The Six Messiahs

by Mark Frost

  The man shook his head. He told the truth.

  "Is the Reverend the man they have built this for?" asked Kanazuchi.

  The man nodded again. "Everything is for the Reverend."

  "Where is the Reverend now?"

  The man shook his head.

  "Tell me where he is or I will kill you."

  The man shook his head again, a reptilian cold possessing i his eyes.

  "You are not one of us ..." the man said.

  He tried to cry out; Kanazuchi gripped his throat harder before a sound could escape and crushed his windpipe. The man collapsed like a broken puppet. Kanazuchi dragged the body to the edge of the room, emptied one of the rifle boxes, stuffed the dead man inside, and covered the box with canvas.

  No movement from the front; the guards had not seen or heard him. He retraced his steps to the back door and left the warehouse.

  His briefcase resting on his lap, Dante sat outside the office door and waited as Frederick had ordered him to do. The men they'd traveled with were elsewhere in the house attending to their wounded comrade, struck by a stray bullet as the last of the posse was going down. They'd ridden hard nearly two hours straight after that, all the way to The New City. Dante was still reeling from all he'd taken in since they arrived.

  Through lace curtains, he could look down on Main Street; its clean white simplicity reminded him so much of the home he'd always wanted that he hoped he would never leave. He had nearly given up dreaming that such a nice friendly place could even exist. But this was the House of Hope, wasn't it?

  He could smell pies baking in the house, apple and cherry both, his favorites. He wondered if they would give him vanilla ice cream with his pie; yes, probably so. He wondered when they would let him have one of the uncommonly attractive women he had seen in the street. The Voices in his head had never sounded so happy.

  We want to eat everything, everything, everything.

  He was startled out of his dreamy mood by angry voices coming from the office; the man he had heard them call the Reverend was yelling at Frederick, something about a book that Frederick had brought with them.

  "Useless! This is useless!"

  The book they'd brought with them came flying through the doorway; its spine cracked as it hit the far wall.

  "How could you be so blind? How can I finish my Work without the real book? What do you expect me to use in its place?"

  Dante couldn't make out Frederick's response, only the more reasonable tone of his voice.

  "Oh, really? Left a trail of crumbs, have you? And how can you be so bloody certain they'll bring the real one with them?" said the Reverend. "How can you be sure they'll even follow you?"

  Another smooth reply from Frederick.

  "NO!" the Reverend screamed. "You'll not collect one penny until that book is in my hands."

  Again Frederick replied in the same soothing manner; over some minutes the Reverend's anger subsided and his voice calmed to Frederick's level. Dante felt relieved; he didn't like the idea of anyone being so angry at Frederick; it made his new world feel as brittle as a hard-boiled egg.

  Moments later the door opened; Frederick smiling, waving him inside. Dante entered the office.

  The Reverend Day stood in front of his desk, smiling too, anger gone, holding his arms out to welcome Dante.

  Frederick walked him across the room, gripped Dante by the hands, rolled up his left sleeve, and showed his brand to the Reverend, who nodded in kind approval.

  "Why don't you show the Reverend your new tools, Mr. Scruggs?" Frederick whispered in his ear.

  Dante opened his briefcase; he felt a twinge of embarrassment when he realized he hadn't had time to clean off all the blades after they'd finished with the posse. Halfway through, he realized he didn't like working on men nearly as much, remembering with a thrill the chubby blond girl from the train—in a jar in his suitcase he'd saved two choice pieces of her that he hadn't even had time to appreciate yet—but he guessed it was still better than dumb animals or insects. Men were better than nothing.

  Somehow when Dante looked into the Reverend's eyes, he felt all of his secrets were understood. No need to explain himself or feel ashamed. This was the man in charge, their general, and he was more bighearted than any soldier could ever hope for. Just as Frederick had said he would be.

  And the Voices liked this man even more than they'd liked Frederick.

  "You know, it's so interesting, I believe we have a first," said the Reverend to Frederick, still gazing at Dante.

  "What is that, sir?" asked Frederick.

  "This one doesn't even need to be Baptized," said Reverend Day, reaching out and lightly stroking Dante's fuzzy cheek.

  "We agreed you were not to work your 'sacraments' on any of my men," said Frederick tensely. "That was our arrangement."

  "Don't work yourself into a state, Frederick," said Reverend Day, his eyes caressing Dante. "When the boy's already been so touched by grace it would only be gilding the lily."

  Their train pulled into Flagstaff, Arizona, ten minutes ahead of schedule; when Doyle, Innes, Presto, and Lionel hurried onto the platform, they found two officials of the Santa Fe line waiting to escort them three tracks over to their chartered express; an engine and tender pulling a single passenger car, bound for Prescott.

  Walks Alone held on to Jack's arm, lagging behind the others. They were the last to step down from the train. She had not left his compartment once since Doyle and Innes had burst in on them the night before. None of the others exchanged a word with either of them, and even now, transferring to the other train, neither of them met anyone else's eye.

  Blistering heat from the noonday sun. Jack looked pale and depleted, hardly enough strength to put one foot in front of the other, all his energy directed inward. She appeared to be equally exhausted and her focus centered solely on moving luck to the second train.

  If she followed the procedure she described to me, then she's invited his illness into her body, thought Doyle as he watched her. If that was true, he shuddered to think what she was fighting against now. He noticed she still carried the stick topped by the eagle feather in her hand.

  What if she's failed? What if they're both incapacitated? What do I do then? I can't slay another man's dragons.

  "Not the most advantageous time for romance, wouldn't you say?" whispered Presto to Doyle.

  "Good God, man, what makes you say that?"

  "She was in his compartment all night. At one point I thought I heard a ... cry of amour."

  "You did hear a cry. Amour had nothing to do with it," said Doyle.

  Love, maybe, but not passion. And the indescribable way in which he had seen that power being employed was not something he felt willing to share with anyone.

  Innes broke in to hand Doyle another wire confirming all the supplies he had requisitioned would be waiting when they arrived in Prescott. After supervising the storing of their luggage, Innes climbed on last in time to see Jack and Walks Alone disappear into one of the car's closed compartments.

  "Hasn't pulled any more strawberry shortcakes out of his ribs today, has she?" he asked Doyle quietly.

  "Let's hope the one was sufficient," whispered Doyle, raising his finger to his lips again.

  Five minutes later their train was steaming its way south.

  Two hours to Prescott.

  "I don't like the idea of you going there alone," said Eileen.

  "I tend to agree, my dear, but it didn't sound like an invitation I could reasonably turn down," said Jacob.

  "You're not well; you should be resting."

  "Now you're sounding like my late wife: Jacob, come to bed, you'll ruin your eyes reading in that light."

  "You probably didn't listen to her, either."

  Jacob stopped by the door in the lobby and took her by the | hand.

  "I always listened. So far I've outlived her six years."

  "Don't go," she said quietly.

  "This is what I've come for. I sh
ould make such an effort only to turn back at the threshold?"

  "Then let me come with you."

  "But my dearest Eileen, you weren't invited."

  "I'm sure the Reverend won't mind."

  "No. I mean, by the dream."

  She looked into his eyes, saw the joy and determination shining through; no trace of fear. A tear formed in her own eye.

  "Please. Don't die," she whispered.

  He smiled, gently kissed her hand, turned, and pushed out ] onto the street through the swinging doors.

  Just like a cowboy, he thought, as he straightened up and headed toward the House of Hope.

  Eileen dried her tears, not wanting the actors gathering in the lobby to see her in such a state. They were already moving toward the theater, a scheduled rehearsal only a few minutes off.

  A man stood up across the lobby and strode toward her, taking off his hat. Wearing a fringed yellow leather jacket, boots, chaps on his pants; he looked like an actor in a wester melodrama. At least he wasn't wearing a white shirt. But five? worried youngsters in white shirts immediately followed the man over to her.

  "Ma'am, might I have a word with you?"

  A tall one. And handsome wasn't the word for it. And go Lord, what a voice, like a low note on a cello. She instantly revised her first impression; she'd been spending far too much time in the company of actors. The way he moved, the way he carried himself; this man was a real cowboy.

  She pulled out a cigarette, her favorite stalling technique; he had a match struck off his thumbnail before she could pull one from her purse.

  "What about?"

  "Would you mind stepping outside a moment?" he said, with an explanatory shrug in the direction of the five white shirts.

  "Gladly."

  He held the door for her as she exited, then turned to block the shirts when they tried to follow.

  "You kids stay put," he said.

  "But we're supposed to see you to your room...."

  "Here's a buck," he said, flipping them a coin. "Go buy Mime lollipops."

  "But, sir—"

  "Clarence, if I catch you trailing after me one more time, I will personally kick your rear ends into the middle of next

  July."

  Frank shut the swinging door firmly in their faces, put on his hat, and fell into step beside Eileen on the sidewalk.

  "You're name's Eileen, isn't it, miss?"

  "Yes."

  "Mine's Frank."

  "Frank, I have a feeling you're not interested in my autograph."

  "No, ma'am. Could I ask how long you planned on staying in this booby hatch?"

  "The play's scheduled to run for a week; why?"

  "To put it plain, we're sitting on top of a powder keg and it's about to blow."

  They were drawing stares—two tall, attractive, nonconforming strangers—from white shirts passing on the street.

  "Keep smiling at 'em," whispered Frank.

  "Makes you wonder what they're so damn happy about," she said, smiling and nodding pleasantly. "They've kept us under lock and key since the moment we arrived. Not that that's such a bad idea with actors. How long have you been here?"

  "About an hour."

  "Do you have any idea what the hell is going on?"

  "They're stealing rifles from the U.S. Army, for starters."

  "Rifles? For these people?"

  "And every last one of 'em's a few shovels short of a funeral."

  A stout middle-aged black woman approached and planted herself in their way, holding out a copy of the printed regulations. "Excuse me, friends," she said with a deranged grimace, "but it is against the rules for visitors to walk around The New City without an escort."

  "Thank you, ma'am; the Reverend told us it was okay," said Frank, smiling right back at her.

  "We just spoke with him," said Eileen, grinning like an idiot. "He sends his love."

  The woman stopped in her tracks, poleaxed; they stepped, around her and continued on.

  "No smoking, either," the woman called after them, less confidently.

  Eileen waved and flicked her cigarette over her shoulder.

  "So I wanted to suggest," said Frank, "that if you had a mind to remove yourself from the premises before Uncle Sam comes looking for his guns and the shit starts flying—excuse the expression—I'd be more than pleased to get you the hell out of here."

  She stopped to look at him. Yes; genuine American sincerity.

  "That's a very kind offer, Frank."

  "My pleasure."

  "But I'm afraid I can't leave at the moment. Not without Jacob."

  "The old man."

  "He's not that old. Does he look that old to you?"

  "He's not your husband, is he?"

  "No."

  "Good," he said, with the first authentic grin she'd seen since they'd left the hotel. "Then we'll bring Jacob along."

  "I'm afraid it's not going to be as simple as that," she said.

  He looked at her. "Not for me either, exactly."

  She glanced around at the white shirts on the street, gestured discreetly, and they moved around a corner into an empty alley.

  "You start," she said.

  Frank pushed his hat back and hooked his thumbs on his belt. "I'm gonna have to ask you about the Chinaman."

  She squinted her eyes and studied him again; for such a good-looking man, she had to admit, his character didn't seem all that deficient.

  "Have you had any unusual dreams lately, Frank?"

  Frank thought for a moment. "No, ma'am."

  "Then first I have to tell you a very strange story."

  "Come in, come in, Rabbi Jacob Stern," said the Reverend, waving an arm toward a velvet sofa in the corner of his office. "Delighted to see that you could join me today."

  "I was able to find time in my busy schedule," said Jacob.

  The Reverend did not rise from the desk or offer to shake his hand; Jacob took a seat on the sofa beside a large globe resting on an oak stand. Aside from a gilded Byzantine icon on the wall behind the Reverend's desk and a King James Bible lying open on a reading stand, nothing suggested that this served as the office of a cleric. Furnishings plush, even opulent, like a picture Jacob had seen of John D. Rockefeller's study. The air felt heavy and cool. Thin strands of brilliant white light cutting through wooden window blinds into the shadowy room were the only reminder that the house rested in the middle of a desert. Motes of dust spiraled up from the heavy Persian carpet and danced in the beams. His eyes adjusting to the half-light, Jacob couldn't see the Reverend distinctly in the darkness behind his desk.

  "A very comfortable room," said Jacob.

  "Do you like it? I had them build my House with the thick adobe walls that are such a characteristic feature of the local architecture; it keeps the heat at bay until well into the afternoon. The furniture is all donated, by the way, gifts from my more generously endowed followers. I don't believe a man of the cloth should receive a regular salary, do you, Rabbi? I think it violates the sacred trust between God and his ... representatives."

  "All very well for God, but a man's got to eat."

  "Tithing; that's the answer, and of course, like most common sensible ideas, it's been with us for hundreds of years. Everyone in the community making the same sacrifice—or shall we say contribution—setting aside a portion of their earnings to support the shepherd of their spiritual flock, be it preacher, priest, or rabbi."

  "Ten percent is the usual figure," said Jacob.

  "I've made the tiniest innovation," said the Reverend, leaning forward into a scallop of light. "I take one hundred percent."

  Day's eyes crept into view for the first time in the hot slice of sunlight. Jacob felt them reaching out at him like oiled tentacles and looked away. He swallowed hard. His heart skipped a beat.

  "I had the great fortune to baptize a steady stream of millionaires into our church early on in my ecclesiastical career. I can't tell you the tithing was entirely their idea, but once the suggesti
on entered their minds it met a remarkable degree of receptivity. And I discovered there is an extraordinary surplus of wealth in these western states; shipping, cash crops, silver, oil. Millionaires are hardly the rare bird you find in the East— to be blunt, out here they are practically a dime a dozen. And despite all this talk about camels and the eyes of needles, I have found that a rich man is just as desperately in need of salvation as any destitute sinner."

  "They're still with you, these former millionaires."

  "Oh, yes. Right here, in The New City," said Day, neglecting to mention how the sight of these former captains of industry and their pampered wives mucking out the latrines still filled him with happiness. "And if you were to ask them, well, I'd be shocked if to a man they didn't say that their lives were one hundred percent richer today."

  "One hundred percent."

  "So much senseless heartache, the strictly material life. So much disquiet and worry about holding on to what you've accumulated. Straining to make its value grow beyond any reasonable fulfillment of one's needs. And what a powerful joy to be released from that suffering and rededicate oneself to a life of spiritual simplicity."

  "Must be a terrible burden, all that money," said Jacob, looking around at the riches in the room. "Tell me, how do you manage it so well?"

  "I consider myself blessed, I really do." Reverend Day stood and limped slowly around his desk toward Jacob ' 'Enormous wealth seems to place no untoward weight upon my soul whatsoever. It rests on my broken shoulders like a hummingbird." He waved his hand through a ray of light and the dust ducked and swirled.

  "What's your secret?"

  "I claim nothing for myself. I am a servant, not a master. I live to fulfill my obligation to God, and what earthly goods pass through my hands leave no stain. Ask what all this money means to me and I would tell you truly, Jacob Stern, that I cannot tell a silver dollar from a buzz saw. Money is merely a tool given to me to complete the Holy Work."

  "The Holy Work..."

  "Why, The New City. Our cathedral. Everything you see around you."

  "And its purpose?"

  "To bring man closer to God. Or should I say to bring Him closer to man...." The Reverend stopped himself and smiled curiously. "You're filled with questions, aren't you? Why don't we speak more ... directly?"