The Madness of Mercury (16 page)

I eased inside and pulled my collar up. From a corner, I scanned the room, hoping to see someone I recognized from the crowd of demonstrators outside my apartment. I shivered when I thought of the man who’d held a knife to my throat and the man who’d stood with binoculars at the other side of the tennis courts. That second man could have been a curious neighbor, but my instincts told me he’d been in charge of orchestrating the commotion outside my apartment. Even if he was here tonight, though, I wouldn’t know. He’d been too far away for me to get a good look at his features.

None of the faces in the lobby were familiar. Some men in jackets and jeans looked as if they did manual labor. They had hard faces and calloused hands. A few were accompanied by wives or girlfriends. There were white, Asian, Hispanic, and African-American faces among the crowd. I heard Spanish and Russian spoken in muted conversations. I didn’t see a lot of designer labels in the room.

The lights flashed, as if at a play’s intermission, and everyone ditched their paper coffee cups and napkins and moved toward the stairs leading to the lower level of the theater. I joined the throng, curious to see what the attraction was all about. In the auditorium itself, the house lights were lit, allowing everyone to find a seat. I followed the crowd and snagged a seat halfway down one side, next to the aisle. I left my coat on in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

A few minutes later, the house lights dimmed and piped-in music with a gospel flavor filled the space. It grew in volume and reached a crescendo as the rear doors were flung open and the choir entered, picking up the thread of the music, humming and singing. The choir numbered at least fifty. They wore purple robes and slowly marched and sang their way down the center aisle, finally climbing to the stage. The piped-in music diminished and the choir went into its full routine. The congregation clapped in rhythm and sang along. The music increased in tempo. The singers formed a semicircle around the upstage area, swaying in unison. Many people stood in the aisles, others held their arms up, waving them in time to the music. As the gospel choir reached fever pitch, a man in white robes, carrying a Bible, entered from the wings. He was taller than any other person on stage, well over six feet. His hair was bright red, naturally curly and slicked back, rising in the front. His face was gaunt, with a strong jaw and full, sensuous lips. Energy like an electrical charge, almost sexual, pulsed from the stage and swept over the audience.

“Welcome.” He spoke one word and the entire theater was at full attention. Holding out his arms, he said, “Jesus.” The choir picked up the name, singing it in harmony. The room vibrated. “Jesus loves you.”

The crowd shouted in response. “Amen.”

“Jesus loves you. He doesn’t care if you’re poor. He doesn’t care if you’re needy. He doesn’t care if you’re old or sick or homeless.” The man’s voice rose. “He doesn’t care if you’ve sinned.” The choir echoed his words at intervals. “He only cares that you’ll come to him and kneel down and seek his forgiveness. He has sent me to care for his flock. To care for you.”

The power of the man was fascinating. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He swayed the room with his words, with his voice. I felt a martial energy. He had to have a fire sign rising. Aries perhaps, no, Leo. Definitely Leo. Mercury must be prominent in his chart to give him the ability to move the crowd to this extent. I wanted to know his birth information. In spite of myself, I was impressed. I fought the impulse to be part of the energy in the room. To someone less cynical than I, less sophisticated, more in need, Reverend Roy would have enormous influence. He spoke of Jesus’s love and compassion, of the need to care for each other. It all sounded just wonderful, but what darkness lay beneath? What was his real agenda?

I’m not a joiner. I don’t understand the need to belong to a group. I do understand the need to be close to loved ones, but identifying with any group and being swept away by religious fervor is not in my makeup. I consider myself a spiritual person and believe in a force for good in the universe. I have great respect for anyone’s faith, but I do tend to be skeptical of those who say they are God’s messenger.

As Reverend Roy spoke, the choir hummed in the background. His voice rose stronger and faster, each sentence punctuated by an
“Amen”
from the congregation and the choir. I once attended a Buddhist ceremony where everyone chanted in unison for a long period; it felt to me as if the building would rise off its foundation from the power of the sound. But the Prophet’s show beat it all. It was super-charged and produced very cleverly, yet it rested on the energy of one man with an intense talent.

“We all render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s due, my brothers and sisters. But there comes a time when we must render unto God that which is His. And may God help those who impede that rendering. God may stay His hand in wreaking vengeance upon them, but as an instrument of God, my brothers and sisters, I will not stay mine!” His eyes burned across the sea of faces and looked directly at me. I was sure of it. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. That’s when I heard it—the Reverend shouted, “The Bible says, ‘
For without are dogs and sorcerers, and whoremongers … and whosoever maketh a lie. Do not listen, for the Lord shall smote them and punish them.
’”

This man was most certainly behind it all. He had compelled his followers to go forth and punish anyone who would speak against him.

I glanced around the auditorium. Many people were standing, some lay prostrate in the aisles, and others rose to get a better view. I did the same. Across the room, closer to the stage, I saw a tall figure, a woman. She was standing, her hands raised at every “Amen,” her face slack in an ecstasy of fervor. I stared. I realized with a shock the woman was Gudrun.

S
EVENTEEN

B
UNDLING MY COAT AROUND
me, I moved quickly up the aisle, pushing through the padded doors to the darkened entryway. I was certain Gudrun had not seen me, focused as she was on the Reverend. I climbed the stairs and took a deep breath when I hit the sidewalk. I needed to talk to someone. I was shaken by what I’d witnessed. This was powerful stuff. Impressive, but very dangerous if misused. I kept going until I hit Market Street and then called Don at his office.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“On Mason, heading toward Market.”

“You just caught me. I’m working late on a project tonight and just about to grab some dinner. I’ll meet you halfway. There’s a deli at the corner of Taylor and Turk.”

Relief washed over me hearing Don’s familiar voice. I wasn’t sure what I found more upsetting: the fact that I’d been targeted by the Reverend Roy’s followers, or the realization of the kind of control one man had over a crowd. And Gudrun! Who very kindly drove Eunice to services. But it was the other way around—
she
was instrumental in proselytizing Eunice. Was Dorothy aware? And if Evandra had suspicions about Luis’s death, could Gudrun be involved?

I hurried along Market, and when I entered the deli, I spotted Don at a padded booth on the side. He held up his hand to get my attention.

I slid across the vinyl banquette. “I’m not sure I’m hungry.”

“Too late. I ordered for both of us. Now tell me, what’s going on? You didn’t sound quite right on the phone.” Don is a huge guy, tall, close to three hundred pounds, a techno-geek with thick glasses and a razor-sharp mind, and he has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s always reminded me of a large, unkempt teddy bear, although I’d never in a million years tell him that.

While in college, I’d shared my small apartment in the Sunset, near the university, with a woman named Denise. Denise and Don were an item in those days, and Don was crazy about her. After college, Denise left to join a vegetable-growing commune near the Oregon border. Don was heartbroken and took to hanging out at the apartment at all hours looking for support and sympathy. He eventually got over the heartbreak and now is happily married to his high school sweetheart. They have a three-year-old boy who looks like Don cloned himself.

His concern made me feel better, even though nothing had changed. Just the fact that I had good friends who were willing to watch my back was comforting.

I shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain … I went to a Prophet service.”

“Hmm.” Don sat silently and stared at me. “And? Are you now ready to join his flock?”

“Don, it was frightening. He held them in the palm of his hand. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. The
control
he had over that crowd. I mean the service itself was well orchestrated. Piped-in music, virtually choreographed, gospel singers, well-put-together—but there was a dark energy. I can’t put my finger on it. His eyes burned. I felt as if he stared straight at me and knew I was there and I was his enemy. It was frightening.”

“Now you’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

The waitress arrived and placed a heaping hot pastrami with cheese on a huge roll in front of me. Don’s dish was a platter with two of the same.

“Eat up, Julia. You’re too skinny.”

I couldn’t imagine getting that huge sandwich inside of me, but when I lifted up the top bun and smeared dark mustard over the inside, my stomach growled. I was starving. I took a bite. It was fantastic. Warm cheese dribbled down my chin and I hastily wiped it off.

“You don’t know what you’re messing with, Julia. Local politicians love this guy. Haven’t you seen the pictures we’ve run in the paper? And I told you what I think. He’d do anything to build a power base. So you’re right to be frightened—where’ve you been?”

“In my own little world, I guess. Where the hell did he come from?

“Bayou country. Louisiana.”

“That much I know.”

“Started preaching when he was just a kid at one of those revival tent things. Said it was his calling. Clever guy. He did the same thing down south. Built up his church preaching a similar kind of message, opened soup kitchens, housing for the destitute and elderly, the whole ball of wax. Had a few local politicians on his side too. Very charismatic. People just loved him there.”

“So why here of all places? All I’ve heard is that he thinks San Francisco is debauched.”

“From what I can gather, the church and its retreat got some bad publicity. Some woman came forward with a story she had been held against her will and beaten, but she couldn’t actually prove it. No one backed up her story, so she dropped the charges. Now God has spoken to him and he’s decided he’s needed in San Francisco.

“Let me guess: San Francisco is a ‘hotbed of blasphemy and devil worship’?”

“They’re big believers in Satan.”

I shivered. “Great! And I’m a tool of Satan, I suppose.”

“He’s got his church in the city and a compound north of here, up around Lakeport, I think it is. Same kinda set-up. Summer camp for kids, a homeless shelter, a retirement village. Everybody loves this guy—his congregation, cops, social workers, politicians, society people. You wouldn’t believe it. Lots of people have the impression his followers are poor, but that’s not the case at all. Plus, he donates piles of money to good causes and charities.”

Don polished off his first pastrami sandwich and started on the second. “He gets invited to all the biggest events, photo ops with senators and the mayor. Everybody likes what he has to say. Personally, I think the guy’s a whack job. I’ve watched him on TV and there’s definitely something off.”

“So why is everyone so supportive?”

“One very good reason. He controls a lot of people. And believe me, he can get out the vote. If he wiggles his little finger, three or four thousand people will demonstrate, march, vote for the candidate he suggests. No politician is going to cross his path. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. The scary thing is how fast it’s all happened.”

“And what about the people he judges to be driven by Satan?”

“Yeah, I know. Crazy, huh?” Don shoveled a steaming pile of pastrami that had slipped out of the bun into his mouth and wiped a spot of mustard from his fingers. “But all the psychics, astrologers, numerologists, and past-life readers in the city—even the gays, with all their political power—don’t amount to a hill of beans when politicians are worried about their constituents. Besides, if some members of his congregation take it upon themselves to harass some poor unsuspecting astrologer, well … he didn’t tell them to do it, they did it on their own. He’s not responsible. Look,” Don continued, “everybody’s sick of crime, prostitution, drugs. So what if he says his mission is to rid San Francisco of sin and the followers of the devil.”