“Lust,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Lust,” he repeated, the thought penetrating, clearly paining him.
He turned to her, and his eyes roamed her body, seeing, despite the shapeless dress that had been found for her, the mounds and curves and valleys he well knew.
“I cannot tell you what a disappointment it was. ‘This person is different,’ that is what I told myself when you joined us. And then…” He realized that his voice was rising again, and he forced himself to calm. He reached out, placed a reassuring hand on her inner thigh, patted gently.
“There is lust,” he said, “…and there is love.” His hand was moving slowly upward. Her eyes flickered at his face, then toward the hand that she could not raise her head high enough to see.
“The distinction is a fine one, of course.” He held flesh cupped in his hand now, still smiling wistfully. “…but we have to make it…”
He left off his stroking motion, grasped a fold of flesh and twisted, watched her eyes widen with shock, her body turn rigid with pain and rise off the narrow bed.
He withdrew his hand and sat back in his chair. “I blame myself, of course. I let my own affection for you cloud my better judgment.” His lifted his brows as if to countenance the fact that even he had been human.
“And I may have kept too much back from you, kept you from appreciating what I’ve undertaken.” He gave her a chaste pat on the knee this time, waved his hand at the banks of electronic equipment lining the room behind him.
“And so that is why we have to talk now. Maybe we can reach some understanding yet, Sara. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
He bent forward then, and cupped her cheeks tenderly in his palms. His smile was back, blooming with the force of many suns. Seared by the force of this gaze, the lame might cast away their crutches, the aged turn lithe, the wayward become whole again.
“I know you can do it, sister. I by God know you can.”
***
No telling what time it was, nor how long she’d been unconscious. A few minutes, a few hours, an entire day. No way to calculate by the nature of the litany above her, either. The fulsome voice recycled itself at intervals, as if the man were not a man at all, but some holographic image plucked out of the ether somewhere between the cameras of the soundstage and the satellites that boosted his image at one time within the cycle of a week to every country in the world.
She was locked in an awful unending nightmare, that was all she knew. Here, in the room where she’d been brought—Willis’s private command post, a production room somewhere in the bowels below the subfloors of the deepest paranoiac bunker—James Ray Willis could be fully and finally transformed.
Down here he could blithely throw off whatever vestiges of humility he maintained in his guise of a “normal” life and become the creature he’d always dreamed of being. And it was her role to serve as witness. That much she knew. But for how long she had no idea.
She should have been able to see the signs earlier. His gradual withdrawal from everyday business affairs, from public appearances, his loss of zeal even for his legendary Sunday performances, his growing obsession with the technology that beamed him farther and wider with every week that passed. But instead, she’d unwittingly become a part of things, hadn’t she. Computers, Reverend Willis. Let me tell you about some other things they do. Let me tell you about the World Wide Web.
With a sigh that died somewhere between her intention and the gag that bound her tightly, she rolled her head to the side, let her eyes fall open. His clothes looked the same as the last time she’d looked, but then they seldom varied: dark blue suit, perfectly pressed and starched white shirt, expensive silk tie in muted, abstract swirls. A television preacher who’d been to town. No clue there. Yesterday? Today? Tomorrow?
He’d told her the documents she’d sent to Arch had been recovered, that much she remembered. No hope then, no chance discovery, no person to put two and two together, come riding to the rescue. How much longer, then? How much more to endure?
Willis acknowledged her open eyes with a nod, as if he’d been waiting for her to return from some errand, a phone call, some distracting task. “When I began my planning,” he said casually, his knee clasped in his hands, “I frankly despaired that all I aspired to could be accomplished, in any earthly lifetime. Hearst, Hapsburg, Holy See, they all had dreams and unlimited resources, and what did it get them?” He shrugged, adjusting his perch on the metal chair.
She was thirsty, and she needed to go to the bathroom, but if she signaled these things to him, there’d be the nearly unbearable show of solicitousness on his part. And there would also be the watching, no chance he’d allow her in that tiny rest room by herself. What might she do, crawl away down the drain? Hang herself with toilet paper? Wouldn’t it be better for him if she did manage to kill herself?
Worst of all was the way he looked at her. As if all this pained him, somehow. As if prolonging the matter were some act of mercy. She’d be dead already had she never been intimate with the Reverend James Ray Willis, that much she knew. Never mind that it had lasted all of a month, that she’d meant as much to him as a new shirt. To Willis it meant he had to appear to ponder matters for a while, until he could manufacture some reason why she had to die, just as her brother had had to die, as the others he’d told her about had had to die, for the greater good of his cause.
Remembering how naïve she’d been sent a wave of shame over her, accompanied by a brief surge of anger. She tried to laser her fury toward him, beam it across the few feet that separated them, but Willis was looking elsewhere, and she was so tired, even such a pathetic attempt exhausted her.
“A knowledge of history did not keep me from pointing myself in the right direction, of course,” Willis was saying. He seemed to be talking more to the ceiling now, or perhaps to the ages. “As the poet says, ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,/Or what’s a heaven for?’” His smile broadened, and he reached to pat her hand, just where the heavy strap crossed her wrist.
This could not last much longer, she thought. Today, tomorrow, he would weary of the charade, worry that someone would find her, soon he’d shift from history to Revelations, show her the fate of the unfaithful.
“But so much has happened in this era, the network expanded so pervasively, I began to think, what if we’d been wrong all along, the way we’d been envisioning the millennium.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Forgetting all the old scenarios, the rain of hellfire, the scourging of the unworthy, the ascension of the few, all of that.”
He leaned forward, eager, so close she could feel his breath—hot, dry, the scent of mint—on her cheek.
“I see those images of African Bushmen drinking Coca-Cola, of Australian Aborigines wearing Nike ball caps, Mongolian cave dwellers where there’s one pair of trousers for an entire family and it’s a pair of Guess jeans, and I ask myself, how far away is the day? and what I mean is this”—he was so close to her ear now that his voice had dropped to a whisper—“how far away is the day when we can finally transcend the boundaries of race and nationalism and parochial self-interest and enter the common world, where the goals are made sensible once again, goals within reason. Where there’s no longer a need to make a killing, but a simple living…where we have work that matters, modest homes, personal safety, our neighborhoods back…”
He fell back in his seat as if he’d overwhelmed himself with his rhetoric. “You and I know this, Sara, and everyone knows it in their heart of hearts. But no one’s able to get the message across any longer. Doesn’t it make more sense for me to be in control of the message-making than the godawful demons who are?”
He was no longer talking to her, she knew. The question, if it were a question, was meant for some far greater authority than herself.
There was silence then, and she saw that Willis sat now with his head back, his eyes closed, sweat glistening on his face, the very picture of a fighter collapsed in
his corner after an exhausting match. The muscles were still working in his jaws, as if they were part of an unruly machine that simply refused to stop altogether and on command. He worked his shoulders, swung his head about, took great inhalations of breath, which grew more and more regular, until finally he calmed. When he opened his eyes again, she saw that he had become the old James Ray Willis for an instant, at least, a person, a human being who blinked, seemed to register her presence as if for the first time: who has bound this woman to a cot? how did I come to be here with her?
An instant only, and then it was gone. Willis averted his gaze, checked his watch. “There will be one world, sister,” he said in a calm voice. “And it’s coming soon, much sooner than anyone suspects.” He gave her a smile. “Whoever controls the means of distributing the Word will also control the Word itself.”
“Martin Rosenhaus understood something of what I’m talking to you about, but he failed, finally, because he took himself to be more important than the aim itself. He was a good businessman, but a poor prophet. His failure was a failure of vision.”
Willis checked his watch again. “It will take a patient person and a humble one to bring these plans to fruition.” He stood then, came toward her. “I intend to be that person, sister.” His eyes swept over her, lingered here, lingered there.
“Who else did you tell about my plans, Sara? You want to tell me that?”
The question struck her like a slap. That’s what it was all about, she realized suddenly, the only reason she was still alive. Distract her with all this talk of plans and goals and a better world, wear her down, then spring it on her. Of course. The moment he was sure his tracks were covered, she’d be gone. She stared back at him, her eyes as full of fury as she could make them.
Willis nodded, his expression unflappable. It was as if he’d forgotten he’d even asked the question.
“Well, that’s enough for now, isn’t it?” he said. His eyes swept over her once again. “You look worn out, sister. You need to rest and reflect.” And then he was reaching for her. “Let’s first just get you tidied up.”
Chapter 18
“What is it?” Janice said, giving Deal a puzzled look. He pulled the receiver away from his ear, held it out to her as a tinny voice droned on.
“Another machine,” Deal said. “Inviting me to make a pledge to the Worldwide Church of Light. For any number of good reasons.”
She nodded, hardly surprised. He’d already filled her in on what he’d heard when he’d dialed Sara’s home number again. This time, a computerized phone mail voice informed him that he had, in fact, reached the number he had dialed. He’d been invited to leave a message, another suggestion he’d passed up.
As the recorded message paused, Deal brought the receiver back, just in time to hear an actual person come on line. “Worldwide Church of Light,” cool and professional, not unlike the recorded voice that had urged him to donate.
“Sara Dolan, please.”
There was no acknowledgment, just a clicking sound as he was transferred, a couple of chirping rings, then another computer-generated voice. Deal listened in disbelief, then held the phone up for Janice as the message recycled itself:
“We’re sorry, but the voice mailbox you have reached is no longer in service. The party you are trying to reach may have been transferred or is no longer with the organization.”
Deal hung up, sat staring at Janice.
“You want to call back, try to talk to somebody else?”
“I don’t think it would do much good. They don’t seem much interested in conversation out there.”
“Well, what, then?”
Deal sat thinking for a moment, then noticed movement at the doorway of the kitchen. “Give your daughter a good-morning kiss?” he said, pointing.
Isabel was standing there, her eyes darting back and forth between Deal and her mother. Her hands tugged uncertainly at the hem of her nightgown. When Janice turned to give her a smile, to hold her arms out, it was like watching a dam give way.
Isabel’s face lit up, her uneasiness melting away. In an instant, she was running flat out, into her mother’s arms.
“Mommy,” she said as Janice gathered her up.
“Isabel, Tinker Bell,” Janice said, holding her close. Deal felt something slip inside him, had to turn away for a moment. When he looked again, Janice was plopping Isabel onto one of the counter stools.
“You slept a long time,” Janice said.
Isabel nodded.
“That’s good,” Janice said, giving Deal a look. She pulled down a bowl, found a box of Fruit Loops, eyed it suspiciously. “Is this what you have for breakfast these days?”
Isabel nodded. “Are you going to stay home now, Mommy?” she said, her gaze fixed on Janice’s every move.
Janice found milk in the refrigerator, turned to add it to the cereal. “Mommy’s going to come and see you lots and lots,” she said. She gave Deal another glance, this one guarded.
“I want you to stay home,” Isabel insisted, her voice rising.
Janice took a breath, looked at Deal again, finally leaned across the counter so that her gaze rested at Isabel’s level. “Listen, sweetheart, you know Mommy loves you, don’t you?”
Isabel nodded, but her lip was jutting.
“Well,” Janice said, reaching out to stroke her cheek, “that’s the most important thing right now. Mommy loves you very much and we’re going to spend lots of time together, okay?”
Isabel gave another nod, this one somewhat more assured.
“Now, come on,” Janice said. “Let’s see you eat some breakfast.”
Isabel gave her a doubtful look, scooped out a spoonful of cereal. Deal sucked in a breath of his own, turned to open the kitchen door, let the breeze in.
He was standing, staring out into the bright morning, when he felt Janice’s presence at his shoulder. He glanced at her. “Pretty tough, huh?”
She nodded. “Nothing I didn’t expect.”
“At least Daddy wasn’t in there singing harmony,” he said.
She gave him a pained smile. “It’s not a lot of fun, is it?”
He put the back of his hand to her cheek. “I seem to remember some fun.”
She managed a laugh, but there wasn’t a lot of joy in it. For a moment, they stood quietly.
“So what can we do, Deal?”
“About Sara, you mean.”
She nodded.
He ran a hand through his hair. He could forget all this, he thought. Go in to his office, get some bid letters out, let Floyd Flynn and company handle the detective work. Maybe things were just that simple: Arch had been murdered by robbers, Lightner done in by a disgruntled associate, Rosenhaus by his own hand. All the connections between the three simply coincidence, as it was simply a coincidence that Sara Dolan had chosen to take a vacation or quit her job, just vanish without telling anyone in her family where she might be going.
Too much happenstance? So what. What was he supposed to do about it? He had troubles of his own. A half-dozen building projects that needed his attention, a family to put back together, a life. Where did it say this was his responsibility? He paid taxes, his taxes supported a law enforcement system. Let the people who got paid for these things take care of it.
“We can call the police in Omaha,” he said to Janice. “Try and file a missing persons report…” He trailed off.
“Or?”
He closed his eyes. What was it inside him that couldn’t let things rest? What overweening pride, what egotistical self-centeredness allowed him to even think he ought to get involved? What on earth could he expect to accomplish?
“Deal…” It was Janice’s voice, bringing him back.
He opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light. There was a talk show on the television, a young man yanking off articles of clothing while a female guest and female host stared in mock horror and the audience went wild with applause. Isabel was
watching in fascination, spooning in her Fruit Loops mechanically.
Deal held up a finger to Janice, went to the television, punched buttons until the reassuring, geeky image of Mr. Rogers swam into view. He gave Isabel a pat on the head, glanced back at Janice.
“If I went out there…” he began before Janice cut him off.
“We,” Janice said, her voice calm, but firm.
“Excuse me?”
“You meant to say if we went out there.”
“No I didn’t,” Deal said. “I started to say if I went out there, maybe I’d stand a better chance of getting someone to look into Sara’s disappearance. It’d also give me a chance to check out this Carver Construction business.”
She pursed her lips. “You really think there’s a connection?”
He shrugged his Driscoll shrug. “Hard to say.”
She nodded. “I’m going with you,” she said.
Deal shook his head. “Stay here, take care of Isabel.”
She glanced into the nook, where Isabel was engrossed in Mr. Rogers’s account of how mail got to be delivered, then beckoned Deal out into the hallway. When he had joined her, she turned on him, her voice subdued but fierce.
“Arch Dolan was my friend,” she said. “I was the only one who was willing to believe what had really happened, and now that it’s starting to look like I was right, you want to shuttle me off to the sidelines…”
“Janice…” he began.
“Don’t ‘Janice’ me,” she said. “I am sorry that I haven’t been here to be with my daughter. It kills me what I’ve missed. But a couple of more days aren’t going to make a whole hell of a lot of difference now.” She closed her eyes momentarily, then turned back to him. “I am a functioning, capable human being, Deal. This matters a great deal to me. I’m just as able as you are to light a fire under some disinterested policeman, maybe more so. If you’re going to look for a woman, you can use a woman’s help.”
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