by Warren Adler
“He wants his boy is all,” the Sheriff said. “We give them ours, that should end it.” Whistling in the cemetery, he thought, hating this operation.
They reached a steep part of the road. The Sheriff picked his way down cautiously.
“Maybe he’ll get the kid out before we get there,” the Sheriff said, pausing, then moving forward. He was grasping at straws. Jeremiah wouldn’t resist a determined man with a submachine gun. “At least, that’s what I’m hoping.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
“He’s got one good head start,” O’Hara said.
“If you’re smart, you’ll do the same,” the Sheriff said. “But in the opposite direction.”
They were getting closer to the sound of cars moving along the main highway.
“Jack.” Roy’s voice echoed in the hills. They heard Roy call his name again, then come crashing down the road, the girl in tow.
“He came this way?”
“No.”
“Damn. He flew the coop,” Roy said.
“You deliberately let him go,” Mary said, glaring at Roy.
“He was scared shitless,” Roy said. “Can you blame him?”
“Just not my day,” the Sheriff said.
They all called Jack’s name and got no response.
“He couldn’t have gone far,” Roy proposed, leaving the girl and heading back up the road. They waited.
“He’s up there?” the Sheriff called out.
For a long time there was no response. Then Roy came running back down the road.
“Nowhere in sight.”
“He’s hiding somewhere,” the Sheriff said.
They’ll have to take half a loaf, the Sheriff thought. Hell, the girl would be a consolation prize. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. All this cloak-and-dagger nonsense was taxing. He’d made the fatal mistake: getting emotionally involved.
“Jack can’t be far,” Roy said. “Probably holed up. Doesn’t know what to do.”
“Let the poor bastard be,” the Sheriff said. “Won’t matter much anyway. Harrigan and his son might be long gone once we get there.” He knew he was trying to convince himself. Nothing had gone right from the beginning.
Good riddance, he thought. Out-of-town troublemakers. Maybe he would survive this yet. He’d show them his good faith by not calling in his men. He wouldn’t even call Jeremiah to warn him. Let the fucker look down the muzzle of that gun. Maybe all of them, parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, should descend on them armed to the teeth. Give them back their loved ones, or else. Bam! Maybe Harrigan was right. It might be the only way. If it was his Gladys or the boys, he’d do the same.
“I’ll explain to Jeremiah about Amos,” the Sheriff said.
“I’d like another crack at that one,” O’Hara said, looking at Mary. “Some day.”
The road flattened. They could see the highway just ahead. He’d flag down a car. It was just light enough for them to see his uniform.
“You fellas better hang back. I’ll take the woman.”
“I think maybe we better go with you,” O’Hara said. Roy, his face shiny with sweat, nodded.
“That’s not wise,” the Sheriff said, although he was secretly comforted.
“We’re in it, too,” O’Hara said. “Up to our ass. They know we were doing them?”
The Sheriff nodded.
“Hell, maybe we can talk Harrigan down,” O’Hara said. “Besides, we’re with the law.”
Roy snickered and the Sheriff shook his head and spat on the ground.
“Some law,” he muttered.
They reached the highway. The Sheriff waved his arms at an approaching car.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
He was tired of making decisions for other people, tired of making decisions for himself. He looked at Mary. She was smiling, her eyes vague, inner-directed, her face turned toward him. She was zonked.
Lucky lady, he thought. At that moment, he felt the old latent regret. He should never have left West Virginia.
He stood at the edge of the highway looking for an SUV to flag down. He’d have to drop off the driver and give him a receipt.
Chapter 20
In the opaque gray light, Naomi could see the camp gate, the low wooden buildings and neat, carefully tended paths.
The van was impossible to miss as it chugged and rattled up the sloping road. Beside her, Barney squinted ahead, lips tight, a total stranger now. Earlier, she had tried to penetrate his concentration but had finally given up. What frightened her most was that he appeared cool, deliberate. No hysteria. No panic.
“This is madness, Barney.” It had been her first attempt to persuade him to retreat. He had ignored it. She tried others. Finally, she stopped trying. Yet she felt obliged to say something as he braked the van, paused, and surveyed the camp. He lifted the gun and checked the clip.
“There’s still time to stop this, Barney,” she said. Jeremiah had emerged from the headquarters building, Holmes beside him. The camp, aside from the two men, seemed eerily deserted. They looked toward the van. Smoke curled from the chimney of the dining hall.
“You can’t…,” she began.
“Yes, I can.”
“You could hurt Kevin.”
“That won’t happen.”
He was extraordinarily calm. The memory of what he had done to the Sheriff’s car lingered. He had been calm then as well. Nothing she had ever observed in his character had prepared her for this.
He did not open the door of the van. He just sat there, peering out, waiting. She was certain he had calculated it all beforehand, had written it down in his notebook, an event waiting for its cue. When it would come, he would be fully prepared.
Jeremiah moved forward from the headquarters building and Holmes followed a few paces behind. They moved hesitantly, obviously trying to determine who was in the van. As they came toward them, Barney lowered the barrel of the gun below the dashboard so that it was hidden from their view.
His breathing was steady. He looked relaxed and cool. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She felt on the verge of panic. Halfway toward them, Jeremiah stopped suddenly. Then he turned toward the mess hall and raised his hand. From the building’s entrance, Glories filed out, one by one, in single file, stepping in cadence.
They seemed to have rehearsed the procession. She had the urge to count them, life-size toy soldiers with remarkably similar faces, broadly smiling, eyes vacant. They kept coming, forming a long line from one end of the camp to the other, end to end. When Jeremiah lifted his hand again, the line stopped all movement and they faced the camp gate. It was an impressive illustration of perfect discipline. Next to the banner, a smiling quartet of men with guitars stood stiffly.
So they will have music too, she thought, feeling a thumping begin in her head, a tightening in her chest. Was it fear? This was pageant. Spectacle. A waking dream.
Then Jeremiah lifted his hand again and a huge banner rolled down from the top of the mess hall, a giant photograph of Father Glory, smiling and benign, eyes angled upward into a burst of light.
Then Jeremiah waited, peering ahead. Barney sat calmly in the driver’s seat. The ceremonial aspect of the performance seemed quite clear. It was a welcoming committee for Amos and Mary. Jeremiah must have thought they were in the van. Naomi felt an urge to cry out a warning but held back. They would see the gun soon enough.
Nothing must set Barney off, she decided.
From one of the nearby cabins, she saw a woman emerge holding Kevin’s small hand. The boy was pale and confused, rubbing his eyes, as if he had just awakened from sleep. Her heart leaped with fear.
“There’s the boy,” Jeremiah said. “See, he’s fine.”
Barney had already seen him, but he made no move.
“Put the gun away,” she begged. “There’s still time. Reason with them.”
“Reason?” He turned slowly, facing her. “There is no reason here.”
“Maybe if I explained….”
He shook his head. “Poor Nay. We’ve always been so far apart.”
“Think of Kevin,” she pleaded.
“I am thinking of him,” he said, but his response seemed to mean something more, cryptic, mystical. They were on two different planets.
“Damn it, Barney. It’s wrong.”
He shrugged.
Jeremiah turned to Holmes and they spoke together. Then Jeremiah began to come forward. Naomi saw Barney’s grip tighten on the gun, knuckles whitening. Jeremiah came forward confidently, smiling. His expression was not vacant like the others, but mocking and arrogant. A few yards from the van, Jeremiah stopped. From his vantage, she realized, the light slanting against the glass prevented him from seeing clearly who was inside. He said nothing, looking back at the line of Glories.
“Are our people in the van?” he asked, reaching the open window of the driver’s side.
Barney lifted the barrel of the gun, now fully visible. Jeremiah looked at it dumbly, his features twisting in surprise.
“Bring me my son,” Barney said softly. Jeremiah’s features blurred.
“Where are Amos and Mary?”
“I want my son,” Barney persisted, calm but firm. He shot a look that seemed to say, “See how reasonable I am?”
Jeremiah turned to the line of Glories, then back to face Barney.
“Not until we have Amos and Mary.”
“For God’s sake!” Naomi cried. “Give him the boy.”
Barney lifted the gun, the barrel pointing out of the window, directly at Jeremiah’s head. Still he showed no fear. Did he feel protected by some divine force?
That won’t help! she wanted to shout at him.
“We are not the least bit afraid of that,” he said arrogantly.
“And I’m not afraid of you,” Barney said with quiet resolve. Their conversation seemed almost casual, like a chance encounter in which they might be discussing the weather.
“You have the gun,” Jeremiah said.
“And you have….” He shifted the gun toward the line of Glories. “Them.”
“They have more power than your gun,” Jeremiah said, smiling.
“He will use it,” Naomi said, adopting the reasonable tone employed by the two men.
“I know.”
Looking at Barney, she expected some sign of frustration. Then it occurred to her. He had made peace with himself, an assumption that made him even more dangerous. The men looked at each other, like prizefighters on their stools at opposite sides of the ring.
“So you will not give me my child?” Barney asked, displaying what seemed like infinite patience.
“Not until we get back Amos and Mary.”
Barney opened the van door and got out with almost delicate deliberation, poking the barrel of the gun directly at Jeremiah’s midsection, a bare millimeter from his shirt. Naomi was shocked to find no reaction from the line of Glories, no change in their ranks. They were still smiling dolls, scrubbed and polished, waiting. Only Holmes had moved, had taken a single step. The movement had called him to Naomi’s attention.
“Make him give Barney the boy, for God’s sake,” she ordered the lawyer as she followed Barney out of the van. Holmes started to move again, bewildered and uncertain. Then he halted, watching them. She surveyed the frozen tableau of the Glories in perfect formation, their eyes staring but unseeing, as if they were blind.
“You don’t understand,” Jeremiah said softly.
“I’m afraid not,” Barney responded.
Only then did she see the nerve palpitate in his jaw, a tangible sign of his beginning agitation.
“There’s no point to this,” she began, adopting an even reasonableness. She turned to Barney. “I’m sure there are other ways to handle this.” She found herself trying to smile, searching for ways to be persuasive, ingratiating. “You’re grown men. Be rational.”
Barney sighed, his glance darting toward her for a moment, then back to Jeremiah, whose features remained impassive. “What will it take for her to understand?” It seemed a question delivered directly to Jeremiah. Barney did not wait for an answer.
“I’m going to get my son now,” he said slowly, backing away, still pointing the gun at Jeremiah’s midsection. Naomi looked toward the boy, who continued to hold the woman’s hand.
“Daddy,” Kevin cried, his voice carrying in the silence. He squirmed in the woman’s arms, but could not break free.
“Come with me, Nay,” Barney said. It was more of a plea than a command. He spun around, taking a single step, moving the gun in an arc. She was conscious of making the choice as she moved ahead of him.
He spun again, slowly stepped backward, then spun again in a circle like a dancer in a carefully choreographed ballet. He made sure to cover both sides of the Glory line, his eyes alert. Step by step, Barney moved backward in the direction of the cabin, where the woman clutched the boy’s hand.
They passed Holmes. She saw his ashen face, the expression tense and frightened.
“Can’t you make them stop this?” she begged, but he averted his eyes and she knew he was as powerless as she.
She moved in tandem with Barney, stepping backward, watching the smiling faces of the Glories, empty and indifferent, like carved figures resembling people. Halfway to the boy, Jeremiah raised his hand again. When she turned again the boy and the woman had disappeared. The boy’s cry, muffled and angry, came from the interior of the cabin.
Barney spun, gyrating, his eyes calm and alert, although the nerve continued to palpitate in his jaw and a rim of perspiration glistened on his cheeks and forehead. As she moved, she tried to fix her mind on some future moment in time. Sooner or later the Sheriff had to arrive. Rescue would come in the nick of time. Considering the tension and the stubbornness of Barney, he had better hurry. Even the air seemed devoid of movement, a calm so empty and inert that it could only spring to life explosively.
They reached the steps of the building. She stood beside him, the muzzle of the gun roaming the air, like a telescope observing the silent row of Glories. She felt no kinship of humanity. Except in form, they did not resemble real people, people of flesh and blood, her own kind.
“The door.”
Barney had barked the order. But his voice sounded alien as if another species had invaded him, transformed him. Even his body seemed different. Not the Barney Harrigan of her reality and certainly he was not the Barney from so long ago.
She bounded up the three wooden steps, confronting the door. She turned the knob, found it locked, struggled against it, then banged on it with the heel of her hand. She felt the dam of emotion break inside of her. Her fists banged impotently against the wooden door, shaking her body. She turned and saw Barney still poised, the barrel arcing like a pendulum. From inside, she heard Kevin’s pleading voice.
“Daddy.”
“Step aside,” Barney said softly. His body braced. He shifted his weight and aimed a running kick at the door with his foot. It swung open. Still, the waxwork army remained motionless.
“Inside,” he ordered. She obeyed instantly. She saw Kevin, who rushed into his father’s arms. His body shook with sobs as he clung to his neck. The young woman who had been with him stood in the corner smiling, eyes as glazed and vague as the others.
“We love him,” she said. Like the others, there was no sign of fear. Love! The word hung in the air, leaden, without any meaning that she could understand. As Barney moved in, stepping backward, Naomi saw the woman disappear, withdrawing through the door in a quiet breeze of motion, like an apparition fading.
“It’s all right, son,” Barney said, patting Kevin with his free hand.<
br />
Through the partially open door Naomi saw the first movement begin outside. As a reflex, she fell against the door, pushing it closed, bracing it with her back, facing the barrel of Barney’s gun which was now poised at the level of her breasts. Kevin still clung to his father’s waist. He had stopped crying and his moist eyes searched her face, uncomprehending.
“Barney, please. Think.”
“I am,” he said, holding the barrel steady.
“They won’t let you leave. You saw them. They’re not in control. They don’t know what they’re doing. It’s not their fault.”
“Whose, then?”
“I don’t know. Just wait. The Sheriff will come. He’ll bring Amos and Mary. That’s all they want. Then we can go home. Think of Kevin. His life.”
“And Charlotte? You want me to forget her?”
His eyes probed her.
“Nothing will bring Charlotte back. You’ll only hurt Kevin.”
The barrel wavered, giving her courage. She hesitated, unable to find words, watching the moisture rise in his eyes, tears spilling over his lids. His lips trembled.
“I need to make them understand,” he said, blinking through the tears.
“Leave it alone, Barney. Don’t….”
Outside she heard chanting begin.
“Satan. Satan. Satan.”
The sound rolled toward them, filling the room.
“Satan. Satan. Satan.”
The barrel rose against her chest, and she saw his knuckles whiten as he held the gun’s grip.
“Don’t listen to it,” she cried, above the quickening din.
“Satan. Satan. Satan.”
The sound came in rising waves, echoing and re-echoing, triggering waves of panic. This cannot, could not, be reality, she told herself. This doesn’t happen in real life. Not here.
She opened the door a crack. The Glories were lined up in a circle surrounding the building. There were four layers of them. They held hands, blocking the way out. They continued to chant.
“Satan. Satan. Satan.”
It was maddening, relentless, designed to focus their energy and terrorize observers.
