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. Wi
th 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.
Thirty-Three
SHE 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.
Recording this record turnout—this final triumph for Austin Holloway, lying in the huge oaken casket, center stage.
She’d come back to where she’d started, many years ago—to this same stage, staring at these same tiny red lights. At first, the lights had totally intimidated her. But, slowly, she’d learned to accept them, to live with them. Yet, throughout her life, the red lights had never released her.
Just as her father had never released her—or her mother, sitting beside her. Or her brother, standing now at center stage, where her father had always stood. With both arms lifted high, eyes raised, trailing the long microphone cord that she’d always associated with her father, Elton stood in the vortex of three golden spotlights. It was a lighting effect that had always been reserved for The Hour’s most climactic moments, all stops pulled out. As she listened, Elton’s voice began to tremble. Was the tremor calculated, or real? She couldn’t decide—just as, in the past, she’d never been able to decide where her father’s art left off and his true feelings began.
“… and so I ask You, Lord,” Elton was saying, still with his hands raised high, “I ask You to pause for a moment in Your labors, and listen to these last few words—these-final words.” He paused a moment, to emphasize yet another evocation of his father’s ritual incantation. “I ask You to recall, with me, all the sinners that, over the years, my father has turned from the devil’s work to Your bright, shining service. I ask You to remember, Lord, that Austin Holloway has always been Your faithful servant and—yes—Your partner, too. I ask You to remember that, literally with his last breath, he was mounting an assault in Your name on the largest country in the world, that haven of heathens, where Your words and Your works are ignored.”
Another pause. Slowly, the raised arms came down, the head came level. Then, looking directly into the camera, he lowered his voice to a solemn, intimate note. “He died in Your service, Lord. He died on the firing line—on the field of battle, as so many brave Christian soldiers have died before him. His enemy was a poor, demented youth—someone enlisted by your enemies, and given a gun, and told to kill Austin Holloway, Your servant. And, even though the assassin failed—even though one of Your soldiers killed him, before he could fire his fatal bullet—the shock was too much for my father’s poor heart, already weakened in Your service, Lord. And so he died. And, as he lay dying, his last words were spoken to his assassin, forgiving him.”
Another pause—the final pause.
“Austin Holloway is gone,” Elton intoned. “You have lost a good and faithful servant, Lord—and I have lost a father. We are both losers.
“And yet, Lord, You are not forsaken. Because—with Your permission—I intend to carry on my father’s work. I intend to take Your word to every part of this great country—and into every corner of the world. Where my father reached a million souls through Your miracle of television, I promise You that I will reach tens of millions, carrying Your message to every sinner who will listen, or watch.
“And so—” At the words, background music began. Sister Teresa stepped forward, ready. “And so, it is time for us to close this service. It is time for us to commend the soul of Austin Holloway to Your eternal care. A-men.”
Stepping back, Elton bowed his head, standing with his hands clasped on his grandfather’s prayer book. It was the same pose her father had always assumed, after the final words. On cue, Sister Teresa began Onward, Christian Soldiers. In the w
ings, the two cameras were pivoting in opposite directions, one to roam the audience, the other to play across the faces of the choir. Today the cameras would be seeking out the tear-streaked faces—while, above, the key camera remained on Sister Teresa’s face. It was written into her contract.
Among the faithful watching on nationwide TV, all rating records were doubtless being broken.
Turning her head, Denise looked at her mother, on her left. Eyes dry, face composed, her mother was staring straight ahead. Her eyes were clear; she was sober. For two days, the bottles of gin delivered to her room had gone unopened. Was it shock? Or was it a miracle? She hadn’t dared to ask—and hardly dared to hope. She could only wonder whether the obvious might be true: that the real cause of her mother’s alcoholism had been excised.
Last night, her mother had taken her to her bedroom, where they’d looked at old family photographs, some of them ninety years old. Occasionally, she’d seen her mother’s eyes wander to the armoire where the gin bottles were kept. But only momentarily, only tentatively.
When she’d left her mother’s room, the time had been almost 2 A.M. At the door, they’d held each other close. For the first time since she’d been a girl, she’d felt strength in her mother’s embrace. Strength, and something more—hope, or purpose.
On stage, the last strains of Onward, Christian Soldiers were drawing to a tremulous close. The audience was stirring. The red lights above the cameras winked out.
It was another wrap.
Except that, today, the usherettes would form the faithful into a long line of mourners, waiting patiently to file past the casket. For this part of the ceremony, the casket would be open.
And she would be gone.
Without speaking to Flournoy, or to Mitchell, or to her brother, she would leave this monstrous place.
Tomorrow, she would go to the funeral. Beside her mother, she would play her assigned role—as she was playing it now. But that would be the end. After tomorrow, the time of the scavengers would begin. Elton, Flournoy, Sister Teresa, even Pastor Bob—all of them would be scrambling for the leftover spoils. And for the camera angles. And the perks. And the contract terms.
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