Spellbinder (35 page)

Power. Certainty. Success.

They were all his—in mere minutes, all his. Already he could sense the rush of excitement, of sensation, of the wild, kaleidoscopic lights and screams and the blood spattering everything: the frenzied faces, the stage where Holloway lay dying, the camera lens, pulled in for one last closeup.

And, alone in the carnage—above it all, beyond it all—he would be motionless: seeing, sensing, willing—powerful, masterful. In control.

The master of it all.

Still—always—the master.

It had been so easy—so inevitable. Because never, for even a single moment, had he doubted himself. Not once had he lost control. Even walking down the driveway from the cabin, feeling the presence of the shotgun at his back as surely as if the gun had been touching him, he’d never doubted that he would escape them. He’d been ready to dive into the underbrush, to run, to elude them in the darkness when—a miracle—the one called Giannini had cried out. The momentary confusion had given him the single second he’d needed to escape. Yet even then, he could have made a mistake—could have paid with his life. He could have run—and run—leaving them a trail of sound, to track him with their guns.

Instead, he’d gone to ground. Calmly, in complete control, he’d lain motionless behind a log, listening to the sounds of their frantic searching. He’d heard their shouts. He’d laughed when they cursed, crashing through the underbrush. He’d watched their single flashlight futilely bob and wink through the trees, farther and farther away.

Until, finally they’d given up. They’d given up. They’d gotten into their cars, and they’d driven away.

They’d left him with a pocketful of change and two keys—the key to the Chevrolet, and the key to the locker, at Los Angeles International.

Realizing that they might be expecting him to try for the Chevrolet, he’d struck off instead through the woods, paralleling the road, walking back the way he’d come the day before, following the girl. With dawn breaking, he’d finally come to a small settlement: a cluster of stores and a gas station. In the weeds behind the gas station, he’d found a rusted screwdriver. He’d used it to pry open a newspaper vending machine, getting sixteen dollars in silver. With the money in his pocket, he’d hitchhiked to Los Angeles. Answering questions about his appearance, he’d said that his car had been wrecked, and he was returning home to his parents. That night, after getting the .45 from the locker, he’d used the gun to rob a grocery store of almost four hundred dollars.

It was all the money he’d needed to bring him here—now—dressed in a blue blazer and white shirt with tie, sitting quietly with his hands clasped across the Bible and the storybook, listening to Austin Holloway’s voice rise and fall—exhorting the sinners, fleecing the suckers.

Salvation and Sacrifice
. …

Yes, Reverend—yes, Father. Preach on. Do the dance your father taught you. Repeat the lies. Diddle the faithful this one last time. Enjoy these last minutes on earth. Rejoice that you will soon depart, bound for the Pearly Gates and beyond, showing the way for all to follow. Blood-smeared. Twitching. Choking on your own blood. Dying, with your dead eyes rolled up toward heaven.

And toward the camera, seeing it all.

All.

With the moment coming closer, there was a tremor beginning, deep inside. It was the same trembling he’d experienced before—so often before, in so many dark, dangerous rooms, listening to his victims breathing rhythmically in the night, sleeping while he crept close beside them, his life momentarily joined with theirs, both risked on the scrape of a shoe in the dark, or an eye winking open. And all for whatever he could find in the darkness—all for a wallet on the dresser, or jewelry tucked away in a drawer.

But not just for the money, or the jewelry. Not for things—but rather for the feeling, for the power.

The power …

Life or death, his decision. He could steal, or he could kill. He could control them all—just as Holloway did, on stage. They were the same, he and Holloway. Exactly the same. Both of them took from the unwary and the unsuspecting—for the thrill of it. He with his burglar tools, long ago, and now with the gun. Holloway with his microphone clipped to his lapel, trailing a cord like some obscene umbilicus. Scheming. Lying. And, therefore, stealing.

Yes, stealing. And, therefore, killing. Because it was all the same; murder was merely one more theft. The last theft—the final escape. And it all began in small, dark rooms smelling of sour sleep: he with hands groping blindly for trinkets, Holloway with his penis—probing, thrusting, finally exploding inside her. Sending her straight to hell: a madwoman, with her face grotesquely painted, sitting in front of the TV, watching him preach.

“And so, my friends, we come to the close of this service—to the final words.” Holloway lifted his eyes from his father’s prayer book, and looked out over the congregation.

Was he out there, somewhere beyond the lights?

Which one among the thousands was he, Mary’s bastard?

Where was Mitchell—the guards—the protection he’d been promised? Why, suddenly, did he feel so vulnerable? Why did he feel so alone—so terribly alone? Had he always been so alone? Was that the message—the real message? Was loneliness the real truth?

Two seconds of silence had passed. Three seconds. Four. He must begin again, must take up the burden that his Daddy had lain upon his young, strong shoulders:

“And today, my friends, I have a very special message for you—a message that comes straight from my heart. It comes straight from my heart, and I pray to God that the message will enter your heart like an arrow shot by the Lord God Almighty, laden with love. Because, my friends, this meeting today is about sacrifice and salvation. And I want to tell you, friends, that there can be no salvation without sacrifice. As we give, so shall we receive. It’s a natural law—God’s law, and man’s law. If we want something—anything—we have to sacrifice to get it. You know that, friends, and so do I. It’s a fact of everyday life as real as the price of meat and potatoes.

“And so, friends, as you and I begin this great crusade that will roll across mighty oceans and pierce barriers of language and custom and save uncounted millions for Christ among the teeming, benighted hordes of the most populous nation on earth—when we labor together for the salvation of that vast heathen multitude—we realize that we must make sacrifices, if this crusade is to succeed. We must make great, unprecedented sacrifices. Because if we don’t sacrifice, we’ll fail, friends. It’s as simple as that.

“And so—” He raised his hand. “And so, when you leave this Temple of the Lord and return to your homes today, or when you switch off your TV sets, all across this vast country, I would like you to consider your many blessings. I would like you to sit down in your comfortable living room, and I would like you to send us a check, friends, to be used in this great crusade for God. Yes—” He looked up directly into the key camera, solemnly nodding. “Yes, friends, that’s what I said. I would like you to send a check. I would like you to do it now. Today.” Still staring into the key camera, he let a long, deliberate beat pass. Then: “This is the first time—the very first time—that I have made such an appeal. And some of you, perhaps, will be shocked, at my directness.” He paused again—two seconds, three seconds. Beyond the lights, he could sense the audience shifting.

“But, as I stand here before God, I tell you that I am not ashamed to make this appeal. It is my sacrifice—my sackcloth, if you will, and my ashes. Someone has to do it. Someone has to make this sacrifice, if God’s work is to be done. And that person, my friends, is I.” He held his eyes steady on the camera for a final moment, then slowly lowered his gaze to the rostrum, and to the rows of seats just beyond the footlights. This time, he saw Mitchell, solid as a rock, nodding. Everything was ready, then. A little prayer, the altar call, and it was a wrap. Home free.

Around him, spectators were shifting in their seats. Some of them were rising. Blinking, he looked toward the stage. Holloway was standing with both arms upraised, head lifted up toward heaven—toward the TV camera, directly above. He was praying for the lost among them, inviting those who had sinned to come forward and confess, and let him pray for them.

It was the altar call.

Throughout the entire audience, people were rising to their feet, moving from their seats to the aisles, beginning to file down the aisle to the stage, where Holloway awaited them, still with his arms raised, still praying for the camera.

All the time had gone. Today—yesterday—tomorrow: all of it was gone. Everything.

As he, too, was rising. Answering the call.

In his left hand, as he’d rehearsed it, he carried the storybook. In his right hand he carried the Bible. The .45 was thrust in his belt on the left side, its butt turned to the right. The blue blazer was closely buttoned, concealing the pistol.

He was in the aisle now, moving forward. Ahead, a teenager in a long white dress was smiling at him, urging him forward, lifting her hand to him in a gesture of pious invitation. She was a guide—an “usherette in the service of the Lord.”

He was smiling as he passed, gravely exchanging a solemn nod with her. The stage was just ahead, built shoulder high. Already some were kneeling down before the stage, where Holloway still stood with eyes closed, arms raised—praying.

Another guide was smiling at him now, gesturing for him to move to the right. He was obeying her. He would move to the right, find a place in line, join the kneeling figures. He would place the Bible on the floor. With his right hand he would draw the pistol, covering it with the storybook.

And he would wait for Austin Holloway to bless him.

Father, forgive us our sins.

“The Lord will bless you,” Holloway murmured, laying his hand on the woman’s white-haired head, elaborately ringleted. The woman was raising a blue-veined hand, reaching for the hem of his jacket as she knelt before him. The hand sparkled with diamonds: big, blazing diamonds. Tens of thousands of dollars, just on the one hand.

“We need you,” he added. “The Lord and I, we need you very much.”

Upraised to him, her face was a mass of ancient wrinkles. Behind rhinestone-studded glasses, her eyes were streaming tears. She was trying to speak, trying to make him understand. But the camera couldn’t wait, or the network, either.

Kneeling, he realized that his movements were automatic, independent of himself. He was seeing everything, feeling nothing. Like twin cameras, his eyes, were focused in this new direction, registering everything that came before him: the kneeling figures, the spectators in the first row, smiling encouragement …

… and the big, broad-shouldered man dressed in a blue suit, watching him with his killer’s eyes.

Mitchell.

He was conscious of the Bible falling from his hand, striking the floor at his feet. The storybook was falling, too—falling slower, floating down, its pages outspread. The .45 was in his hand as he turned toward the stage. The gun was coming up, almost aligned with the figure standing alone on the stage.

But something had struck him a quick, cruel blow. The sound of explosions was deafening. Now a wild confusion of strangers’ faces whirled around him, tilted, fell away. He was falling, too—slowly, gently, like the storybook. A light was blinking bright in his eyes: a spotlight, shining from the wings. But he still held the gun, struggling to lift it higher, higher. On the stage, motion-stopped, Holloway stood with arms upraised: a doomed prophet, his face chalky white, his eyes round and innocent. It was a deadman’s face, mortally stricken, with its surprised eyes staring helplessly down at the gun, raised between them.

But the gun was falling away, too heavy to hold. He was on his knees now, struggling to raise the gun. Directly above him, Holloway was kneeling, too—staring down at him with a terrible intensity, trying to make him see—to make him understand. But the lights were fading now. And the sounds were softer. The screaming was no more than a murmur: echoes from the past, almost gone. He lost sight of the stricken face above him. The echoes had faded into silence. He was lying on his back, helplessly looking up into other faces, clustered in a circle above him. They were the same faces that had always pursued him: the strangers’ faces …

… haunting him.

Hating him.

But now the faces were following the sounds of their voices, fading away. Finally still. Finally silent. Forever gone.

He saw the figure turn toward him, saw the Bible and the oversized prayer book fall away. Eyes blazed behind horn-rimmed glasses, a disguise. The eyes were a strange, dead brown. Mary’s eyes.

Mary, Mary, Mistress Mary.
It had been their secret, a pet name.

The pistol was swinging toward him, almost in line. The sound of screaming filled his ears. But not his screaming, not on camera.

Please, God, not on camera.

God.

Yes, he’d done it. He’d called out for God.

A shot sounded. One shot. Two shots: thunderclaps sent down from heaven. Mitchell’s thunder, saving him, one last time. Now the murderer’s pistol was faltering, falling. The murderer was sinking slowly to his knees, a penitent with all the others, declaring for Christ. Bowed down. Bloody.

Dying.

Dead.

But why, then, was he also on his knees? Was he praying, performing for the sinners? Would the pain in his chest let him pray?

No.

He couldn’t pray, couldn’t speak. Instead, he was falling. Slowly, gently falling, cradled by some unseen grace, watching over him as he came down. Because he’d fallen on his back. Praise God, he’d fallen on his back …

… so that, directly above the podium, between himself and heaven, the key camera could see his face. It was a good, clear closing shot …

… to final fade.

S
HE LOOKED TO HER
right. Had she seen the glow of a tiny red light in the offstage darkness?

God, there it was: a ruby glow below a TV camera. Signifying that, yes, that camera was rolling. She turned her head to the left. Yes, that camera was rolling, too.