Spellbinder (33 page)

“It’s obvious,” Flournoy said softly, “that you don’t share our opinion about the importance of Mr. Holloway’s work. Which is the reason we’re here—and the reason we’re talking to you like this, taking you into our confidence.”

“You’re right,” he answered angrily. “You’re absolutely right. I happen to think Austin Holloway is a charlatan. And I also happen to think that what he preaches is pure, unadulterated blasphemy.”

Calmly—contemptuously—Flournoy shrugged, plainly indifferent to the criticism. Now he glanced at his watch. “It’s one thirty in the morning,” he said. “We’ve got to make a decision.”

“Well, I say we take him to the sheriff.” But, as he said it, he realized that his demand sounded weak and ineffectual. Mao had once said that political power came from the muzzle of a rifle. And Mitchell had the guns.

“I don’t think so,” Flournoy said. “I think we’re going to do it our way. We’ve already decided. Mitchell and I will take him outside. Mitchell will give him a beating, and then let him go.”

“But that—that’s inhuman. It—it’s medieval. You’re—Christ—you’re treating him like an animal.”

“I admire your scruples, Mr. Giannini, especially in view of the fact that, less than an hour ago, Carson tried to kill you. And, another time, I’d agree with them. But this is a—” Flournoy paused. “It’s a special situation. Special measures are required.”

Silently, he stared at them. How could he stop it? His only hope would be to climb the ladder to the loft, and get the shotgun, and force a showdown.

But it wouldn’t work.

Because he couldn’t do it—couldn’t tolerate even the thought of it. Even now—this moment—his hands were trembling at the thought of taking up a gun, therefore evoking the shattering terror he’d felt, facing Carson.

So there was only one hope remaining:

“If you do it,” he said, “I’ll tell the sheriff what you did. I’ll tell him the whole story. I promise.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

“You don’t think I’ll do it. But I will.”

Contemptuous again, Flournoy shrugged. Mitchell remained silent, impassively staring.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he stalked out of the kitchen. In the living room, Denise sat as before, making herself small in the big armchair. Her eyes were large and round, still reflecting the shock she’d experienced. With her feet tucked under her, wearing her checked wool shirt and jeans, she could have been a teen-ager, fighting back from some terrible trauma.

She needed him—needed to feel him near, needed to touch him. As he needed her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as he resumed his perch on the arm of her chair. “What’s happened? What’d they want?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Peter—” Twisting in the chair, she was anxiously searching his face. “Peter. What is it?”

“Shhh. Be quiet a minute.” He caught her gaze, then moved his eyes with slow significance toward the kitchen. Mitchell was coming through the doorway into the living room, followed by Flournoy. Looking straight ahead, Mitchell walked to Calloway, still standing guard. A few inaudible words were exchanged as Mitchell looked intently into Calloway’s eyes. Calloway nodded once, twice, then eased off the shotgun’s hammer and handed the weapon to Mitchell. As if the hammer click had roused him, Carson suddenly raised his head from his crossed arms. At the same time, Flournoy walked into the room and went directly to Carson’s .30–.30 rifle, propped in a corner. He picked up the rifle gingerly, one hand wrapped around the barrel just below the muzzle.

“Don’t touch the grip or the forestock,” Mitchell cautioned.

In response, Flournoy nodded.

“All right,” Mitchell said, turning to Carson. “On your feet.” He spoke quietly—dispassionately.

Staring defiantly at the big man, Carson didn’t move.

“Either get on your feet,” Mitchell said, “and walk out the door, or else you’ll get this gun barrel across the head, and we’ll carry you out. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

Carson rose to his feet and turned toward the door. He moved as a convict might: slowly and stolidly, with eyes sullenly downcast—yet watchfully, dangerously. His hair was blood-matted; blood stained his jacket, front and back. He held a wet towel that Denise had given him, to wipe the blood from his face. The towel was pink.

Mitchell fell in behind Carson. Still carrying the rifle by its barrel, Flournoy followed Mitchell.

“Open the door,” Mitchell ordered, at the same time drawing back the shotgun’s hammer. “Then go outside. Slow and easy. And drop that towel.”

Carson tossed the towel to the floor, pulled open the door and stepped outside into the darkness. A moment later, Flournoy drew the door shut. From the porch, Peter could hear the sound of their footsteps—then silence.

They would take their captive away from the house, before they beat him. They would probably take him down to the road. They would administer the beating, give him his warning and turn him loose. They would do it all according to their plan, so coldly concocted.

Yet he’d warned them—he’d promised them—that he would tell the sheriff, if they turned Carson loose.

So they were taking a chance. They were taking a double chance. They were risking the consequences of setting Carson free—of having him return, to try again. And they were also risking the judgment of the law. They could be indicted for obstruction of justice—or worse.

It was stupid—a senseless, stupid risk.

And Flournoy wasn’t a stupid man. He was devious, and dangerous. But he wasn’t stupid.

“Stay here,” he whispered, rising from the arm of Denise’s chair. “Something’s wrong. I’m going outside:”

“Why? What is it?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Then, in a normal voice, he said, “I’m going outside.”

“Outside?” Calloway asked, instantly alert.

He smiled. “That’s a euphemism. It means I’m going out in back—to the outhouse. We don’t have indoor plumbing here. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Calloway shrugged, yawning as he settled back in his chair.

In the kitchen, he took the outhouse flashlight from its accustomed place above the stove, and opened the back door.

The night was dark and still; the half moon was low in the sky, just above the ridge to the west. The three figures were dimly visible standing to the left of the driveway, close to the small stand of manzanita that had concealed him earlier. The Chevrolet was still parked in the driveway, fifteen feet from the three men.

The clearing surrounding the cabin was bordered by trees and thick-growing underbrush. Moving toward the trees to his left, he began circling the clearing. As he drew closer to the three figures, he heard voices: Mitchell’s deep, even voice, counterpointed by another voice, hoarse and rough—Carson’s voice. With less than fifty feet separating him from the three men, he stepped among the trees. If he was careful, he could advance through the trees close enough to hear them talking without being seen or heard.

Devious. Dangerous. But not stupid.

As he picked his way through the underbrush, the refrain began to recur: taunting, tantalizing, ominous. It was a warning:

Devious. Dangerous. But not stupid.

But warning him of what?

He was closer now—still undiscovered. Still safe. Standing motionless, he saw Mitchell gesture with the shotgun, heard him speak:

“All right. Turn around. Start walking toward the road—toward the gate.”

“But why?” It was Carson’s voice. Unsteady. Afraid. Deathly afraid.

But afraid of what?

Warning him of what?

“Just do it. Come on. Move.”

“I’m—I’m not going to do it.” Terror trembled in Carson’s voice.

Mitchell raised the shotgun, took a quick step forward and drove the muzzle into Carson’s stomach. Instantly, Carson bent double, sagged to his knees, began retching.

“The next one goes across your head.”

“Ah—ah—ah—” It was a helpless, mewling sound. An animal sound.

Like an animal
, he’d said, accusing Flournoy. They planned to beat Carson, a human being, as if he were an animal.

Yet, with his victim helpless before him, Mitchell made no move to beat him. Instead, he wanted Carson on his feet, walking away—

—running away.

Running, so he could be killed. Shot in the back, trying to escape.

The plan to beat him had been a lie—a ruse, explaining why they wanted Carson outside, alone. Without witnesses. So they could kill him. The rifle, with its expended shell in the chamber and Carson’s fingerprints on the forestock and grip, were part of the plan. They would put the rifle in Carson’s dead hands, and claim self-defense.

They wouldn’t claim Carson was trying to escape. They were smarter than that. Instead, they would claim that he was shooting at them, and they were firing back, to save themselves.

“Get up,” Mitchell was saying. “Get up and start walking.”

Slowly, sobbing with the effort, Carson was obeying. Head hanging, knees unsteady, he was on his feet.

“All right, now, walk. Go ahead. Walk toward the gate. When you get to the gate, you can stop. But don’t go out in the road.”

Carson turned, began to stumble forward: the condemned man, facing eternity. Did he know he was facing death? Yes, he knew. The terrible knowledge was plain in the tremor of his voice, and in his dragging, death-house steps.

As their victim approached the gate, the two executioners turned with him, until all three men were facing the road. Slowly, noiselessly, Peter stepped clear of the trees. He would wait. Watch, and wait.

Twenty feet separated Carson from the road. Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Feet braced, holding the shotgun ready, Mitchell was standing close to Carson’s car. Waiting. Coldly, patiently waiting.

Five feet.

Slowly, deliberately, Mitchell was bringing the shotgun up to his shoulder, lowering his cheek to the stock.

“Stop.
Stop.
”

The gun barrel jerked up, then pivoted, seeking him. It was a reflex: an assassin’s instinct. Exclamations erupted, and shouts: angry, confused voices. As the gun found him, he dropped to the ground. He was shouting now, like the others. Screaming:

“
Murderers. Murderers.
”

H
OLLOWAY OPENED HIS EYES
, turned his head, looked at the bedside clock. The time was eight fifteen. Sunlight filtered through the drawn drapes. Beyond the windows, a lawn mower was buzzing. From the direction of the Hollywood Freeway, he could hear the steady rumble of morning commuter traffic.

Morning …

Last night, at ten o’clock, he’d taken the pill: a large white capsule, administered by Doctor Harris. A good-natured warning had come with the capsule—that they mustn’t make this a habit. Followed by a fawning, fatuous laugh.

Last year, the sum total of Harris’ services had come to more than twenty-five thousand dollars, the price of eternal vigilance—the fee for being constantly on call, around the clock. “Preferred patient,” was the term Harris used.

This year the total would be more. Considerably more. The rates for preferred patients, like everything else, had gone up—despite the fact that Harris probably wasn’t very good it his job. Or very conscientious. Or even very honest.

With an effort, he turned on his side and pushed the “kitchen” button: one button of many, part of a console mounted beside the bed.

“Good morning, Reverend.”

It was Clarissa’s rich, African contralto over the intercom. Of all his servants and all his close employees, it was Clarissa who pleased him most. Because, quite simply, Clarissa didn’t give a damn. She didn’t kowtow, but rather was impertinent. Clarissa had a very clear perception of herself and her professional status. She was well aware that, within a mile radius, a dozen Beverly Hills families wanted her to cook for them—probably for more money than he paid.

“It’s a beautiful morning, Reverend. What would you like or breakfast?”

“I’d like orange juice and toast with orange marmalade. And water—a carafe of water.”

“Yessir, Reverend.”

“Is Elton still here?”

“Yessir. He stayed all night.”

“Ask him to come upstairs, will you?”

“Yessir. Right away. How’d you sleep?”

“I slept fine, Clarissa. Just fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Reverend. Your juice and toast will be right up. Maybe I’ll send them with Mr. Elton.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He released the intercom button and sank back against the pillows, closing his eyes. It was time for inventory—for the morning’s ritual summation. On the plus side, his heart was quiet, beating evenly. There was no pain, either across his chest or down his arms. His legs, supported, were languidly at ease. Relieved of their burden, his legs were wonderfully light, almost disembodied.

On the minus side, his throat was parched, his nose and mouth incredibly dry. It was, he knew, a function of the pill he’d taken, to let him sleep. And, because he’d slept so soundly, dried mucous clung to his eyelashes, as persistent as glue.

He should get up, go into the bathroom, wash his face. He should urinate, drink a glass of water, comb his hair. He should receive Elton in dressing gown and slippers, sitting in a chair beside the window, with the drapes open.

Yet there was another possibility. Until urination was a necessity, he could simply lie quietly, luxuriantly aware that nothing was required of heart, or limbs, or lungs, or spirit.

He could simply lie in his bed …

And hope.

And pray.

Yes, this morning, he could pray. Because, this morning, demons raged at the gates—demons that had been stalking him all his life. Last night, slipping into his drugged sleep, he’d glimpsed the monsters clearly: Mary, raving at him from the depths of her demented dreams—her demonic son, dispatched from the depths of hell to torment him—

—to torment Denise. To stalk her. To hold her hostage. To abuse her.

Obscene. Monstrous. Murderous.

Could he pray? Here in this room, alone, could he—

At the door, a knock sounded: Elton’s knock. Why, God, couldn’t it have been Elton, fallen victim to the demon’s wrath? He might have returned from his ordeal a better man—if he returned.