David Kent - The Triangle Conspiracy

Daryn almost laughed, despite the tension of what had happened a few miles back down the road. Sanborn himself was almost as forgettable in appearance as the house, as the black sedan he drove: his hair that held just a few gray threads; his eyes a light chocolate brown; his complexion was medium. He was right around six feet tall, weight proportionate, not a hard body but not flabby. Sometimes he wore glasses. Sometimes he didn’t. He was no one to be remembered.

Remember The Cause, he liked to say. Don’t remember me.

That was part of the reason Daryn believed in him. He wasn’t some messianic egomaniac like David Koresh, or an introverted, antisocial genius like Ted Kaczynski. He wasn’t some deprived little boy trying to get the world’s attention. He had a true social and political agenda, and a genius for planning.

Daryn and Britt got out of the Jeep, and Britt immediately reached for Daryn’s hand again as soon as they were outside. Sean got out more slowly, gingerly feeling his ribs. He looked around, then took out his duffel bag, which held his clothes and the extras he’d bought for Daryn.

Sanborn stepped forward. “Welcome,” he said. “Glad you made it out here.”

Even his voice was unremarkable. No discernible accent or regionalism. His English was so perfect that Daryn had often wondered if it might not be his first language, but he’d studied it and mastered general American dialect to perfection. He was fairly soft-spoken, and Daryn had never heard him raise his voice. He’d never needed to.

The two burly men stayed where they were, but Sanborn stepped off the porch and came out to the gate. He swung it open. “Come on in.”

Daryn leaned up to peck his cheek as she passed him. “Franklin, you remember my friend Britt.”

“Of course I do.” Sanborn turned and gave Britt his full attention. “Britt is part of the reason we exist.”

Britt nodded, casting her eyes down as if unworthy. She held even more tightly to Daryn’s hand.

“And this is my new friend Michael,” Daryn said.

Sanborn moved toward Sean, his hand extended. They shook. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael,” Sanborn said. “Welcome to the home of the Coalition. I’m Franklin Sanborn. I help to sort of facilitate things around here.”

“He’s much too modest,” Daryn said, looking over her shoulder at Sean. “He leads us.”

“We have different leaders for different things,” Sanborn said with a shrug. “Kat herself is our spiritual leader, if you will, the one who always brings us back to the Cause. I focus on plans and details. Don and CJ back there are our operational leaders. They figure out how to put plans into action. We all lead each other. Unlike the ruling classes, we don’t have to have anointed leaders with titles.”

Sean kept his eyes fixed on Sanborn. “It’s good to meet you,” he finally said. “What Kat said about your…what do you want to call it-a movement, maybe?-made a lot of sense.” He glanced at Daryn. “Some people are pretty intent on sending some sort of message to Kat, though.”

Sanborn looked questioningly at Daryn.

“Twice now,” Daryn said, “we’ve been attacked.” She described both incidents in detail.

Sanborn frowned. “The ruling classes are nervous. You must be more careful, Katherine. Until the Coalition begins its actual work, you have to be careful what you say, and to whom you say it. If we lost you, I don’t know what we’d do. You are our heart and soul.” He looked at Sean. “Are you all right, Michael? I didn’t notice at first, but you look a bit roughed up.”

“I’m okay,” Sean said. “I’m just glad I could be there for Kat.”

Sanborn nodded. “So am I.”

“So,” Sean said, steering the conversation back around. “Your movement.”

“I suppose you could call us a movement,” Sanborn said. “Not quite what you expected, though, are we? Be honest. When you conjure up an image of a group of people living outside the mainstream, working toward radical change in society, you think of survivalist compounds where everyone carries an AK-47, or some kind of racial superiority complex, or some bunch of nut-cases who babble on and on about black helicopters and computer chips implanted in their bodies by the government.”

Sean smiled.

“You’ll find none of that foolishness here,” Sanborn said. “We’re not conspiracy theorists. We don’t have to be. The reality speaks for itself. Read the Congressional Record. That’s all the evidence we need, right there in the public record. We do have a few weapons scattered around, but more to protect our privacy than anything. No one here carries them on a regular basis, though. We’re not that kind of community.” His brown eyes bore into Sean’s. “May I ask, Michael, if you are carrying a weapon?”

“Yes,” Sean said. “I own a pistol. It’s in my duffel bag right now.”

Sanborn nodded, the look of the genial host never leaving his face. “Of course. You didn’t know what to expect from us. I understand completely. You’re welcome to keep it. I’m certainly not going to ask you to give it up. It’s your own personal property, after all. I’ll just ask you to respect the others here and not show it around a lot. We have a couple of members who actively dislike guns and are quite afraid of them.”

“Sure,” Sean said, confusion evident in his voice.

Sanborn smiled again. “As I said, we’re not what you expected. I take that as a compliment. Come in the house.”

They went in. There was a large, open front room with a few chairs and mismatched tables that looked like yard sale refugees. A man and two women, ranging in age from early twenties to late forties, were scattered around. The two women were reading-one a newspaper, one a battered Edgar Allan Poe anthology. The man had spread out papers on a chipped coffee table and was making notes. There was a chorus of greetings, mostly directed at Daryn, all of them calling her Kat. A couple of nods went in Sean’s direction when he was introduced.

“How many people are here?” Sean asked.

“We’re small but mighty,” Sanborn said. “There are thirteen of us right now. Eight women, five men. We range in age from twenty-one to fifty-eight. We come from all different backgrounds.” He nodded toward Daryn. “Kat brought most of us together.”

Sean waited a moment. “She’s very passionate,” he said slowly.

Sanborn laughed. So did Daryn. “Indeed,” Sanborn said. “So she is. And quite persuasive.”

“Quite,” Sean said.

“We’ve converted all the rooms upstairs into bedrooms,” Sanborn said. “They’re not very big, but they give a small amount of privacy. Unfortunately there’s only one bathroom. We make do, just as any group of people does when they live somewhat communally. There’s a deck out back, and a basement off the kitchen. It has its challenges, but we get by. This place isn’t permanent, but it’s the perfect starting point for us.”

“What about you?” Sean said. “What’s your background?”

“Me?” Sanborn said. “I’m an academic. I was a professor at Indiana University in Bloomington.”

“Professor of what?”

“Interpersonal communication. One of those liberal arts fields where our graduates are expected to ask, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ But, then, someone with a ridiculous number of degrees in communication can actually be useful in setting up a group dynamic like this. I’m an organizer. That’s what I do.”

One of the two big men had come back into the house. He was late twenties, blond, with cold blue eyes and a muscular build. “Let me take your bag,” he said to Sean in a soft Oklahoma drawl. “I’ll put it upstairs.”