The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Deliberately, Holloway allowed a long moment of silence to pass as he stared full into Flournoy’s colorless eyes. Then, precisely on the beat that would produce the provocative emphasis he intended, speaking very softly, he said, “What is it, would you say, that they want from me?”

  Holding Holloway’s gaze with his own, Flournoy matched the other man’s quiet gravity as he said, “They want to control the way the country votes. And they think you might be able to do that for them. And if you can—” Like Holloway, he allowed a significantly timed silence to finish the thought.

  Holloway remained motionless for a moment, still staring at his chief of staff. Then, rising heavily to his feet, he turned to Mitchell. “I’m going to talk to Elton. Then I’m going to my room. I’m going to my room, and I’m going to ask divine guidance.”

  Also rising, Mitchell nodded silently, with deep compassion.

  “You’ll have him watched,” Holloway said. “Closely.”

  “Yes,” Mitchell answered quietly. “He’ll be watched. Around the clock.”

  “Good. Thank you, Lloyd.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I want you where I can find you, Lloyd, when I need you. Do you understand?”

  With infinite regret, Mitchell nodded again. “Yes,” he answered. “I understand.”

  24

  HE OPENED THE DOOR with a passkey, entered the room without knocking, slipped the passkey into his pocket. One lamp was lit, in a far corner of the room. Slightly snoring, Elton lay on his back, his head on the pillow. As Holloway approached the bed, he looked at the bedside clock, a reproduction of a French antique. The time was almost exactly midnight.

  Should he remain standing while he spoke the words?

  Should he awaken his sleeping son or let him sleep?

  These were important considerations, matters of extreme gravity, once-in-a-lifetime decisions.

  It was established, certainly, that the subconscious controlled the thoughts, therefore controlled the man. And it had also been established that, awake or asleep, the subconscious was alive, receptive. Therefore, even though his son was asleep, the words he was about to speak would register.

  The words, the matching gestures, these were his stock-in-trade, the fountainhead of his success, the source of all his wealth—his wealth, and the wealth of others. Even, potentially, the wealth of nations, if he could believe what he’d heard tonight at the banquet.

  At the thought he shook his head, raised his hand to lightly touch his temple. His thoughts were wandering. And if the thoughts wandered, so also would wander the words. And the world, his world, would fly apart if confusion overtook him and the words went wrong.

  He was, he realized, momentarily confused, his little secret. So far, his little secret. Since the euphemism of his cardiac event had cast its narrow, sharp shadow across his life, these moments of secret confusion had become more frequent, more disquieting, ultimately more threatening. And now it was happening again. The circuits were overloaded. Within hours, a few short hours, he’d been lifted to the heights, then dropped down to the lowest depths. Those closest to him had first told him what he’d wanted to hear, then told him what he didn’t want to hear. They’d laid out the alternatives, as always. Then, as always, they’d left him alone, to make the decision.

  Once he would have turned to God, prayed for guidance. He’d told them, earlier, that he intended to pray. Had they believed him? Or did they, like him, realize that, in his sixty-third year, his partnership with God had run its course, had been terminated by mutual consent?

  Somehow, somewhere, he’d lost his faith—in exchange for twenty million viewers each Sunday. Minimum.

  His account with God was square.

  And, long ago, he’d settled with the Devil.

  So there was nothing left but the benediction he’d come to pronounce:

  “Of the four of us, Elton—you, your sister, your mother, and me—only two of us have survived. Gloria and I, we’re the survivors. Why Gloria and not you, I’m not sure. I think it might have had something to do with the circumstances of your birth. I’m quite sure of it, in fact. I’ve never talked about it, never spoken the words. But now it’s time. Now the words must be spoken—” Aware that, suddenly, the strength was leaving his legs and lower body, he stepped away from the bed, fumbled for a small bedside chair. The chair was draped with Elton’s clothing, neatly folded. From the first, Elton had been a neat child, an orderly child.

  Still fumbling, he swept the clothing to the floor, sat down, once more touched his temple, once more closed his eyes. Was his heart beating irregularly? Would death solve everything—his death, not Elton’s death? Had God reconsidered their previous articles of agreement?

  It was possible. Tonight, anything was possible.

  But now, reprieved, he could feel strength returning. It was necessary, therefore, to begin speaking. He owed it to Elton, to begin speaking, as soon as strength permitted.

  “Gloria, you see, was a love child. Your mother was only seventeen when Gloria was born. She was seventeen, and I was thirty-one. And your mother was essentially unformed. That’s important to remember. She was a child of nature when we met. But I was complete, at age thirty-one. I was the same person then that I am now. For me, nothing’s changed. But your mother—” He shook his head, lifted his arm, tilted the shade of the nearby lamp to put his face in shadow. “Your mother, I’m afraid, was damaged. She wasn’t damaged giving birth. It was her father, I think, that damaged her. He was a minister, you see. And when he discovered that your mother was pregnant out of wedlock, his rage was monumental. He was a vindictive man, an avenging archangel. He put his mark on both of us—me, and your mother, too. She’d been more than a daughter to him since her mother died—more than a daughter, but less than a wife, so that it was a terrible blow for your mother when he was murdered. But, ultimately, it was God’s judgment, and eventually your mother accepted that. Because, you see, her father had cursed her, burdened her with guilt when he accused her of sin. So your mother was blighted in her bloom, and Gloria was born under a dark cloud of vengeance.

  “However, Gloria was unmarked. From the first, she was a laughing child. But your mother couldn’t laugh. She was marked forever by her father’s curse. She tried to escape it. God knows, she tried. She twisted and turned, and she cried in the night beside me. But it was no use. She was lost. Forever lost.

  “And then, later, when she was pregnant again, after Gloria was born, she suffered a miscarriage. And the damage begun by her father’s wrath was compounded, grievously compounded. Making it necessary, you see, for her to give birth again—to you.”

  As he said it, he heard his son moan, saw him stir. Yes, the words were registering, even in sleep. Elton had always loved his mother. In his own twisted, tortured way, he’d always loved her, always needed her.

  “Gloria was unmarked,” he said softly. “She escaped. But you were marked, Elton. Your grandfather reached out from beyond the grave and laid his curse upon you.”

  As his son stirred again, he once more broke off, his eyes fixed upon the face on the pillow, lying in a shaft of pale light from the window. Even in sleep, as always, the pale face was expressionless. But, beneath the sallow skin, small muscles twitched. Yes, the subconscious was listening.

  “So you were born without love, Elton. Gloria was a love child, but you weren’t. And—” He drew a long, deep sigh. “And that’s the essence of it, I’m afraid. Love is a miracle, and you were denied it. I knew it when you were born. I knew you’d be blighted. Because, you see, by that time I no longer believed in miracles. They’re just words now, Elton. Love—God—to me, they’re just words. They’re powerful words, as I well know. With those two words—love, and God—men like me can control the world. But before that’s possible—before you can control how other men think, you’ve got to first realize that nothing’s real, nothing is ever what it seems. Everything is a mirror image, Elton. That’s the one essential truth
. We live in a world of mirror images. Love isn’t really love, and God really isn’t God. There wouldn’t be love if there wasn’t loneliness. And there wouldn’t be God if there wasn’t fear. I finally discovered that, you see. I finally discovered that love doesn’t change the world, and neither does God. It’s fear that changes the world. Fear is the one great truth, the only real tool. If a man wants power—and we all do—he nourishes fear. Because hatred is what it’s all about, Elton. It isn’t love that drives us. It’s hate. And hate and fear go together. That’s obvious. So if you control them, manipulate love and hate, fine-tune them, you will control the world. But, of course, you don’t use those words—never ‘fear,’ never ‘hate.’ You must always say ‘love,’ and ‘God.’ Always.”

  For a moment Holloway sat in silence, head bowed, his broad forehead delicately supported by long, gracefully tapered fingers. When he began to speak again, his voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  “Now you know, Elton. You know I lost my faith. It probably happened very early. We’re already formed, you know, at a very tender age, and I suppose I lost whatever faith I had in God at the moment I realized what a fraud my father was. Because when I made that discovery, I also learned about hatred. I learned about hatred and love, all at once, when I was just a child. You learned the same lesson, too, when you were very young. Oh, yes, Elton—I saw you looking at me. When I couldn’t see you, I could feel you. I remembered, Elton. I remembered those ancient feelings of mine, remembered enough to know how you must hate me.

  “Most of us make some kind of deal with the Devil, so we aren’t consumed by hatred. But you couldn’t do that, Elton. You don’t bend, you break. That was our secret, Elton—the only secret we ever shared. We never talked about it, of course. So both of us were keeping the same secret from each other. That’s what a family does when love turns to hate. They keep their secrets—hoard them, use them like weapons. Because secrets are weapons, the crudest weapons of all.

  “I never told you all this, of course. Parents don’t do that. They can’t afford the risk. So, instead, they buy their children expensive things, and send them to expensive schools, and they hope their children will provide some ornamentation for their lives, like a well-tended lawn or an impressive car. And you did that—at least on Sundays. You still do. So now—” He drew a long, labored breath, infinitely regretful. “So now you know the secret, Elton. You know about love and you know about hate. You know that hate is the only weapon that matters. But—” Once more, he deeply sighed. “But the secret’s out, Elton. The secret’s out, and my enemies have the keys to the armory. And if they open the doors, lay hands on my weapons, then it’s all over. Everything.” Slowly, struggling against a sudden, overwhelming lassitude, he rose to his feet, moved close to the bed, stood motionless for a moment, looking down at the figure in the bed, the baby that had become a boy, the boy that had become a man …

  … the man that had become a monster.

  “If you thought God was commanding you, Elton, then I hope you die still believing it. Because then it will surely be true.” He let a last long moment of silence pass, then said softly, “I’ll never be forgiven. Never. I want you to know that, Elton.”

  He stooped, kissed his son on the lips, straightened, and automatically turned to the bedside lamp, about to switch it off. But then he remembered: Elton was afraid of the dark.

  25

  “SO WHAT YOU’RE TELLING me,” Hastings said, “is that he didn’t touch you. Is that right?”

  “Jesus,” she wailed. “I already told you. It wasn’t the young one that was bothering me. It was the old one—the big one, with the goddamn gun. He’s the one you want. Not the other one, the young one.”

  “Listen,” Canelli said, “we’ll tell you which one we want. You just tell us what happened, how it came down. Do you think you can do that?”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, peevishly plucking at the tufted chenille bedspread, she sullenly shrugged.

  “But the young one had the cord,” Hastings said. “The gold cord. Is that right?”

  “I already told you, he—”

  “As often as I tell you to tell me,” Hastings said quietly, “that’s how many times you tell me. Otherwise, we’ll haul your forty-dollar ass downtown.”

  “Fifty-dollar, please,” she said wearily. “Not forty. Fifty.”

  “So—?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, he had the cord. He was holding it in front of him with both hands. And I gotta say, he was pretty weird looking. Weird acting, too. But, Christ, you get used to that in this business. I mean, if it wasn’t for the goddamn weirdos, we’d all be out of business, probably.” She sighed, shook her head, turned to face Hastings squarely. “Listen, speaking of business, do you mind if—”

  “So tell us about the cord, what happened to it?”

  “Again?”

  “Listen, Angie—” Hastings dropped his voice. “I’m not going to tell you again. Either you—”

  Hastily, she raised both hands, palms out. “All right. Okay. Jesus—” She shook her head, plaintively exasperated. “What happened, after the big one broke in, and shoved me down on the goddamn bed, he took the cord, grabbed it out of the young one’s hands. He went into the bathroom, and he must’ve flushed it down the toilet.”

  “Did you see him do it, flush it down the toilet?”

  “Well, no. But I heard the toilet flush. Twice. Then he came out of the bathroom. And then they left.”

  “Mitch—the big one—he was the only one that went into the bathroom. He went in with the cord, and flushed the toilet twice. Then he came out, without the cord. And then they left. Is that right?”

  She nodded heavily, mocking him as she said, “That’s right, Lieutenant. Exactly right.”

  Hastings nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Canelli, who shrugged, signifying that he could think of nothing more to ask. Now Hastings withdrew a card case and pen, handed her two business cards and the pen. “Those are my cards, Angie. Write your address and phone on one of them, and give it to me. Keep the other, in case you think of anything you forgot to tell me.” He watched her working with the pen, silently mouthing the words and numbers as she wrote. When she returned the pen and the card, he said, “And remember, if you even think about leaving town, it’s your forty-dollar ass.”

  “Fifty-dollar,” she muttered, reaching for her bag. “Fifty.”

  26

  HOLLOWAY PULLED THE DOOR closed, stood motionless for a moment, head bowed, leaning his full weight against the door frame. He was conscious of someone nearby: a security man, sitting at an ornamental table, eyes averted. Slowly, heavily, Holloway pushed himself erect, turned to his left, away from the security man. It was a reflex, a conditioned response, that made him stand erect and turn so that his face was averted. Because it was essential that his chosen mask of infallibility remain firmly fixed in place. If salesmen projected geniality and politicians pretended nobility, then the evangelist must cloak himself in eternal infallibility. Even though he was living through his lifetime’s moment of disaster, he must keep the mask in place, playing the mummer’s game.

  To some men, this moment of truth came when danger threatened, or death suddenly loomed. Some faced this moment in an alleyway, some in a hospital room, some while they chased a tennis ball, or sat on the toilet, reflecting.

  To him, it had come in these midnight hours, in this overdecorated hotel hallway, alone, with his tie loosened, wearing his bedroom slippers, an utter emptiness within, a desperate void of fearfulness where once there had been a fullness of faith and certainty. He could hear the sound that his slippers made on the carpeting: a slow, leaden scuffing, an old man’s shuffling.

  As he turned the corner of the adjacent corridor, an inexorable, apocalyptic choice confronted him, the parable of the doors.

  One door—his—signaled a sad surrender to the inevitable, Christ’s way, without question.

  But there was another door—a second door.


  Fittingly, his was the first door, requiring that he must make the choice, must go beyond his door …

  … as he was doing now.

  Must stand before Mitchell’s door …

  … as he was doing now.

  Must take the talisman, the passkey, from his pocket …

  … as he was doing now.

  Must enter the room as silently as a murderer might …

  … as he was doing now.

  With the instant’s touch of Holloway’s hand on his shoulder, Mitchell’s eyes came open, his whole body tightened. On the counterpane, his hands clenched into fists.

  “Austin …” Mitchell blinked, sat up, reached for the bedside lamp.

  “No—” Holloway raised his hand. “There’s enough light from the street.” As he spoke, he gestured to the view window.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Holloway turned away from Mitchell to look out over the San Francisco skyline, one of the world’s most exciting vistas. Somewhere out there, in a refrigerated drawer, lay the body of the woman Elton had murdered. In another part of the city, policemen were making their plans. Judges were issuing search warrants, arrest warrants. Reporters were asking their questions, cameramen were searching for targets.

  And, always, the enemies were waiting—the men with watchful eyes.

  “Austin, are you all right?”

  Still facing the cityscape, Holloway spoke slowly, softly: “I can still remember the first time we ever talked together, Lloyd. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I do—in the warden’s office, it was.”

  “How old were you then? I’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m sixty-two now, and that was thirty-five years ago, at least.” As he spoke, Mitchell swung his thick legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his robe, draped across a nearby chair. Standing, he put on the robe, tightened the belt, turned down the collar. He decided to sit on the bed, decided to wait in silence for whatever was coming.