by Warren Adler
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it!”
Her words were drowned out by the chorus of voices, vehement, emphatic, repetitive. As if on cue, the Glories raised their connected arms, pumping them up and down, like some giant centipede caught on its back, squirming. Beyond the circles she saw Jeremiah, smiling a broad, taunting smile, as if proudly reveling in his omnipotence.
Suddenly, she felt herself shunted to one side, feeling the cold hardness of the gun barrel. Barney stood beside her now, feet planted apart, the muzzle of the gun steady. Even his ominous presence made no difference to the Glories. They were oblivious to the danger.
“Satan. Satan. Satan.”
The sound bounced against the nearby hills, echoed back, as if the hills themselves were crying out, alive with hate. She stood there, screaming out her rage. “Stop it. Stop it.” She put her palms over ears.
Jeremiah signaled and silence came again, except for her own voice. Then, she, too, was silent.
From somewhere in the shadows of her mind, another voice stirred, not her own. O’Hara’s. “They have been brainwashed. They have lost their will.”
Hyperbole, she remembered thinking. In her heart, she had protested the possibility. In her mind, she had rejected it. It flew in the face of her values, her beliefs, her concept of human behavior. She was having second thoughts now.
“You cannot take the boy until they give us Amos and Mary.”
It was Jeremiah speaking through a megaphone, covering the lower part of his face. His voice sounded reasonable and calm, despite the amplification.
“We will let you have the boy after they give us Amos and Mary, our brother and sister.” The words floated toward them, deep and resonant.
Kevin stood beside his father, his fingers looped in his belt, frightened and bewildered. She wondered if he was experiencing mortal fear, the same urgent sense of impending doom that assailed her now like a giant wind beating against her face. She fought against it, railed against it, invoked every resource, focusing whatever energy existed inside of her to resist it.
O’Hara’s words rumbled at her: “If people like you continue not to understand, we’ve lost.”
People like me? What would reasonable comprehension be if it were she in that line of Glories? What would register? A man with a submachine gun? A confused child, doomed to a lifetime of trauma because of these events? What would they understand?
Barney stirred beside her. Was he reconsidering? The idea offered the tiniest glimmer of hope, but he was merely unclasping Kevin’s fingers, edging the boy toward her.
“Hold Kevin,” he ordered, casting a determined glance her way. “We’re getting out of here.” In his millisecond of hesitation, it struck her that she might catch him off guard, wrest the gun from his hands. Perhaps even the struggle might burst the bubble, force his reevaluation of their dilemma. Another illusion, she thought, imagining the impending struggle. He was stronger than she was.
“They won’t let you,” she said.
“Not my problem,” he muttered. “They want paradise. I’ll send them there.”
“They’re not in control of their actions, Barney. Their minds are not their own.”
She felt a growing hollowness in the pit of her stomach. Is this me? Am I finally, grudgingly, reluctantly accepting what O’Hara believes?
“You can’t fight mindlessness. Barney, please. They don’t believe they’re ordinary people. They don’t recognize the integrity of their living bodies.”
Barney looked at her and shook his head.
“Too bad, then,” he muttered.
Jeremiah raised his arm again, recharging the chant.
“Satan. Satan. Satan.”
Waves of sound rolled over them, counterpointed by the deep bass of the megaphone as Jeremiah joined in. Kevin buried his head against her belly and she pressed her palms against his ears. His little body shook with terror.
Beside her, the gun’s barrel spit fire. Barney had raised the muzzle, firing rounds above their heads. The chant did not falter, as if the discharged weapon did not exist. Lowering the muzzle, he fired more rounds in a circle above their heads. Still, the chant continued. Her nose caught the acrid smell of gunpowder and hot metal. Kevin huddled against her body and sobbed. She patted his head for comfort. Again, Jeremiah raised his hands and the chanting stopped.
“What is your bullets’ sting against Father Glory’s promise?” the megaphone boomed. She saw Holmes backing away from his position behind Jeremiah. He kept moving, taking cover finally behind the wall of the mess hall.
“It’s no use,” she said, trying to remain calm. “They’ll never let us out of here.” She looked toward the road, searching for dust clouds from any approaching vehicles. Nothing!
“It’s pointless, Barney.”
He glanced at her and smiled ruefully. His face was moist with perspiration and the nerve continued to palpitate in his jaw.
“The Sheriff will come soon,” she pleaded. “Look at Kevin. He’s scared out of his wits. Think of him, Barney. In the name of God….” It sounded ludicrous, invoking God, a concept so distorted in this place. “We’ll go home, fight this thing. This is not the way. We’ll work together. We’ll organize resistance. We’ll tell the world. We can beat them. But not this way.”
He turned toward her, shaking his head. There was no mistaking his contempt.
“Give us the boy,” Jeremiah raged through the megaphone. “Father Glory will not give you the boy until you give us Amos and Mary.”
Barney raised the barrel, pointing it in the direction of the banner with the likeness of Father Glory, and fired. The shots shredded his face, punched out his eyes, obliterating it with smoke and flame. The shots did not stop until the trigger’s empty staccato click showed that the magazine was empty.
“Thank God,” Naomi sighed. When the sound had died, the megaphone, like some disembodied voice, spoke again.
“Give us the boy. We will give him back when we have Amos and Mary,” the megaphone roared.
“Raise your hands,” the megaphone commanded.
Responding to the command, the Glories all raised their hands. Four rows in a circle.
The megaphone cracked again. “Don’t let them through.”
Barney viewed the tight circles of Glories. He raised the muzzle of the submachine gun. Then he shook his head. They returned to the cabin’s interior and locked the door. Naomi hugged Kevin. His body was shaking.
“Sons of bitches,” Barney muttered, leaning against the wall. He dropped to his haunches, putting the gun aside. He put his hands to his face and sobbed.
Soon the chanting began again, then stopped abruptly. In the silence that followed, Naomi heard the sound of a car coming toward the camp. Then she remembered that Barney had destroyed the Sheriff’s car.
Miracles happen, she thought, although she was quickly losing hope.
Chapter 21
It’s not that, the Sheriff’s mind assured him as the commandeered van turned into the camp road, tires gripping the hard dirt ground. O’Hara sat beside the Sheriff. Roy sat in the rear with the girl. As they moved forward, they heard a burst of gunfire.
“Shit,” the Sheriff muttered. Then hopefully, “Could be a backfire.”
“No way,” Roy said. Mary, beside him, giggled.
When another burst came the Sheriff could not deny the reality. He pressed the accelerator. The car bumped and jogged, flinging them upward. The crown of his hat flattened.
Any expectation that his world might miraculously right itself faded with the unmistakable sound of gunfire, leaving him only with the reflex of his professionalism. He was the Sheriff of this county, and his turf had been badly abused. Yet he couldn’t seem to fire up his enthusiasm. If that were true, he’d have called in his men, done the job as prescribed by his official duties.
On
his chest, his badge felt heavy. Perhaps, as a final gesture, he might be accorded some ceremonial disgrace, like the removal of epaulets on the uniforms of military officers who had violated their trust. No such luck. Not now. Not ever. He had no right to lead this pack of avengers.
“It’s the submachine gun,” O’Hara said.
“No answering fire,” Roy said.
Are we going to a goddamned slaughter? He pressed the accelerator, warning those in the car to brace themselves against the ceiling. Another burst exploded in their ears, closer now.
“Sounds bad,” O’Hara said.
“Real bad,” Roy said.
Mary was silent, smiling.
Barney had destroyed his car with the radio in it. It was a petty excuse for not calling in his men. He should have stopped, made the call. Or used his cell phone. He had no excuse.
As the car rattled forward, they saw a man running toward them. It was Holmes, his face bleached like flour in the gray light. Waving his hands, he thrust himself in the car’s path. The Sheriff slammed down on the brakes. None too soon. Holmes slumped over the grill, gasping for breath. He groped toward the window on the driver’s side.
“They’ve gone crazy.” Spittle fell from his lips.
“They?”
“Jeremiah and Harrigan.” He shook his head, eyes blinking. He was sobbing with fear. Really rattled your cage, scumbag, the Sheriff thought. He felt his gut burn. The Sheriff pushed him free of the car, watching him stagger back and fall.
“Son of a bitch,” O’Hara said. “They help create it. Then they run.”
When they got to the camp the Sheriff slammed on the brakes. He had hoped that his professional eye would observe the situation with cool circumspection. It didn’t. They saw the circles of Glories surrounding the building.
“He’s in there,” Holmes gasped, pulling himself to his feet. “Armed and dangerous.”
“Has he killed anyone yet?”
Holmes shook his head.
“Not all bad, then,” the Sheriff said. He turned to Roy in the back of the car. “Stay here with the girl.”
O’Hara and the Sheriff got out of the car and walked toward Jeremiah. The Sheriff drew his pistol. His legs felt stiff as he moved forward. Behind him, O’Hara was following. Jeremiah, who had lowered the megaphone, watched them coming, his face serene.
“Have you brought Amos and Mary?” Jeremiah asked.
The Sheriff ignored the question.
“Harrigan in there?” he asked instead, motioning with his chin toward the building that Holmes had indicated. Jeremiah nodded.
“Get your people out of there,” the Sheriff ordered.
“He has the boy. There is a woman with him. I will see that they are released as soon as you hand over Amos and Mary.”
“First get your people moving. The man is armed and dangerous.”
“We’re not afraid.”
“Maybe you’re not. But what about these kids?”
Jeremiah shrugged.
“We’ll disperse and let them go when you give us Amos and Mary,” Jeremiah said with flat determination. He showed no untoward emotion, appearing exactly the same as before. O’Hara had stopped a few yards from Jeremiah and watched them. Jeremiah ignored his presence.
“We have Mary,” the Sheriff said.
“Not Amos?”
“He ran,” the Sheriff said, censoring himself. He had nearly said “escaped.”
“No deal then,” Jeremiah said.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” the Sheriff asked. “Harrigan will kill your people.”
“Our position was quite clear,” Jeremiah pressed, his fingers toying with the pendant likeness of Father Glory, which hung, beside his whistle, outside his shirt. “The boy in exchange for Amos and Mary.”
The Sheriff searched for some common reality. “I told you. Amos is gone. He ran away.”
“Find him, then.”
He had often dealt with people who had “lost touch.” There was a procedure that one followed—feign entry into the confused mental world, try to find a way into the distorted thinking, utilize the twisted logic. Unfortunately, he had never been confronted with two madmen before.
Easy, he cautioned himself, watching Jeremiah, surveying the circles of disciplined, smiling Glories.
“He’ll slaughter them. He has a submachine gun,” the Sheriff said softly. “Can’t you see?”
“Doesn’t matter. These are Father Glory’s children. If they have to, they’ll go home to the spirit world.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Death is nothing,” Jeremiah said, dismissing it as if it were a bad cold.
“Nothing?” Death nothing? All right for him to say. He felt his own discipline begin to disintegrate, the dam of caution break. The Sheriff took a step toward Jeremiah.
Suddenly he felt a pressure on his forearm.
“Don’t,” O’Hara said, tightening his grip. “It doesn’t end with him.”
“They’re programmed to go if he goes. All of them.” O’Hara looked at Jeremiah, who smiled back at him.
“You touch me and they’ll all die,” Jeremiah said.
“I don’t understand,” the Sheriff said.
“You never did,” Jeremiah said.
“Armageddon,” O’Hara explained.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That liquid in there.” He pointed to the amulet around Jeremiah’s neck. “Cyanide. It’s a death cult, Sheriff. Like most. They believe that the whole purpose of this world is preparation for the other.”
“Exactly,” Jeremiah said.
The Sheriff looked around him, observed the Glories, like robots, poised, blissed out. He hadn’t known or had been in denial. Or both. He felt foolish.
“Our God,” Jeremiah said as if it were a cue. He looked toward the shattered poster of Father Glory. “Father Glory has arranged for our salvation.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Yes, they would,” O’Hara said.
“You’re all crazy,” the Sheriff said.
“Trouble with you, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said, “you don’t understand the power of faith.” Jeremiah looked at O’Hara. “Tell him, Judas.”
“Faith!” O’Hara spat on the ground in disgust.
“What about him?” the Sheriff said, pointing to Father Glory’s picture. Know what you’re dealing with, he urged himself, the first rule of a professional. He thought he knew.
“He’ll deny he ordered it. But he’ll have his martyrs and the illustration of his power. Grist for the mill,” O’Hara said.
“But these are human beings.”
“Grist for the mill,” O’Hara repeated. “No one ever comes back to prove him wrong. Or right.”
The Sheriff groped for alternatives. “I’m going to have to call in the troops.” There was little choice left. It had gotten totally out of hand. He’d have to get to a phone.
“It won’t stop anything. He’s perfectly capable of ordering Armageddon if you send in your boys. What they want is Amos and Mary. Both. Not just one.”
“Listen to him, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said.
Between a rock and a hard place, the Sheriff thought. How the hell could he give them Jack?
The Sheriff looked toward the cabin surrounded by rows of Glories. He admitted to himself his total disorientation.
“The deal was quite clear,” Jeremiah said.
O’Hara caught the Sheriff’s eye. He read the signal and turned to Jeremiah.
“Will you excuse us a moment?” It sounded ridiculous.
“Take your time,” Jeremiah said. They moved out of earshot. The Sheriff had the sensation of participating in a conversation between the pitcher and the coach at the World Series.
“T
hey won’t budge,” O’Hara said, his toe kicking a rock on the ground. “Roy will have to go back and look for the kid.”
“Suppose he doesn’t find him?”
“We’ll have to tell Harrigan what’s up.”
“Think he’ll sit still?”
“He hasn’t killed anyone yet.”
“Not yet.”
He looked deeply into O’Hara’s eyes.
“You think Jeremiah will be crazy enough…?”
O’Hara lowered his voice.
“Look at them all. You tell me.”
“And if we touch Jeremiah, they’ll all do it? Drink that shit? All of them?”
His eyes darted to the transparent pendants, likenesses of Father Glory hanging around the necks of all the Glories.
“Name of the game,” O’Hara said. “Paradise awaits.”
He shook his head, wanting to disbelieve.
“They’ll commit suicide. Just like that.”
“Jonestown, Waco, Al Qaeda. On and on. How much more proof do you need?”
“So it’s stalemate.”
“For the moment.”
“Shit happens,” O’Hara muttered.
“I got to telephone.”
“They won’t let you.”
“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“One option. Roy has got to find Jack. Bottom line.”
In the event that the troops came in, there was no way to keep it under wraps. It was a worldwide event, a featured attraction in the theater of terror. They’d all come barreling in, the FBI, the National Guard. Maybe even the CIA and the Marines. And all those hard-assed media people with their cameras. Horror gets eyeballs. Name of the game.
The Sheriff looked at the circles of Glories, faceless young men and women. All of them someone’s child. He thought of his own boys, the love and sacrifices he and Gladys had made for them. Those in the line represented the hopes and dreams of other parents, torn from their progeny by these ruthless, greedy men. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t natural.
“So what happens now?” The Sheriff felt helpless. It was more than just the nightmare of the eyes now. It was what O’Hara had called it—Armageddon?
