would be more comfortable. Take care not to wrinkle the papers."
Tim sat awkwardly on the low table.
"As I was saying, do not underestimate mind-control techniques."
"I'll be fine. I have an eye for that stuff."
"I'm sure you do. Military countertraining and whatnot." Bederman's eyes twinkled. "But I just got you to sit on a coffee table."
Tim looked at the two chairs in the office, which were unburdened by paperwork.
"Reciprocal concessions," Bederman said. "I conceded that you didn't have to sit on an uncomfortable countertop. You then made a concession to match my concession, never mind that there are two perfectly fine chairs at our disposal, never mind the fact that if I'd asked you first to sit on the coffee table, you almost certainly would have declined."
Tim took a moment to remind himself he should be impressed, not irritated.
"You're neither weak nor foolish for doing this. Reciprocal concessions are a key aspect of living in a community. If there were no social obligation to reciprocate a concession, who would want to make the first sacrifice? How would society function? Mind control can begin with simple, innocuous 'suggestions' like these." He winked. "Get a flower, give a dollar, right?" He gestured at a chair with a hand that, Tim noticed, trembled slightly. "Please."
Tim moved to the chair.
"I'm not trying to make you feel foolish. I'm merely trying to show how insidious these techniques are. Do you have children?"
Tim felt the familiar ache in his chest. "I did."
Bederman nodded sympathetically, assuming divorce or estrangement, as they always did. "Well, you remember the annual Christmas-toy crazes, then? Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Nintendo Game-Cubes?"
"The hot holiday toy that every kid absolutely must have."
"Precisely. Children extract promises from their parents that they'll receive said toy, but toy companies purposefully limit the supply. Panicked parents have to buy other holiday gifts to appease their tyrannical youngsters. The toy companies wait until late January, then flood the market with the desired toy. Parents have to fulfill their prior obligations to their children and -- bam -- toy companies have managed to double their sales. Literally millions of families are duped into buying dumb, unwanted crap and helping promote the ubertoy every year and are not the least aware of it."
"So once you do what they want, you're more inclined to think what they want."
"Exactly. How were you suckered? Tickle Me Elmo?"
A chuckle escaped Tim. "Furby." He remembered trekking around town for weeks trying to locate the damn thing for Ginny, enduring endless jokes from Bear that a deputy U.S. marshal trained in hunting fugitives couldn't locate a mass-produced talking hairball. A My Pretty Pony had arrived under the tree instead, the Furby in February. "I'd never claim I haven't been made a fool of, probably more times than I'm aware."
"There's more to mind control than meets the eye, Deputy Rackley. That's all I'm cautioning. In fact, it's all about what isn't perceived, what isn't thought. You'll have to watch your back in ways that -- even as a federal officer -- you aren't accustomed to."
"Given I'm on your turf here, do you have any specific advice on how to do that?"
"It's game theory, really -- mind games. All cults work by a finite number of truisms. You'll want to crack the code. What are the twelve steps? The seven habits of highly effective zombies? The Ten Commandments? Once you know what kind of cult you're dealing with, then you can figure out how to protect yourself."
"Does anything I've told you about this girl's cult ring a bell?"
"Yes. All the bells." Bederman smiled. "Does anything you've told me indicate one particular cult over another? No. The particulars you have are almost universal."
"I was told you treat a lot of cult survivors in your clinical practice."
"Hundreds. They're often programmed to self-destruct when they leave the cult, so they're rarely in
Tim sat awkwardly on the low table.
"As I was saying, do not underestimate mind-control techniques."
"I'll be fine. I have an eye for that stuff."
"I'm sure you do. Military countertraining and whatnot." Bederman's eyes twinkled. "But I just got you to sit on a coffee table."
Tim looked at the two chairs in the office, which were unburdened by paperwork.
"Reciprocal concessions," Bederman said. "I conceded that you didn't have to sit on an uncomfortable countertop. You then made a concession to match my concession, never mind that there are two perfectly fine chairs at our disposal, never mind the fact that if I'd asked you first to sit on the coffee table, you almost certainly would have declined."
Tim took a moment to remind himself he should be impressed, not irritated.
"You're neither weak nor foolish for doing this. Reciprocal concessions are a key aspect of living in a community. If there were no social obligation to reciprocate a concession, who would want to make the first sacrifice? How would society function? Mind control can begin with simple, innocuous 'suggestions' like these." He winked. "Get a flower, give a dollar, right?" He gestured at a chair with a hand that, Tim noticed, trembled slightly. "Please."
Tim moved to the chair.
"I'm not trying to make you feel foolish. I'm merely trying to show how insidious these techniques are. Do you have children?"
Tim felt the familiar ache in his chest. "I did."
Bederman nodded sympathetically, assuming divorce or estrangement, as they always did. "Well, you remember the annual Christmas-toy crazes, then? Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Nintendo Game-Cubes?"
"The hot holiday toy that every kid absolutely must have."
"Precisely. Children extract promises from their parents that they'll receive said toy, but toy companies purposefully limit the supply. Panicked parents have to buy other holiday gifts to appease their tyrannical youngsters. The toy companies wait until late January, then flood the market with the desired toy. Parents have to fulfill their prior obligations to their children and -- bam -- toy companies have managed to double their sales. Literally millions of families are duped into buying dumb, unwanted crap and helping promote the ubertoy every year and are not the least aware of it."
"So once you do what they want, you're more inclined to think what they want."
"Exactly. How were you suckered? Tickle Me Elmo?"
A chuckle escaped Tim. "Furby." He remembered trekking around town for weeks trying to locate the damn thing for Ginny, enduring endless jokes from Bear that a deputy U.S. marshal trained in hunting fugitives couldn't locate a mass-produced talking hairball. A My Pretty Pony had arrived under the tree instead, the Furby in February. "I'd never claim I haven't been made a fool of, probably more times than I'm aware."
"There's more to mind control than meets the eye, Deputy Rackley. That's all I'm cautioning. In fact, it's all about what isn't perceived, what isn't thought. You'll have to watch your back in ways that -- even as a federal officer -- you aren't accustomed to."
"Given I'm on your turf here, do you have any specific advice on how to do that?"
"It's game theory, really -- mind games. All cults work by a finite number of truisms. You'll want to crack the code. What are the twelve steps? The seven habits of highly effective zombies? The Ten Commandments? Once you know what kind of cult you're dealing with, then you can figure out how to protect yourself."
"Does anything I've told you about this girl's cult ring a bell?"
"Yes. All the bells." Bederman smiled. "Does anything you've told me indicate one particular cult over another? No. The particulars you have are almost universal."
"I was told you treat a lot of cult survivors in your clinical practice."
"Hundreds. They're often programmed to self-destruct when they leave the cult, so they're rarely in
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