FORTY-SIX
St. Louis, Missouri—Targeno
* * *
November 10, 1999
It was after ten the next morning as he sat in an Olive Street corner diner. Since seven-thirty, he’d been drifting in and out of diners, coffee shops, newsstands, and other places where people pause to discuss what they’d seen on the news the previous night. Targeno did nothing—other than watch closely and listen intently.
It was a tactic he’d learned long ago; there was no better way to take the pulse of the average citizen, no better way to know what the great herds of “sheeple” were thinking.
The NewsNight broadcast danced upon the lips of everyone but the most numb-brained in the city. Though he’d known of the program’s popularity Targeno was surprised at the size of the show’s audience. As he sipped his coffee, black with three sugars, he mentally tabulated the results of his totally unscientific, but historically accurate pollstering.
Carenza had scored points with just about everybody. From Indian and Vietnamese shopkeepers to Southern Baptist laborers to agnostic investment brokers, everyone came away feeling good about the roguish priest. They liked his style; they liked his honesty; and they especially liked the way he’d humbled Freemason Cooper.
Targeno couldn’t blame them. The broadcast had been truly fascinating. There was something about Carenza that almost, for want of a better word, charmed you. You found yourself liking him—unconditionally.
Personally, Targeno found this state of affairs perplexing. He didn’t particularly want to like Carenza, or even be sympathetic to the man or what he might represent. Targeno had survived by never letting his guard down, by never, ever, ceasing to suspect everyone, to view everything as a source of danger, treachery, or even that ultimate disappointment—death.
In ways he could not yet articulate, the undercurrent of populist support for Father Peter Carenza was beginning to worry Targeno. He would have to contact Francesco and discuss their options.
Targeno believed Carenza had bested Freemason Cooper, but also that he might have made himself a very powerful enemy. Whether or not Francesco agreed, Targeno decided it might be wise to make a trip to Bessemet, Alabama. Cooper couldn’t be trusted—but Targeno had seen the man’s face while he squirmed under the probing lights and painful sting of Carenza’s video dissection. Behind Cooper’s eyes had burned a clear white anger, a refined and purified hate. It was a controlled burning, almost perfectly camouflaged by the Reverend’s sardonic smile, hidden to all but the most thoroughly trained professional. Targeno had stared into the eyes of many a desperate, vengeful man, and he knew that look.
The look of death.
FORTY-SEVEN
Bessemet, Alabama—Cooper
* * *
December 1, 1999
The man had balls, he’d give him that, thought Freemason. At least until I cut them off…
He chuckled as he drained off the last of his Maker’s Mark. Lunch had been a spinach salad with sesame and lemon dressing, accented by a smoked salmon pate. He didn’t really like the crap, but he had to watch his diet. If he couldn’t top it off with a small ration of sour mash, then the whole ordeal wasn’t worth much.
As he sat within the cocoon of his glass-domed indoor pool, his mind kept returning to the roasting he’d taken at Carenza’s hands. Unbelievable that the man had been able to access so much poop on the whole operation. Heads had started rolling over that mess before the day was out. Then he’d spent weeks tracking down the information leaks and purging his corporations of all the disloyal riffraff. Some of this had actually been fun. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel grown men writhe under the lance of their ruined futures. He’d especially enjoyed hearing them beg for the forgiveness he so diligently preached.
Shitfire, didn’t they know he was forgiving them? He was only taking away their jobs. He could have done much worse.
The house phone chimed and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“All right, son,” said his father. “I’ve been mullin’ over everythin’. Why don’t you come on down and lemme give you my thoughts on the subject.”
“I’ll be right down, Daddy…”
Freemason pulled on his robe. As he walked briskly through the opulent rooms of his mansion, he tried to anticipate what his father might have to say. Hard to figure what the old coon-dog might come up with. ’Course he was like that. Never predictable. That’s what made him such an interesting character.
“Door’s open,” his father said in a loud clear voice, after Freemason knocked on the apartment door.
Upon entering, he saw his father seated at an upright secretary’s desk, dressed in a fine wool suit of charcoal gray. He’d chosen to accent it with a white shirt and a bright red string tie. Freemason couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his pa looking so dapper.
“’Lo, Daddy. What’s up?”
The old man chuckled. “Well, you know it ain’t my dick!”
“Why so dressed up?”
“I think I’ll go into Birmingham tonight. Been a long time since I done that. Go see a movie or somethin’.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” Freemason remained standing near the old man. It was better to not rush or pressure him. His moods these last few years had been damned mercurial—something Freemason chalked up to his daddy’s advanced age.
His father gestured at a chair adjacent to the secretarial desk. “Siddown, Mase…”
He did, clasping his hands in his lap. “Okay, what’re you thinkin’?”
“Bad thoughts, son. Terrible-bad thoughts.” His father wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
It was a mannerism Freemason had associated with his father for as long as he could remember, and it meant two things. He was nervous or upset, and he needed a drink somethin’ powerful.
“Tell me, Daddy,” said Freemason.
His father looked at him with his tiny, bird-like eyes. “Don’t need to be a brain surgeon to figure you got to get rid of ’im, son. If y’all let him go on like he’s doin’, he’s gonna bring down all of yuhs. You see that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Freemason swallowed hard. There was a sudden thickness in his head, like the beginning of a major migraine. His hands felt like they wanted to start tremblin’. It wasn’t that the idea of killin’ a man upset him so much. Desperation sometimes dictated such things, and there were a few times in his life when he’d been this desperate. It was just the idea of killin’ a man of God that bothered him so much.
“You don’t think there’s anything else we can do? Short of killin’ ’im?”
The old man cocked an eyebrow. “You mean what’re your other options? If any?”
Freemason nodded, swallowed hard.
“Well, you can try’n discredit him. A scandal’s always good, but this fella looks like he could handle any of that kinda poop. Or you can just ignore him and hope he’ll go away—that seems terrible unlikely, however…”
Neither man spoke for what seemed like a very long time.
Pa coughed, wiped at his mouth absently. “Nope, I can’t see any way around it…”
Freemason shook his head. “Neither do I.”
“So’s that mean yer gonna do it?” His father continued to look at him as hard as blue coal.
“Yeah, Daddy, I’m gonna do it.”
His father smacked his hands together, rubbed them like he was getting them clean. “Okay, that’s the boy I raised! Now, look, yer gonna need a plan, so listen up…”
FORTY-EIGHT
Vatican City—Francesco
* * *
December 11, 1999
It was very late when the phone rang; before he was even fully conscious Giovanni knew who was calling him.
“Yes, Targeno,” he said as he placed the receiver to his ear. The urge for a cigarette pierced him and he automatically reached for his packet and lighter on the night table.
“You are getting very good at anticipating my co
ntacts,” said Targeno.
Giovanni fingered his Zippo into flame, clanked it shut. The smoke immediately soothed him. “You have news?”
“I think so. Freddie Bevins received a message from our friend, the Most Reverend Cooper. Basically, Cooper ordered his gopher back to the home burrow for a big meeting of some kind. Scheduled for tomorrow evening.”
Giovanni nodded. “You know the nature of this meeting?”
“Not yet, but I will. I plan to be there. Besides, even though we do not know the exact nature of the proceedings, we are probably safe putting our favorite miracle-worker at the top of the agenda.”
“Ah, Targeno, must you always be so disrespectful?”
“It helps keep me alive, I have always believed.” Giovanni exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Perhaps. Anything else I should know?”
“Don’t you want to know who is coming to the meeting?”
“Yes, of course,” he said wearily. “Tell me.”
“The guest list contains many familiar names—the leaders of the televangelist churches and all the larger ‘traveling’ ministries.”
“Hmmm, interesting. A group of rival piranhas like that, sitting down in the same room together. Never thought it could happen.”
“Not unless they all faced a common threat…” Targeno chuckled softly.
Giovanni crushed out his cigarette, coughed up some dark phlegm. It felt like a piece of slippery rubber in his mouth. Someday it would spring to cancerous life and kill him.
“How are you going to crash the meeting?” he asked.
“Ah, a trade secret. Do not worry about it. Even if something goes wrong, I have some backup bugs on Bevins.”
“Any chance he will ‘make’ them?”
“Doubtful. He is pretty competent—in fact I think he may have ‘made’ me out in Colorado—but he is not of international caliber.”
“He ‘made’ you? Are you serious?!”
“Relax, my excitable Father. He might have noticed I was more than a participant-observer, but no more. Probably figured me for FBI or some other government agency, just watchdogging. No matter, I have changed my appearance since then. He won’t recognize the new look.”
“I hope you are right…”
Targeno chuckled again. “That I still live proves I usually am.”
“This meeting bothers me. It has the sound of something urgent and hastily called.”
“I share that view,” said Targeno.
“Has everyone responded?”
“All but one. Robert Q. Sutherland is skiing in Switzerland.”
“You will contact me as soon as you know something?”
“Of course. As the Americans would say: you write the checks.”
“Such loyalty,” said Giovanni. “I do not know how I would live without it.”
“I must go,” said the agent. “Much to do before tomorrow evening. Is there anything you should tell me?”
“Not really. Etienne keeps asking to see the Pope. She still says she has information for His Holiness alone.”
“Will the Pope see her?”
Francesco chuckled. “He does not even know of her existence. Perhaps we can arrange something—an impostor, perhaps. It may bring her out of her hysteria.”
“Do what you wish,” said Targeno. “I am ringing off.”
“May God go with you,” said Giovanni.
Targeno laughed. “I do not think He would enjoy my company. Good night, ’Vanni.”
The line clicked and buzzed in his ear. Replacing the phone to its cradle, Giovanni sighed audibly. It could be nothing more than preliminary preparations for the International Convocation of Prayer.
Yet his instincts told him this was something more. Something much more.
As he turned off his light, returning to the starched emptiness of his bed, Giovanni cursed his predicament. Being so removed from the arena plagued him. He hated relying on Targeno for information, but far worse was the knowledge that he had virtually no control over the situation.
Freemason Cooper.
Giovanni Francesco would give anything to know what the man had in mind.
But the specter of the powerful television preacher palled when compared to the larger shadow lying across his every thought. Something was going wrong with the entire plan. Despite Peter’s impact upon the world, the planet was not spinning toward paradise. Instead, disasters and catastrophes seemed to stalk Peter’s every triumph. And now, since Peter had thrown his own catastrophe, Giovanni could not banish the notion that perhaps his grand idea had gone terribly wrong.
Perhaps Victorianna was correct? Perhaps God was trying to speak to them through Etienne. Maybe her visions were not hallucinations after all, but rather a batch of celestial telegrams being dispatched by the urgent hand of God the Father.
And they had done nothing but dismiss her.
The thought struck a chord of fear in him which he had never felt before. The terror he had often felt when examining his beliefs seemed puny and pale before this new reckoning. What had they brought into the world? And what would be their accounting for it?
He brushed a spidery hand through his hair as he thought of what it might truly mean to be damned…
Damned.
For all time. An endless, timeless, continuous state of pain? Or was it something worse? The knowledge that there is no longer hope. No longer any order or light or comfort. The knowledge that your own squalid end fell upon you by the hand of your own pride and arrogance.
Years earlier he’d read one of the atheist philosophers, who wrote of staring into the Abyss and feeling it stare back at him. Giovanni had never understood what that dead man truly meant.
Until now.
FORTY-NINE
Bessemet, Alabama—Cooper
* * *
December 12, 1999
Dominated by a sixteen-foot table fashioned from a single slab of southern California redwood, Freemason Cooper’s corporate war-room reflected all the traits Freemason wanted people to perceive in him.
The museum-quality accoutrements, ranging from a full suit of medieval armor through Civil War firearms to World War II German military paraphernalia and weaponry, lined the walls in box frames, upon massive shelves, and beneath glass-topped, locked display cases. Original oil paintings by Delacroix, El Greco, and Goya loomed from the walls with dark visions of vitality and triumph. Massive, gem-cut chandeliers filled the room with light.
At the head of the table Freemason stood looking at his assembled guests. In addition to Jerry Goodrop and Deacon Calhoun, ten other satellite ministers had elected to join the meeting. Several had been around before the days of widespread TV preaching, not to mention cable and satellite broadcasting. Freemason knew everyone at least as acquaintances, and although he could not claim many of these men as true friends, he could at least consider them allies—at least for the moment.
After getting through the preliminaries—introductions, shop- and small-talk—Freemason asked for their attention. Everyone quieted and turned to regard their host silently.
“I think we can dispense with any bullshit, gentlemen,” said Freemason. “Y’all know the reason we’re here—we’ve got to come to a few decisions regarding this fella, Father Peter.”
A general murmur of consensus buzzed around the table. There was the expected hand-wringing and head-nodding.
“I have a couple of ideas I’d like to parcel out to everybody,” said Freemason. “But I’m willin’ to take any comments or suggestions y’all might have first. Anybody?”
None of them gave any indication they had any concrete ideas—as he’d figured it might be. They all just sat there, staring at him like a family of ’possums looking up from the riverbank. “Well, boys, if the cat’s got your tongue, you can bet your collective’s asses she ain’t got mine.”
Freemason poured himself three fingers of Maker’s Mark, neat, from an Italian crystal decanter. He took a sip, drew a breath, and started in on them.
>
“Okay, boys, listen up. I know we’re all men of God here, but we’re also businessmen. I don’t mind tellin’ you: my income’s been droppin’ faster’n owl-poop from a pine tree. And we all know why.”
Bobby Lee Masters from Knoxville raised his hand, spoke softly. “But Mason, don’t you have to figure some of that’s ’cause of the dressin’-down he gave you on NewsNight?”
Cooper didn’t like being reminded of that goddamned show, but facts were facts, and he conceded it was a right fair question.
“Surely,” said Freemason. “That should have caused a bump in the road, but not the danged beatin’ my accountants are squawkin’ about. Now, come on! I need you to come clean! I’m not ashamed to admit I’m losin’ money. I need to know how it is with the rest of y’all.”
Everybody looked at each other, as though afraid to be the first one to speak. Freemason prodded a few of them.
“Sam? What about you? And Jimmy, come on, now, I know you’ve felt the pinch…?”
“Yeah, okay—I’m gettin’ stuck like a pig’s chops in a barbecue pit,” said Samson J. Giddings.
“Me too,” said Reverend James Lakerby. “And it’s been a steady decline. I don’t see no signs of it turnin’ around.”
That seemed to open up the gates.
“Me too,” said another. “I’m going down fast.”
“Same here, Mase.”
“Yeah, what the hell—I ain’t kiddin’ anybody but myself, I guess.”
“Count me in too, Reverend.”
“Okay, it’s like I suspected. So the questions are: one, why is this happenin’? And two, what can be done about it? Anybody?”
Samson J. Giddings leaned forward, pulled out one of the fat, nasty cigars he’d never let his congregation see him sucking on. As he carefully trimmed the end with his pocket knife, he looked around the table. “Well,” he said, “it seems pretty obvious to me—he looks a damn sight better’n we do, and I ain’t talkin’ about his pretty face.”
The Blood of the Lamb Page 36
