Page 6 of Charlie
“Are you sure it’s a real cult?”
“I’ve done my homework on the man who runs the cult, and I can spot a Machiavellian character when I see one. He’s a charlatan who has Charles enthralled.”
“It’s not one of those religious doomsday cults, is it?”
“No, but there are a few factors that define it as a cult. Conor O’Brien preaches his own philosophy on spirituality, and on most evenings, the members sit for hours listening to his speeches that no one is allowed to question. Former members talk about worshipping O’Brien and his having control of their careers and money. The members are asked to cut off contact with family and friends, and should a member no longer be able to produce riches for O’Brien, he gets rid of them.”
I’d leaned forward, engulfed in Mr. Robertson’s pain. “That’s awful. Have you warned your grandson?”
“Of course, but now he has stopped answering my calls.” The old man looked out the window with sadness showing in every wrinkle on his face. “The first time he talked about the mastermind group that he’d joined, I was on my way into a meeting, so I didn’t ask many questions. After that I didn’t hear from him for several weeks until he finally returned my call.”
When Robertson took another sip, his hands were shaking. “I was shocked at the things he said.”
“What did he say?”
Robertson’s eyes glazed over. “He talked about finding the family that he never had and he blamed me for not caring about him.” A flash of pain crossed his face as he lowered the glass to his thigh. “Charles is my only grandchild. My late wife and I took him in when our son and daughter-in-law died. Charles was four.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” His chin shivered a bit as if suppressed emotions were trying to find a way out. “I’m a busy man and looking back, I didn’t take as much time for Charles as I should have. It was hard for Emmy and me; she was already sick and Charles had all those issues.”
“What issues?”
With a sigh, Mr. Robertson threw a hand up. “There were the night terrors that would have him screaming from nightmares. Then there was his extreme shyness, which I suspect had a lot to do with his Tourette’s. Of course, we gave him all the help money could buy, but for every year he went through therapy and treatments, it seemed the doctors just added more diagnoses to his chart. That boy had so many letters attached to him. ADHD, OCD, Asperger’s, Tourette’s, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if they blew it out of proportion, but for what it’s worth, he got better over time.”
The name Charles and Tourette’s brought back a memory of a man I’d met at Harvard, but his last name had been McCann and not Robertson.
“As I said, Charles was only four when his parents died. It was a motorcycle accident. A drunk driver missed his red light and caused a frontal collision. My daughter-in-law, Rose, was killed on impact but my son hung on for a few more days until the doctors advised us to turn off the respirator. It just about killed Emmy. She mourned every day and then sixteen years ago when Charles was thirteen, we had to bury her too.”
“And Charles’ maternal grandparents; where are they?”
Robertson cleared his throat. “His mother, Rose, was Irish and that’s why Charles wanted to travel around Ireland for a few weeks. He has an aunt and a grandmother on his mother’s side, but they haven’t heard from him in months either.”
“Are you worried that he’s hurt?”
“I know he’s alive. My team looked into it and made me a report.” He turned again and handed me a green file case. “Charles has moved into a commune. It’s like the damn hippies with everyone calling each other family and sharing. Have you ever heard of a mastermind group that lives together? The moment I read that Charles now lives there, I knew that the Red Manor Mastermind Group is a cult.”
“You really think your grandson joined a cult?”
“I know he did. My sources confirm it. It’s run by a man called Conor O’Brien who sells himself as an enlightened genius.” Robertson scoffed. “He’s clever all right, targeting people from Ivy League colleges around the world who all think they’re too smart to fall for something as cliché as a cult. Of course, it’s not a coincidence that most of them come from rich and influential families either.” Shaking his head with sadness, he looked away. “Young people are so naïve.”
There was another moment of silence as if Robertson needed to collect himself.
“I’m more than happy to help any way I can, but I have no connections in Ireland. I’m not sure what it is that you want me to do.”
He turned his face and pinned me with those intelligent eyes of his that shone with determination. “I want you to get Charles out of the cult, of course.”
I jerked back and squeezed the arm rest of the chair I was in. “How? I don’t even know your grandson. What makes you think that he’ll listen to me?”
“You’ve met him. You attended the same university.”
“I assure you, sir, that I didn’t even know we had a member of the Robertson family on campus.”
“That’s because he enrolled under his mother’s maiden name, McCann.” From his inner pocket, Robertson pulled out a picture and handed it to me.
It was the man from the coffee shop in a serious pose from his graduation day. His dark hair was a bit unruly but he looked confident, handsome, and as well built as I remembered. I nodded. “Yes, I’ve met him.”
The memory of our first encounter still made my toes curl. I had been a freshman blown back by the stranger that had walked into the café, exuding intelligence and elegance. But no matter how much I’d tried to make eye contact with him, he wouldn’t look my way. With the confidence of a young woman used to being hit on, I had gone over to order, just so I could have a chance to talk to him. It hadn’t worked out, since Charles had shown zero interest in me. In my eagerness to start a conversation with him, I’d made a big fool of myself and when I proceeded to take a sip of his coffee, the humiliation had been complete.
