Another moment and she was back on her feet, beginning to move along the wall again, slowly and carefully, shuffling her feet through the dust. She guessed she’d traveled three quarters of the way around the room now. Hope of finding a ladder fading, she inched along, hugging the wall until she found the outcropping with the piece of rope. She was stuck down here until Henry opened up for the day. Unless her captor returned. Refusing to entertain the thought, she eased herself into a sitting position to wait for morning.
16
Justin Martin
“JUSTIN, HONEY, WAKE UP.”
Fuck you. Justin turned over and pulled his pillow over his head, but his mother kept calling him in that irritating June Cleaver voice, and rapping on the door like a sick woodpecker.
“Justin? Are you awake?”
At that he pulled the pillow from his eyes and grabbed the alarm clock, squinting at it in the gray dim morning light. Five-fucking-thirty. The alarm wouldn’t go off for another hour and a half.
“Juss-tinn!” She tried his doorknob and the sound brought him bolt upright, furious. How dare you, you dried-up old cunt! “Justin? Honey? Your door’s locked. Are you all right in there?”
Jesus fucking Christ! “I’m fine,” he called in an almost civilized voice. “What do you want?” You fucking prune!
“There’s a phone call for you. It’s Mr. Marquay.”
“Got it,” he called, reaching for the extension by his bed. He waited until her footsteps receded, then picked up the receiver. “Got it, Mom,” he said sweetly, then waited until she hung up. “Mr. Marquay?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
Marquay’s voice was rougher and sadder than usual. Justin knew he was really missing his cuntsickle wife, but something else was bugging him now. “Justin, I’m sorry to call so early, but I needed to catch you before you left for school.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Marquay. What do you need?”
“I woke up sick as a dog this morning, son.”
“I’m sorry. What do you need me to do?”
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get out of bed any time soon, except to run to the bathroom.” Marquay cleared his throat, and nearly retched in the process. “I’ve been up with the trots all night long. I guess I’ve got the stomach flu.”
Chef Boy-ar-dee had a heat stroke and puked in your stomach, Henry old boy. Like it? “I’m sorry, Mr. Marquay,” Justin said solemnly.
“Can you work this afternoon?”
“Sure. Do you want me to open the ride as soon as I get off school? I can be there by two.”
“Justin, you’re a godsend. If I get to feeling better, I’ll be around. If not, I know I can trust you to run the place.”
“You sure can, sir. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Would you stop by on your way to school and put a sign out saying the ride will open at two?”
“No problem, Mr. Marquay.”
Justin hung up and lay back in bed, stretching the sleep from his muscles. Finally he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Today was going to be a very good day. Assuming Spelman and his wreck had been found by now, he’d spend the morning consoling poor, bereaved Christie Fox. If not, he’d be self-effacing and charming when she thanked him for acing her homework. He couldn’t lose. And today was a half day at school. He’d be off at eleven-thirty, which would give him lots of time alone in the mine before he had to open the ride.
17
Father Michael Corey
AT DAWN FATHER MICHAEL COREY ENTERED HIS SMALL CHURCH on the southwestern edge of Old Madelyn. Head bowed, he walked down the center aisle saying his prayers.
As always, he loved the atmosphere of the small mission-style Catholic church. Much of it was still made of the original adobe bricks from the mid eighteen hundreds, and the parts that had crumbled due to age or earthquakes had been lovingly restored by the parishioners over the last few years.
He walked slowly, giving thanks, drinking in the atmosphere of the place. It was a chapel haunted by the past, but haunted in a wonderful way. Always cool, even on the most scorching August day, the little church had an atmosphere charged with serenity. The thick walls held the remnants of the prayers and good wishes of a century of worshipers, and Michael felt privileged to be caretaker of this place. It was a parish no one had wanted, and he’d built it from nothing but a derelict building to a small but thriving part of the Madelyns, Old and New. Even vacationers came to the church, and he hoped they found more than just novelty within the walls. He thought they did, because he doubted that anyone could be untouched by the serene atmosphere of the place.
Three small stained-glass windows cast beautiful muted colors on the polished oak floor as he approached the altar steps. Still keeping his eyes on the ground, his hands clasped, he crossed to the center of the chancel and knelt as he finished his prayer. As he crossed himself, he looked up at his greatest joy: a hand-carved life-size Mexican crucifix.
The sorrowful, exquisite face of Jesus was coated with dried blood. Michael stood, gasping, then staggered back a step, seeing the damage done to the entire chancel. The cross hung slightly forward, as if someone had tried to pull it from the wall, and the blood had run from the head down the tortured body to the toes, and then dripped to the floor before it had dried.
In blood, the number of the Beast, 666, was written on the wall above the wooden cross.
Shocked, he stared around the chapel. In the right corner near the chancel, the pricket was overturned and the votive candles lay in waxy puddles and broken glass from their holders. He was suddenly glad the parish couldn’t afford carpet, or there might be nothing left.
The statue of Mary nearby had been doused with blood, then shattered. Michael crossed himself again, sick at heart, and to his stomach. The parishioners would be arriving soon.
Quickly he ran back up the aisle and out of the church. He pulled the doors closed and locked them, something he had done only once before, after a group of cultists had left a dead chicken on the altar. It was horrible, but not like this.
Michael crossed the breezeway to his small house, went in, and called the police department. Moss Baskerville was there already, and he promised to be right out. Relieved, Father Corey went outside to send his few parishioners home.
18
Hannibal Caine
“MAYBE WE SHOULD DISCUSS THE PLANS WITH JAMES ROBERT,” Eldo Blandings said as he buttered an English muffin. “After all—”
Hannibal Caine motioned their server to leave the room and waited while she pulled the door to the compound’s private dining room closed behind her. As soon as she was gone, he looked across the table into Eldo’s long, sour face and zealous eyes, and wondered, not for the first time, if it had been wise to take this man into his confidence, if only marginally. Eldo Blandings was, after all, his only ranking equal as the other Elder Apostle; only Jim-Bob Sinclair held higher rank in the Church of the Prophet’s Apostles.
Eldo had seemed all right when Caine began discussing certain of his ideas with him several years ago, but recently he had discovered that Blandings, perhaps in his excitement over the predicted Apocalypse, had begun to lose his grip on reality. At first he seemed eager to “help out” Jim-Bob, who wasn’t, Caine told him, able to keep a tight enough rein on things these days unless Caine and Blandings subtly provided him with more help. But now that Hannibal had put together the Special Projects Committee and made Eldo its general, the old war bird was showing his true colors, all of which were shades of yellow.
“Eldo,” Caine began brusquely, “what if the world doesn’t end Sunday? What if Sinclair is wrong?”
Eldo’s jaw dropped. “I don’t think you need to worry about—”
“What if the world doesn’t end with the eclipse?” he persisted. Caine couldn’t understand how any thinking man could possibly have such blind faith in a prophecy, but all the Apostles seemed to, except for himself and, he was certain, Jim-Bob Sinclair. He didn’t know what old Jimmy had in store for
the Armageddon, but he suspected it had more to do with taking the money and leaving the country than with helping the masses get to heaven. He did know that if anything happened to the Prophet, the ministry was his, and that almost assuredly meant that from Jim-Bob’s Apocalypse on, he’d be in charge.
Still, as the prophesied year approached and the Prophet failed to take him into his confidence about his plans, Hannibal Caine began taking precautions, just in case Jim-Bob dissolved the church and left him high and dry.
He had done his creative accounting slowly, carefully, and now he had a sizable nest egg. There was also the safe in Sinclair’s office to which only Sinclair, Eldo and he were privy. And if Sinclair tried to bilk him out of his rightful place before he left, Caine had decided to force Sinclair to share, and share generously, by the use of a little judicious blackmail.
Eldo Blandings crossed his arms and tilted his head back, showing the hairs growing out of his oversized hawkish nose. They were the same steel gray color as the terrible toupee he insisted on wearing. “If you don’t believe the Prophet’s words, why do you serve him?”
A logical question from an annoying man. Hannibal Caine smiled smoothly and replied the only way he could. “Of course I believe in him, Eldo, but sometimes I lack the strength of conviction you’re blessed with.” Schmuck.
Eldo’s sour face split in a grin that made him even uglier, and he patted Caine on the back. “You’re a good man, Hannibal. Don’t let the devil into your mind and you’ll be fine. Just have faith.”
“Thank you, Eldo.” He nearly choked on the words. Why had he ever thought he could trust this man to lead his missions? If he didn’t handle things perfectly, any minute now Eldo Blandings might run to Jim-Bob and tell him about the “good deeds” he and Hannibal had instigated so far: the goat, the mailbox, Corey’s precious church.
“Eldo,” he began, “we made our little band of helpers swear on their lives that they would never speak of their involvement in our activities. It’s for their own good—and ours. Our selfless acts are the kind that could get us in trouble with the law. Not everyone understands the importance of what we’ve been charged to do. How would it look if the Prophet was privy to our activities? That’s why he has asked me to oversee our committee without his involvement.”
“But—”
“We are his disciples, Eldo, and we do as he wishes. The Prophet cannot lie; therefore, he cannot know until the day of the eclipse, on the very day the Horsemen ride to glory.” Caine stared at Eldo from under his brow. “Telling him now would be against his direct wishes.”
Eldo Blandings scratched his chin, obviously unable to separate the nonsense from the truth, especially since there was nothing to separate. “Do you really think so?” he asked finally.
“I know so, Eldo.” Prior to joining Jim-Bob’s church, baby-faced Hannibal Caine had been a used-Cadillac salesman, and he turned on his talents now. “In fact, Eldo,” he added with the greatest sincerity, “I guarantee it.”
“All right.” Blandings hesitated a long moment. “But do we really have the Prophet’s blessing for all our actions?”
“Absolutely.” Caine smiled angelically. Sinclair knew nothing of the Special Projects Committee’s true workings and he trusted Hannibal completely. His foolishness would leave him at fault for all the problems. Caine pushed his plate aside. “Eldo, Eldo, Eldo. The Prophet Sinclair is a very busy man. He’s on the radio every day, he leads church services and counsels our members. He’s our missionary, the symbol of our faith, and that keeps him too busy to attend to minor details. Look how often he goes into town to spread the word and how regularly he organizes missionary crusades all over Southern California. He is a man of words, Eldo. That’s his strength. And that’s why he chose us to be his Elder Apostles—he needs men of action to help him. And you are here to help our Prophet, aren’t you?”
“Of course!” Eldo cried, and Hannibal Caine felt like he’d just sold him a twenty-year-old pink Caddy with fringe balls and a matching fur-covered steering wheel.
“To my knowledge,” Blandings began, abruptly shifting gears, “Chief Baskerville never came out here after the goat was killed. Have you heard any different?” He finished his muffin and began stirring spoon after spoon of sugar into his coffee.
Caine tried not to watch that ritual. “Baskerville hasn’t visited.” Mel Campbell, one of the people he had handpicked for their Special Projects Committee, had been assigned to keep watch from a distance while the goat was taken and killed. He stayed long after the stoning—out of duty, he said, but Caine knew he’d most likely taken an afternoon siesta. He later reported to him that the animal had been spirited away by Justin Martin, a young man who had been coming to their church meetings lately. Hannibal found this fascinating, but told Campbell to keep his mouth shut about it because he wanted to discuss the matter with Justin personally. The boy, perhaps, had promise.
A sleazy smile creased Eldo’s forlorn face. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but at least the droopy-eyed coot was getting back into the spirit of the thing. “Baskerville will probably come around asking questions after what we did to the church.”
“Eldo, I’m certain he will. The Prophet Sinclair has never made it a secret that he feels the other religions, especially Catholicism, teach heresy. But he’ll also justly deny any involvement. All we have to do, if Baskerville makes a pest of himself, is point him in the direction of that little cult that’s taken up residence on the other side of the freeway.” The cult was nothing more than a bunch of mixed-up idiots running around in black robes baying at the moon. They fancied themselves a witches’ coven.
Eldo nodded, a gleam in his eye. “So what’s next?”
Though the man had that damnable blind faith in Sinclair, he also had a sadistic streak he could barely keep under control. That’s why I wanted him. It was Eldo Blandings who had conceived of stoning the goat instead of merely slitting its throat to put it quickly out of its misery. And Blandings was also the one who thought of pouring animal blood all over the crucifix in the Catholic church, instead of merely writing “666” in red paint across the wall. Eldo, Caine reminded himself, had his uses. That’s why he had included him in the first place.
Caine sipped his orange juice, then patted his lips with his napkin. “We’ll let things cool off for a day or so.” He smiled and rose from the table. “Then we’ll escalate events.” Seeing the psychotic glint in Eldo’s eye, he put his hands on the table and leaned down to the man’s ear. “We’re in the last days of the world, my friend, and we need to save as many sinners as we can, don’t we?”
“It’s our duty as Apostles.” Eldo’s eyes flamed with zeal.
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Caine told him. “We’re going to pay a visit to the Whore of Babylon herself. The devil’s bride.”
“Six-six-six.” Eldo laughed. It was a thin, papery sound, like dried flesh blowing off bones.
19
Justin Martin
JUSTIN PARKED HIS CAR NEAR THE HAUNTED MINE RIDE AT THE far end of the lot just as his watch beeped seven o’clock. After the phone call from Henry Marquay, he’d hurried from the house, his mother nagging about his not eating breakfast until he was in his car and out the driveway. He was really getting tired of the old bitch.
Unlocking a back gate, he trotted into the park. The mine ride was built into the upper reaches of the old Moonstone Mine, so it was slightly removed from Madland proper, in the northwest corner of the park.
Justin passed Boot Hill, the nineteenth-century cemetery that Henry Marquay and some of the other old farts claimed contained the bones of their ancestors under piles of colorful rocks, rusted black iron crosses, and a scattering of restored wooden crosses and headstones.
He slowed as he came to Our Lady of Miracles, the little adobe church. Baskerville’s cruiser was parked out front and the wimpy young priest was talking to the chief in the shadowy doorway. Justin glanced at his watch: His first class was in twenty minute
s, and he had a final he couldn’t miss. Still, he wondered what was going on. He waved at the priest, Corey nodded, and Baskerville turned to look. Justin took the opportunity to veer from his path.
“Hi, Father,” he said breathlessly. “Is everything all right?”
Before Corey could answer, the police chief spoke in a low, grouchy voice. “You’re the Martin boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what are you doing here this time of day?”
Justin smiled winningly. “Mr. Marquay doesn’t feel well, so he asked me to stop on my way to school and put a note on the mine ride saying we’re opening late today.” He pulled the folded note from his shirt pocket.
“He’s ill?” Corey asked quickly.
“Just a little stomach flu, Father.”
“How’s he holding up since Mrs. Marquay’s disappearance?” the priest asked, while that old bear Baskerville stared at Justin with that squinty look cops always had, but Justin pretended he didn’t notice.
“He’s not very happy, Father. He doesn’t talk about it much, he just works a lot. Maybe that’s why he got sick.”
“I’ll stop in to see him,” Corey said, “after we’re done here.”
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