Spellbinder (34 page)

“Come in.”

Carrying the breakfast tray, an improbable emissary from room service incongruously dressed in a Temple of Today T-shirt and jeans bulging at his midriff, Elton entered the room. His feet were encased in leather thong sandals. His moon face was fatuously smiling. But his eyes, as always, were transparently calculating the effect of the smile.

“Well,” he said, emphasizing the single word with a comic-opera verve, “she’s safe. Denise is safe.”

Safe.

His prayer, unspoken, had been answered. Deliverance was his. One last time.

But there was more. One look at Elton’s face revealed that, yes, there was something else—some tribute that fate had exacted for this unexpected boon.

Or was it God, not fate?

“You want this on the nightstand?”

Impatiently, he waved. “Yes—yes. Put it down. But tell me what happened.”

Elton placed the tray on the nightstand, drew up a chair and sat close beside the bed. Saying again: “Well—” A pause, for the effect. Then: “Mitchell did it, apparently. He rescued Denise!”

Not Flournoy, Elton’s rival for the reins of power. But Mitchell, the known quantity.

“But?” He reached for the glass of water.

“But Carson apparently got away. I’m not clear on the details. However—” He glanced at his elaborate digital wrist-watch—the one that he’d been forbidden to wear on The Hour. “However, they should be here, before long. They called at six thirty, from the airport in San Francisco. They were leaving immediately in our airplane. So they should be here any time, now.”

“Are they coming here? Directly here?”

Elton nodded. “Yes. I thought you’d want them to come here.”

Nodding, he drank the entire glass of water, then held out the empty glass. Dutifully pouring, Elton asked, “How are you feeling?”

He smiled. “I feel better than I have for some time, in the morning. I think I’m going to look into those pills.”

“I wouldn’t. The doctor says that, all day today, you’ll probably feel logy.”

“Logy?”

“You know—no energy. You’ll—”

Beside the bed, the intercom buzzed. Glancing at the console, he saw the “gatehouse” button illuminated.

“I’ll get it—” Elton punched the button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Flournoy and Mr. Mitchell are here.”

“Yes. Send them up. We’re in my father’s bedroom. They can come up here.”

Holloway drew back the covers and swung his legs out of the bed. “Get my blue silk robe, will you? I’m going to the bathroom, and wash my face. Then I’ll sit there, in the armchair.” He gestured to the chair beside the window, at the same time leaning forward, pushing at the bed with his arms.

“Here—” Elton came close, standing over him, extending both hands—like a parent, ready to help a toddler learn to walk. “Here—let me help you.”

Impatiently, he shook his head. “No. Never mind. Let me do it.”

And, slowly, he was doing it—rising to his feet, swaying only slightly as he found his equilibrium—beginning the walk across the bedroom to the bathroom door.

“So that’s the whole story, Austin.” Looking tired and frustrated, unshaven and unpressed, Flournoy leaned back heavily in his chair, selecting an English muffin from the breakfast tray that had just arrived from the kitchen. “It’s not the best resolution, I’ll admit. But it’s not the worst, either.”

He turned to Mitchell. “How do you feel about it, Lloyd?”

But, before Mitchell could answer, Elton broke in: “This Peter Giannini sounds like a—a hippie. If it weren’t for him—” He let it go unfinished. Then, frowning, he turned to Flournoy. “Where’d he get the idea you were going to kill Carson?”

Chewing steadily, Flournoy didn’t reply, but instead glanced at Mitchell.

“He was upset,” Mitchell answered quietly. “He’d been shot at, after all.”

“That’s all very well,” Elton said, shifting petulantly in his chair. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a hippie. And, for that matter, so is Denise, when you come right down to it. In fact, that’s the real problem, here—Denise, and her far-out lifestyle. If she’d only done what she should’ve done, years ago—if she’d shaped up—this situation wouldn’t have come up.”

“The problem, though,” Mitchell said mildly, “is Carson. Denise was just a target. If it hadn’t been her, it would’ve been someone else.” He let a moment pass, then said, “You, for instance. Or your family. Your wife, or children.”

Elton’s answering expression was first startled, then annoyed. Sighing, Flournoy replaced his coffee cup on the tray, saying flatly, “That’s all past history. What we have to do now is decide on our next move.”

Our next move.
It was an ominous phrase. Signifying that only a skirmish had been won, not even a battle, much less the war. Holloway gestured with his empty cup for more coffee, at the same time asking, “What
is
our next move?”

“I’m afraid,” Flournoy said, “that our options are pretty much limited, assuming that we still don’t want to call in the police. Lloyd and I have been discussing various alternatives on the plane. Of course, we’ll want to increase security. Beyond that, all we can do is sit tight.”

“We’ve got Denise covered,” Mitchell said. “She’s covered around the clock.”

“We should insist that Denise come down here,” Elton said, “so we can protect her. Up there, in San Francisco, she’s running unnecessary risks. Every kook in the world ends up in San Francisco. And they all have guns. And drugs.”

No one replied.

“It might be,” Flournoy said, “that Carson’s been scared off. And, also, his options might be limited now—” He took a billfold from his inside pocket. “This is his wallet. He had his uncle’s credit cards. He’d been using them for car rental—and probably for lodging, and food. Without them, he’ll have a harder time.”

“He doesn’t have a penny,” Mitchell said. “Which means that he’ll probably have to steal, just to get food. He won’t even be able to get to Los Angeles, unless he hitchhikes.”

“If he steals,” Holloway mused, “he’ll be arrested. Is that good?”

“It’s not ideal,” Flournoy said. “But it’s probably inevitable. And, if the arrest doesn’t come in connection with you—with ransom, or extortion—it might be the best resolution we can hope for, under the circumstances. If the crime he’s arrested for isn’t sensational—if he’s arrested for robbing a liquor store, as opposed to being arrested for kidnapping Denise—there’s a good chance we can simply hush up whatever claims he might make, concerning his, ah, parentage.”

Holloway nodded over his coffee. “Yes, that’s true.”

“We can’t take any chances, though,” Mitchell cautioned. “His freedom of movement might be limited, but he might be even more dangerous—more irrational. Personally, I think that’s what will happen. He’s off his rocker, that kid—and he’s a killer. Or, at least, he’s a potential killer. And a sadist, and a lot of other things, too. I wouldn’t be surprised, the way he’s feeling now, if he walked right up to you and tried to shoot you, even though it would mean getting caught, or even killed.” Mitchell allowed a long, somber beat to pass, letting him think about it. Then: “He’s also smart. Very, very smart. And very determined, too. In two weeks, he’s figured out exactly what you do and when you do it. He knows your schedule down to the last detail.

“Which means,” Flournoy said, “that we’ve got to change your schedule, Austin. Or, at least, we’ll change the part that involves any contact with the public.”

“But what about The Hour?” Elton asked. Holloway glanced at his son. With his brow elaborately furrowed, Elton was trying to project a sense of concern. But his small, avid eyes betrayed him, revealing a gleam of pure ambition. A year ago, after Holloway’s first heart attack, Elton had taken over The Hour for a month, assisted by Sister Teresa and Pastor Bob—with Katherine’s silent, diaphanous presence always close. The results had been disastrous. Despite Elton’s mawkish pleas to “help Dad through,” audience response had been almost halved—and the cashflow, too.

Yet, thanks to his murderous half brother, Elton could once more see himself on center stage, singing his silly songs and preaching his awkward platitudes.

“What about Sunday?” Elton pressed, speaking directly to Flournoy.

Regretfully, Flournoy shook his head. But, plainly, Flournoy’s concern was genuine, not contrived. Flournoy, too, was remembering their cashflow problems, a year ago.

“We can’t risk it,” he answered. “We can’t risk Austin—not for a week or two, at least. You’ll have to do The Hour, Elton. You and Teresa and Bob.”

Holloway raised an imperious hand. “We can’t do that, because of the China Crusade. It’s impossible. Completely impossible. The next two weeks are crucial. Absolutely crucial.”

“I realize they’re crucial,” Flournoy said quietly. “But we’ve got to make absolutely certain that—”

“With this publicity snowball rolling,” Holloway said, “what you’re suggesting is out of the question. Unthinkable.”

“We could say that you’re—” Elton frowned, searching for the phrase. Then, brightening craftily: “We could say that you’re indisposed. Temporarily indisposed.”

Suppressing an angry retort, he swept the three of them with a long, hard look. “Forget it. I don’t care what security measures you take—so long as they don’t appear on camera. But, definitely, I’m doing The Hour this Sunday. And the next Sunday, too—and the next.” He turned to face Mitchell. “You can hire an army of security men, I don’t care—providing they look like they belong in the congregation. Give them Carson’s picture, and station them at every door when the people start arriving. And then you can put them in every other seat, if you like. But The Hour goes on—exactly as scheduled.”

“If that’s what you want,” Mitchell answered, “then that’s what we’ll do. However, I do think you should give up the altar call.”

He shook his head. “I can’t do it, Lloyd. I’m aware that it’s a risk. But the altar call and the final words are two things that never change. They’re—” He raised his hands, gesturing. “They’re my trademarks.”

“Just once, give it up,” Mitchell asked. “Just this once.”

Regretfully, he shook his head again. “Sorry, Lloyd. As I said, I can appreciate the risk. And, believe me, I’m not anxious to take a chance with my neck. I’m no hero, believe me. But it just can’t be done.” He paused, then said, “After all, I’m giving you carte blanche. You should be able to put something together. If the Secret Service can protect the President when he’s working the crowds, surely we can do the same thing.” Once more sweeping the semicircle of their faces, he saw both disappointment and resignation in their eyes. Mitchell and Flournoy were disappointed because he’d chosen to risk his life, possibly to Flournoy’s financial loss—possibly to Mitchell’s eternal defeat.

As for Elton, he’d missed yet another chance.

O
N THE STAGE, DRESSED
in white organdy, Sister Teresa stood with her hands clasped beneath her bosom, eyes raised, holding the spiritual’s last long, lingering note. Behind her, in unison, the choir swayed to the rhythm. Standing aside, stage right, smiling and nodding benignly, Austin Holloway was waiting his turn.

Carson looked at his watch. The time was ten fifty-five: forty-five minutes into the program. About thirty minutes remained.

But, for Austin Holloway, less than thirty minutes.

Leaving Holloway, his eyes traveled to the TV cameras, one on each side of the stage. The third camera, high above, was hidden.

These were the cameras that, in minutes, would record the death of Austin Holloway.

In the program he held in his lap, the title of the coming sermon was listed as “Salvation and Sacrifice.”

Today—soon—Holloway would teach through example—a do-it-yourself demonstration of human sacrifice, on nationwide TV. He would give up his life on camera. If the program didn’t lie—if Holloway didn’t lie—then his salvation would follow. So, on camera, Holloway could give a demonstration of his soul’s ascent into heaven. It would be a TV first—a record smasher. Reruns would gross millions.

It was a joke—a magnificently inspired, once-in-a-lifetime joke. His joke. His fame. His fortune. All of it. For ever and ever, all his. Because millions would see it happen. Millions upon millions: reruns forever. All through the world, they would see Austin Holloway raise his hand over the bowed heads, pronouncing his bogus, three-for-a-quarter blessing. Then, all over the world, they would hear the shot. They would see Holloway totter, see him fall. They would see the blood, hear the screams. They would watch Holloway die: a slow, agonizing death. It would be the ultimate movie, made for TV.

And, while Holloway lay dying, he, Carson, would be invisible, just one face among thousands, melting into the wild, milling crowd.

And all thanks to the pamphlet he held in his lap:
Bible Stories for Today.
He’d found it just yesterday, in a religious bookstore: an outsized book with a picture of Jesus on the cover, dressed in a white robe, a golden halo behind his head. He’d taken the book to his room and discovered that, yes, the pamphlet would fold over Uncle Julian’s .45, completely concealing both his hand and the gun. He’d bought a Bible, too, its purpose to conceal the pamphlet’s subtitle,
Stories for Children.

Forty-five minutes ago, carrying the Bible and the pamphlet—knowing that, certainly, guards were everywhere, watching for him—he’s entered this Temple. He’d even smiled at one of the men who, surely, had been stationed at the door to intercept him. He hadn’t been afraid to smile—to dare the man in the blue suit to recognize him. Because he’d known, beyond all doubt, that he would never be recognized. His hair was still dark brown; he couldn’t change that. But now he wore glasses—heavy rimmed, dimestore glasses, for reading. He hadn’t chosen sun glasses; he’d been too clever for that. And then, remembering
The Godfather,
he’d stuffed cotton in each cheek. The results had been unbelievable. In the mirror, he’d seen a stranger.

So, forty-five minutes ago, piously smiling, he’d taken his seat. Perhaps the man seated beside him was another guard. It was possible. It was even desirable. It was important that they recognize the power he held over them—that they realized how helpless they were to oppose him.