All The Pretty Dead Girls

by John Manning

  A chill went down Ginny’s spine, and her mind began to spin. “But—but that’s just crazy.”

  “I thought you were trained not to believe or disbelieve,” Ortiz said.

  She just nodded.

  “Suppose,” the priest went on, “many centuries ago, when the Church was still being founded, and the Bible still being put together, it was determined that the true text of the Book of Revelation could not be revealed to the populace at large for fear of panic.”

  “I’d say that fear of panic was perhaps only one of the Church’s fears.”

  He gave her a look. “And you’d be right. The Book of Revelation—in its complete, unabridged version—connects all religions. It places Christianity in context with Hinduism and Buddhism and paganism and every form of god-worship since the dawn of humankind. And we learn from its pages that the Antichrist, as we call the demon, comes not simply to overthrow Christianity, but all men who are good.”

  “Such knowledge would undercut every religion’s claim to superiority,” Ginny observed.

  “But unite them as well,” Father Ortiz said. “For the threat predicted by Revelation is very specific.”

  “Word for word, you said.”

  The priest nodded. “Over the years, there has been intensive debate within the Vatican as to whether or not the true text should ever be revealed. It has always been determined that the text needed to be kept secret. And so we have guarded that secret, and watched…. we have always watched…”

  “But you say a copy of the text leaked out of the Vatican? A hundred years ago? How was that possible, Father?”

  “Ah, Ginny, I said suppose.”

  She shook her head. “I promised this would be off the record. Tell me what you know.”

  “All I know for certain is what Bernadette has told me.”

  “She believes the Antichrist is here on earth now. And that the Antichrist is not a man but a woman.”

  “Yes,” Father Ortiz agreed.

  “Do you know who she is?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Who?”

  “If Bernadette has not given you her name, I am not allowed to say.”

  Ginny groaned. “Then what’s the point in this conversation? Father, these other appearances around the world—are they reporting the same thing? That the Antichrist has arrived?”

  “Yes, they all have the same message.”

  “Then why aren’t you off investigating all of them?”

  He smiled. “You asked why I was still here in Lebanon.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Don’t you see?” Ortiz asked her.

  It dawned on her. Ginny shuddered. “Are you saying…the Antichrist is here in Lebanon?”

  The priest nodded. “All of the sightings have reported the same. They have pointed here.”

  Ginny laughed. “I knew this town was strange, but I never thought…”

  “You shared with me the result of your research into another rash of Virgin sightings, Ginny. From about twenty years ago.”

  She nodded.

  “I have seen the Vatican reports on those sightings. Most of those also pointed to this place, predicting that in twenty years time, we would see the rise of the Antichrist.”

  “Why here?” Ginny asked.

  “Well, we’ve long suspected that the Antichrist would come from somewhere in America. Revelation—that is, the unexpurgated version—tells us that many will rise attempting to claim the mantle of the Antichrist. Throughout history, many have indeed tried—Hitler comes to mind. But they have failed.”

  “Are you saying Hitler was an Antichrist? The son of the devil?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I think mankind is capable of enough evil that we do not need demonic explanations.”

  Father Ortiz nodded. “But man needs an instigator for his basest instincts to come forward. Someone to fan the flames of hatred, bigotry, anger, fear. Now suppose…”

  Ginny shook her head. “We’re back to suppositions again.”

  “Suppose, just suppose, that there is a cult that has risen in this country in the years since the text of Revelation leaked out of the Vatican,” Father Ortiz said. “A cult devoted to the Book of Revelation and the end times. What if, Ginny, there is a group in this country which, in its misguided faith, believes it is doing God’s will by trying to bring about the Rapture—the end times, with all the destruction and death foretold in the Book of Revelation?” His face grew sad. “And suppose, just suppose, they, in their misguided fervor, have allied themselves with the forces of evil to breed an Antichrist?”

  “The stuff of horror movies, Father.” Ginny finished her wine, got up, and refilled her glass. “Has Bernadette told you all this?”

  “She hasn’t needed to. I’ve read Revelation.” He shuddered. “But she has confirmed that forces are at work to bring about the Rapture, as the fundamentalist churches call it. Good, faithful, religious people are being conned into doing the devil’s bidding!”

  “That’s happened for aeons.”

  “Yes. Look about you, Ginny. These so-called Christian televangelists, raising so much money, blaspheming the Word of God. You’ve seen the likes of, say, the Reverend Bobby Vandiver? You’ve had your own experiences with the Reverend, have you not?”

  “Bobby Vandiver.” Ginny took a deep breath. He’d attacked her and her work, calling her a blasphemer. But Ortiz was right: Vandiver and his ilk were the true blasphemers, amassing great wealth and power by preaching eternal damnation and filling their pockets with the donations of the faithful—simple people who were desperate to make sense of a senseless world, to find faith and spirituality and redemption. Ginny hated how such hucksters influenced their followers on how to vote, how they manipulated them in their own quests for political power. Vandiver was infamous for stating over and over again that the United States was a Christian nation, not a secular one, that there should be no separation of church and state. Even with such extreme rhetoric, Washington politicos still kowtowed to him, knowing his influence over large segments of voters. Vandiver claimed to speak with God; he pronounced hurricanes as God’s punishment for sin; he called the terrorist attacks on 9/11 “God’s vengeance on America” for turning its back on God and Holy Scripture.

  Not so different from the Muslim fanatics who’d piloted those airplanes into the Twin Towers.

  “Religious fanaticism can be corralled by any faith,” Father Ortiz said. “And used for distinctly unreligious ends.”

  “So you’re saying that there is a cult in this country, powered by some in the far-right religious movement, that has actually summoned the Antichrist?”

  Ortiz nodded. “For the rank and file, it means their long-awaited Rapture. For the leaders, it means untold riches, power, fame, glory.”

  Ginny could not respond.

  The priest set down his wineglass and offered her a small smile. “But of course, it is only a supposition.”

  “How have they brought the Antichrist to life? How was it accomplished?”

  Father Ortiz stood. He walked over to the coat rack. “I do not know the details. I’m not sure I want to. They would have had to make some sort of bargain with the demon. Ritual sacrifice perhaps. Probably over many years. And then a girl to bear the unholy seed.”

  He slipped his coat back on, turning to face Ginny.

  “You see, the demon—the force of evil—thrives on discontent. On hatred, on warfare, on discord, on chaos. The leaders of the cult know this, and so they stir up the faithful, exhorting them to go after abortionists, or homosexuals, or blacks, or immigrants, or feminists…The hatred, the conflict, is lifeblood for the demon. The leaders know this. So they stir it up. And in return, the demon makes them richer, more powerful.”

  “What will happen to them when the Antichrist wipes out the world?”

  He was buttoning his coat. “That’s not what Revelation actually predicts. The world won’t end. Only the good will die.”


  “So the leaders of the cult—they will go on. And their sheep? The faithful who thought they were doing God’s work?”

  “They’ll get their end times,” Ortiz said. “Only it won’t be so rapturous.”

  “You’ve told me quite a fascinating story, Father,” Ginny said, speaking over the priest’s shoulder as he opened the door to leave.

  “Thank you for all your expertise, Ginny,” he said, looking back at her. “It has been very helpful. Now I must use it to try to prevent what is to occur.”

  “You’ve got to find the Antichrist,” Ginny said.

  “Oh, I’ve met her. Now I just need to find a way to deal with her.”

  Ginny gave him a weak smile. “Right now,” she said, “I’m glad I’m not a believer.”

  He smiled back at her. “But you are not a disbeliever either.” He headed back down the stairs. “Godspeed in your travels, Ginny. We will keep in touch!”

  “Yes,” she called after him.

  Godspeed to you, too, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

  Then Ortiz was gone, a black figure moving out through the white snow.

  Ginny returned to the living room and sat down.

  No, she finally said to herself. It’s just a crazy theory, there’s nothing to back it up, no evidence. Ortiz is as much a religious fanatic as the people he criticizes if he, in fact, really believes all this.

  Could he have been toying with her?

  Someone who works for the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith would not reveal the great secrets of the Vatican to me.

  The Antichrist…. here in Lebanon!

  How absurd!

  Still, Ginny shuddered.

  She couldn’t wait to get the hell out of town.

  “Pun not intended,” she said as she began packing her bags.

  56

  The subway was packed full of holiday shoppers, and Sue found herself hanging on to an overhead railing as the train sped downtown toward Times Square. She’d always liked looking at the other people on the subway—she never tired of it. She was always fascinated by the multitude of faces and races she saw on the subway. Part of her enjoyment, she knew, was a backhanded slap at her grandfather, who always hated the subway and wouldn’t take it for any reason. “All those dirty, nasty people down there, and it’s not safe. It’s like going down into the bowels of hell,” he’d said more than once.

  He hadn’t changed. After being away from home for three months, Sue had almost forgotten how much of a presence her grandfather could be. But yesterday, at the Thanksgiving table—he had seemed so large, so commanding, all white hair and flaring nostrils.

  “Blessed be God and these Thy gifts,” he had intoned, saying grace over the roast turkey and sweet potatoes. A Jamaican maid carried in platters of vegetables from the kitchen as Sue and her grandmother bowed their heads. Granpa’s voice seemed to echo off the walls.

  How strange it felt to be back home. The apartment she’d grown up in felt alien to Sue. Is this how everyone feels the first time they come back? Her grandmother had been especially doting, asking after her health—but Granpa had finally told his wife to leave Sue alone. “She is a grown woman now,” he’d said strangely. “Our custodianship is almost over.”

  The subway jostled, and the lights blinked on and off for a moment. Sue wondered what her grandfather had meant. After that, her grandmother had seemed to keep her distance for the rest of the day. That night, Granpa summoned Sue to his study, and he gave her a box.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “You are going out into the world now,” he said. “You will face many dangers.”

  Sue opened the box. It was a gun. She gasped.

  “I don’t want a gun!” she cried. “I hate guns!”

  “I taught you how to use one,” he told her. It was true: He had. He’d insisted some years ago that Sue know how to shoot in case the need ever arose.

  “There is a safety,” Granpa said. “You should have it. Especially now.”

  Sue assumed he referred to the murder of Bonnie Warner. “Don’t worry, Granpa, there are security men all over campus…”

  “I know,” he said. “Keep the gun in a safe place. It is there if you should need it.”

  Sue put the box in her closet, hating the idea of a gun in her possession. After that, she went to bed, and this morning, when she awoke, neither of her grandparents were at home. She felt she barely knew them anymore.

  Certainly, she didn’t tell them what she was planning to do this day. She didn’t tell them about her appointment with Joyce Davenport.

  I’m about to find out about my mother. Even more—I’m about to find out about myself.

  Sue was certain Joyce Davenport had answers for her. Answers that would explain what was happening. For Sue had come to understand that she was on the brink of discovering something about herself—and the things that she could do.

  Was that what Granpa had meant? That she was now a woman—who could make things happen?

  Things she didn’t always like.

  But still—things that made her feel very powerful.

  Sue couldn’t deny the ripple of excitement she’d felt as she’d driven out of Lebanon early Wednesday afternoon in the midst of the snowstorm. She didn’t fear slippery roads. She didn’t fear anything, in fact. The roads will clear for me, she told herself.

  And they did. It might be snowing fiercely, but as Sue’s Lexus made its way through the winding roads of upstate New York, ice melted and slush receded. She didn’t so much as spin a tire all the way back to the city.

  Luck—or something else?

  She got off the subway at Times Square, and headed over to the bookstore Joyce had told her about. A mob of people stood waiting to hear Joyce speak. Sheep, Sue couldn’t help but think. They look like sheep. Blank-eyed, they clutched copies of Joyce’s books to their chests. Sue found a spot in the back, and watched with fascination as all the seats were filled. Then Joyce was up there in front, basking in the applause. Her rant was far more specific than the one she’d given at Wilbourne. Joyce blasted “godless liberals” who wanted to destroy “the American way of life.” She called a well-known Congressman a “faggot” to the hoots and applause of the crowd. Those blank eyes were waking up, filled now with fire. Joyce went after illegal immigrants. “Tar and feather them!” one young man in the same row as Sue shouted. The people around her hooted. Sue could feel the hot energy pulsing from the crowd. It was both terrifying—but also, strangely, exhilarating.

  Sue stood off to the side watching Joyce sign copies of her book after she had finished speaking. Sue marveled at the way these people responded to Joyce. They seemed to draw power from her. And she from them.

  She certainly drew their dollars. The cash register never stopped ringing.

  “Sweetie!” Joyce finally said as she caught a glimpse of Sue. “You’re here!”

  She flew over, flung her arms around Sue, and whispered in her ear. “Meet me across the street at the Hubcap Grill. I’ll get rid of these sheep so we can speak privately.”

  Sheep, Sue thought, smiling. She called them sheep, too.

  The Hubcap Grill was crowded when she walked through the front door, as most places around Times Square generally were. It was a specialty place that sold nostalgia along with overpriced food. It was patterned after a classic fifties-style diner. Shiny chrome stood out everywhere, with booths covered in red vinyl. A jukebox played only music from Elvis Presley, the Big Bopper, and Buddy Holly. Everywhere you looked, flat-screen televisions were mounted, each of them showing episodes of a different black-and-white sitcom from the fifties. Sue recognized Leave it to Beaver, The Honeymooners, and I Love Lucy. The others weren’t as familiar.

  She slipped into a booth way in back and ordered a Coke. After about ten minutes, she spotted Joyce moving through the crowd toward her. She was wearing a simple black pantsuit—where’s the sexy black miniskirt? Sue wondered—with a short rope of pearls hanging onto her bl
ack blouse. The long black hair, styled dramatically over her shoulder at the book reading, was now pulled back into a ponytail. She’d washed off most of the makeup she’d been wearing, too. Apparently, the persona she adapted for public consumption was off duty now.

  Her one concession seemed to be her mink coat, which she ditched as quickly as she arrived at the booth. “Too many of those freaky animal rights people around, you know?” Joyce laughed. “I’ve got to hide it under the table. If I hang it here on the rack, somebody’s bound to throw ketchup on it, pretending it’s blood.” She sat down opposite Sue. “Minks are nasty little animals anyway.”

  “Great turnout across the street,” Sue said.

  “Oh, that’s nothing, sweetie. I pulled in five hundred last night on Fifth Avenue.”

  “On Thanksgiving Night?”

  Joyce beamed. “I’ve got ’em flocking behind me.”

  Sue smiled awkwardly. “Anyway, I appreciate you meeting me.”

  “Well, I’m only sorry it took so long. But everything happens for a reason.” She narrowed her eyes and gave Sue an intimate look. “I’ve been wanting to see you for a very long time, you know.”

  A waitress handed them two menus. “Can I just get a glass of white wine?” Joyce asked as she opened her menu.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t serve wine,” the waitress replied.

  Joyce made a face. “Then just bring me a fucking Diet Coke.” She waved her hand as if dismissing the waitress.

  Joyce sighed. “So, what do you think of Wilbourne? Have they been good to you?”

  Sue nodded. “It’s okay. I mean, I enjoy my classes, and some of my professors are great.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, like Dr. Marshall.”

  “Virginia Marshall?” Joyce let out a hoot. “Brilliant! Fucking brilliant! I’m so glad you had Marshall this semester!”

  “I didn’t think you’d approve of what she teaches.”