The Madness of Mercury

by Connie Di Marco

  The lights flashed, as if at a play’s intermission, and everyone ditched their paper coffee cups and napkins and moved toward the stairs leading to the lower level of the theater. I joined the throng, curious to see what the attraction was all about. In the auditorium itself, the house lights were lit, allowing everyone to find a seat. I followed the crowd and snagged a seat halfway down one side, next to the aisle. I left my coat on in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

  A few minutes later, the house lights dimmed and piped-in music with a gospel flavor filled the space. It grew in volume and reached a crescendo as the rear doors were flung open and the choir entered, picking up the thread of the music, humming and singing. The choir numbered at least fifty. They wore purple robes and slowly marched and sang their way down the center aisle, finally climbing to the stage. The piped-in music diminished and the choir went into its full routine. The congregation clapped in rhythm and sang along. The music increased in tempo. The singers formed a semicircle around the upstage area, swaying in unison. Many people stood in the aisles, others held their arms up, waving them in time to the music. As the gospel choir reached fever pitch, a man in white robes, carrying a Bible, entered from the wings. He was taller than any other person on stage, well over six feet. His hair was bright red, naturally curly and slicked back, rising in the front. His face was gaunt, with a strong jaw and full, sensuous lips. Energy like an electrical charge, almost sexual, pulsed from the stage and swept over the audience.

  “Welcome.” He spoke one word and the entire theater was at full attention. Holding out his arms, he said, “Jesus.” The choir picked up the name, singing it in harmony. The room vibrated. “Jesus loves you.”

  The crowd shouted in response. “Amen.”

  “Jesus loves you. He doesn’t care if you’re poor. He doesn’t care if you’re needy. He doesn’t care if you’re old or sick or homeless.” The man’s voice rose. “He doesn’t care if you’ve sinned.” The choir echoed his words at intervals. “He only cares that you’ll come to him and kneel down and seek his forgiveness. He has sent me to care for his flock. To care for you.”

  The power of the man was fascinating. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He swayed the room with his words, with his voice. I felt a martial energy. He had to have a fire sign rising. Aries perhaps, no, Leo. Definitely Leo. Mercury must be prominent in his chart to give him the ability to move the crowd to this extent. I wanted to know his birth information. In spite of myself, I was impressed. I fought the impulse to be part of the energy in the room. To someone less cynical than I, less sophisticated, more in need, Reverend Roy would have enormous influence. He spoke of Jesus’s love and compassion, of the need to care for each other. It all sounded just wonderful, but what darkness lay beneath? What was his real agenda?

  I’m not a joiner. I don’t understand the need to belong to a group. I do understand the need to be close to loved ones, but identifying with any group and being swept away by religious fervor is not in my makeup. I consider myself a spiritual person and believe in a force for good in the universe. I have great respect for anyone’s faith, but I do tend to be skeptical of those who say they are God’s messenger.

  As Reverend Roy spoke, the choir hummed in the background. His voice rose stronger and faster, each sentence punctuated by an “Amen” from the congregation and the choir. I once attended a Buddhist ceremony where everyone chanted in unison for a long period; it felt to me as if the building would rise off its foundation from the power of the sound. But the Prophet’s show beat it all. It was super-charged and produced very cleverly, yet it rested on the energy of one man with an intense talent.

  “We all render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s due, my brothers and sisters. But there comes a time when we must render unto God that which is His. And may God help those who impede that rendering. God may stay His hand in wreaking vengeance upon them, but as an instrument of God, my brothers and sisters, I will not stay mine!” His eyes burned across the sea of faces and looked directly at me. I was sure of it. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. That’s when I heard it—the Reverend shouted, “The Bible says, ‘For without are dogs and sorcerers, and whoremongers … and whosoever maketh a lie. Do not listen, for the Lord shall smote them and punish them.’”

  This man was most certainly behind it all. He had compelled his followers to go forth and punish anyone who would speak against him.

  I glanced around the auditorium. Many people were standing, some lay prostrate in the aisles, and others rose to get a better view. I did the same. Across the room, closer to the stage, I saw a tall figure, a woman. She was standing, her hands raised at every “Amen,” her face slack in an ecstasy of fervor. I stared. I realized with a shock the woman was Gudrun.

  SEVENTEEN

  BUNDLING MY COAT AROUND me, I moved quickly up the aisle, pushing through the padded doors to the darkened entryway. I was certain Gudrun had not seen me, focused as she was on the Reverend. I climbed the stairs and took a deep breath when I hit the sidewalk. I needed to talk to someone. I was shaken by what I’d witnessed. This was powerful stuff. Impressive, but very dangerous if misused. I kept going until I hit Market Street and then called Don at his office.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “On Mason, heading toward Market.”

  “You just caught me. I’m working late on a project tonight and just about to grab some dinner. I’ll meet you halfway. There’s a deli at the corner of Taylor and Turk.”

  Relief washed over me hearing Don’s familiar voice. I wasn’t sure what I found more upsetting: the fact that I’d been targeted by the Reverend Roy’s followers, or the realization of the kind of control one man had over a crowd. And Gudrun! Who very kindly drove Eunice to services. But it was the other way around—she was instrumental in proselytizing Eunice. Was Dorothy aware? And if Evandra had suspicions about Luis’s death, could Gudrun be involved?

  I hurried along Market, and when I entered the deli, I spotted Don at a padded booth on the side. He held up his hand to get my attention.

  I slid across the vinyl banquette. “I’m not sure I’m hungry.”

  “Too late. I ordered for both of us. Now tell me, what’s going on? You didn’t sound quite right on the phone.” Don is a huge guy, tall, close to three hundred pounds, a techno-geek with thick glasses and a razor-sharp mind, and he has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s always reminded me of a large, unkempt teddy bear, although I’d never in a million years tell him that.

  While in college, I’d shared my small apartment in the Sunset, near the university, with a woman named Denise. Denise and Don were an item in those days, and Don was crazy about her. After college, Denise left to join a vegetable-growing commune near the Oregon border. Don was heartbroken and took to hanging out at the apartment at all hours looking for support and sympathy. He eventually got over the heartbreak and now is happily married to his high school sweetheart. They have a three-year-old boy who looks like Don cloned himself.

  His concern made me feel better, even though nothing had changed. Just the fact that I had good friends who were willing to watch my back was comforting.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain … I went to a Prophet service.”

  “Hmm.” Don sat silently and stared at me. “And? Are you now ready to join his flock?”

  “Don, it was frightening. He held them in the palm of his hand. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. The control he had over that crowd. I mean the service itself was well orchestrated. Piped-in music, virtually choreographed, gospel singers, well-put-together—but there was a dark energy. I can’t put my finger on it. His eyes burned. I felt as if he stared straight at me and knew I was there and I was his enemy. It was frightening.”

  “Now you’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

  The waitress arrived and placed a heaping hot pastrami with cheese on a huge roll in front of me. Don’s dish was a platter with two of the same.

  “Eat up, Jul
ia. You’re too skinny.”

  I couldn’t imagine getting that huge sandwich inside of me, but when I lifted up the top bun and smeared dark mustard over the inside, my stomach growled. I was starving. I took a bite. It was fantastic. Warm cheese dribbled down my chin and I hastily wiped it off.

  “You don’t know what you’re messing with, Julia. Local politicians love this guy. Haven’t you seen the pictures we’ve run in the paper? And I told you what I think. He’d do anything to build a power base. So you’re right to be frightened—where’ve you been?”

  “In my own little world, I guess. Where the hell did he come from?

  “Bayou country. Louisiana.”

  “That much I know.”

  “Started preaching when he was just a kid at one of those revival tent things. Said it was his calling. Clever guy. He did the same thing down south. Built up his church preaching a similar kind of message, opened soup kitchens, housing for the destitute and elderly, the whole ball of wax. Had a few local politicians on his side too. Very charismatic. People just loved him there.”

  “So why here of all places? All I’ve heard is that he thinks San Francisco is debauched.”

  “From what I can gather, the church and its retreat got some bad publicity. Some woman came forward with a story she had been held against her will and beaten, but she couldn’t actually prove it. No one backed up her story, so she dropped the charges. Now God has spoken to him and he’s decided he’s needed in San Francisco.

  “Let me guess: San Francisco is a ‘hotbed of blasphemy and devil worship’?”

  “They’re big believers in Satan.”

  I shivered. “Great! And I’m a tool of Satan, I suppose.”

  “He’s got his church in the city and a compound north of here, up around Lakeport, I think it is. Same kinda set-up. Summer camp for kids, a homeless shelter, a retirement village. Everybody loves this guy—his congregation, cops, social workers, politicians, society people. You wouldn’t believe it. Lots of people have the impression his followers are poor, but that’s not the case at all. Plus, he donates piles of money to good causes and charities.”

  Don polished off his first pastrami sandwich and started on the second. “He gets invited to all the biggest events, photo ops with senators and the mayor. Everybody likes what he has to say. Personally, I think the guy’s a whack job. I’ve watched him on TV and there’s definitely something off.”

  “So why is everyone so supportive?”

  “One very good reason. He controls a lot of people. And believe me, he can get out the vote. If he wiggles his little finger, three or four thousand people will demonstrate, march, vote for the candidate he suggests. No politician is going to cross his path. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. The scary thing is how fast it’s all happened.”

  “And what about the people he judges to be driven by Satan?”

  “Yeah, I know. Crazy, huh?” Don shoveled a steaming pile of pastrami that had slipped out of the bun into his mouth and wiped a spot of mustard from his fingers. “But all the psychics, astrologers, numerologists, and past-life readers in the city—even the gays, with all their political power—don’t amount to a hill of beans when politicians are worried about their constituents. Besides, if some members of his congregation take it upon themselves to harass some poor unsuspecting astrologer, well … he didn’t tell them to do it, they did it on their own. He’s not responsible. Look,” Don continued, “everybody’s sick of crime, prostitution, drugs. So what if he says his mission is to rid San Francisco of sin and the followers of the devil.”

  “I’d take LaVey any day of the week,” I replied. Don was well versed in the folklore of Anton LaVey, a San Francisco character who, before he passed to the other side, lived around the corner from me in a small house painted entirely black. He was infamous for his Friday night Sabbats. “At least he didn’t bother his neighbors.”

  “Unless you count the time the lion got loose in his house and ripped out the plumbing.” Don chucked. “He and his family had to barricade themselves in the bathroom till the neighbors heard them screaming and called the cops and the animal control people from the zoo.”

  “Look, Don, I have to go home sometime. I can’t live like this and I don’t want to give up my apartment. But I can’t have prayer vigils and riots on the sidewalk when my clients arrive. My manager is grumbling about evicting me. But I am not going to hide out forever.”

  “Can the cops do anything?”

  “I heard they’ve been told to lay off the Prophet and his followers. If they grab one or two demonstrators, they can charge them with some municipal code about requiring a permit. If I had the money to fight them, I could hire a lawyer and get a restraining order, but I don’t, for all the good that would do. I’d have to have the cops camped out on my doorstep every day and we know that’s not possible.”

  “Julia, believe me, this kind of stuff scares me too. He’s managed to gain an enormous power base in a very short time. The mayor, the police chief, the city council. They all think the sun rises and sets in his you know what. He’s also become quite a mover and shaker in real estate circles. I’ve kept digging, as promised. He has a company, Revelations LLC, and within the last year it’s become the owner of hundreds of properties. If he’s in bed with the real estate developers and the politicians, there’s no telling how powerful he might become.” Don paused to take another bite of his pastrami. “I think there are people who don’t buy into the con, but I guarantee you, they’re afraid to speak out against him. There are rumors that he destroys people—either financially through litigation, or by any means necessary. I’m just sorry you’ve been hit with this. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “Actually, there is something. I’d like to find out his birth date, and if possible, the time. Maybe I can find a chink in his armor.” I shuddered. I still couldn’t shake off the feeling that had come over me in the theater. “Those people were transported, Don. It’s a cult, not a church.”

  “Be forewarned. I’m inclined to believe some of the rumors floating around. There’s nothing I know for a fact, but he’d be vicious to have as an enemy.”

  “I may have already made him one. With my column.” I thought about the attack in the parking garage, which I still had no intention of telling Don about—I’d never hear the end of it. “And by the way, I asked Samantha to run that same letter and response again, the one to the woman who was worried about her mother’s involvement with the church. Desperate in San Leandro.”

  “Whoa.” Don shook his head. “What are you trying to do?”

  “I’m sending a message that I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t understand who would follow this guy.”

  Don shook his head. “Some are desperate. Some, unhappy. Some just want to be led.”

  EIGHTEEN

  BY THE TIME I reached the Eye for Gale’s meeting, a Closed sign hung on the front door. The windows were lit, and displays of recent books, haphazardly but artistically arranged, were surrounded by Wiccan objects, magic mirrors, and dark plaster gargoyles. In one window, Tarot cards were splayed across a velvet shawl, their intricate designs promising entry to mysterious and magical worlds.

  Cheryl had drawn the heavy interior drapes so that our meeting would be hidden from street view. I knocked at the front door and she opened it a moment later for me. As the invitees arrived one by one, I helped her clear the central area. We hauled folding chairs from the storeroom and set them up in a loose semicircle. Fortunately, none of the damage from the firebomb had affected the front of the shop. Cheryl had arranged a large urn for coffee and a tray of small sandwiches and cookies. Everyone was milling about, chatting, checking out the latest book displays and munching on the offerings.

  I was doing my best to maintain a positive attitude, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that we were tilting at windmills, outmanned and outgunned. Eventually I counted twenty-five attendees, plus Gale, Cheryl, and myself. Everyone practi
ced one of the occult arts professionally. I recognized at least two other astrologers. One was a woman I knew only slightly, but whose work I respected. I’d referred clients to her at times, and she to me. The other astrologer was a man who practiced outside the city and dealt mostly in the business and stock market area. All were people who knew Gale, knew her shop, offered their talents occasionally for psychic fairs, or benefitted from her connections for their clientele.

  Zora the medium was at the refreshment table, helping herself to liberal amounts of food. I hoped that Nikolai had had a chance to arrange her services for the following evening’s séance. Zora is a plus-sized woman, fond of wearing several draping layers of clothing, lots of jewelry, and multiple rings on her fingers. She has a brusque, street-tough personality that I’ve always found intimidating, but Cheryl has assured me she’s very reliable and has excellent references from her clientele. I started to head in her direction to speak with her, but before I could do so, the meeting was called to order.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s get started.” Gale stepped to the center of the circle of chairs. “First, I want information from anyone who’s been harassed or threatened in any way, and whose business has been interrupted because of this … Army of the Prophet. You can talk openly tonight, or, if you prefer, send me an email with all the details.”

  A tall woman with short, wispy silver hair raised her hand. “I don’t know what good this will do. I came out of curiosity, but what can we really do?”

  Gale nodded. “I’ve talked to my lawyer, and he feels I have a pretty good claim for intentional interference with economic something or other. At any rate, it’s enough to obtain a restraining order, and probably most of you could claim this too. If you’ve been intimidated by this group, it’s something you can do individually, or else we can organize a class action together.”