“I told you I don’t follow politics.”
“Not even in college?” He said, “My old man told me everybody’s a socialist until they start paying taxes.”
She mirrored his smile again.
“Do you know where the word ‘symbionese’ comes from?”
Jane waited.
“The SLA’s leader, Donald DeFreeze—the jackass didn’t know the word ‘symbiotic,’ so he made up the word ‘symbionese.’” Danberry leaned back in the chair, crossed his ankle over his knee. “The newspapers called them terrorists, and they committed acts of terror, but all terror cells are basically cults, and all cults usually have one guy at the center who’s driving the bus. Your Manson or your Jim Jones or your Reverend Moon.”
They’ll seem almost nonchalant the closer they get to the point.
“DeFreeze was a black fella, an escaped con doing five-to-life for rolling a hooker, and like a lot of cons, he had a lot of charisma, and the kids who followed him—all of them white, middle class, most of them in college—well, they weren’t stupid. They were worse. They were true believers. They felt sorry for him because he was this poor black guy in prison and they were spoiled white kids with everything, and they really believed all the shit that came out of his mouth about fascist insects and everybody living together all Kumbaya. Like I said, he had that thing. Charisma.”
Pay attention to the words they repeat because that’s the point of the story.
Danberry said, “He had everybody in his circle convinced he was smarter than he actually was. More clever than he was. Fact is, he was just another con man running another cult so he could bed the pretty girls and play God with all the boys. He knew when people were pulling away. He knew how to bring them back on side.” Danberry looked at the bridge. His shoulders were relaxed. “They were like yo-yos he could snap back with a flick of his wrist.”
Make eye contact. Don’t look nervous.
“So, anyway.” Danberry clasped his hands together and rested them on his stomach. “What happened was, most of the kids following him ended up shot in the head or burned to death. And I have to tell you, that’s not uncommon. These anarchist groups think they’re doing the right thing, right up until they end up in prison or flat on their backs in the morgue.”
Jane wiped her eyes. She could see everything he was doing, but felt helpless to stop him.
What would Nick do? How would he throw it back in Danberry’s face?
“Miss Queller,” Danberry said, then, “Jinx.” He leaned forward, his knees almost touching her leg.
They’ll get in your space to try to intimidate you.
He said, “Look, I’m on your side here. But your boyfriend—”
“Have you ever seen someone shot in the head?” The stunned look on his face told Jane she’d found the right mark. Like Nick, she let herself draw power from his mistake. “You were so cavalier when you said those kids ended up getting shot in the head. I’m just wondering if you know what that looks like.”
“I didn’t—” He reeled back. “What I meant—”
“There’s a hole, a black hole no larger than the size of a dime, right here”—she pointed to her own temple where Martin Queller was shot—“and on the opposite side, where the bullet exits, you see this bloody pulp, and you realize that everything that makes up that person, everything that makes them so who they are, is splattered onto the floor. Something a janitor will mop up and toss down the drain. Gone. Forever.”
“I—” His mouth opened and closed. “I’m sorry, Miss Queller. I didn’t—”
Jane stood. She went back into the house and slammed the door behind her. She used her hand to wipe her nose as she walked down the hallway. She couldn’t keep up this façade much longer. She had to get out of here. To find Nick. To tell him what was going on.
Her purse was on the sideboard. Jane rummaged for her keys, and then she realized that Nick had taken them.
Where had he gone?
“Jinx?” Jasper was still in the parlor. He was sitting on the couch beside Andrew. They both had drinks in their hands. Even Agent Barlow, standing by the fireplace, had a glass of whisky.
“What is it?” Jasper stood up when she entered the room.
“Are you okay?” Andrew was standing, too. They both looked alarmed, almost angry. Neither one of them had ever been able to abide seeing her upset.
“I’m all right,” she patted her hands in the air to calm them. “Please, could I just have someone’s keys?”
“Take mine.” Jasper gave Andrew his keys. “Andy, you drive her. She’s in no condition.”
Jane tried, “I’m not—”