A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers, #1)

by Mike Omer

What a wonderful personality trait. She sighed. “Ben . . . I know that you wanted a snake.” “He’s very curious. And I can hold him. You can hold him if you want. He’s named Pretzel. Because he can make a pretzel shape with his body.”

Her heart clenched as she watched her son. Eden’s missing child was so close to Ben’s age. She wondered how many times Eden had told Nathan that he couldn’t have something—just like Abby had been meaning to do. And she probably regretted each and every one of those occasions. Abby wrapped her arms around Ben, hugging him forcefully as if she were trying to squeeze out his precious and sweet Ben juice.

She got off his bed and returned to the living room. She tensed, knowing that if Steve said something snarky or critical right now, she would have to kill him. It was a pity because the NYPD frowned upon cops who killed their ex-spouses. But some things were unavoidable. Luckily, he just met her eyes, saying nothing. Impressive restraint.

The thing was, it was hard for her to put her life with Steve aside. The good parts and the terrible parts, they all niggled at her whenever they talked.

“How can I do that without it impacting Ben’s relationship with Tommy?” “You . . . um . . .” Steve frowned, searching for an answer. Which was what she wanted. To make him try to solve her problem. Try to see it from her point of view.

Abby got up from the couch. Sam had her bag slung on one shoulder and her violin case held in her hand. Keebles pattered after her and gave Abby a scathing stare. Bye, Human Mom. We’re going to Human Dad’s house. Where it’s way better. “So you’re going to your dad’s for the weekend?” “I’m going to Dad’s until that snake returns to the pet store.” “We’ll talk about it later,” Abby said, choosing her battles. “Enjoy your weekend.”

“You don’t need it either. And neither does Isaac.” Abby sighed. This was not the time to fix years of damage. There was a more pressing case. She took the phone out of her pocket and showed the screen to Eden. “This is Otis Tillman.” Eden leaned on the sink to steady herself. “Where did you find this?” “Your daughter posted it on her Instagram feed. She told me you lived there.” “Yes. But we—” “He recruited you?” “How did you know who—” “How do I know who Otis is?” Abby asked. “He has a police file. He’s a local cult leader. Of course I know him.” She didn’t mention her own obsession with cults. The database she maintained on a daily basis. Otis Tillman had been on it for years. He had a small following, never more than seventy people. As far as the police knew, there were just a few guns on the premises. Aside from a statutory rape accusation that had been investigated and dropped, the community on the Tillman farm stayed off police radar. But there was no telling what went on beyond those fences.

“Nathan’s fine,” the man said. “How are you? I noticed you haven’t posted anything on your account.” “You’re following my account?” Gabrielle whispered, her face twisting with horror. “I’ve been following you from the start. Why aren’t you posting?”

“But this is Nathan’s room,” Eden said. “The photo is from Nathan’s room.” Abby stared at her, then at the photo. She was right. Nathan’s bed stood in the background, and the same Harry Potter poster hung on the wall. Even a corner of the corkboard with the drawings. For a second, all three of them raised their eyes to the doorway. Nathan’s bedroom was just across the hall. But of course, it was empty and dark.

He didn’t want to be in this position. Causing Gabrielle grief, risking his own life. He was doing it all for her. In a way, she’d asked him to do it. And now she was acting like he was the bad guy. He was the only one on her side. The only one who really gave a damn. It was easy to be a mindless sheep, one of her many followers. Liking her posts, adding the occasional bleat of a comment—Beautiful or You’re so pretty or a wordless string of emoticons. He was more than that. He wasn’t a follower. He was part of her team.

Finally, deciding he was far enough from where he’d made the call, he parked in a parking lot and took out his other phone. The one he used only to watch her. He opened the Instagram app—still no updates. Were some followers noticing the gap? Wondering if she was okay? Gabrielle normally posted throughout the day. In the past year, she’d only skipped two days—one when she’d had that nasty flu, and the other when she’d broken up with her boyfriend. Two dark days, a void. Of all her followers, only he knew what was going on, and it connected them both by an intangible thread.

A quick swipe with the finger, dozens of Gabrielles flashing across his screen. Smiling, pouting, dancing, kissing. The feed stopped on the post of her hugging her brother. Both of them in Nathan’s room, the caption reading, In my brother’s man cave. When I get my dream house, it’ll have a room for him just like this one. And her fans had reacted with heart emojis and gushing platitudes. None of them had realized it was a request. No one but him. And for him, every wish she made was his command. He closed the Instagram account and opened the photo gallery to scroll through his private collection of her photos, finally finding his favorite series from the photo shoot during the 2017 road trip. Standing in the forest, the mist around her like a veil. In two of the images she was out of focus, and in one, she was about to blink, and one eyelid was half shut. But the rest were a tapestry of perfection. He swiped through them one at a time, the tension seeping away from his body.

The man’s face changed. He was no longer smiling. Nathan saw the burning rage and pain in the man’s eyes, heard his snarl. The scream that left Nathan’s lungs was pure terror as he swung the bar a second time, hitting harder this time—and lower. The man toppled to the floor, roaring in agony. Nathan took another swing, aiming at the man’s chest. The man’s hand moved so fast it was a blur. The rod hit it, the man screaming as his fingers gripped the metal. And with one swift pull, he yanked the rod away from Nathan.

Sobbing, Nathan lurched to the kitchen, grabbed the metal chair. Then his eyes went up to the wall, and he froze. Gabi was smiling down at him. It was an enormous picture of her; it took up almost the entire wall. Nathan couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. His sister appeared so happy in the picture, so calm. But there was something wrong in the image. A strangeness in the colors. Almost as if the picture was made of tiny square patches. He took a step toward it, details swimming into focus. The picture was, in fact, a collage of dozens of smaller pictures. No, not dozens. Hundreds. And each one of those tiny pictures was also an image of Gabi. She was sitting in a restaurant, or in her bed, or outside in the street. In many of those pictures, there were friends. Nathan’s gut lurched. In some of the images, Gabrielle was naked.

“So she got maybe a few more hundred followers from that stunt, but then she posted this picture.” Will switched windows, displaying an image in full screen. Abby exhaled slowly. It was some sort of forest or marsh; it was hard to figure out the details. Thick mist curled between the tree branches and the foliage, a blanket of white. And in the center, Gabrielle standing, arms arched above her head, apparently nude. Except the mist hid her body just enough that you couldn’t be 100 percent sure she was nude. Maybe she was wearing a body suit or a skimpy bathing suit. It was unclear, and obviously, that was the point of the image. And the caption simply read, #whereAmI. Abby had to hand it to her—the image was gorgeous.

He hit the “Enter” key, and an Excel spreadsheet opened on-screen. “See? These are the five hundred most-engaged fans that Gabrielle has. Now check out number one hundred twelve.” He scrolled down to someone called Karlad345 and tapped the link next to the name. An Instagram page opened. The profile picture was of a man about twenty-eight with a full black beard and a high brow, leaning against a tree. “He looks like the guy in the sketch that Eden described,” Abby said. “Check out his followers and following.” Abby glanced at the stats. Karlad followed seven people. He had no followers. “So he’s not very active on Instagram,” Abby said.

Abby went over to the printer and took the page as it slid out. She scrutinized the picture of the man again. On paper, he somehow seemed creepier, his beard wild, his clothing hanging loose on his body.

Abby took out another picture and showed it to them. “This is a picture of David Huff, Eden’s ex-husband, alongside Otis Tillman. That’s Gabrielle Fletcher as a child with them. David was the one who recruited Eden to Tillman’s cult. She lived there for over thirteen years.” Carver and Griffin gaped at her. Then Carver taped the picture of Tillman to the board. “So Eden Fletcher was part of a cult?” Griffin said. “That might change our approach to the entire case.” “She’d been in a destructive religious cult as a child,” Abby said. “It made it easier to recruit her.” “How could it make it easier?” Carver asked. “I’d have thought that if a person had been in a cult once, they’d want to stay as far away as possible.” Abby shook her head. “It’s complex. When people are in a cult, they have a tight community. And you have a purpose. When they leave, all that is gone, and that feeling is hard to replace.”

Abby stared at Will’s screen, at Gabrielle’s tortured expression. “They targeted her all along. It was never about kidnapping Eden’s son. It was about kidnapping Gabrielle’s brother.”

His right foot sank into a deep puddle, and Nathan stumbled, fell to the ground, his leg and palms instantly blazing in pain. He whimpered, clenching his jaw, knowing that he couldn’t scream. The man would hear him, would come for him. And although earlier that hadn’t scared him so much, now he was terrified. The rage in that man’s face when he’d hit him with the metal bar . . . Nathan had never seen a grown man so angry. He wasn’t even a man anymore; he was a monster.

The idea terrified him so much he nearly turned back. He would apologize to the man. Mom always said if you apologized, and you were truly sorry, people would forgive you. And he was sorry. He should never have done that. The man hadn’t hurt him. It had seemed like he was taking care of him. But now . . . Now the man would hurt him if he ever caught him. Nathan had no doubt.

His eyes went to the large picture on the wall, and hundreds of Gabrielles stared back at him. It had taken him over thirty hours to make this picture. He’d gone through thousands of images he had of Gabrielle—mostly from her Instagram, some manipulated to match his needs. Creating her nude images had become much easier since the DeepNude application had been released. Could he take the picture with him? It would fill the entire back seat of his car. He imagined the border guard looking at it, asking him questions. No, he would have to leave it behind. He would have to leave everything behind. He let out a sob. He’d done it all for her. And this was what had happened.

He exhaled. She was right. Nathan was a little boy. He’d been thinking of him like a thing that could be discarded, left to die in the woods. But he couldn’t do that. He needed to keep him safe. Gabrielle had spoken to him directly, not even hiding behind her usual facade of pretending to talk to all her fans. She was talking to him. Telling him to keep her brother safe. And then, that whispered thank you. She’d never thanked him directly before. He’d always done what was needed for her, but she’d never expressed any gratitude. And in a way, he’d never minded; he didn’t expect anything else. But those two words tasted so sweet. He played the video again. Keep him safe. Thank you.

Could hardly see the pair of white lights as they hurtled toward him. At the last second he gasped and tumbled out of the way. The car seemed to veer slightly, a rush of wind against his face as it passed inches away from him. He stumbled to his feet, jumped up and down, waving his arms, screaming as it got away, the red taillights turning into dots in the night. He burst into tears. He couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted his mom.

“I think it’s not ideal,” Abby said. “If she’d come to us beforehand, we could have told her to wait, let the kidnappers call a few more times. We would have crafted a better message for her to post, one that gives the kidnappers reasons to keep contacting us.” “Yeah,” Carver muttered moodily. “But she did a pretty good job of humanizing Nathan. If the kidnappers are trying to distance themselves from him, it’ll make it harder for them. And she made them feel like things were going their way. They feel in control, which is a good thing.”

“For now.” Abby shut her laptop and slid it into the bag. “Listen, can I put some music on?” “Sure, feel free.” “What’s your jam?” Abby hooked her phone to the auxiliary cable. “My jam?” “Yeah, what do you like to listen to?” “I don’t really listen to music.” Abby blinked. “What? At all?” “Well, when I drive, I usually listen to podcasts. And I can’t really concentrate with music, so I don’t listen to anything while I work. And in the evenings I prefer watching TV or reading a book.” Carver mulled it over. “I usually listen to music when I do my annual income tax paperwork.” “Once a year. You listen to music once a year.” “Yeah, I guess so.” “So how does it feel to be dead inside? Is it like . . . sad? Or just very relaxed?” Carver glanced at her, grinning. “I get along fine. Okay, you know what? I do enjoy music. I like that new song they keep playing on the radio.” “Which song?” “By that band. You know. Na-nana-naaaa-na-na.” “I never heard that. It doesn’t really sound like anything.” “Oh, come on. It’s super popular.” “That song you just hummed. Whose words you don’t know, by a band whose name you don’t remember.”

“I didn’t, really. I wasn’t sure up until this moment.” She was such an idiot. She’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. She stared out the window, saying nothing. “That thing you told Eden about the germs was weird. I couldn’t figure it out,” Carver said. “But it felt like you two had a connection. Something that went far beyond a casual acquaintance. And yesterday, after you said she was in a cult as a child, I did some research. Moses Wilcox’s obsession with germs is well documented. And when you talked about cults, it didn’t sound like you just did your research. It sounded . . .” “Personal,” Abby said hollowly.

“They’ll probably find out sooner or later.” “Yeah. But I won’t fall for the cheap trick you pulled on me again.” As if on cue, the track ended, and the song “Won’t Get Fooled Again” started playing. Abby had to smile at the perfect timing. She tweaked the volume. God, she loved this song. They drove in silence, listening to the music, the trees rushing past them.

The electric gate opened slowly, and as soon as there was enough space, Wong drove through with barely an inch left on each side of the car. Carver waited patiently for a few seconds more, then followed her into the farm. Otis Tillman waited for them by the large house. Abby’s body tensed up as she saw the man. He was thin and pale, his hair curly and frizzy. He wore a large pair of thick spectacles. As they stepped out of the car, he smiled, exposing a slight overbite. Everything about him seemed harmless, clumsy, perhaps even endearing. Abby knew the truth. This wasn’t a sheep. This wasn’t even a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This was a cancerous growth in sheep’s clothing. It didn’t just attack you. It killed you from within.

Abby looked around again to get a feel of the place. She had to hand it to Otis; he ran a tight ship. The ground was weeded; the gravel path was well surfaced; the walls of the shacks and the caravan, as well as the main house, were freshly painted. It was easier to maintain a farm well when each of the workers was completely and utterly devoted to you, willing to work eighteen or even twenty hours a day.

“Treated equally?” Abby suspected that if she repeated Tillman’s words to him, he would keep talking forever. He warmed up to her, walking closer, his hands and shoulders relaxing. “That’s right. We have an equal number of men and women on the board. And the tasks are rotated equally. We have as many men doing the laundry and cooking as the women.” “Admirable.” Aside from the hushed statutory rape story, of course. Abby could almost feel Tillman’s speech crawling on her skin, a hungry parasite, searching for a way in.

Ruth raised her eyes to the man. That stare. Damn it. That look of complete devotion, of reverence and love. Abby wanted to grab the girl. To drag her away from this place kicking and screaming and spend days, or weeks, or months talking with her. Do whatever it took to deprogram her.

“I’m glad you came. I never got the chance to apologize about that whole mess,” Ruth said. “There’s absolutely no reason to apologize,” Wong said emphatically. Abby had no doubt Otis had left them alone with the girl intentionally. He knew Ruth would confess absolutely nothing. He wanted Wong to see that as well. And perhaps he was demonstrating his trust to Ruth, another test—and another measure of control gained over the girl. “I was looking for attention,” Ruth said. “I have a very vivid imagination. But I never dreamed it would get so blown out of proportion.” She spoke casually, her voice genuine and full of sorrow. Wong’s face twisted in pain again. “Ruth, if there’s anything you want to tell me, no one can hear you right now. Or you can come to the station whenever you want. If anyone touched you, or hurt you—” Ruth seemed confused. “No. Like I said, I made it all up. I wanted to apologize.” She gestured ahead at the caravan. “The office is over there. Oh, and there’s David. He can take it from here.” She turned and left them.

He was almost skeletal, his eyes hollow, his hair gone. His face was pale, almost white. At first, he didn’t move, and for one crazy second, Abby thought he was already dead. But then he walked over to them, his steps slow and weary. It seemed like the past decade in the Tillman cult had sucked David’s life away. And all that was left was a dying husk.

The sound of an engine made Abby turn around. A pickup truck drove down the road by the side of the house and stopped by the field, raising a cloud of dust. Two men stepped out and approached Otis. One of them glanced over. Abby peered back at the man. Making sure that she wasn’t wrong. There was no doubt about it. The man who had arrived was the same one Eden had described. The one who’d hung around their block. And he was the one who maintained the Instagram profile Karlad345, which had been created to cyber stalk Gabrielle.

These people’s vision of the world was warped, a cultivated mentality of us against them, and she had no doubt that she, Wong, and Carver were them. She had good reason to believe there were guns on the premises, some just out of sight. Tensions were already high. To make things worse, she had no idea what Tillman’s agenda was here. Was his cult really involved in Nathan’s kidnapping? If it was, Nathan could be on the premises right now, and Tillman and his men might do anything to keep the police from searching the grounds. Or from interrogating one of their own members.

Abby nodded and swept her hair behind her ears, plastering the most casual, nonthreatening smile on her face. She had practice, knew it seemed authentic. Some people had fake smiles that never reached their eyes. Abby’s fake smiles spread to her eyes, her brow, her body language. In fact, Abby’s fake smiles seemed more authentic and infectious than her real ones. The fact that she was a small woman with silly-looking ears also helped to alleviate the tension. Her own casual smile was reflected in the stance of the men she approached. They still glanced at Carver and Wong suspiciously but deemed her as safe.

Abby was certain Otis Tillman was a world-class actor. There was no inkling of distress in his body language or face. But she knew she’d struck home. She’d threatened to talk to his entire community before he had time to control the narrative. And she’d just hinted that someone in the community was talking to an ex-member. Which could only mean his control was slipping. Otis would feel the need to propose an alternative, which would make it seem as if he were in complete control.

Otis motioned for Karl and another man, presumably the attorney, and the three of them strode aside to have a quick word. Abby examined their faces—the attorney was clearly worried; Otis appeared calm. Karl’s face was impassive. The rest of the community walked toward a large barnlike structure, which was presumably where they had their meals. “I’ll stay behind,” Wong told her. “Look around.” “You’re not alone,” Abby answered in a low voice, glancing significantly at a large man who remained outside the house, studying them.

Eden looked worse every time Abby saw her. The intense fear and pressure she was going through would crush anyone’s spirit, and in some ways, Eden was more fragile than most. She was wilting, her eyes watery and empty, her posture stooped.

Long sermons were used by some cult leaders to induce a trancelike state in their members. During such a state it was much easier to plant ideas in their heads. Reverend Jim Jones, whose cult had ended in the Jonestown mass suicide, had been known to talk for hours, intermingling his Bible preaching with his social agenda while constantly hammering in the importance of single-minded loyalty.

“How did you leave?” Abby asked. “You must have been terrified.” “I was, but . . . I had Gabi and Nathan. And the confessionals . . . Otis said if we really want to be pure, we should do the private confession sessions with nothing materialistic to weigh us down.” “Like what? Money?” “Like clothing.” Abby’s heart sank with every word. “So I left,” Eden said. “It was hard. Much harder than I thought. I was terrified. And empty. Otis was furious, and warned me we would all die without him. I still did it against his will. It wasn’t like when we were kids, when Moses chose us to leave unharmed.” “Moses didn’t choose us,” Abby said, startled. “We were lucky.” Eden blinked. “He chose us. That’s why we weren’t in the hall when . . . when it all ended.” “Eden, we were in that hall,” Abby said. “Don’t you remember? Moses held a damn gun to my head and told me to tell the police to stay back. He said if they tried to break inside, he would shoot me.” Eden shook her head. “No, we were in a different room. He told us we were chosen to be saved.” “I read the transcripts of that phone call,” Abby told her softly, sitting on the bed by Eden’s side. “I told them everything. He held a gun to my head. We were all together in the same hall. We were never chosen. Moses wanted us all to die.” “That’s impossible,” Eden blurted. “Then why do I remember—” “We went through a terrible trauma,” Abby said, taking Eden’s hand in her own. “Our minds had to come to terms with what had happened. Moses t...

“I joined the community at the beginning of February. And the year would have been . . . 2012.” Less than two weeks after Eden had left. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could Otis have planned this seven years ago? “What were you doing back then?” “Well, when I joined the community, I mostly worked in the apple orchard.” “I meant, what did you do before you joined the community?” “Oh.” Karl seemed startled. He paused for a moment as if trying to remember. “I was a writer.”

Karl let out a short laugh. “I didn’t want to at first. But . . .” He paused. She could see him trying to recall that moment. How had his uncle eventually convinced him? And then his eyes seemed to glaze, and she knew she’d lost Karl the writer. Karl the cult member was back. “He suggested I come over for a few days. To talk to some people. They were doing this amazing work. I wanted to be a part of it.”

“Definitely longing for your company,” she said. “But I’m also part of the Nathan Fletcher kidnapping task force. What are you looking at?” “A muddy footprint on the floor mat of the driver’s seat. It’s a good print, and it doesn’t match the victim’s shoes. It seems like a twelve, maybe even thirteen.” Could they be Karl’s shoes? He had a pair of worn-out tennis shoes, but they weren’t particularly large. “If I send you a shoe sole photograph, would you be able to see if it matches?” He straightened. “Maybe. Talking about shoes, I suppose this is the one you’re really interested in.” He produced a plastic bag from a nearby container and held it up to the spotlight. A small shoe. “We found it on the floor of the front passenger seat underneath a man’s coat. The coat is definitely too large for a child; it could be the victim’s.”

And those officers in the kitchen, an interchangeable group of men. All of them armed. Eden hadn’t been this close to guns since her time in the Tillman community. Guns always made her uncomfortable. Cops always made her uncomfortable. The only one she trusted was Abihail. But now, whenever she talked to Abihail, her past came floating back.

Anything he could do. Eden wanted to claw his eyes out. He’d seen her son being taken, and said nothing. Didn’t call her. Or the police. Went on with his day like nothing had happened. “How’s Gabrielle doing?” Frank asked softly. “She’s doing fine,” Eden said automatically. “Tell her I said that if there is anything I could do, you can call me. I’d be glad to help. That’s why I’m here. I want to help. I want—” She couldn’t listen to him anymore. She strode away, her head pounding, fists clenched tight. The officer led her outside, and she walked in a daze back to her car, slumped into the driver’s seat, lips trembling.

She shut her eyes. If she couldn’t trust her memory of that day, could she really be sure she remembered the man from the street? What if she’d gotten it wrong? Would they let him go?

“Okay,” Abby said. “I’ll come tomorrow afternoon to drop Ben, and we’ll talk it over.” “Sure.” “Good night, hon, I love you.” “Night, Mom.” Sam managed to inject enough venom into her tone to make it sound as if she’d been coerced to say even that. Abby hung up and decided that for her guilt to feel complete, she should check up on her other child. Ben was asleep by now, she hoped, so she called her mother.

Abby had a new email from Tom McCormick, the journalist who’d interviewed Gabrielle. He’d sent Abby the article like they’d agreed. She skimmed it, making sure he hadn’t said anything about the photo or the voice message. The article was as clickbait-y as it could possibly get, with a lot of pathos and little content, mostly focusing on Gabrielle’s rise to fame before the tragedy of her brother’s kidnapping. Abby had promised the man a quote. She had to assume Nathan was still alive. It was more than likely that whoever held him now was involved in the murder of Liam Washington. They were violent and probably very agitated at the moment. She didn’t want them agitated. Agitated people made impulsive decisions. She wanted them to feel in complete control. She replied to the email, writing that The NYPD’s first and foremost goal is to return Nathan back home, alive and safe. It was an empty sentence, which was obvious to most. But the kidnappers, in their state of heightened fear, might think the NYPD was mainly after them. She wanted to reassure them this wasn’t the case. A ransom was being collected. It could be exchanged for the boy. As long as Nathan was alive, this was still a possibility.