Cult by Warren Adler

heard her voice, then retreated when it was ignored. It was a question that had arisen since the meeting with Phillip.
How can they make someone believe, commit their lives, so quickly?
It was a stonewall against her reason.
    The boy must have been weak, ready for it, vulnerable
, she decided.
    â€œAfter breakfast you all sit around and talk about your lives, your innermost secrets, real heavy personal stuff, whatever sins against themselves or society they had imagined or actually committed, all to great applause. It was called ‘getting out the garbage.’ Like Catholic confession. The Glories liked to tell him they were just like Catholics. They record what you say, ready for use. Blackmail. Everything you do is declared marvelous by them. You’re Mr. Wonderful. When you fart it’s like you sang the “Star Spangled Banner.” You’re back in the womb, in a warm bath of manufactured admiration. They control your environment. Your information. Your diet. Your time. You play crazy games, like dodge ball. They call it ‘team building.’ They sardinize you.” She paused.
    â€œThis goes on for three days. Then they start to fill your mind with the Father Glory pitch. You’re ready, you’ve been prepared, you’re not thinking clearly, your ego inflated to its furthest limit. You are never alone. They take you to the bathroom, to your meals, to the lectures. And they push you to call home, telling you exactly what to say, listening in when you talk. It’s a critical time. They don’t want intrusion.”
    â€œI spoke to her at the beginning,” Barney interrupted. “It was like you said. I knew something was wrong.”
    â€œBet she told you she’d met these fantastic, wonderful, caring, loving people, that she was having a fabulous spiritual experience.”
    â€œYes. Exactly that.”
    â€œAnd she was going to stay just a little while longer.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd when you finally inquired where she is or got suspicious, she wouldn’t tell you where she was. Not precisely. Not enough for you to hop a plane to find her.”
    He nodded, trembling with anger.
    â€œFinally, it’s too late. Franco would scream at him when he called. I would get hysterical. We had no idea. No idea.” For a brief moment, Mrs. Prococino’s large eyes welled up and her voice broke. “They give you this amulet or charm and you wear it around your neck for the rest of your life. It’s in the likeness of Father Glory’s head, complete with his wide smile and foreboding eyes. There’s a liquid in it, ‘holy water’ blessed by Father Glory. I think it’s poison. Maybe one day it’ll be like Jonestown.
    â€œWe’re ordinary people, Mr. Harrigan. Second-generation Italians. Not good Catholics. Not bad Catholics. Vinnie worked for the Post Office in New York and was transferred to Washington. He had a good administrative job. Franco had just graduated from college. We got his medical school acceptance while he was in their hands. Imagine that kind of explosion in a family that lives on dreams for our children. He was going to be a doctor. You know what that means to a family like ours. A doctor. It tore our hearts out to get that acceptance letter. He was giving that up for nothing.” She sighed. “We researched. We did all the things you’re doing now. We read Father Glory’s alleged Bible. Bullshit. All bullshit. They want numbers. People they can turn into moneymakers. People are money. Money is power. They have an apparatus. They’re a force. They’re something now, like Waco was. The Glories are a million times worse, because they’re a million times bigger.” She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath.
    â€œHe was our child, our hope. Finally, we flew out there and went through hell to get to see him. They had this lawyer you had to go through. Real Ivy League.