I'd just crossed Providence Road when I nearly collided with a man in tan slacks, a pink shirt, and a rumpled seersucker sports jacket that looked like a Sears original. He carried a battered briefcase and a canvas bag bulging with slide carousels. It was Red Skykr.

  "Slumming in southeast?" I asked, trying to catch my breath. Red lived on the opposite side of Charlotte, near the university.

  "My lecture at Myers Park Methodist is today." He gestured at the gray stone complex across the street. "I've come early to set my slides."

  "Right." I was slick with sweat, and my hair hung in stringy, wet clumps. I pinched my T-shirt and flapped it away from my skin.

  "How is your case progressing?"

  "Not well. Owens and his followers have gone to ground."

  "They're in hiding?"

  "Apparently. Red, can I follow up on something you said?"

  "Of course."

  "When we discussed cults, you mentioned two broad types. We talked so much about one I forgot to ask about the other."

  A man passed with a black Standard poodle. Both needed a trim.

  "You said you would include some of the commercially packaged awareness programs in your definition."

  "Yes. If they rely on thought reform to get and keep members." He set the bag on the sidewalk and scratched the side of his nose.

  "I think you said these groups fill their ranks by persuading participants to buy more and more courses?"

  "Yes. Unlike the cults we discussed, these programs don't intend to keep people forever. They exploit participants as long as they're willing to buy more courses. And bring in others."

  "So why do you consider them cults?"

  "The coercive influence that these so-called self-improvement programs exert is amazing. It's the same old thing, behavioral control through thought reform."

  "What goes on in these awareness training programs?"

  Red glanced at his watch.

  "I finish at ten forty-five. Let's meet for breakfast and I'll share what I know."

  "It's known as large group awareness training."

  As he spoke Red spread red-eye gravy over his grits. We were at Andersen's, and through the window I could see the hedges and brick of Presbyterian Hospital.

  "They're packaged to sound like seminars, or college courses, but the sessions are scripted to get participants emotionally and psychologically aroused. That part isn't mentioned in the brochure. Neither is the fact that attendees will be brainwashed into accepting an entirely new worldview." He forked a piece of country ham.

  "How do they work?"

  "Most programs last four or five days. The first day is devoted to establishing the leader's authority. Lots of humiliation and verbal abuse. The next day pounds in the new philosophy. The trainer convinces participants their lives are crap and that the only way out is to accept the new way of thinking."

  Grits.

  "Day three is typically filled with exercises. Trance inducement. Memory regression. Guided imagery. The trainer gets everyone to dredge up disappointments, rejections, bad memories. It really lays people out emotionally. Then the following day there's a lot of warm fuzzy group sharing, and the leader morphs from the hard taskmaster to the loving mommy or daddy. It's the beginning of the pitch for the next series of courses. The last day is fun and happy, with lots of hugs and dancing and music and games. And the hard sell."

  A couple in khakis and identical golf shirts slid into the booth to our right. He was seashell, she was foam green.

  "The damaging thing is that these courses can be incredibly stressful, both physically and psychologically. Most people have no idea how intense it's going to be. If they did, they wouldn't sign up."

  "Don't participants talk about the program afterward?"

  "They're told to be vague, that to discuss the experience would spoil it for others. They're instructed to rave about how their lives have changed, but to conceal how confrontational and unnerving the process was."

  "Where do these groups recruit?" I feared I already knew the answer.

  "Everywhere. On the street. Door to door. At schools, businesses, health clinics. They advertise in alternative newspapers, New Age magazines "

  "What about colleges and universities?"

  "Very fertile ground. On bulletin boards, in dorms and eating halls, at student activity sign-up days. Some cults assign members to hang around campus counseling centers looking for students who come in alone. The schools don't condone or encourage these outfits, but there's little they can do. The administrations have the flyers removed from bulletin boards, but the ads go right back up."

  "But this is a separate animal, right? These awareness seminars are unrelated to the type of cults we discussed before?"

  "Not necessarily. Some programs are used to recruit members to background organizations. You take the course, then you're told that you've performed so well you've been singled out to go to a higher level, or meet the guru, or whatever."

  The words hit me like a blow to the chest. Harry's dinner at the leader's house.

  "Red, what son of people fall for these things?" I hoped my voice sounded calmer than I felt.

  "My research shows that there are two important factors." He ticked them off on greasy fingers. "Depression and broken affiliations."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Someone who is in transition is often lonely and confused, and therefore vulnerable."

  "In transition?"

  "Between high school and college, college and a job. Recently separated. Recently fired."

  Red's words blurred into the breakfast clatter. I had to talk to Kit.

  When I refocused Red was eyeing me strangely. I knew I had to say something.

  "I think my sister may have signed on to one of these group training courses. Inner Life Empowerment."

  He shrugged. "There are so many. It's not one that I know."

  "Now she's gone incommunicado. No one can raise her."

  "Tempe, most of these programs are fairly benign. But you should talk to her. The effects can be very damaging for certain individuals."

  Like Harry.

  The usual mix of fear and aggravation seethed inside me.

  I thanked Red and paid the bill. On the sidewalk I remembered another question.

  "Have you ever heard of a sociologist named Jeannette? She studies religious movements."

  "Daisy Jeannotte?" One eyebrow rose, sending lopsided furrows across his forehead.

  "I met her at McGill several weeks ago and I'm curious about how she's viewed by her colleagues."

  He hesitated. "Yes. I'd heard she was in Canada."

  "Do you know her?"

  "I knew her years ago." His voice had gone flat. "Jeannotte is not considered mainstream."

  "Oh?" I searched his face but it was blank.

  "Thank you for the ham and grits, Tempe. I hope you got your money's worth." His grin looked strained.

  I touched his arm. "What aren't you telling me, Red?"

  The grin faded. "Is your sister a pupil of Daisy Jeannotte?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Jeannotte was at the center of a controversy some years back. I don't know the real story, and I don't want to spread gossip. Just be cautious."

  I wanted to ask more, but with that he nodded and set off toward his car.

  I stood in the sunshine with my mouth open. What the hell did that mean?

  When I got home Kit had left a message. He'd located a course catalog, but there was nothing that sounded like Harry's workshop in the North Harris County Community College listings. He had found an Inner Life Empowerment flyer on his mother's desk, however. The paper had a thumbtack hole, and he suspected it had come from a bulletin board. He'd called the number. It was no longer in service.

  Harry's course had nothing to do with the college!

  Red's words intertwined with Ryan's, heightening my feeling of dread. New relationships. In transition. Unaffiliated. Vulnerable.

  For the rest of the day I skittered from task to task, my concentration destroyed by worry and indecision. Then, as shadows lengthened across my patio, I took a call that jarred me into more organized thinking. I listened in shock as the story unfolded, then I made a decision.

  I dialed my department head to tell him that I would be leaving earlier than planned. Since I'd scheduled an absence for the physical anthropology conference my students would miss only one additional class period. I was sorry, but I had to go.

  When we disconnected I went upstairs to pack. Not for Oakland, but for Montreal.

  I had to find my sister.

  I had to stop the madness that was rolling in like Piedmont thunder.

  As the plane took off I closed my eyes and leaned into the seat, too exhausted from another restless night to notice my surroundings. Normally I enjoy feeling the acceleration as I rise and watch the world grow small, but not at that moment. The words of a frightened old man rebounded through my brain.

  I stretched, and my foot tapped the package I'd placed beneath the seat. Hand-carried. Always in view. Chain of custody could be important.

  Beside me, Ryan flipped through the US Airways magazine. Unable to get a flight from Savannah, he'd driven to Charlotte for the six thirty-five. At the airport he'd elaborated on the statement taken in Texas.

  The old man had fled to protect his dog.

  Like Kathryn, I thought, afraid for her baby.

  "Did he say exactly what they intend to do?" I asked Ryan in a low whisper. The attendant demonstrated seat belts and oxygen.

  Ryan shook his head. "The guy's a zomboid. He was at the ranch because they gave him a place to stay and let him keep his dog. He wasn't really tuned in to the credo, but he picked up enough." The magazine dropped to his lap.

  "He's rambling on about cosmic energy and guardian angels and fiery inhalation."

  "Annihilation?"

  Ryan shrugged. "He says the people he lives with don't belong to this world. Seems they've been battling the forces of evil and now it's time to go. Only he couldn't bring Fido."

  "So he hid under the porch."

  Ryan nodded.

  "Who are these forces of evil?"

  "He's not sure."

  "And he can't say where the righteous are going?"

  "North. Remember, Gramps is not at the top of the bell curve."

  "He's never heard of Dom Owens?"

  "No. His troop leader was someone named Toby."

  "No last name."

  "Last names are of this world. But that's not who frightens him. Apparently Toby and the cocker got along. It's some woman that scares the shit out of him."

  What had Kathryn said? "It's not Dom. It's her." A face flashed in front of me.

  "Who is she?"

  "He doesn't have a name, but he says this chick told Toby that the Antichrist had been destroyed and doomsday was at hand. That's when the wagon train rolled."

  "And?" I felt numb.

  "The dog wasn't invited."

  "Nothing else?"

  "He says the lady is definitely mother superior."

  "Kathryn also spoke of a woman."

  "Name?"

  "I didn't ask. It just didn't sink in at the time."

  "What else did she say?"

  I repeated what I could remember.

  Ryan placed a hand on mine.

  "Tempe, we really don't know anything about this Kathryn except that she's spent her life with the encounter culture. She shows up at your place claiming she found you through the university. You say your address isn't listed. That same day forty-three of her closest friends take a hike in two states and the lady does her own vanishing act."

  True. Ryan had voiced misgivings about Kathryn earlier.

  "You never found out who pulled the cat trick?"

  "No." I withdrew my hand and went to work on the thumbnail.

  For a while neither of us spoke. Then I remembered something else.

  "Kathryn also made reference to an Antichrist."

  "How?"

  "She said Dom didn't believe in Antichrists."

  Ryan was quiet a long time. Then,

  "I talked to the guys who worked the Solar Temple deaths in Canada. Do you know what went down in Morin Heights?"

  "Just that five people died. I was in Charlotte, and the American media focused mostly on Switzerland. The Canadian end got very little press."

  "I'll tell you what happened. Joseph DiMambro sent a team of assassins to kill a baby." He paused to let that sink in. "Morin Heights was the kickoff for the fireworks overseas. Seems this kid's birth hadn't been approved by Big Daddy, so he viewed him as the Antichrist. Once the tyke was dead the faithful were free to make the crossing."

  "Jesus Christ. Do you think Owens really is one of these Solar Temple fanatics?"

  Ryan shrugged again. "Or it could be some sort of copycat shuck. It's hard to know what the Adler Lyons babble means until the psychologists work it out."

  A treatise had been found at the compound on Saint Helena. And a map of Quebec Province.

  "But I don't give a hog's tit which looney is in the lead if innocent people are trailing along to their deaths. I'm going to catch this bastard and gut him and try him up myself."

  His jaw muscles bunched as he picked up the magazine.

  I closed my eyes and tried to rest, but the images wouldn't settle.

  Harry, buoyant and full of life. Harry in sweats and no makeup.

  Sam, unnerved by the invasion of his island.

  Malachy. Mathias. Jennifer Cannon. Carole Comptois. A charred cat. The contents of the package at my feet.

  Kathryn, eyes pleading. As if I could help her. As if I could take her life and somehow make it better.

  Or was Ryan right? Had I been set up? Was Kathryn sent for some sinister purpose of which I was unaware? Was Owens responsible for the slaughtered cat?

  Harry had spoken of order. Her life sucked and the order was going to pull her clear. So had Kathryn. She said the order affects everyone. Brian and Heidi had broken it. What order? Cosmic order? An order from on high? The Order of the Solar Temple?

  I felt like a moth in a jar, batting against the glass with random thought after random thought, but unable to escape the cognitive restraints of my own jumbled thinking.

  Brennan, you're making yourself crazy! There's nothing you can do at thirty-seven thousand feet.

  I decided to break free by dropping back a hundred years.

  I opened my briefcase, pulled out a Belanger diary, and skipped to December of 1844, hoping the holidays had put Louis-Philippe in a better mood.

  The good doctor enjoyed Christmas dinner at the Nicolet house, liked his new pipe, but did not approve of his sister's plan for a return to the stage. Eugenie had been invited to sing in Europe.

  What he lacked in humor, Louis-Philippe made up for in tenacity. His sister's name was written often in the early months of 1845. He apparently expressed his views frequently. But, much to the doctor's annoyance, Eugenie would not be dissuaded. She was leaving in April, would do concerts in Paris and Brussels, then spend the summer in France, returning to Montreal at the end of July.

  A voice ordered trays and chair backs into full upright and locked position for landing in Pittsburgh.

  An hour later, again airborne, I skimmed through the spring of 1845. Louis-Philippe was busy with hospital and city affairs, but made weekly visits to his brother-in-law. Alain Nicolet, it appears, did not travel to Europe with his wife.

  I wondered how Eugenie's tour had gone. Apparently Uncle Louis-Philippe had not, since she was mentioned little during those months. Then an entry caught my eye.

  July 17, 1845. Due to irregular circumstances, Eugenie's stay in France would be prolonged. Arrangements had been made, but Louis-Philippe was vague as to their nature.

  I stared at the whiteness outside my window. What "irregular circumstances" had kept Eugenie in France? I calculated. Elisabeth was born in January. Oh, boy.

  Throughout the summer and fall Louis-Philippe made only brief reference to his sister. Letter from Eugenie. Doing well.

  As our wheels touched pavement at Dorval Airport, Eugenie reappeared. She, too, had returned to Montreal. April 16, 1846. Her baby was three months old.

  There it was.

  Elisabeth Nicolet was born in France. Alain could not be her father. But who was?

  Ryan and I deplaned in silence. He checked his messages while I waited for the baggage. When he returned his face told me the news was not good.

  "They found the vans near Charleston."

  "Empty."

  He nodded.

  Eugenie and her baby faded into another century.

  The sky was nickel and a light rain blew across the headlights as Ryan and I drove east along Highway 20. According to the pilot, Montreal was a balmy thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.

  We rode in silence having already agreed on our courses of action. I wanted to rush home, to find my sister and relieve myself of a building sense of foreboding. Instead, I would do as Ryan asked. Then I would pursue a plan of my own.

  We parked in the lot at Parthenais and Ryan and I picked our way toward the building. The air smelled of malt from the Molson brewery. Oil filmed the pools of rainwater collecting on the uneven pavement.

  Ryan got off on the first floor and I continued to my office on the fifth. After removing my coat, I dialed an inside extension. They'd gotten my message and we could begin as soon as I was ready. I went at once to the lab.

  I gathered scalpel, ruler, glue, and a two-foot length of rubber eraser material and set them on my worktable. Then I opened my carry-on package, unwrapped and inspected the contents.

  The skull and mandible of the unknown Murtry victim had made the trip undamaged. I often wonder what the airport scanner operators think when my skeletal parts go through. I placed the skull on a cork ring in the middle of the table. Then I squeezed glue into the temporo mandibular joint and fixed the jaw in place.

  While the Elmer's dried, I found a chart of facial tissue thicknesses for white American females. When the jaw felt firm I slid the skull onto a holder, adjusted the height, and secured it with clamps. The empty orbits stared directly into my eyes as I measured and cut seventeen tiny rubber cylinders and glued them onto the facial bones.

  Twenty minutes later I took the skull to a small room down the corridor. A plaque identified the section as Section d'lmagerie. A technician greeted me and indicated that the system was up and running.