Crescent City Connection

three times as much as they’d ever be able to eat. “Jacomine’s a paranoid. All these half-baked gurus are the same.”
    Abasolo said, “I just love a psychologist with tempered and cautious views.”
    “Well, look—they are. The way cults work is pretty much the way police departments work—on the us-and-them principle.”
    Skip started to protest, but Abasolo held up a hand and mouthed something at her. It could have been, “Humor her,” she wasn’t sure.
    “If you’re in the cult, you’re on the side of righteousness against the forces of evil. If you’re not, you
are
the forces of evil. When things are that black and that white, you get a very volatile situation.
    “These guys operate on fear. Even their former followers can’t get over it—it’s hell getting them to come forward.”
    “Hey,” said Abasolo. “I just got an idea. Why don’t we set up a tip line. Ideal for the faint of heart.”
    “More to the point, for the scared shitless.”
    “O Bodhisattva of Compassion, forgive my callousness.”
    Cindy Lou never, but never, took crap from anybody. Skip adored Abasolo, but all the same looked forward to her deliciously acidic retort. Instead, Lou-Lou gave Abasolo a look that Skip could only describe as appraising. All she said was, “I’m no bodhisattva, baby.”
    It was almost as if they were flirting, but it couldn’t be—Cindy Lou would never waste her time on so solid a citizen as Abasolo, despite the fact that he also happened to be the owner of black hair, blue eyes, and a long, wiry body. Skip had always thought he looked a little like a thug and a little like a movie star—something for everyone. In addition, he was a longtime member of AA, which might mean he’d achieved some measure of spiritual growth. Lou-Lou, however, was famous for her execrable taste in men.
    Could this be happening?
Skip thought.
Well, hell. Maybe it is. I’ll give ’em a break.
    She said, “I’m going to go see about that tip line.”
    It was easy enough to fix it—the Times-Picayune was voracious for news, and this was all she’d had for them in two days.
    She called Special Agent Shellmire. “Think of the devil,” he said. “I’ve got a little present for you. Jacomine’s ex-wife’s flying in tomorrow. From Honduras.”
    Skip and Shellmire flew to Atlanta together. The Christian Community, having finally seen the handwriting on the wall, had decided to bring Mrs. Jacomine in from the field. She’d agreed to be interviewed at church headquarters.
    * * *
    Tourmaline Jacomine was a tall, almost colorless woman, with slightly fuzzy blond hair—poorly permed, probably. She had once been slender and rather stately, Skip imagined, but she was now a bit lumpy and stooped over. Her hair and skin were beige on beige and her dress was tan. She looked tired, and it wasn’t only her eyes and body—there was something about her that bespoke a spiritual tiredness, a need to escape even farther than Honduras and just lie down for a while.
    But she also had a jumpy feel to her, as if she expected something to spring from the bushes and bite her.
    “Mrs. Jacomine?”
    “Yes?” Her mouth pulled tighter as she admitted it. “Call me Irene,” she said.
    “I thought it was Tourmaline.”
    “He gave me that name. I always hated it.”
    Skip and Shellmire identified themselves.
    Irene nodded. “I’ll be very glad to do what I can. I had no idea all this was happening. I’m afraid the church was protecting me.”
    “We’d be grateful for anything you can tell us about your husband’s activities.”
    “I don’t know anything about his activities and I don’t want to know. I really don’t know anything about him at all except what I read in the paper. You know what happened with the church, of course.”
    Skip and Shellmire nodded. “There was a scandal,” Shellmire said, “involving women.”
    She lowered her head as if he’d said, “Take that, Irene!”
    “I’d been married to a stranger,” she said. “I had to learn to live with that.”
    “You didn’t have any clue as to what he really was?”
    “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, I did. But I just didn’t know I did. In retrospect I see what a perfect fool I was, but there was no understanding it at the time. Not when I was married to a man of God.” She paused. “He used to beat my children and me.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Shellmire.
    “Now just why did I think that was all right?” She looked at her lap again. Skip could see