The Branch

by Mike Resnick

  “No one manipulates me,” said Moore with more certainty than he felt, “Not Jeremiah, not God, not anyone.” He paused. “Besides, when I’m being rational, I don’t believe in any of this shit.”

  “Okay, but I think—”

  “The subject is closed,” said Moore, and now the emotionless mask was completely back in place.

  Black puffed silently on his cigar for a few minutes, while Moore reactivated the viewing screen. Finally the huge mulatto stretched, placed the cigar in an ashtray, and turned to Moore.

  “Ready to talk a little business, Solomon?”

  “That’s what you’re here for.”

  “So how do we split it up?”

  “I think we play it very, very safe,” said Moore. “If we stop Jeremiah, it’s going to be because we have a lot of help. I figure his weapons are up for grabs; probably Israel will wind up with them.”

  “And his billions of dollars?”

  “We don’t touch them.”

  “I think this artificial air has softened your brain, Solomon,” said Black. “You’re talking about three, maybe four billion dollars.”

  “Try to understand, Piper: we’re being tolerated. We’re a couple of pretty big operators in our own ball park, but look at who we’re dealing with now—ambassadors, statesmen, cardinals, people who could land on us so heavy that we never get up again. Let them keep the money.”

  “Then what’s in it for us?” demanded Black. “I never knew Solomon Moody Moore not to have an angle.”

  “There’s an angle,” said Moore with a smile. “Who’s the biggest drug dealer in the world?”

  “Piscard, or maybe me.”

  “The biggest pornographer?”

  “You, unless Davenport in Britain has caught up.”

  “The biggest fence?”

  “Quintaro,” said Black. “What’s all this getting at?”

  “Nothing—except that your answers were wrong. Jeremiah is the biggest.”

  “I wasn’t counting him,” said Black. “I figure he won’t be around that long and …” He stopped, and a huge grin spread across his face.

  “So we split up his sources and outlets and equipment!”

  “And double whatever we were making four years ago,” concluded Moore. “And we’re not taking anything that could be of any possible use to any of our associates, so who’s to tell us not to?”

  “What about Piscard and the rest?” asked Black. “We’ll have to let them in.”

  “We will,” agreed Moore. “I get thirty-five percent, you get twenty-five, and they can fight over what’s left.”

  “I thought we were going to be equal partners, Solomon.”

  “I don’t take on equal partners,” replied Moore, his smile vanishing. “That’s my offer: take it or leave it.”

  “And if I leave it?”

  “If you leave it, Piper, we’ll just have to make do without your services as best we can—and I might add that your life expectancy will be, not to be too pessimistic about it, perhaps twenty minutes.”

  “What the hell,” shrugged the huge mulatto. “Twenty-five’s better than nothing, and that’s just what I’m making with Jeremiah around—a big, fat zero.”

  He rose, walked over to Moore, and extended his hand. Moore took it.

  “Tell me, Solomon—would you really have killed me?”

  “I never joke about business or about Jeremiah,” said Moore.

  “I’m a pretty big guy, Solomon,” said Black.

  “I know,” replied Moore. “That’s why there are three pretty big guns trained on you right now, behind two of the paintings and that one-way mirror in the foyer.”

  Black threw his head back and laughed.

  “Same old Solomon! You’ve always got every angle covered. I wouldn’t want to be in Jeremiah’s shoes, not with you after him!”

  “He seems to be doing pretty well so far,” noted Moore.

  “Then he’ll fall that much harder when we bring him down,” said Black. “And they always fall, Solomon, no matter how big they grow. Even Messiahs.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Moore. He found himself tiring of the conversation, so he walked Black to the door and gave him the number of a room that was reserved for Moore’s special guests. Black grinned again and walked out into the corridor.

  Moore closed the door, went into the bedroom, and began undressing, trying to decide whether to go straight to bed or stop by the whirlpool first. Then a flashing light told him that he was wanted on the phone, and he picked up the receiver.

  “Moore here.”

  “This is Ben. Are you sitting down?”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got him!” said Pryor excitedly.

  “Who’s got who?” asked Moore, not daring to hope.

  “We’ve got Jeremiah! Do you want us to bring him to the Bubble?”

  “No!” said Moore emphatically. “The damned plane would probably explode. Where are you calling from?”

  “Cincinnati. You can figure out where.”

  “Hold him right where he is, and don’t take your eyes off him. I’m on my way.”

  Moore was half dressed and halfway out the door before Pryor realized that the connection had been broken.

  Chapter 18

  In the third decade of the twentieth century, the people of Cincinnati, anticipating their city’s continued rapid growth, passed a bond issue to build a subway system beneath the downtown area. Work began immediately, and continued for a few years until it became apparent that far from increasing, the population of the river city had become absolutely constant. It neither rose nor fell during the next century, and the construction of the subway was completely abandoned.

  Until Moore’s organization decided to open up the Cincinnati market, that is. At that time the ownership of two miles of subterranean tunnels changed hands privately, and Moore’s people set up shop in the deserted and almost forgotten subway.

  Moore arrived in Cincinnati two hours after receiving Pryor’s call, went directly to a run-down Tudor home that was owned by a nonexistent Chicago realtor, climbed down the rickety basement stairs, opened a hidden door, and found Pryor waiting for him.

  “Where is he?” demanded Moore as the two of them walked through the long, empty tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls.

  “Relax,” said Pryor. “He’s sedated and under heavy guard. It’ll be a while before he wakes up.”

  “Has anyone tried to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “It didn’t work, of course.”

  Prior shook his head. “Visconti put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger—and the damned thing backfired and blew his hand off. I have a feeling that if we tried to electrocute him, the whole blasted city would go dark first.”

  “I agree,” said Moore. “How did we get our hands on him?”

  “It was crazy. He called a press conference up in Dayton to push Moira’s book, and we simply put the snatch on him.”

  “I see he hasn’t gotten any brighter,” remarked Moore. “But I’m surprised that he wasn’t able to get away.”

  “That is the surprising part,” agreed Pryor. “We got to him while he was putting on makeup in his dressing room, and he just raised his hands and surrendered. There were two other doors and a first-floor window, and based on our previous experience with him you’d have thought he would make a break for it. The bullets would collide in midair or some such thing, and he’d be on the loose again.”

  “It’s more than surprising,” said Moore thoughtfully. “It’s very disturbing. He must have known that we were going to try to kill him. Maybe he doesn’t die, but he sure as hell feels pain. Why put himself through it? In fact, why choose to speak in Dayton when he knows we’ve still got muscle in Ohio?”

  “All we did was capture him,” said Pryor thoughtfully. “Maybe whatever protects him is only concerned that he stays alive.”

  “It’s a possibility,�
�� said Moore, considering the notion. “Maybe we can do anything we want to him except kill him. Lord knows he hasn’t led a painless life up to now.” He paused. “By the way, is Abe around? This seems like a good time to try to get some straight answers from Jeremiah.”

  Pryor shook his head. “He’s wavering. He says he’s still on our side, but just to hedge his bets he’s not going to get involved with this.”

  “Damn it!” snapped Moore. “He’s involved up to his goddamned neck! What does he think Jeremiah is going to do—absolve him?”

  “He says he’ll quit if you order him to work on Jeremiah.”

  “We’ll take care of Abe later,” said Moore after a moment’s thought. “Right now our problem is Jeremiah. Just how tight is our security?”

  “Come see for yourself,” said Pryor, leading him down the corridor to a door that was guarded by a dozen armed men.

  The structure they entered had originally been a bomb shelter built well beneath a luxurious center-hall Colonial home which was now registered in Montoya’s name, but sometime during the past century it had been transformed into a truly elaborate room. It housed an ornate Spanish four-poster bed, a number of chairs, a built-in wet bar, and a functional marble fireplace that was somehow tied in to the house’s chimney. Six more armed men, including Montoya, stood within the room, while Jeremiah, naked and unconscious, lay spread-eagled on the bed, each of his limbs tied to a corner post. His right arm bore numerous puncture marks of recent vintage.

  “Either you loaded him up enough to kill him,” observed Moore, “or he’s on the needle himself.”

  “Only two of those holes came from us,” answered Pryor. “The rest are his own project.”

  “How much longer should he be out?” asked Moore.

  “Maybe half an hour or so—if he’s a normal human being. Otherwise, he could wake up any second.”

  “It’s cold in here,” said Moore, turning to Montoya. “Start a fire.”

  “But Mr. Moore,” replied the security chief, “it’s got to be eighty degrees.”

  “I don’t recall asking you the temperature,” said Moore. He turned to another of the men as Montoya shrugged and started passing the order for firewood. “I haven’t eaten in a few hours. I’d like a sandwich.”

  “Any particular kind, sir?”

  “Whatever’s handy.”

  “I’ll have one sent in right away, sir.”

  “The bread might be hard,” added Moore. “I’ll need a very sharp knife.”

  The man nodded and departed.

  Moore sat silently in a corner while Montoya built a fire, and set his sandwich aside without touching it.

  “Stir that up a little with the poker,” he said to Montoya once the firewood was ablaze. “No, leave the poker in it. Why get ashes on the floor?”

  Finally he turned back to Pryor.

  “Ben, do you think there’s any chance that we can kill him?”

  Prior shook his head. “I don’t think it can be done.”

  “I don’t think so either,” said Moore. “I don’t even see much sense trying.”

  “Then what do you plan to do?” asked Pryor.

  “Whatever I have to,” said Moore grimly. “Take the men out with you.”

  “Leave you alone with him?”

  “I’ll be all right. And even if I’m not, the room is still secure. Then call the press and get them upstairs in the Colonial with their cameras in about three hours’ time.”

  “But—”

  “That was an order, Ben, not a request.”

  Pryor nodded curtly and ushered the men out, after which Moore bolted the door from the inside. He picked up a rocking chair, placed it next to the bed, sat down on it, took a bite of his sandwich, and stared thoughtfully at Jeremiah.

  He hadn’t changed much. There wasn’t a scar on his body, except for the needle marks, and they’d doubtless vanish in a few days. As for bullet wounds, knife scars, or any of the rest, his flesh was as clean and unmarked as the day he’d been born. He had put on some weight, perhaps fifteen pounds, none of it muscle, but he still didn’t appear overweight, though he was far from athletic.

  Moore finished the sandwich, walked over and stoked the fire, then returned to the chair. In a few minutes Jeremiah began moaning and twitching. Finally he tried to sit up, found that he couldn’t, shook his head vigorously, and focused his eyes.

  “Have a nice nap?” asked Moore.

  “You!” whispered Jeremiah.

  “Who were you expecting?”

  “Where am I?” demanded Jeremiah, his speech slightly slurred.

  “Where nobody can find you,” said Moore. “What difference does it make?”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “A much better question,” said Moore. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t really decided. I thought we might discuss it.”

  “Fuck you!” snapped Jeremiah.

  Moore picked the knife up, touched the point of it to Jeremiah’s foot, pressed, and cut a deep gash the length of the arch.

  Jeremiah howled in pain.

  “Stupid,” commented Moore calmly. “Very stupid, Jeremiah. If our positions were reversed, I sure as hell wouldn’t speak to you like that.”

  Jeremiah spat at Moore, who applied the knife to his other foot with similar results.

  “Just like training a puppy,” he said. “Repetition is the key.”

  Jeremiah bit his lip and glared at Moore.

  “As I was saying,” Moore continued, “we’ve got a number of things to discuss. Let me know when you’re ready to start.”

  “All right,” muttered Jeremiah.

  Moore pressed the point of the knife next to one of the gashes. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “ALL RIGHT!”

  “Better,” remarked Moore dryly. “I have to admit that you’re something of a problem. I’ve got a feeling that nothing I do to you can kill you.”

  “Nothing can kill the Messiah!” Jeremiah shouted.

  “You’re possibly right,” said Moore calmly. “However, I don’t know of any reason why I shouldn’t be able to keep you tied to this bed for the next twenty or thirty years. What would you say to that?”

  “It’ll never work!” hissed Jeremiah.

  “Oh yes it will,” said Moore. “I think that if we try to starve you to death it won’t work; something or someone doesn’t want you to die just yet. But I have a feeling that as long as your life isn’t directly threatened, you’re as powerless in that position as anyone else.”

  Jeremiah made no reply, but Moore could tell that he was considering the idea.

  “And, after all,” continued Moore, “why should I want to kill you? I’m considerably older than you are, I have no wife or children, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care if the whole world goes to hell in a handcart five minutes after I’m dead. Can you come up with any reason why I shouldn’t follow this course of action?”

  “My followers will find me,” said Jeremiah. “And when they do, I won’t leave enough of you to burn or bury!”

  Moore pressed the knife into his foot again.

  “You keep forgetting who’s in control here,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Jeremiah’s screams. “I find this procedure every bit as distasteful as you do, but on the other hand, you probably find it more painful. I think you’d be well advised to keep that in mind and stop making threats, or else you’d better be prepared to suffer the consequences. Look at the discomfort you’re suffering, and then consider that we haven’t even begun talking about alternatives yet.”

  “What alternatives?” grated Jeremiah.

  “Oh, there are always alternatives,” said Moore. “I think I can keep you here as long as I want, but I could be wrong. You think no one can hold you prisoner for any length of time, but you could be wrong. It seems to me that the logical thing to do is search for some common meeting ground.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, for start
ers, you’re worth a great deal of money, a lot of it mine. I’m not a greedy man; I think I’d settle for half.”

  “You go to hell!” snapped Jeremiah.

  Moore reached out with the knife and put another gash on Jeremiah. He waited until the young man stopped cursing, then continued speaking in a conversational tone. “This is a time for negotiation, not for threats. I’m a little rusty at this kind of thing; there’s always a chance I might lose my temper and turn the world’s greatest lover into a eunuch. If I were you, I’d really try to avoid making me mad.” He paused. “Shall we get back to the subject at hand?”

  Jeremiah glared at him and nodded.

  “Very reasonable,” commented Moore. “I think I should tell you, Jeremiah, that even though I’m a dedicated businessman, there are a lot of things that I care about more than money. One of them, for instance, is my life. I think that as a gesture of good faith you might pass the word to your rather fanatical disciples to take my name off their hit list. Certainly a man of your particular qualities isn’t afraid to show a little Christian charity.”

  He placed the point of the knife just below the young man’s left ear.

  “I agree!” yelled Jeremiah.

  “Excellent,” said Moore. “Now we’re making some progress.” He paused. “Still, I can’t help wondering just how this message will be passed to the ranks of your followers.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, I can’t just let you walk out without it having been done,” said Moore. “After all, what guarantee do I have that you’ll keep your word—your honest face? Your past history of generosity to me and my organization?”

  “What guarantee do you want?” rasped the young man.

  “Oh, I’m sure if we put our heads together we’ll think of something,” said Moore pleasantly. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “I think I’ve got the solution to our problem!”

  “What?” asked the young man, eyeing him fearfully.

  “Why do all these wild-eyed fools follow your orders in the first place? You’re a beggar and a thief, a gambler and a dope addict, you seem intent on bedding every woman on the face of the earth, and to be perfectly candid about it, you haven’t the intellectual capacity of a retarded barn swallow. So why should your word have any weight with the masses?”