The Seven Rays

by Tim Wohlforth

1. Baxter

Allen Trimble walked down East Main towards Baxter University . Scruffy ill-kempt brown hair, freckled face, plaid checkered shirt pulled out in the back, dirty jeans, backpack. Many young women found him attractive. Perhaps it was his light blue eyes and infectious smile.

And Allen was a talker, bubbling over about the latest novel he had read, the elections, the new art exhibit at the museum. He felt, as his father had before him, that he had been placed on this earth to entertain and enlighten others. Hubris? Yes, he did not lack for confidence. At least on the surface.

He loved life and was fast learning how to articulate that love. He would be a fine writer some day. Or so his sister Marilyn, believed. And he could listen. A rare gift among men, particularly talkers.

Allen was just starting his freshman year. He lived with sister Marilyn, an instructor in the psych department. It was Barbara, a girl he had met at an Obama rally, who was the reason for his excursion to this end of campus. A physics major who wrote poetry. Gorgeous redhead. They hit it off immediately. She agreed to coffee.

He was early and he was starving. Not polite to stuff your face on your first coffee date. He'd grab a bite first. A cool breeze off Lake Erie swirled bright red maple leaves around his boots as he stopped in front of a storefront. The Yellow Deli. He had not noticed the place before. He could smell the fresh paint. A striking color. So bright. So, well, retro. An image formed in his head of an old rusted VW bus covered with peace stickers, tires flat and shrouded in cobwebs. Same yellow. His parents had traveled the country in their “yellow submarine” as they called it. “That's where Marilyn was conceived,” his mother had boasted. After their parents had died in a plane crash, the two children vowed to leave the bus where it was. A monument to a love that had produced them both, a vitality they so sorely missed.

The place looked clean, inviting. He peered into the plate glass window. Couldn't see much. Just some shadowy figures. Tinted glass. Something smelled appetizing. Black bean or lentil soup. Good idea. Perfect for a brisk Fall day. Might even be healthy. He'd been packing in a few too many burgers.

He pulled out his cell phone and texted his sister to let her know that he would not be by for lunch. Maybe a little late for supper. He had an English lit class in the afternoon.

The lunch break was a good idea. He wanted to think a bit before meeting Barbara. He suspected that the coffee date would be the beginning of something more, a lot more. He had never been one to hesitate when it came to women. Charge ahead. If possible bed the chick first, think afterwards. But not this time. Was it Barbara? Even during their brief conversation following the rally, he sensed a depth, an honesty. She would demand more, deserve more. Or was it him? He needed to know where he was going before inviting someone else to share his journey.

Starting at Baxter had had an impact on him he had not expected. It wasn't the work. He had had no trouble with school before. It was college, the beginning of a process that had, or should have, a certain end. He would eventually have to choose a major and with it a direction to his life.

The word direction frightened him. He was not thinking about a job or even a career. By direction he meant some future path informed by meaning. His life so far was completely devoid of meaning. He worried that if he ever stopped talking, others would spot his emptiness. He was interested in everything and had accumulated an impressive amount of arcane facts, especially on literature. Yet he felt hollowed out. Like he was a sham, a fake.

He had crammed his head with so many little facts in order to avoid the big question. What was life all about and where did he fit in?

A religious question? That he did not know. His parents were atheists and Marilyn avoided even discussing such matters. God or no god? No, he didn't think he was pursuing God's existence. Rather he was seeking out the meaning of his own existence. Yet there might be a link. Many people thought so. All he knew that autumn day standing in front of the Yellow Deli on East Main was that he was searching. He knew he should force such doubts out of his mind. Deal with his courses, seek out friends, strive to make them like him, pursue Barbara. There would be time in the future for the big questions. But he couldn't stop thinking about them.

He could do something now about the ache of hunger in his belly. He let out a deep breath, then pulled open the front door and entered the Yellow Deli.

He did not come out.

2. Sausalito

The alarm went off. The image on my TV shifted to the view of the ramp outside my houseboat. A bright spotlight kicked in revealing a black and white image of a young woman, short hair, rimless glasses, scarf, raincoat, tall boots. She raised her hand to shield the light from her eyes.

The alarm, the TV monitors? Overkill? Better overkill than being killed. I had taken on a very dangerous profession. I call myself a cult investigator. I have a psychology degree and a PI license. I travel the country testifying against cults in trials. Occasionally the authorities use me in hostage situations involving cults. I counsel cult members and ex-members. I expose the exploitation of cult children and the life style of the gurus that run them, expose their weird teachings. To sum up I do my damnedest to make the life of cults difficult and to free as many of the victims as possible.

I was born into a cult and sexually abused by cultists from an early age. I do not forget. I will never forget. I would be a cult investigator even if I did not get paid for my work.

And so the cults hate me. And they are right to do so. I hate them. Some cults like me so little they have physically attacked me. So the security precautions.

I picked up my 9 mm Glock, slipped it into my pocket, walked to the door, and, leaving the chain engaged, opened it. The short hair was natural blond, the scarf beige, raincoat tan. Her green eyes had a desperate look.

“I…” she started to speak.

“I believe you have the wrong houseboat.”

“Are you Scott Harris?”

“Who are you? I don't have uninvited guests.”

“Marilyn Trimble. I'm a friend of Ed Weissman. He… he warned me.”

“That I bite?”

“That you don't like visitors. But….”

“But you didn't expect quite this cold of a reception.”

She smiled. What a lovely face. She was not quite as young as she looked on the TV screen. A touch of wrinkle around the eyes and at the corners of her mouth suggested perhaps early thirties. Not much younger than me.

“Welcome,” I said, opening the door wide for her. She walked in and took off her scarf and coat. I placed them on a peg by the door and ushered her into the living room.

“Have a seat.” I gestured to the sofa. She sat stiffly at one end while I plopped into my recliner opposite her. “How do you know Ed?”

“I teach psychology at Baxter University near Cleveland . We met at a conference at John Jay in New York . I sought him out because of his writings on cults. I have this problem. He suggested you might be able to help me.”

“Did he tell you that I don't like to be contacted personally or even by phone or mail? Only through my website.”

“Yes. He didn't actually give me your address. Just mentioned in passing that you live on a houseboat in Sausalito . So I came out here. I have a photo of you from a newspaper clipping. I asked around. I found you.”

“Why not just e-mail me rather than travel all the way from Ohio on a chance that you might find me?”

“It's all so … well, weird. I just had to talk with you personally. Convince you it is not all my overworked imagination.”

“With cults nothing would surprise me. Maybe you should start at the beginning. Can I get you something? Chardonnay, coffee, whiskey?”

“Whiskey.”

“I have a nice single malt. Talisker.”

“Perfect.”

I rose, went to my liquor cabinet, and returned with the whiskey and two glasses. I balanced myself as the boat rocked. A blast from a foghorn. Probably a passing tug. Then sat down. I knew Marilyn would need time to tell her story. They always do, the victims of cults or their relatives.

“Ever hear of the Yellow Deli?” she began.

“No. Is it a cult?”

“Was.”

“Better explain.”

“There's just my brother Allen and me. Our parents died a few years ago in a plane crash. He's fifteen years younger than me, so he's more like my son. When I got an instructor's post at Baxter, Allen came with me. I had no trouble getting him admitted as a freshman at the university. Lives with me close to the campus. He's so bright, outgoing. Wants to be a writer.

“Recently he has seemed a little out of sorts. We would be walking through campus and he would fall silent. He's usually chattering away. Irritating at times. I figured it was the new experience of being a freshman, needing to find friends.

“One day around three weeks ago I received a text message. It said he was stopping by this Yellow Deli for a bite to eat. Then had a coffee date. He never came home.”

“Had you heard of this Yellow Deli place?” I asked.

“No. He said it was on East Main . I never go there.”

“Maybe he took off with some chick. Could be the one he was having the coffee date with.”

“No way. The next day Barbara – she's the coffee date – came to my office looking for him. I figured I better check out this Yellow Deli. Barbara said she had passed the place. Seemed to have opened recently. So Barbara and I headed for East Main . We had no problem finding it. Bright yellow.

“We walked in. Seemed normal enough. Looked like good sandwiches. I smelled a tantalizing black bean soup. Here and there a student sat hovering over a laptop.

“We headed to the counter. As Barbara ordered us two bowls of soup, I noticed a book displayed on a small rack. Very old. Gold lettering. I picked the book up to examine it more closely. It was entitled The Seven Rays. Seven spokes emanating from a sun, was gold-embossed in the background.

“Barbara carried our bowls over to a table by the window. I brought the book with me and sat down opposite her. It was published in 1912 by the Theosophical Metaphysical Press in Halcyon, California .”

I said, “Halcyon? I'm not sure I know where that is.”

“Me neither. A young man, crew-cut, white shirt with an open collar, chino pants, sat down at our table. He gently lifted the book from out of my hands. His eyes had that sincere look of Mormon missionaries that made me immediately suspect him.

“‘Sorry,' he said, ‘this is not for sale.'

“'Then why is it on display?' I asked him.

“'Because it is sacred. Its very presence enriches those of us who work here. Are you interested in the Seven Rays?'

“'I am not sure what they are,' Barbara said.

“'The Seven Days in Genesis, the Seven Seals in the Book of Revelations, Seven Rays of Fire in Greek mythology, the Seven Rays of Light of Agni, the Hindu deity. Then, of course, the Seven Planets. This book is the key to the meaning of life, of death, of reincarnation.'

“The guy, the place were spooking me out. The young people working behind the counter looked like the young man sitting at our table. Same short hair. Same clothes, spaced out expression on their faces. Unisex. Frightening. Wanted to get the hell out of there and quick. I became even more anxious about Allen.

“So I asked, ‘Do you know an Allen Trimble?'

“'Why do you ask?'”

“'I am his sister,' I said.

“'The name does not ring a bell. We have so many students passing through here.'

“But the name had rung a bell. I noticed him pull back just slightly when I mentioned Allen.

“'Could you ask the others who work here?' I continued.

“'But of course.'

“He got up, holding the book tightly to his chest, placed it back in its rack and then returned behind the counter. He disappeared into a small office in the back. A massive man – I would guess early forties – emerged. Dark reddish brown hair and beard. The right side of his head was shaved from behind the ear revealing an elaborate tattoo of a spider web – seven strands – that extended down his neck to his shirt line.”

“A spider web?” I said, “Yes, that fits.”

“Fits what?”

“How many cults function. They create a web. In this case a lunch place. The victim becomes entangled. They devour him.”

The whole time she had been talking her gaze fixated on the window behind my head. Did she see something outside in the blackness of the night? No, I was sure in her mind she had traveled back to Ohio , to the Yellow Deli, to her search for Allen. Now those green eyes sought out mine.

She said, “Devour? Yes, I see your point.”

“Go on.”

“He glared at us, and then shook his head. The young man returned to our table and told us that no one had seen or heard of Allen.

“'Who's the man with the beard?' I asked him.

“'The Messenger,' he said.

“'What's his message?' Barbara asked, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

“The man answered simply, ‘He communicates with the Great Masters.'

“He turned away from us and went back behind the counter. We left.”

She paused. I sensed she had more to say, but that her narrative so far had shaken her. She picked up her glass and bolted the whiskey down in one swallow.

“That's it?” I asked knowing that it wasn't.

“There are times I wish it was. This Barbara. Headstrong. Having barely met my brother, she seemed to care for him. And there was that religious mumble-jumble. That really set her off. She's a militant secularist. Barbara insisted on returning, pretending to be interested in the Seven Rays.

“Day after day, she would come by my office and report about her adventure. At the beginning the young man we had met would sit down with her and talk about the Seven Rays and God and religious stuff. Then he offered her a part time job.”

I asked, “Did she find out anything more?”

“Last Friday, she came to my office in the afternoon all excited. ‘I'm getting close, Marilyn, very close,' she said. ‘They have him. Moved him someplace. Tomorrow I should find out where.'

“The next day she didn't show up. I planned to go to the Yellow Deli. But I had this conference. The one at John Jay in New York City . That's when I talked with your friend Ed and he told me about you.

“When I came home, the next morning I rushed over to East Main . It was gone.”

“What?”

“It was as if it had never been there.” She reached for the Talisker and poured herself another drink. “Gone. The Yellow Deli. Allen. Barbara.”

* * *

We sat out on my deck eating breakfast. I had convinced Marilyn to stay over. She took my bed and I retreated to the futon in my study. It was a beautiful morning, no fog, brilliant sun. A slight breeze carried a tang of salt.

Marilyn had taken over my houseboat. Little things. A hint of perfume from her soap in the air. Coming out of the bathroom, bathrobe clinging to her not quite dry body, rubbing her blond mop with a towel, then wrapping it around her head.

“What are those papers?” she said, indicating with a nod the pile beside my coffee cup. This morning she wore a tight tan cashmere sweater and matching slacks. She had placed a suede jacket on the back of her chair. Marilyn was into beige.

“Printouts. While you were sleeping, I was working on my computer.”

“Did you find out anything about the Yellow Deli?”

“Enough to really worry me. I began by surfing the occult. Theosophy, Great Masters, Seven Rays, that sort of thing.”

“And?”

“I think I've got them pegged. Theosophy's the key. A religion founded by Madam Blavatsky in 1875. She produced a series of turgid works that drew from all the world's major religions. The theosophists believe that up in the heavens, in addition to God, sits the Great Masters. These include Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, various Hindu figures. They form a brotherhood that mediates between God and man.”

A seagull landed on the railing next to my pot of red geraniums. It was eyeing our eggs. Pests. They shit all over the place. But I have come to love their cawing as they follow trawlers headed out through the Golden Gate .

I continued, “Next comes the Seven Rays. Each Ray has a different hue, represents specific attributes like Harmony, Love, Wisdom and is linked to a different Master. Black is forbidden. Hate, death, destruction. Red stands for passion, anger, irritation, madness. Yellow, the key attribute, represents the wisdom of God. The Great Master is Jesus.”

“Weird.”

“Some would say no weirder than the virgin birth or a farmer finding magical plates in his backyard.”

Marilyn placed her fork back on the table. She had barely nibbled at her food. “The Yellow Deli.”

“Surround yourself with yellow and you're on the path to the Wisdom of God,” I said. “There's more. Only an intermediary, called the Messenger or Guide, can receive instructions from the Great Masters.”

“Like the bearded, tattooed giant at the Yellow Deli?”

“Right.”

The houseboat rocked slightly as a 70-foot sloop motored past, heading for the Golden Gate Bridge . We waved, they waved.

“I found out more. The Yellow Deli is the web spun by our bearded messenger to entangle his prey. Its purpose is to feed recruits to the Church of the Seven Rays. The Church runs other delis in Ann Arbor , Madison , Eugene , Boston . Next to campuses. Missing young people. But there closing down. All of them as far as I can discover. No one seems to know where the staff and cult followers have gone.”

“Where are they hiding?”

“I have an idea,” I said. “Halcyon.”

“There is such a place?”

“A town on the Central Coast of California, no more than four hours from here. Used to be a theosophical colony. I discovered a news article on the place in the San Luis Obispo Tribune . A court case was recently settled. A split among the theosophy followers over control of their property and Temple . And that's the whole town of Halcyon . Older members have lost control and have been evicted from their cottages. The winning side is led by a man who calls himself The Messenger. Red hair. Tattoos.”

Marilyn rose from her seat, green eyes sparkling, excited. ”Let's go.”

“We will find the spider and free his prey.”

I spoke with a confidence I did not feel. I had battled with too damn many cults. And the cult leader usually won. This Yellow Deli really worried me. The massive figure of a leader with his strange tattoo. The ingathering of the tribe. Something big was about to happen. I suspected that anyone who interfered would in danger.

3. Halcyon

“Where are we?” Marilyn had awakened.

“Halcyon.” I pointed out a small sign. I slowed down.

“There's nothing here,” Marilyn said.

And she was right. Flat farmland surrounded us. A light coastal fog hung in the air. Then I noticed a cluster of small cottages painted yellow off to the right partly hidden by large shade oaks.

“There. Under those trees. We'll turn here. Temple Street .”

Then it hit me as I knew it would. Always does when I prepare to enter a cultic world. The nightmare returned.

I'm thirteen and back at the Ranch. I haven't seen my mother in months. Rumor has it she's been moved to the Pacific Heights compound. I know what that means. She'll be sent out ‘flirty fishing.' Prostitution really. Her task will be to seduce men, then recruit them to the Church of the Twelve Tribes. That's how I was conceived.

I hardly knew my mother. And she wasn't sure who my father was. The Church became mother and father to me. I tried my best to please. I would break some petty rule. They beat me. So hard I would bleed. I could have lived with that. I thought I deserved the punishment. But Abraham, our leader, took a liking to me. He would hold me, fondle me. I knew any day he would go further.

So I ran. And ran over open fields to freedom. But I've not escaped. Not completely. I'm still running. That's why I do this. Each time I battle a cult the nightmare becomes less intense.

I turned down Temple Street . Marilyn had no idea what was going on inside my head. She had enough to worry about. What she needed from me was my complete commitment, my resolve. And she would get it.

“Seems peaceful,” Marilyn said.

“So far. See that large building up ahead? That's their Temple .”

I parked the car on the curb along a low fence, recently painted yellow. A path leading to the building's entrance was about ten feet away. A sign over the gateway said “The Temple of the Seven Rays.”

The large round two-story building, completely painted yellow, had pillars all around supporting a one-story roof overhang. The second story featured large windows. I saw three, but figured there would be seven total. A mix of oak, pine and palm trees surrounded the Temple .

“Let's go in and look around,” Marilyn suggested.

“Wait. See that cluster of cottages. They're all yellow except for the one positioned closest to the temple. That's white.”

“So?”

“Suggests a holdout from the old theosophist group. Might be worth talking to the occupant.”

“You're the boss.”

Was I? Well, I had to be.

We walked up to the small square one story clapboard cottage. Four-sided roof peaked in the center. Painted all white. Built prior to World War One would be my guess. A small entry porch with a roof overhang and two pillars matched the Temple architecture. Morning glory vines had crept up the pillars. Pink and red roses clung to trellises on each side of the entryway. What a pleasant relief from the damn yellow of the surrounding buildings.

I hesitated at the front door. Someone was watching us. I swung around suddenly. Just caught in the corner of my eye, movement, a touch of red. Someone had ducked behind a pillar at the temple.

“You saw something?”

“I think so. Not sure.”

Marilyn said, “Maybe we ought to get out of here.”

“No,” I said, a bit too firmly.

I pressed the doorbell. No answer. I rang again.

“Go away,” a woman's voice from deep inside said. “No use harassing us. We will never leave.”

“We're not who you think,” Marilyn said. “We're friends. We just want some information.”

“Reporters?”

“No,” I said. “If you will just give us a minute, we will explain.”

A woman with blue-gray hair curled into a bun opened the door. She wore a faded housedress covered with pink roses. Behind her a withered bent-in-half man with a wispy long beard and wearing striped pajamas, clung to a walker.

Marilyn said, “Please give us a minute. It's about the Yellow Deli people.”

“If you want them you don't want me. Try the general store and post office down Halcyon Road .” She began to close the door.

“They've taken my brother.” Marilyn began to cry. “I… I need your help.”

That did it. The old woman smiled and opened the door wide for us. “I'll make us some tea.”

She led us through a small foyer and into a living room. An overstuffed sofa, two leather-covered chairs, lace doilies, matching curtains. Bookshelves stuffed with the works of Blavatsky and other theosophists covered one side of the room. Over the sofa hung an oil portrait of a man with a Van Dyke beard wearing a three-piece suit. She noticed my stare.

“My grandfather, William Dower. Perhaps you've heard of him?”

“Sounds familiar,” I said. “Didn't he found Halcyon?”

“Yes. Pay no attention to Albert. Alzheimer's. My name's Mildred Dower Pierce.”

She strode off into the kitchen. Marilyn and I settled into the sofa. Albert stood, holding on to his walker, as if he might fall to the floor at any minute. He had a bewildered look on his face, but he said nothing. I felt perspiration forming on my brow. A faint odor of lavender clung to the stagnant air.

After ten minutes or so Mrs. Pierce returned carrying a silver tray holding a fine china set. Placing the tray on a low table in front of the couch, she took her husband's arm and led him to a leather chair. He sat down staring blankly in my direction. The guy was unnerving me. Mrs. Pierce settled into the other chair.

“So what's this all about?” she asked as she poured the tea.

“I'm Marilyn Trimble, My brother Allen is missing. He was last seen entering a Yellow Deli outside of Baxter University in Ohio . I came out to California to get help from Scott Harris here. He's an expert on cults.”

“A cult. That's what you think they are?”

“Yes,” I said. “What would you call them?”

“A bunch of scoundrels, crooks, con artists. Their so-called Messenger is a fraud. If Albert were in a little better health he'd send the lot packing. One of these days I'll do it without him. I'm so darn sick of yellow. Everything used to be white. Soothing, Peaceful.” She paused and took a sip of her tea. “Cult, huh? Maybe you have something there.”

“Mrs. Pierce….” I started to say.

“Call me Millie. Everyone does.”

“Millie, perhaps you could tell us about your experience with them here in Halcyon. May help us.”

“Happy to. This huge fellow, riding a Harley, turned up at the store about three years ago. I was running it that day. Volunteer docent. We get a lot of bikers passing through. They like to hang out at Pismo Beach , follow the coastline down to Santa Barbara . Usually in packs, but this one was alone. Said his name was Hank Stabelow. Stayed the whole day reading pamphlets, asking questions, skimming books. Then he bought most everything we had for sale in the store and headed back to his campsite down on Pismo. I figured that was the end of him. We don't appeal to the young ones. But he returned the next day and the next. Became a regular at our daily noontime healing services. Joined the Society.”

“How did this Hank get hold of the Society, the Temple , the cottages?” I asked.

“He's very inspirational. Of course what he preached was all nonsense. Theosophy can't be boiled down to the Seven Rays. It is complex, complete. He had a way of connecting to young people. Kept bringing them here. Before we realized what was happening he had control of the Society, the Temple , the cottages, the land. Do you have any idea what this land is worth these days?”

“Not really,” Marilyn said.

“I didn't either. But I thought I had better check. It's worth twenty million at a minimum. Mark my words, that's what this so-called Messenger is really after.”

“How did you manage to hold out?”

“My cottage is special. It has been held by the Dower family separate for the Society for over one hundred years. They tried to buy me out. I refused. Money means nothing to me. I must be near the Temple . Then came the bikers.”

“The bikers?”

“He has these bikers, huge fellows on Harleys. He calls them his praetorian guard. They threatened me. I'll not be intimidated.”

Millie was one strong eighty-something lady.

“We're going to look around,” I said. “See if we can find Allen.”

“Be careful. You need help you know where to find me.”

As we headed out the door, Millie said, “Did I mention that the Praetorian Guard carry shotguns?”

* * *

“I suggest we head down to the store Millie mentioned,” I said as we settled into my car. “Public business. They can't bar us from entering. One way or another we are going to get answers. I guarantee that to you.”

I started the engine and shifted into gear. The back door swung open. I had forgotten to press the lock button. A young woman, bright red hair, crawled in and threw herself flat on the floor.

“Go, goddamn it,” she whispered. “Don't look back. Just go.”

“Barbara,” Marilyn said.

“Just drive. Normal speed. I'll explain later.”

“Is Allen here?” Marilyn asked.

“Go!”

We drove in silence back to Halcyon Road then past the store and out of the little town. I looked back. A vintage yellow VW van was behind us. I sped up. The van sped up.

I said, “We're being followed.”

Barbara poked her head up from the back, looked behind us and said, “Them.”

I figured I'd have no trouble losing that antique. I figured wrong. The van was gaining on us. Must have a hopped up engine, like the ones they put in VW dune buggies. I was going eighty as I careened towards Route 1 on the narrow two-lane highway. No shoulder.

Bang! The Prius shook. My body lunged forward, seat belt digging into my shoulder. The van had smashed into our rear bumper. I floored it. So did the bus.

The bus switched into the opposite lane and sped up. It was now parallel with us. A red bearded man drove. The side rear window slid open and another massive bearded fellow pointed a shotgun at us.

“Stop,” he yelled, “or I'll blow your fucking head off.”

I didn't stop. He let off a round. Pellets smashed our window scattering glass over Barbara's prone body. She shrieked. Marilyn turned and looked back at her.

“She's okay,” she said. But I had no time to check on either of them. Had to do something. But what? I pressed down on the accelerator. Useless. The bus stayed level with us. The hulk in the back of the bus prepared to fire another round, this one directly at me. We were goners.

I spotted a 16-wheeler barreling up the road towards us. The Messenger floored it, hoping to get by us before the 16-wheeler smashed into him.

The truck lumbered on, blowing its air horn. The trucker knew he couldn't stop in time. I jammed on my brakes to create room for the bus. But I knew I also was too late. The yellow bus did not brake. Instead the madman accelerated. Its front half pulled ahead of us. Not enough. He wasn't going to make it. We would all die.

Then the Messenger swung to the left of the oncoming truck. Fender of the truck grazed the van. The bus plowed into grass-covered sand and sunk in. I floored it.

Route 1 ahead. Without slowing down, I swung a left and cut right in front of a large RV. A frightened old man jammed on his brakes. The tip of the RV's front bumper scraped the side of the Prius.

We made it. For now.

5. The Temple of the Seven Rays

I drove to a small wayside park, turned in, pulled behind some trees, and stopped. I collapsed against the steering wheel, sweat pouring from my brow. Exhausted.

“They would have killed us,” Marilyn said.

“You've got that right.” It was Barbara as she finally felt safe enough to sit up in the back seat. She brushed the glass off her, as if it were dust. Tough chick. “God, that was some driving. Who are you?”

“Marilyn asked me to help. I specialize in unmasking cults.”

Barbara smiled at us. The kind that lit up the whole face. I could see why Allen was struck by her. “God am I happy to see you two. It's all been on my shoulders. All alone really. Allen had succumbed to the Messenger's poison and had no idea what was really happening around him. Not that I minded the responsibility. I was enjoying the challenge of tricking these bastards, watching the way that Messenger crook manipulated his followers. In time I would have exposed him to Allen. Gotten him out of there on my own. But there's no time.”

Marilyn asked, “What do you mean?”

“Allen's critically ill. Fever's over 104 degrees. He must see a doctor.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I'm a pre-med student. I know enough to be pretty damn sure he needs antibiotics immediately. My guess is pneumonia. I told those bastards, they took me to the Messenger. He said the Great Masters would cure him. Wouldn't let me even give him aspirin. That's when I knew I had to get out of there. Get help. But you can't just walk out of that place. We're always watched. Those thugs. I was on my way to try to get help from the old lady in the white house when I saw your car. You had found us.”

“We've got to get Allen out of there,” Marilyn said. “Please, Scott, there's no time to waste.” She gripped my arm. I could feel the tension in her body, see the concern in her green eyes.

“We've got to think,” Barbara said. “Can't just barge in there. I know them. They control him. He's delirious, confused. And as we just witnessed, they'll kill to protect their cult. Especially now.”

“Why now?” I asked.

“I've been watching the Messenger carefully. I had his confidence before Allen fell sick. He's trying to seduce me. He's so damn arrogant. I could come and go in his cottage. I found paperwork. He's begun the process of selling off the land. Beginning with the unoccupied acreage. Then he'll sell the cottages and move his slaves elsewhere. The money is to go into his own personal account. He can't afford bad publicity at this moment.” She paused, reached into her backpack, and pulled out some papers. “I made copies.”

She handed them to me. I gave them a quick scan. She had him. Nailed him.

“Fantastic,” I said.

“Where's he holding Allen?” Marilyn asked.

“I'm not sure. After I discovered his high fever, the Messenger had him moved. Tonight, however, Allen'll be brought to the Temple . There's to be a healing ceremony.”

“When?” I asked.

“Midnight.”

* * *

I stood looking down on the rotunda from behind a pillar on the balcony of the Temple . A yellow glow emanated from dim lights along the walls. Below me the followers of the Church of the Seven Rays had assembled. They wore yellow cloaks with hoods over their heads. Reminded me of the ritual dress of the Order of the Solar Temple whose members in Canada , France and Switzerland committed suicide. The same fate wiped out the Heaven's Gate cult. They died wrapped in purple cloths that covered their heads and shoulders like shrouds. Ritual can kill.

I spotted four burly bearded figures, also dressed in yellow, each holding a shotgun, positioned along the walls of the rotunda.

The chanting began. At first indistinguishable mumbling. Then the repetitive mantra rose in volume. I could make out what they were saying. “The Yellow Ray of Wisdom” repeated over and over. The acolytes began to sway back and forth like orthodox Jewish students reading the Torah.

They were hyperventilating, starting to become dizzy and lightheaded. As I watched I felt my own body seeking to rock in the same rhythm as the undulating mass of yellow cloaked humanity below me. I knew I was feeling the effect of mass hypnosis, yet feel it I did. I wanted to run out of there. Escape from this cult as I had the cult I was born into. But I couldn't. I had a task to complete.

For Allen. For Marilyn.

I had spent most of the time since our meeting at the wayside getting supplies in San Luis Obispo . These included walkie-talkies and a bullhorn. We went over the layout of the Temple with Millie and what each of us would do. Then at eleven o'clock we had entered the Temple through a back door. Marilyn and Barbara waited on the ground floor in a small storeroom on the right side of the podium. At the proper time it would be their task to get Allen the hell out of there. Millie was in charge of a little surprise we were planning for the Messenger and his flock.

A door opened behind the lectern. A massive red-bearded

figure emerged. His partially shaved head glistened in the yellow light. He wore a golden robe that reached the floor and a matching skullcap. All eyes in the audience were on him as he strode towards the lectern. No hurry. He was milking the moment, building up the suspense. The Messenger extended hairy tattooed hands towards the audience. They immediately fell silent.

He began to speak in a deep hypnotic monotone. “I bring you a blessing from the Ascended Masters. They have assembled with the Archangels at the feet of Elohim. They have a message for you, for all of us. They are worried about the fate of all humanity. The wars, the economic crisis, the poverty, the disease.”

As he talked, ripples of skin brought the spider tattoo on his neck to life. It was as if those thin bluish strands were contracting, bringing prey to the spider on the back of his head. His audience was mesmerized. So was I.

“The Great Ones,” he continued, “want you to know that you, my children, are the chosen ones. Guided by me, their Messenger, you will save mankind.

“I have called upon our Ascended Master, Jesus The Healer, to help us cure one of our flock, Allen Trimble, who has fallen ill. He can regain his health only if he affirms his faith and if all of us assembled here do likewise. It is the only way. Health through the Spirit. The Spirit is stronger than the flesh.”

“The Yellow Ray of Wisdom,” the flock incanted.

“Bring brother Allen to us.”

The double doors in the rear of the Temple opened. An acolyte pushed a wheelchair containing Allen. Even from my distance I could see sweat dripping from his face. His body was wrapped in a yellow blanket. A yellow spotlight illuminated him.

“Now Millie,” I whispered into a walkie-talkie.

Powerful ceiling lights left from the days of the theosophists flooded the rotunda with dazzling white, drowning out the yellow.

I was prepared for this moment. I grabbed the bullhorn and shouted into it, “Look closely at your so-called Messenger in the bright light of the truth.” My voice boomed throughout the domed interior echoing off the walls. “He tricks you. All he is interested in is power, in money. He plans to sell Halcyon to the highest bidder and pocket the proceeds personally. He has been using you. Here's the proof.”

I grabbed a pile of photocopies of his real estate papers and scattered them throughout the hall.

“The devil,” the Messenger shouted. “Get him,” he instructed his Praetorian Guard.

“Would the real messenger of the Great Masters need to surround himself with thugs?” I asked. Then I threw myself flat on the floor of the circular walkway. Shotguns blasted away at the area of the balcony where I had been standing. A sting, like the bite of a maddened bumble bee. I had been hit in the leg by a pellet. I felt blood ooze down my leg and the pain grew in intensity. I had to force myself to ignore the leg, concentrate on the next step in our plan.

Another blast from a shotgun. This from directly underneath. Splinters of the wood flooring spewed through the air, smashing into me. Too close a call. They knew where I was. The next volley would get me. Had to move out of there. But I wanted to leave time for the acolytes to read the truth. So I snaked past the hole in the floor and peered down. Yes, the documents were having an effect. Shouts, arguments had broken out throughout the hall. The process of breaking the Messenger's grip had begun.

“Stage Two,” I shouted into my walkie-talkie. Millie hit the main electrical switch. All lights went out. I could see no one, but I knew that Marilyn and Barbara would be rushing to Allen.

I crouched down and dragged myself to the section of the balcony overhanging the stage area. More shots, but in the darkness they went wild. I jumped, landed on my feet, and rolled. Now pain surged through both my legs. More bleeding. I forced myself up.

Totally disoriented, I switched on my Maglite. There. A mound in a golden robe. The Messenger turned towards me. My light caught his eyes – black, haunting, hypnotic. They commanded me to submit. No. I was in command. The beam of my flashlight had blinded him. I had the gun.

I dragged myself to him before he or his guards could react. Placing the barrel of my Glock against his head, I said, “You and I are going to walk right out of here. If any of your people touch Allen or my people I'll shoot.”

The Praetorians pulled back. I couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness now. Pushing my captive ahead of me, I walked slowly off the stage and into the sea of frightened yellow-robed disciples. I stumbled, almost dropped the flashlight. Dizzy. Up ahead I could see Barbara and Marilyn pushing the wheelchair. I pulled myself together and followed. Then I heard sirens in the distance. As planned, Millie had made her phone call.

The double doors swung open ahead. We poured out into the bright white glare of the headlights from police cars. We faced a phalanx of local cops and sheriff's deputies, all with guns drawn. Behind them stood an EMT van, back open and facing us.

“Drop your gun,” a deputy, who appeared to be in charge, shouted out at me. I dropped the Glock.

“Cuff ‘im.”

“But…” I tried to protest.

“No buts. We'll sort you out down at the District Office.”

Two EMT paramedics ran to Allen. They wore gauze masks over their faces. Millie had told them she suspected a contagious disease. Thus the fast response. Marilyn and Barbara followed. The paramedics transferred him to a gurney and raised him into the vehicle. They attached an IV and placed a wet cloth on his brow.

It was a chaotic scene with yellow enshrouded acolytes forming little knots, others milling around. I looked for the Messenger. He had taken advantage of the confusion to disappear. So had the Praetorians who had dropped their shotguns and melded into the crowd. In the distance I heard a Harley rev up. Then roar off.

Two deputies dragged me to a waiting cruiser. They pushed me, none too gently, into the back seat. The engine started up and the patrol car jerked forward, throwing me against the hard plastic back seat. I could smell a mixture of Lysol and vomit, the result of a less than perfect clean-up after the last occupant had been dragged off to jail. No door handles. I grew faint. Passed out.

* * *

I walked out on the long pier at Pismo Beach . I was still a little wobbly on my feet, but nothing broken and the wound from the pellet was healing. The cops were not interested in holding me. There was no one to press charges and I had a gun permit.

Marilyn, Barbara and Allen surrounded me. Ahead the sun was setting, casting the ocean in a golden light. I could hear the surf crashing below us. Cawing gulls swooped overhead. I turned back and saw a lone surfer walking along the beach carrying his board. Three dune buggies raced each other. Peaceful. Yellow-cloaked devotees, a massive man with a spider tattoo, shotgun blasts, all seemed but a dim memory. Yet these events had taken place only three days ago. I knew I would never shake the images. I didn't want to. One more addition to that file of cases in my head that drove me to pursue the gurus that corrupt the mind, enslave the young. One more step towards my own liberation.

I was concerned about Allen. He seemed healthy enough. Marilyn had said fluids and antibiotics had saved his life. He had been released from the hospital that morning. But he was hanging a bit back from us as we walked. Just as Marilyn said he had in the days before he entered that Yellow Deli. What was going on inside his head? I slowed to let him catch up. Barbara and Marilyn proceeded on giving us a little time together.

I asked, “What do you make of it all? The Messenger was willing to risk your death to solidify his followers, planned to sell Halcyon for his personal profit.”

“A false prophet,” he said. His voice was weak, almost haunting.

“And you are still looking for the true prophet?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

We stopped and took over a bench at the end of the pier. Allen stared out at the sunset, ignoring us. His brown hair cropped short like the other disciples, freckled face lacking expression, plaid shirt pulled out, flapping in the light breeze. My eyes followed his. Only a sliver of the sun was now visible. The remainder had been absorbed into the gently undulating waves. What was he seeing?

Anxiety filled Marilyn's eyes. She broke our silence. “What has happened to the Messenger?” she asked.

“He and his Praetorian Guard have vanished. The followers are dispersing. Millie and her old theosophists will regain their town.”

“So that's the end of him?” Barbara asked.

“I expect not. I am sure he salted away money collected from his followers. He will lay low and turn up once again with a new Yellow Deli next to some campus. Build the cult all over again. I will find him, crush him.”

“Sounds futile,” Marilyn said. “What you do. Like defending sand castles against the onward march of the tide.”

“Something like that. But occasionally there's a small victory.” I smiled at Allen.

“May I make a suggestion?” I said to Allen, resting my hand gently on his shoulder. He turned towards me.

“Of course.”

“The Messenger was not God, but he wanted you to worship him like God. There will be others. None of them are God.

“So you are saying there is no God? I don't think I can live with that.”

“Search for God, if you must. Just beware of the messengers.”