Dead-Bang (6 page)

Lemming said nothing. And he managed to say it coldly. Regina turned and left. The Pastor stared at me, silently. Unmoving, unsmiling, and apparently—if given only casual inspection—unconscious. I looked down at the narrow face and shoestring lips and burning eyes. Those eyes surprised me. I had expected eyes of ice, but Lemming's were warm, large, bright. Some kind of fire burned in him, somewhere.

Thirty or forty feet beyond him was a wall broken by half a dozen heavy-looking doors. Nearer, on my left, a roughhewn wooden table flanked by a pair of backless benches, all the comforts of camp. On my right, another table, piles of black books, perhaps Bibles, piled upon it; boxes of candles and candlesticks; a rolltop desk.

And nearer still, against the wall, a ten-foot-high wooden cross with its base a sharpened spike of steel, thus fashioned, perhaps, so it could be driven into earth or clay; and, upon the cross, carved from wood and painted—garishly painted, it must be confessed—the near-naked figure of Jesus the man and Christ the god, the flesh and spirit, one in the Jew of Nazareth, crucified on the Christian cross.

I looked at Festus Lemming's burning eyes and said, “Pastor, I'm here to ask your help.”

And then I stopped. On coming here there'd been at least hope the Pastor might prove agreeable and speak a few words to his assembled flock—for only he could enlist the cooperation of all the flock, including one or more individuals who might earlier have seen Bruno. But right then I knew no words of mine, not even a million dollars of mine—if I had a million—would get me any help from this jolly chap.

However, even when facing impossible odds you give it your best shot, if not from reason then from habit, so I went on, “It is important, essential that I get in touch with Emmanuel Bruno. It's my understanding he was here, or at least near the church, not very long after sunset. I …”

No word, no motion, no twitch of brow or change of expression. No sign of life at all except the brightness in those eyes.

“I know you've had your, ah, disagreements with him, shall we say?” I laughed lightly. “Even—stupendous, almost infinite disagreements? But Doctor Bruno may need my assistance in a matter …” I hesitated, then plunged on, “To put it bluntly, Pastor Lemming, it is possible Doctor Bruno is in some danger. That he may come to harm unless I get in touch with him as soon as possible. I'll be greatly indebted to you if you will take, say, ten seconds to ask the members of your congregation if one or more of them happened to see Doctor Bruno here, or near—”

“No.”

“You may not completely understand the possible gravity—”

“I do understand. Completely. Emmanuel Bruno, he who
is
the name and form and face of evil … may be harmed, may be killed, if you do not find and help him. May be dying, may be dead.”

He had a queer, almost freakish way of falling into a kind of chant when worked up about something and speaking—as he had to Regina, as he had in some of the thunderous passages I'd heard earlier while he preached. It was unusual, on the edge of being totally buggy, but it did grab the attention, grabbed it and held it.

“If he is harmed or killed, if he should now be dead or dying, it is the will of God.
I
am a man
of
God. Can you suggest or think that I … that I would place
my
will against the will of Almighty God?”

“Oh, come off it—” I stopped, started over. “We must be discussing two different guys. I'm talking about a man, a human being not
entirely
evil, and if I retain faint memory of Christian doctrine and alleged practice—”

“Emmanuel Bruno has sinned against the Holy Ghost, sinned against both man and God!” His voice was rising eerily. “He has sinned, sinned, he has sinned … and he is doomed … damned and doomed … and God will strike him dead! Yes! That
is
the will of God!”

“How would you know?” It slipped out, but I know my own symptoms and suspected it was not all that was going to slip out.

“Leave, leave this holy house. You defile the house of God with your stink of flesh and stench of lust.”

“Can it, Lemming. It's a great act, but since I am not included among your admirers, the performance is wasted—”

His voice became softer, changed a little. “I will not help Emmanuel Bruno—or you, his agent—in any way. I will continue to oppose him in every way—him, and you, his agent. Yes!
Now you, as well!”

I grinned. “Is that a threat? You phrase things so quaintly it's hard to tell, but I kind of hope it is. I'd hate to think I wet my pants for nothing.”

His voice became even softer. The next words were probably the quietest sounds he'd made all month. “One without power can make no threats. I have no power. Of myself I am weak … and humble … and of puny strength. But the Holy Ghost has lifted me up, God has given me strength. I claim no power except the power of God in me, and I have no will except the will of God.” It was a trick of light, surely, but it seemed his eyes burned brighter as he finished.
“But I do know the will of God
…
and I shall work the will of God … so help me God!”

He turned abruptly to leave, now that he'd put me in my place. But I said,
“Hold
it, Pastor,” and he jerked, then turned slowly and looked at me.

I should have kept my mouth shut then, I suppose. In fact, I know I should have. But I said, “Before you leave to join the angels, I've a couple of questions. One, since you know the will of God, if it's God's will that Emmanuel Bruno be damned and doomed and maybe run over by a truck, might your working the will of God require you to drive the truck? Answer yes or no, so help you God.”

He didn't answer.

“Just in case such an idea should enter your mind—if, that is, it has not already done so—it might be helpful for you to realize I would then, very personally, consider it God's will that your arms and legs and neck be broken, each in at least one place, if not several. Two—”

That was as far as I got.

Later I would realize there had been a lull lasting this long only so those bushel baskets could be carried around and filled with the necessary; and that once those baskets were at least beginning to be pressed down and overflowing with bushels of love, the Chorale—which most likely had barely begun when suspended for the giving that is better than receiving—could continue. And, therefore, would continue.
Later
I would realize it.

But that was not yet. So, first thing, I decided my ears were going to give up their ghosts. They were hit again by that now-familiar clash of dueling decibels, but this time something new had been added—new and at least equally injurious, perhaps even fatal when combined with the old—and it went:

We are
sol
diers … Armed with
love
…

In the
sac
red Army
of

He Whom has His arms about
us …

He Whom would shed tears without
us …

What's this?
I thought.
Are they singing? Why? Haven't I
—
haven't we all
—
suffered enough?
I turned my head to give Festus a dirty look, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was just as well; my business was done and all I wanted now was to get far away, maybe to some place where I could hear a distant cricket.

I left the dimness and headed into the dumbness, walked into the brightness, started up the aisle down which I'd come a few minutes ago. And stopped and looked. I had to stop and look. It was a sight, as well as a sound, to lock up in your memory bank. Everybody in the house was standing, holding little books, mouths so wide there appeared to be many bodies with no heads, only mouths. I deduced that they were all either screaming or contracting lockjaw or getting goosed. Whatever they were doing—it sounded a bit like that first verse over again, but probably anything would have—it was done with a kind of jerky bounce not remotely related to rhythm, reminiscent of a diesel locomotive starting to move and pulling a long train of empty freight cars behind it. You know how the at-first-slow forward movement takes up the slack and jerks the first empty car, then the second, and in increasing tempo the next and the next and so on, with a sound shattering to peace and joy?

That's what it was like, if you can imagine those empty cars filled with broken glass and cement mixers and freeway accidents and a couple of South American revolutions. In spite of myself, I listened. I started walking up the aisle again, but I listened. In truth, it was impossible to do otherwise. Loud? Loud enough to be heard over the music.

… tears without
us
…

Tears of His sweet holy blaaaahhd.…

Yes! Yes! Yes! Almighty
Gaaahhd
!

I was getting numb. Certainly I was no longer moving up the aisle. But I felt I recognized the touch of Festus Lemming in there somewhere, the beat and “Yes!” and other things. He was a two-pronged man, as brilliant a poet as preacher. Not many men have it within themselves to destroy, unaided, two entire professions.

I started to relax, got ready to move a leg, thinking they'd hit their peak. But on they went, as sure-mouthed and leaden-tongued as any similar group of men and women since Atlantis sank without a trace.

Down with
E
-Vil, down with
SIN!

We will
FIGHT
and we will
WIN!

With our
tri
umph sin will
cease
.…

LOOK OUT!
Here comes the Prince of Peace!

They were geniuses. I had to admit it, give the devil his due as they say. These darlings had managed to make a wise, kind, gentle, and forgiving man sound like the Boogie Man.
Jesus Christ will get you if you don't watch out!
Right then and there I began getting scared of these citizens.

I headed up the aisle in a bit of a hurry, because I was filled with extreme unease, and I am not reluctant to admit it. I wanted this place far behind me not merely because I felt it was a place where in a tilted moment the fanatics might all-at-once hit the fan, but to escape whatever it was that seemed to thicken the air—and to escape the aura or miasma or spooky that kept grabbing at my feet.

Like, back there, when …

Did it again. You think it wasn't spooky?

I wasn't even
halfway
up the aisle and here I was, motionless, frozen, transfixed. Never before had I been unable to move more than a few tottering steps without becoming completely paralyzed. But I had been
sure
they were through that time. Obviously they'd hit their punch line and hit it hard. Couldn't top it, where could they go from there? Where, indeed?

Perhaps it would have been impossible to those not filled with the joy of the Lord, but to these cats
nothing
was impossible. No, it was not over. The worst—horrifyingly difficult as such a thing must be to believe—was yet to come. They bellowed it out like bulls in Spain calling their cows in Argentina, speeding up the tempo until when they hit the glorious final line they were going
chugachugachuga
like a choochoo train.

We will
fight
fight fight and
smite
the
foe
!

Come on, Christians! Go-go-go-
go-GO!

We kiss the Cross and Corpse from which

the blaaahd of Christ is poured!

For
we-we-we
—WE ARE—
THE LEMMINGS OF THE LORD!#?*@!

“God in Heaven, NOOO-O-OO!”

It sounded like one of those bulls in Spain, mooing.

But it wasn't a bull. It was—yeah.

6

I hadn't known I was going to do it until I'd already done it, which is not the usual way to go about such things. It definitely is not the best way.

And, especially, you shouldn't be bent over in the manner of one experiencing an acute attack of appendicitis during a hemorrhoidectomy, with one arm and hand wrapped around your head in an attempt to cover both ears and the other hand clutching the seat of your pants.

Why was I clutching the seat of my pants? I knew someone would ask that question. And I am ready for you. The answer is: There is no answer.

I didn't know I was doing it, so how could I know why I did it? Covering my ears is easy. I won't even bother with it. But the other … well, perhaps it had something to do with that picture I'd locked in my memory bank. Or perhaps I felt unwanted here, and, becoming a little unstrung, feared the astonishing conglomeration of sounds trapped and tortured within these walls might come to life like in late movies and naturally want to get even, strike back—it's not important.

What
is
important is the fact that, far from being drowned in the sound of the planet beginning to break up, when I bellowed out as I did, a unique hush had fallen over the congregation. It was so quiet in the church you could have heard the church mice, if it hadn't been obvious that not a church mouse could be left alive anywhere in the area. As the last shriek ended and the singing stopped entirely, the deaf musicians also stopped, as though on a dime. That's what ruined me.

Even so, it might not have been quite so bad if I had immediately blurted out my involuntary little criticism at the top of my lungs. But there was blessed silence for at least five long seconds, and
then
in ringing tones I volunteered my uninvited opinion to four thousand Lemmings.

Lemmings—that's what really did it.

The shock to my already strained nervous system of “LEMMINGS OF THE LORD!” plus my absolute fascination, for several precious seconds, with the strangely curdling sound of four thousand adult human beings fervently screeching
“wee
—
wee
—
wee”
as though preparing to take a monstrous leak simultaneously, held me rigid. No corpse in the exact middle of
rigor mortis
ever got more rigid than did I.