Cult (13 page)

He started toward the door, then turned.

“Tomorrow at eight. In front of the motel. If you're there, you're there. We won't wait.”

Beside her, she felt Roy tense, noting that the butt of the rifle pressed an indentation deeper into his dark cheek. His eye squinted into the telescopic sight, quivering the dark nest of wrinkles beside his temples. Below them, coming down the long winding camp road that sloped toward the highway, she saw the two cars, moving like toys on a plastic track, the Sheriff's car pacing far ahead as a Glory van followed.

O'Hara had explained the plan so as to dispel any implications of violence or killing. There was a section of the winding road where it doubled back behind the river's bend, hiding it from the Sheriff's car, which sped up. When it reached the four-lane highway he pushed forward at full throttle.

According to the plan, which was worked out by O'Hara to pinpoint precision, the Sheriff's intentions would be clearly stated: he had come to the camp merely to complete the investigation of the site in broad daylight. To complete the paperwork. He would assure them that after that all he would need were the statements of Mary and Amos to be given at his office.

Naomi had little doubt that the Sheriff's disarming country personality would lull them into a sense of security. The lure of a quick and happy ending to the investigation would be a powerful attraction to Jeremiah and Holmes.

And now, sure enough, there they were: Jeremiah, Holmes, Mary and Amos, moving slowly down the snaking road in the camp van, smugly oblivious to this small taskforce ranged against them.

Crouching behind scrub brush about a hundred yards above the road, O'Hara and Barney were waiting, ski-masked, armed, fiercely fortified for the surprise assault. Naomi doubted that their disguises would be truly effective but it was more for drama than dissimulation.

Beside her, two quick shots popped in her ear, leaving a ringing. The bullets blew out the van's tires and the vehicle shivered to a halt. Rising, she followed Roy to O'Hara's van, hidden away. He slid into the driver's seat and she jumped into the rear cabin. Through a grill she could observe the road ahead, and light spilled in from a tiny grill in the van's back door.

Shackles were welded to the metal floor next to two canvas bunks stretched over metal piping. On one of the bunks were two obscene-looking rubber masks.

She had never experienced this sense of covert danger. The excitement, despite her fear and revulsion, was thrilling; the aura of criminality charged her with titillating energy. It was another dimension of action she had never experienced before.

The van ground to a halt at the edge of a stand of trees not far from the Glory van.

Roy tapped on the inside panel. It was her signal to open the double panel doors, which she did with shaking fingers. Sunlight poured into the van's interior. Above the cooling motor's ping, she heard the driver's door click open and soon saw Roy's glistening face peek inside. He carried a submachine gun and handed it to her. “Just in case,” he said, crouching in the van's cabin, noting her eyes riveted on the weapon.

She managed to keep alert through her fear, listening. She heard heavy footfalls, then a jumble of voices, a woman's brief high-pitched scream, then for a moment, silence. Scuffling feet and grunts came closer. Looking out, she saw Barney and O'Hara, in ski masks, dragging Amos and Mary, who seemed deliberately stiff-legged and weighted as if they had been taught some counter-tactic. O'Hara had a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

Barney and O'Hara had the two victims gripped under their arms as they tugged their inert bodies forward. Roy, now also in a ski mask, ran to meet them, his gun at the ready. He took a knife from his belt and cut off the Glory's amulets from around their necks.

Then he helped O'Hara and Barney heft the bodies into the rear of the van, quickly locking their ankles and wrists into the shackles. Roy's fingers slipped the masks over the heads of the two prisoners as the doors slammed shut. Barney climbed into the front of the van, tearing off his ski mask, as it shot forward with O'Hara at the wheel. It bounced over rough terrain until it moved out on to the smoother road.

Naomi noted that he was still holding the chains with the amulets.

“What's inside? Holy water?” she pointed to the amulets with her chin.

“Inside this?” He raised them and held them up. The amulet was in the likeness of Father Glory's face.

She nodded.

“Nothin' much. Just cyanide. Enough to kill you in seconds.”

“You're not serious.”

He smiled and broke one open.

“Smell,” he said holding the broken amulet under her nose.

“I'm not sure,” she said, sniffing.

“Burnt almond. No holy water.”

“But why?”

“It's a cult thing. Gateway to paradise. Part of the bullshit.”

The assertion stunned her into silence as she watched him break open the other amulet and pour the contents on the floor of the van.

“Good for a quick bye-bye,” he said with a laugh. She didn't join him.

She watched the two victims struggle against the shackles, masked heads bobbing, like hideous monsters out of a child's imagination.

“Won't do you any good,” Roy barked, moving his hands to hold their heads still, pressing them together as if they were basketballs. The strong pressure quieted the heads like some miracle of healing.

“Is that necessary?” Naomi asked hoarsely. She felt compassion well up again. She hadn't expected this particular aspect of violence.

Roy turned to her and nodded, shrugging. She had been told what to expect but had not been prepared for the reality. Fighting terror with terror, O'Hara had said. She imagined the horror that Amos and Mary must be feeling trapped in the darkness.

Her eyes drifted toward Barney, who squatted on the floor against the closed doors, turning occasionally to watch the road through the grillwork, his hair matted with perspiration, his face distorted with tension. His persona seemed to have metamorphosed. Like the Glories, she noted, with irony. He was not the Barney she had known. Hate hung on him like a pall.

Turning away, she looked at the two shackled prisoners in their grotesque masks. These were human beings, and she was an active party in their suffering, perhaps the cause of it. Still, she held her rebellion inside. Keep an open mind, O'Hara had urged. The gift of his vulnerability had won her—if not her heart, her mind, which she permitted herself to open to what to her were new ideas.

“It will not be pretty,” he had warned her. She clung to the memory of his emphatic voice. “Remember Charlotte,” he had added.

She leaned against the front panel, her body absorbing the shocks of the washboard road over which the van proceeded. Looking through the grill behind the driver's seat, she saw a pine forest closing in on them. The motor strained as the van climbed upward. The bumps grew worse. Roy's arms held the two bodies upright, to prevent injury.

“Jes' hold on, folks. Won't be long,” he said cheerfully. After a time, the van stopped. Barney swung the door open while Roy unlocked the shackles. When the young man started to flail his arms, Roy held them, twisting one behind his back.

“Won't do you no good to make it hard,” Roy said. O'Hara came around to the rear to help them out. They did not struggle. O'Hara led the boy over the unfamiliar ground, Barney followed, carrying a submachine gun slung over his shoulder. Naomi wondered if he was prepared to use it.

“Help her,” O'Hara ordered. Standing, Naomi banged her head on the van's ceiling, but the blow revived her reflexes. Jumping to the ground, she held the woman's arm, as Barney, holding the other arm, brought her up the path to a weathered log cabin.

Inside, it was surprisingly comfortable. A large mottled animal skin rug covered a planked floor. The furniture was worn but serviceable. The room was dominated by a stone fireplace with wood already set for a fire. On one side was a kitchen with a chipped porcelain sink, a stove and refrigerator. Open shelves were well stocked with cans and cartons of food. Barney and Roy unslung their guns and placed them in a closet, closing it by snapping a combination lock around two rungs. Apparently the cabin had been well prepared. It was not far from the camp but well hidden and, ironically, still in Sheriff Moore's county.

The main room led off to another three rooms. The doors to each of these rooms was barred by thick planks, which had to be pushed aside through thick metal braces in order to be opened. Roy and Barney led Amos to one of them, while Naomi followed O'Hara and Mary into the other one. The small room was harshly lit by a single light bulb; the room was virtually windowless, as it had been sealed from the inside with thick wooden planking. A worn double mattress devoid of sheets lay on the floor. An adjoining room contained a sink and a toilet. The door had been removed.

Naomi's eyes searched for any means of escape. None were apparent. The room was quite obviously boxed in, a well-protected cell. To break out of it seemed impossible.

“This is awful,” she muttered.

“I know.” O'Hara turned to Mary, then peeled off the hideous mask. Mary glared back at him with hatred, her face and hair plastered with perspiration. When he removed the ugly leather gag from her mouth, he quickly ducked a wad of phlegm that shot out from between her lips. Naomi expected her to scream. Instead, she hissed: “Father Glory will see you in hell.” The effort to speak so suddenly started a paroxysm of coughing, and specks of saliva dribbled over her mouth.

“You are in hell, baby,” O'Hara muttered, offering a cruel smile.

“Susan, you dirty little lying bitch,” Barney shouted from behind her.

She hadn't seen him enter. The words burst out of him, fists balled. He lifted both his arms as if to strike her.

O'Hara grabbed him. “Don't.” Barney lowered his arms. “Stay with Roy.”

Barney looked at Mary for a long moment, his face contorted with hatred. He muttered a curse and let himself out of the room.

“Resist the devil and he will flee from you,” Mary shouted defiantly, repeating it as a mantra. “Resist the devil and he will flee from you. Resist the devil and he will flee from you.” Her eyes seemed to roll back upon herself, as if her mind was retreating to a place of safety. She began to clap her hands and raise her voice until it screeched like that of an injured animal. Mary's rant was relentless, the words tumbling out her endlessly. She was inducing herself into a trance state. Her throat muscles strained as the words spewed out of her.

“Let's leave her for now,” O'Hara said.

“Like this?” Naomi asked.

“I told you,” O'Hara said. “My way.”

“But it's cruel.”

“It always hurts to get born,” he said.

They left the room and O'Hara replaced the planks, although it did not shut out the sounds of Mary's screaming. Naomi smelled the aroma of frying bacon.

“Time for food,” Roy said from the kitchen.

“He used to be a chef,” O'Hara said, collapsing in one of the chairs, stretching his scuffed boots in front of him.

“The boy's more docile,” O'Hara said. “She'll be a hard case.”

“It's her that we need to break,” Barney muttered, his face frozen into a grimace. He was a stranger now, lost in a swamp of revenge.

“You've got to hold on, fella,” O'Hara said with almost pedagogic patience. “What you see in there”—he motioned with his head toward the girl's room—“it's going to take a while.” He looked up suddenly. “What was she like before?”

“Her name was Susan. I didn't know her before… now. It doesn't matter,” Barney said. “She's the one who took my Charlotte.”

“And God knows how many others.”

Roy came forward, balancing four plates of food. “Coffee's comin',” he said. He put the plates and utensils wrapped in napkins on the table. Then he went back to the kitchen and brought out a pot of coffee and ceramic mugs.

O'Hara got up and went to the table. Roy sat down beside him and immediately stuffed his mouth with eggs and toast.

“Better eat,” O'Hara said. Barney reluctantly got up. Before he could negotiate a mouthful he put it down and dropped his utensils on the table. He pushed his plate away, knocking off a piece of toast from his plate. O'Hara looked at him and shrugged, then turned to Naomi.

“I'm not hungry,” she said. “Give Susan mine.”

O'Hara and Roy ignored her and continued to eat with a relish that offended her. She turned away in disgust.

“Eat your food. Eggs are no good cold,” Roy said. “We eat. They don't. Not yet.”

“They're human beings.”

O'Hara continued to eat and Roy soaked up the eggs with bits of toast, as if deliberately flaunting the food.

“You better eat it,” O'Hara said to Barney through a mouth full of food. “Both of you. You've both got work to do.” He pushed the plate in front of Barney, emphasizing the command. With effort, Barney picked up a strip of bacon and put it in his mouth, washing it down with steaming coffee. Behind the door, Mary's litany continued, but the decibel level was steadily dropping.

“The canary's getting tired,” Roy said, picking at the remains of his eggs.

“How can you deny them food?” Naomi said, her previous resolutions to herself emboldening in this atmosphere of cruel indifference. O'Hara turned to her and shook his head.

“I said it won't be easy.”

“But to starve them….”

He pushed his empty plate away. “We have to weaken them,” he said. “Tire them out. That's the way it began. That's the only way it can be reversed. Like an army softening up the enemy before the attack.” He paused and stood up, walking toward her. Although he wasn't a big man, his presence loomed up at her. Grasping her shoulders, he forced her to look at him. “We're gonna feed them. Just enough. But we're not gonna let them sleep.” He tapped his forehead. “The problem is in here. We're fighting terror with terror.” He watched her for a moment, then his voice became gentle. “I know how it looks.”