The House Guest by Mark Edwards(58)

‘You don’t. Of course you don’t. But I wasn’t sure if you had anywhere else to go.’

‘I thought I’d go back to Mona and Jack’s.’

‘Ah.’ He frowned. ‘Eden didn’t tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘About what happened to Jack . . . I’d rather let Eden tell you.’

He opened the door – and Emilio almost fell into the room.

‘Is everything okay?’ Gabriel asked.

Emilio gathered himself. ‘Sorry, I was about to knock. I need to talk to you.’

‘Of course.’ Gabriel turned back to Ruth. ‘Apologies. I’ll send Eden in. But we can continue this tomorrow.’

To her surprise, he dashed back into the room and took hold of her hands, gripping them enthusiastically. ‘You’re so smart, Ruth. So special. Never let anyone tell you different. You deserve the world.’

He let go of her hands and moved towards the door, where Emilio was waiting, but then turned to her a last time.

‘And I can give it to you.’





PART THREE





Chapter 32

I got off the PATH at Newark Penn Station and took an Uber to the address Wanda had given us. It wasn’t her cabin this time, but a diner outside Newark.

‘Can’t risk you leading them anywhere near my place,’ she had said on the phone. Callum had told me Wanda constantly switched burner phones. ‘Not now you’ve raised the stakes so much.’

The Uber dropped me outside the diner and I went in, spotting Wanda in a corner booth. She seemed nervous but excited. She had her baseball cap on and, instead of the yellow-tinged glasses, a pair of aviator shades.

‘Are you one hundred per cent certain no one followed you?’ she said, checking over my shoulder.

‘As sure as I can be. I’m pretty sure they think I’m dead anyway.’ I told her about the message Callum had exchanged with Mona the night before, pretending to be Krugman. I also summarised what had happened in the woods. My muscles still ached from digging the grave in which we had buried the detective. By the time we’d finished I had been covered in dirt and sweat and the dead man’s blood. Luckily, the ground had been damp and quite soft, but I wondered if that would make it more likely that an animal would dig the body up. Last night I’d had a nightmare in which I’d been in the woods with Ruth, delighted to be with her again, telling her I thought I was never going to find her, and then Krugman had appeared, covered with mud, lurching towards us through the darkness.

I didn’t expect to sleep well for a long time. I had buried a man’s body. A cop’s body. And before that, I had been convinced I was going to die.

I knew there was darkness in my future. That one day I was going to have to deal with all this shit. But right now, I would simply have to hold it all together. For Ruth. By focusing on trying to find her, I could just about keep my mind off what had happened. What I’d done.

Last night, I had watched Wanda’s YouTube channel, checking out around a dozen of her videos. In the clips, she wore the kind of mask one might wear to a masquerade, a creepy-looking black-and-silver affair that covered everything except her mouth and chin. She talked about conspiracy theories and how to recognise if someone you knew was on the verge of joining a cult. She detailed a recent epic investigation that had led to the conviction of the leader of a so-called multi-level marketing company, for false imprisonment and fraud. I was astounded by the number of views and comments she got. Her followers loved her. There was an irony to it that didn’t need pointing out.

‘Where’s Callum now?’ Wanda asked, beckoning over the waitress.

‘He’s in the lobby of the Palace Hotel, waiting for Mona to appear so he can follow her. She’s never met him or seen him, and he assures me he’s good at tailing people. He followed Eden all over New York without her noticing, so . . .’

‘He’s very determined,’ said Wanda.

‘He’s desperate,’ I said, echoing what Callum had told Krugman.

Wanda nodded. ‘I’ve met a lot of men like him. A lot of men who can’t quite believe that the little girl who used to call them Daddy and wanted to be around them all the time could allow herself to be taken away. To be brainwashed. It’s a hard thing for a parent to deal with.’

The waitress appeared and took our orders. I wasn’t particularly hungry so just ordered coffee and toast.

‘Do you think all cults are inherently bad?’ I asked when we were alone again. ‘I mean, we all hear about the ones who brainwash their followers and take their money and exploit them. The ones who convince their members to kill themselves or murder people. But do you think there are any that actually do good?’

The question sounded odd even to me, but Wanda took it in her stride.

‘It’s an interesting question. There are certain groups that are often described as cults, but they call themselves new religious movements. NRMs. Like the Brahma Kumaris and Sahaja Yoga. And people who join them describe themselves as “active seekers”. I’ve read articles that talk about how these groups can be empowering, especially for women. Certainly compared to the cults most people hear about, anyway.’

After the waitress had brought our coffees over, Wanda went on. ‘The problem with all of them, including the better ones, is the way the guru, or leader, controls everything. A lot of these people see themselves as godlike. You have to be pretty damn egotistical to set up a religious movement – and then they go crazy on the power. I’ve seen it again and again. They all say, or pretend, they’re trying to help other people. But nearly always, they just want to help themselves. And you know what most of these cult leaders want to help themselves to, apart from the contents of the bank accounts of their followers?’