A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers, #1)

by Mike Omer

Carver led the way to the interrogation room. The smell in the claustrophobic chamber hit Abby as she stepped in—a noxious mix of sweat, farts, and disinfectant. Otis hardly even moved as they entered, as if they didn’t matter. Abby sat across the table from him. Carver dragged his own chair to the side of the table, effectively blocking Otis in. He sat too close to the man, invading his personal space. Otis reflexively moved his chair away to distance himself from the detective, breaking his nonchalant demeanor.

Otis folded his arms. “We’re not a cult, Lieutenant Mullen; I already told you that. We’re a Christian community. Why the NYPD is conducting this witch hunt is beyond me. And when dawn breaks tomorrow, and the media starts reporting about my nephew’s murder by your homicidal cops, you’ll be singing a different tune.” “We’re only interested in Nathan’s safety. We don’t care about the way you manage your community.” “I also care about Nathan’s safety. He’s my dearest friend’s son, and I would never do anything to harm him.”

He turned the laptop so Otis could see the screen. “You’re a very tidy person, Tillman; I’ll give you that. There’s a bunch of videos named after many of your community members. And you know what those videos contain? I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. All their private confessions.” Tillman stared at Carver in contempt. “Just like the police to look through the private confessions of Christians.” “They’re not just confessions,” Carver said. “You know that, right? There’s quite a few of them that end with you getting a blow job or having sex with your community members.” “It was all consensual. I don’t expect you to understand; it’s part of the cleansing process.” “Well, I’d argue that if you’re their preacher, landlord, and boss, then none of this is consensual. But we don’t even need to go there, because three of your community members in those videos are minors. So you’re going to prison for multiple cases of statutory rape, asshole. And you know what I’m going to do? I’ll make sure everyone in that prison knows you like to rape little girls. It’ll make you really popular.”

“It looked like he figured something out,” Abby said. They sat in the monitor room, drinking tepid cups of coffee. “I think he got scared and figured he needed a lawyer to make a deal,” Carver said. Abby shook her head. “The way his whole body reacted . . . there’s no way he faked that. He realized something. Something important.” “He talked about Karl dying. Maybe he thought he could use that to his advantage in some way?” “Maybe . . . he was talking about the plan to kidnap Nathan. That David would never flip on him, so it was too bad that we killed Karl. Maybe he figured out David would actually flip on him?”

“Sometimes the Lord punishes us for our impure intentions,” David said. “It’s not my place to question his judgment. I can only strive to be better.” “Nathan’s kidnapping was God’s punishment for your own abduction plan?” “I’m sure of it. Nathan was kidnapped, the police are murdering us one by one, the raid on the rest of the community . . .” He shut his eyes. “‘For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth.’”

Carver leaned forward. “You know, this precious friend of yours, the guy you know better than anyone else? He screwed your wife. While you two were still married. He even videoed it—for posterity. Do you want to see?” David’s eyes snapped open, the prayer dying on his lips. “That got your attention, huh?” Carver said. David smiled thinly, contempt etched on his face. “You think I don’t know about that? I gave them both my blessing.” Abby blinked, surprised. “You talk as if I owned her. This is the type of patriarchal constructs we were fighting against. Sex is not wrong. It’s not a sin. If both Eden and Otis wanted to have sex for Eden’s spiritual growth, who am I to stop them?” Otis had managed to harness gender equality as a reason for having sex with any woman he chose. How did he explain the discrepancy with the Ten Commandments? Probably by preaching about the meaning of the words adultery and covet. It didn’t matter. His community members would believe anything Otis told them. It didn’t have to make perfect sense.

He whispered for water, but no one was there to hear him in the bed in his room. No, not in his room, in the other room, the strange mirror room. He’d been swallowed by a room that looked like his room but wasn’t, and he kept whispering for water, but no one came. Not even Gabrielle, who kept clapping and cheering because she thought he was swimming so well.

“The only one the police shot was Karl. Why ‘one by one’? It sounds like we’re killing them methodically. Otis and David are obviously not dead.” “So you think Luther was also killed by the police?” “No. I think David thinks Luther was killed by the police.” Abby caught on. “Otis kept telling the community that everyone who leaves his protection dies. That the police are killing them off.” “Exactly. What if Luther is one of the people who left the cult? And Otis told the community the police killed him?”

She saw his point. If they made this deal, what would she tell Leonor? And what about Ruth and the rest of the women who appeared on those thousands of videos?

“Congratulations,” he said. “It looks like you managed to get the ransom. You’ll see your brother very soon.” “Is he okay?” “He’s fine.” Perhaps not in the best of shape, but it was the boy’s own fault. “This has been a great week for you. You got all that you asked for.” “What? I never asked for this.” She sounded angry and confused. But it was a lie. She was lying. She had asked for this. She wanted this.

Stepping out, she glimpsed Carver as he barged through another door down the hall. She went to the third door. A key in the lock. From the outside. She tried the door, moving the doorknob slowly. The door was locked. She turned the lock, flung the door open. A moment of confusion as she stepped into a room that belonged to another house more than a hundred miles away. Nathan’s room. Except it wasn’t. It was a twisted replica, a cage decorated to feel like a boy’s bedroom. And on the bed, lying under sheets stained with blood, was the inert shape of a child. Two quick steps and she was by his side, pulling back the covers, heart skipping a beat as she saw how deathly pale he was. But his chest rose and fell. Shallow breathing. Phone in her hand, she dialed 911. The voice of a dispatcher answered, asking her what her emergency was. “This is Detective Abby Mullen from the NYPD. I need an ambulance. I’m with an eight-year-old boy, and he’s badly hurt.”

It had been Luther’s suggestion that they pick up Nathan. Take him to the farm, teach the kid about where he came from. Then, use Nathan as bait to lure Gabrielle and Eden back as well. Or at least lure Gabrielle back. No one gave a rat’s ass about Eden.

Because when he’d gotten to know Gabrielle, when he’d gotten to really see her every day, he had realized Karl didn’t deserve her. He told Otis over and over in countless conversations. Gabrielle should be his. But Otis kept insisting she should be Karl’s wife because he’d given his nephew his word. Never mind that Otis owed the world to Luther. Never mind that Karl was a worthless piece of shit.

His phone. He took it out of his pocket and glanced at it. It was a notification from the alarm app he’d installed. The app that notified him when any of the doors in his cabin had been opened. Had the boy escaped again? He pulled to the side of the road and opened the app, checked the security footage of the boy’s room. His heart nearly stopped. There were strangers in the room. A man and a woman. Their backs were to the cameras, but the guns were easy to spot. Cops. They’d somehow found his cabin. He was finished. No, not yet. He still had some time. He would get what he deserved.

Abby went to the bedroom. It was small, most of the space taken by the double bed. The room smelled . . . sticky. Above the bed, a page was taped to the wall, the words Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you printed in a large font.

I’ve been following you from the start. “Tom McCormick is Luther Gaines,” Carver said slowly. “And he’s been stalking Gabrielle for years under the guise of a journalist who’s interested in influencers.” She recalled how in his interview, McCormick hadn’t followed up on Eric mentioning the strange stories about the community Gabrielle had lived in. Any reporter worth his salt would have asked about that. But McCormick preferred to avoid the topic. Now it was clear why.

“Sorry, I’m listening,” Gabrielle sobbed on the floor. The guilt had already begun sinking in. He shouldn’t have hit her. She was confused. And the damn phone rang again. They called all the time—like they had something important to say. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, trying to concentrate. If he only said the right words, Gabrielle would understand. She would see all he had done for her. He would have her undying gratitude. Her love. That was all he’d ever asked for, wasn’t it?

Abby looked at Will. He was one of the best negotiators she knew. But her gut told her she was right. McCormick wouldn’t talk to him. They needed a fresh start. “We’re going to switch,” she said. “I’ll be primary.” Will nodded, and she saw the hurt and concern on his face. His instinct told him he was the right man for the job, and she had just effectively told him he wasn’t. Even if she was right, it was no fault of his, but that didn’t lessen the sting. Even worse, a transfer between negotiators was always risky. The subject in a crisis never responded well to surprises. If she was wrong, it might mean that Eden and Gabrielle would get hurt. It might mean they’d die.

“Do you want me to kill them, you asshole?” McCormick screeched at her. And the fear faded. She was in control. “Luther Gaines,” she said. A stunned silence on the other end. She’d caught him by surprise, invoking his real name. His name gave her power, like in a fairy tale.

“Everything. I left the community for her. I endangered myself for her. Even the money . . . I never wanted the money for myself.” “No,” Abby agreed. “I wanted to use it for her. It was all for her. I wanted to build her dream home. I know just what she loves—she told me; I have sketches. I would have been able to get her everything. I own a large plot of land. She told me last year she wanted to live outside the city.” The truth poured out of him, a torrent of words. Was he saying it to Abby? Or to Gabrielle, who listened mutely? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop talking. “No one was supposed to get hurt. I even did my best to make that boy feel at home. I didn’t want him to be scared. She told me once that he loved his room. His man cave, she called it. So I made it for him so that he would be happy.” “You wanted to make him more comfortable.” “Yes! I wanted it to be the same. Literally identical. If she only knew how much time and money I put into it . . . would I do that if I wanted to hurt him?” “You wouldn’t.”

He was vomiting information. Abby kept egging him on, mirroring his sentences, pulling him further with simple open-ended questions, trying to judge his tone. Will listened in on the conversation, occasionally turning to Summers, instructing her, as she frantically scribbled on the board. Information and time were a negotiator’s oxygen, and Abby was getting both. At first, when Luther had said that Gabrielle had told him something, she’d assumed Gabrielle had told him in an interview. But then she realized he meant that Gabrielle had posted it on her page.

They’d found out about Layton’s murder. He wasn’t going to get a short sentence. He would spend his life in prison. Screaming, he threw the phone at the TV, and the screen fractured, the picture fading away into nothing.

“There was a noise in the background,” Will said. “I think he turned on the TV.” Abby hadn’t noticed; she had been so focused on the conversation. It had been going so well. And then a shout of rage, and the call had disconnected.

“Shit.” Abby exhaled. The media had snatched away the hope she’d managed to cultivate in Luther’s mind. Maybe she could convince him the people at the news knew nothing, that they had no evidence connecting him to the murder. But she doubted it. Luther was delusional, but he was not a fool.

Gabrielle knew the end was near. Every time he came at her with the knife, she thought this time, he was going to cut. He spoke, but she couldn’t make out the words anymore. The man was deranged. Insane. Talking about a man called Karl. About her father. Cursing them, then cursing her, then trying again to explain that he’d done it all for her. Didn’t she see? No, she didn’t. All she knew was that he was about to kill her. And the police did nothing. Her mom knew it too. And as he talked on and on, the blade at her throat, her mom slowly got off the couch, her hands still handcuffed behind her back. She inched toward him. Gabrielle forced herself to keep her eyes on his face as she saw her mom creeping ever closer.

He dragged Gabrielle to the stairs, shoulder pounding with pain, sleeve wet from blood. His blood. The bitch. The goddamn whore. She’d done this to him. She’d gotten him shot. They would break in now, kill him. But he would take her down with him.

What did he want? What was he trying to do? During their conversation he’d been furious at Gabrielle. He felt betrayed by her. He felt— No. Not by Gabrielle. By this girl. That was how he kept talking about her. When he mentioned his interactions with her online, he called her Gabrielle. But whenever he talked about her in the flesh, he called her this girl. Almost as if they were separate people. It was that well-known problem of social media—with a perverse twist. When you followed a person online, they always seemed perfect. Their family was the happiest family; their trips were the best trips; every picture was wonderful, enviable, something to be desired. But it hardly ever reflected the truth.

Abby took off her coat and slung it on her arm as she followed. She wore her khaki off-the-shoulder dress and her over-the-knees gray boots. Dressed to kill. Even Sam had conceded that Abby’s outfit was “not bad.” As far as Abby was concerned, that was high praise from her teenage daughter. Carver sat in the corner of the restaurant in a private booth. The padded seat was a circular bench around the table. Abby smiled at him as she slid in to join him. Carver had called that morning and asked if she wanted to meet for dinner. She’d suggested meeting for lunch, assuming he wanted to go over the case summary. Flustered, he’d clarified that he was asking her out. And now, there she was.

“Oh.” Carver mulled it over. “Would they really burn you at the stake for Smarties? That sounds harsh. Do we even have stakes?” “Every neighborhood has stakes now. We only use them to burn mothers who failed as a parent.” “Dads get a free pass?” “Of course. We’re very lenient with dads. But they’re not allowed to participate in the actual burning. Only the mothers are allowed to burn each other.” “That’s a relief.” Abby leaned back, grinning. She was enjoying this, sitting in this lovely place with a man, her mind reasonably free of worries.

A storm brewed in her mind, threatening to break. She didn’t think she could stop it. “Do you know, when I was seven, during the Wilcox massacre, I talked to the police negotiator on the phone. I remember talking to him. There’s also a transcript; I’ve read it a million times.”

“And when the fire started, why didn’t anyone open it? Sixty-two people in a burning hall. Are you telling me no one ran to the door to open it?” “There probably wasn’t time. I read the report about the incident. The cooking cylinders in the hall exploded.” Abby shook her head. “There was time. There was . . .” The smell of smoke. Screaming for help. The bolt. She ran to the door to slide the bolt open. Behind her, she heard Eden shout, “Abihail, get away from there!” She had to open the door. Isaac grabbed her, pulled her back. An explosion, the searing pain on the back of her neck.

She raised her fingers to touch the scar on her neck. “I made the call to the negotiator to buy Moses some time. I locked them inside the dining hall. And he set it on fire. They were locked in. They couldn’t get out. By the time I went to open it . . .” Tears ran down her cheeks. Carver swept her into a hug. She buried her face in his chest, weeping. “You were only seven,” he kept saying. “You were only seven.”

Abby slowed the car down as she got to the crossroad, fields of green in every direction. She turned left, listening to the music from her Spotify, trying to tune out Eden. The woman was speaking to the babysitter. Again. Fourth time in a three-hour drive. And as they got farther and farther from home, the anxiety in Eden’s voice was more and more apparent—until it was almost unbearable. Abby didn’t judge her. It’d been only two months. And it was the first time Eden had left Nathan and Gabrielle for a whole day since . . . well, since they had been born.