It was Garfield. One of Morgan's big stuffed animals was in the garbage.
He pulled it out. Tigger was in there, too, along with a fuzzy cub from the Lion King collection, two more stuffed felines, and a ceramic Sylvester. They weren't ripped, stained, or particularly worn out. They'd just been summarily discarded.
He hurried to Morgan's room. The door was open and her light was on. "Morgan?" he said with urgency.
Her head popped from beneath the covers. "I can't sleep."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Does this have anything to do with what I found in the garbage can?"
"You didn't take them out, did you?"
"Yes."
"Daddy, no! Put them back."
"Why are you throwing them away?"
"Because."
He recalled their earlier conversation in the car about getting a cat. "Morgan, your mommy's allergic to real cats. Not stuffed animals."
"I know. But if I keep all these fake cats around, I might forget."
With soulful eyes he came to her and sat on the edge of the bed. "Sweetheart, you will never forget your mommy."
"I don't want to forget anything about her. Even little things. Like, I don't ever want to forget she's lergic to cats."
"Don't worry about that, okay? I'm going to do everything possible to bring Mommy home. And then you won't ever, ever have to worry about forgetting anything."
She was silent for a moment, then quizzical. "Have you forgotten things about Mommy?"
He wasn't sure how to answer. He settled for the truth. "It's funny, but since your mother disappeared, I actually remember more about her. That's a good thing, I guess. You can get back the things you forget."
"If you really strain your brain?"
"Not so much the brain, sweetheart."
"Which part?"
He held her close. "The part I haven't used in a very long time."
After breakfast Felicia drove Andie into town in the old station wagon. In the backseat was a woman at Felicia's supervisory level and a nineteen-year-old girl who was in her second month of training. Tom and his young male recruit drove separately in an SUV. Monday morning was when the cult purchased groceries and essentials that couldn't be produced on the farm. was viewed as grunt work reserved for the newest members, under the strict supervision of their mentors, of course.
They stopped at a big price-cutting warehouse that sold everything from radial tires to cinnamon rolls, mostly in army-like quantities. Andie had been to a similar place in Seattle with the bare cement floors and huge pallets of Twinkies and paper towels stacked sixty-feet to the ceiling. She felt like a Lilliputian.
They broke into teams of two, each recruit with a mentor.
Each team had a list of things to retrieve from different parts of the warehouse. They were to buy only what was on the list. Salt, flour, and raw sugar. Soap. Toilet paper. Matches and batteries. Basic medications, such as aspirin and rubbing alcohol. All of the things Blechman regarded as necessities.
Andie pushed the shopping cart as Felicia retrieved items from the shelves. They talked very little. Andie couldn't stop thinking about "the echoes" concept. Her bookend theory had been out the window for some time, but "echoes" seemed apt. Two men and three women had been murdered in echo-like fashion.
Her discovery made her restless and eager to brainstorm. Isaac had given her until Wednesday to check in, but she wasn't sure when she might get away from the farm again. She had to seize the opportunity.
"Felicia? I'm going to use the bathroom, all right?" "Okay. I'll be right here."
The rest rooms were in the rear of the store, near the butcher department, behind a pair of swinging doors and at the end of a long corridor. Andie hoped there would be a pay phone nearby. There was. She quickly dialed Isaac's private number.
"Isaac, it's Andie."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I can't talk long." She feared Felicia would burst through the doors any second. In two minutes she summarized her weekend, focusing mainly on "the echoes."
Isaac said, "Of course, even if his philosophy spawned the murders,. it doesn't mean Blechman is our serial killer."
"I wondered what your take would be."
"It could be one of his demented followers. It might even be some psycho who read or heard about his teachings and is simply mocking the echo idea. After all, his seminars are open to the public. Who knows what kind of demented ideas people get?"
"That's what I want to find out." With a nervous glance she checked the hall, thinking she'd heard footsteps.
"Andie, you've done a good job. But for your own safety, I think it's time we pull you out and just move in."
"But I haven't seen a single sign of Beth Wheatley yet. I couldn't even tell you if she's here."
"Then maybe she isn't."
"But if she is, she could be dead the minute the FBI starts knocking on the door."
"We might consider a more aggressive takeover. Take them by surprise."
"That's a terrible idea, and you know it. Remember Waco?"