to the investigation.

His first appointment was with Detective Adam O’Connor, but he was keen to talk to Kate Pearson, too. The anonymous notes sent to her might be extraneous, but they certainly fired more questions into the mix. If they were tied into this complicated web, could they have been created as camouflage, a tool to take focus away from something else, or as a statement of future intent, or both? The timing was critical too. Why were all these things happening now? Kate’s father, Valentine Pearson, was potentially her tie-in to all this, but Malcolm Madden had been a close friend to him. Madden hadn’t been in Manhattan at the time of the Mason killing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have orchestrated it. Could Madden be
looking to settle old scores, wanting Kate and others to pay for a past wrong? Jealousy, revenge, harbouring a grudge, or any number of motivations could be the root cause. But even if all of this was tied into historical events, some elements of it had to have been dictated by more recent developments.

It was important, he told himself, especially when there was no clear idea of who was pulling the strings, to keep the options open. All of this made sense to at least one person, and right now, that could be almost anyone.

SOMEHOW KATE MANAGED TO DRIVE BACK TO THE apartment, even though everything felt as if it was closing in on her. She couldn’t get Charlie out of her mind either. She needed him back. She needed to know he was close by and okay.

Adam was right: it was better for him to talk to Malcolm than for her to have any more contact. Before she opened the study door, she looked at a photograph of her mother and father on the wall. They were like strangers. It was as if her life, or what she thought was her life, was false, laden with deception.

She picked up her handwritten notes from the previous day and began to record: ‘TRAJECTORY OF MOTIVATION BETWEEN EVENTS ALIGNED WITH THE O’NEILL AND MASON INVESTIGATION AND ASSOCIATIVE CULT ELEMENTS. The creation of a cult-type environment is usually initiated by one key figure or leader. This individual is often charismatic, and capable of convincing a great many people to follow a particular cause. Generally, people enter these forms of groupings because they are looking for a new way and, indeed, have good intentions. The negative element is orchestrated by the leader, where narcissism plays a primary role. Many use their grandiose ideas of themselves to overcome deep-rooted emotional flaws, establishing an environment that will feed into their elevated self-belief as a reinforcement of their importance.’

Kate looked up at the mind maps on the wall, wondering if a cult leader existed, and if so, how and why they were tied into everything. She pressed record again. ‘The motivations of a cult leader, and those who are prepared to kill, have certain commonalities. Each will feed into a belief of power and control over their potential victim or
victims. Each will create an environment where strategic elements are stacked in the killer’s or cult leader’s favour.’

When her mobile phone rang, Kate jumped. Seeing the call was from Malcolm, she let it go to voicemail. After a few moments, she pulled down some textbooks, specifically around cult development, especially those that included widespread extortion of funds. It wasn’t long before she came upon details of the Jonestown case, and began recording again. ‘Jim Jones was the American founder of the People’s Temple group, which in November 1978 became known for mass suicide by poisoning in their isolated community called Jonestown, located in Guyana. The initial ethos, by which the so-called church was founded, was based on equal treatment of African Americans and many became members. Jones authored a book called
The Letter Killeth
, pointing out what he felt were absurdities, contradictions and atrocities in the Bible. In the summer of 1977, he moved most of the thousand members of the People’s Temple to Guyana from San Francisco, after the church was investigated for tax evasion. Jones stated that they were being crucified for their moral stance against injustice, and that they would create an agricultural Utopia in the jungle, away from racism and other negative groupings.

‘People who left the group prior to its move to Guyana told the authorities of brutal beatings, murders and a mass-suicide plan, but were not believed. In November 1978, a US Congressman, Leo Ryan, led a fact-finding mission to the Jonestown settlement after allegations by relatives of human-rights abuses. When some members wanted to leave with the Ryan group, it is believed Jones became infuriated with the defectors, and this was the impetus for the final mass suicide: 913 of the remaining inhabitants of Jonestown, 276 of whom were children, died. While some followers obeyed Jones’s instruction to commit ‘revolutionary suicide’ by drinking cyanide-laced grape juice, others died by forced cyanide injection or by shooting. Many of the people involved believed Jonestown, as Jones had promised, would be a
paradise. According to subsequent news reports, copious amounts of drugs such as Thorazine, Sodium Pentothal, Demerol and Valium were administered to Jonestown residents. Various forms of punishment were used, including locking people away for extended periods of time, and members who attempted to run away were drugged. The children in the commune addressed Jones as Dad, and money extorted, including social-welfare payments, contributed to Jones’s wealth of $26 million until he died on the day of the mass suicide.