Spellbinder (36 page)
Recording this record turnout—this final triumph for Austin Holloway, lying in the huge oaken casket, center stage.
She’d come back to where she’d started, many years ago—to this same stage, staring at these same tiny red lights. At first, the lights had totally intimidated her. But, slowly, she’d learned to accept them, to live with them. Yet, throughout her life, the red lights had never released her.
Just as her father had never released her—or her mother, sitting beside her. Or her brother, standing now at center stage, where her father had always stood. With both arms lifted high, eyes raised, trailing the long microphone cord that she’d always associated with her father, Elton stood in the vortex of three golden spotlights. It was a lighting effect that had always been reserved for The Hour’s most climactic moments, all stops pulled out. As she listened, Elton’s voice began to tremble. Was the tremor calculated, or real? She couldn’t decide—just as, in the past, she’d never been able to decide where her father’s art left off and his true feelings began.
“… and so I ask You, Lord,” Elton was saying, still with his hands raised high, “I ask You to pause for a moment in Your labors, and listen to these last few words—these-final words.” He paused a moment, to emphasize yet another evocation of his father’s ritual incantation. “I ask You to recall, with me, all the sinners that, over the years, my father has turned from the devil’s work to Your bright, shining service. I ask You to remember, Lord, that Austin Holloway has always been Your faithful servant and—yes—Your partner, too. I ask You to remember that, literally with his last breath, he was mounting an assault in Your name on the largest country in the world, that haven of heathens, where Your words and Your works are ignored.”
Another pause. Slowly, the raised arms came down, the head came level. Then, looking directly into the camera, he lowered his voice to a solemn, intimate note. “He died in Your service, Lord. He died on the firing line—on the field of battle, as so many brave Christian soldiers have died before him. His enemy was a poor, demented youth—someone enlisted by your enemies, and given a gun, and told to kill Austin Holloway, Your servant. And, even though the assassin failed—even though one of Your soldiers killed him, before he could fire his fatal bullet—the shock was too much for my father’s poor heart, already weakened in Your service, Lord. And so he died. And, as he lay dying, his last words were spoken to his assassin, forgiving him.”
Another pause—the final pause.
“Austin Holloway is gone,” Elton intoned. “You have lost a good and faithful servant, Lord—and I have lost a father. We are both losers.
“And yet, Lord, You are not forsaken. Because—with Your permission—I intend to carry on my father’s work. I intend to take Your word to every part of this great country—and into every corner of the world. Where my father reached a million souls through Your miracle of television, I promise You that I will reach
tens
of millions, carrying Your message to every sinner who will listen, or watch.
“And so—” At the words, background music began. Sister Teresa stepped forward, ready. “And so, it is time for us to close this service. It is time for us to commend the soul of Austin Holloway to Your eternal care. A-men.”
Stepping back, Elton bowed his head, standing with his hands clasped on his grandfather’s prayer book. It was the same pose her father had always assumed, after the final words. On cue, Sister Teresa began
Onward, Christian Soldiers.
In the wings, the two cameras were pivoting in opposite directions, one to roam the audience, the other to play across the faces of the choir. Today the cameras would be seeking out the tear-streaked faces—while, above, the key camera remained on Sister Teresa’s face. It was written into her contract.
Among the faithful watching on nationwide TV, all rating records were doubtless being broken.
Turning her head, Denise looked at her mother, on her left. Eyes dry, face composed, her mother was staring straight ahead. Her eyes were clear; she was sober. For two days, the bottles of gin delivered to her room had gone unopened. Was it shock? Or was it a miracle? She hadn’t dared to ask—and hardly dared to hope. She could only wonder whether the obvious might be true: that the real cause of her mother’s alcoholism had been excised.
Last night, her mother had taken her to her bedroom, where they’d looked at old family photographs, some of them ninety years old. Occasionally, she’d seen her mother’s eyes wander to the armoire where the gin bottles were kept. But only momentarily, only tentatively.
When she’d left her mother’s room, the time had been almost 2
A.M.
At the door, they’d held each other close. For the first time since she’d been a girl, she’d felt strength in her mother’s embrace. Strength, and something more—hope, or purpose.
On stage, the last strains of
Onward, Christian Soldiers
were drawing to a tremulous close. The audience was stirring. The red lights above the cameras winked out.
It was another wrap.
Except that, today, the usherettes would form the faithful into a long line of mourners, waiting patiently to file past the casket. For this part of the ceremony, the casket would be open.
And she would be gone.
Without speaking to Flournoy, or to Mitchell, or to her brother, she would leave this monstrous place.
Tomorrow, she would go to the funeral. Beside her mother, she would play her assigned role—as she was playing it now. But that would be the end. After tomorrow, the time of the scavengers would begin. Elton, Flournoy, Sister Teresa, even Pastor Bob—all of them would be scrambling for the leftover spoils. And for the camera angles. And the perks. And the contract terms.
Or, rather, they would scramble for what Elton left them. Because, after the sermon just delivered—and telecast—Elton’s place at the top of the heap was assured. Elton would keep his bogus bargain with God. What Caesar had done for Mark Antony, her father had done for Elton.
She turned to Peter, on her right, whispering, “Why don’t you get the car? Bring it around to the side entrance.”
Dressed in his blue suit and white shirt and striped tie, Peter could have been any one of a million men—anyone but Peter. She could see that he was suffering, just as she was suffering. If Peter believed in the devil, the face beneath the horns would be Elton’s.
He rose to his feet, reached across her to touch her mother’s hand, then walked across the stage, moving awkwardly, stiffly. She never should have asked him to come. After they took her mother home, she would release him. She would spare him tomorrow’s obscenity.
She pointed through the windshield. “Get over to the right. You have to get on the Hollywood Freeway.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Peter switched on the turn signal and cautiously changed lanes. He was frowning and shaking his head, muttering a mild profanity as a bright red sports car cut sharply in front of them. Driving on Los Angeles freeways was almost the only task that could intimidate Peter.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked, scowling at a careening van painted with polka dots.
“There’s no need. It’ll just be more of the same, tomorrow.”
Looking at her, he asked quietly, “How do you feel?”
“A little numbed, I guess. I’m not sure.”
“It’ll take time, for you to sort it all out. Maybe a lot of time.”
“I know.”
For a few moments they drove in silence before Peter said, “I talked to Mitchell. He said that he hadn’t recognized Carson. If Carson hadn’t panicked, he would’ve—” Peter hesitated. “He would’ve been able to do what he’d come to do.”
“He did it anyway.”
“In a way, yes. But not really. Your father died a natural death. And whether you approve of what he did with his life, the fact is that he probably believed most of what he said. He kept working, too, even with a bad heart. And he died doing his job.” He raised a hand in a gesture that signified both approval and resignation. “You have to respect him. You don’t have to agree with him. But you’ve got to respect him.”
Eyes straight ahead, she made no reply.
Because she couldn’t respect him. Not now. Not so soon. Not remembering the bodies he’d left behind, the dead and the dying.
She felt him looking at her, then heard him say, “What about your mother?”
Still looking ahead, she pointed to the “Los Angeles International” exit. He nodded; he’d seen it, and was once more changing lanes. She let another moment of silence pass. Then: “She hasn’t had a drink for two days. I’m taking it one day at a time. I guess she is, too.”
“Maybe—” He drew a reluctant breath. “Maybe you should ask her to stay with you for a while.”
She shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t work.”
“I guess not. In fact, I agree with you. But I wanted to—to offer.”
She smiled at him. Turning his head, he returned her smile. Then he asked, “Will she go on—performing?”
“We talked about it for a little while last night. I told her she shouldn’t do it for a while—for a period of mourning, so called. Hopefully, it could become permanent.”
“Did you tell her that you hoped it would be permanent?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s smart. I get the impression that a lot of communication between you and your mother is unspoken. Which is good. Or, at least, probably inevitable. The point is, I imagine she knows how you feel about it, whether or not you’ve actually said the words.” He drove silently for a moment before he said, “I wonder whether it’s possible that her drinking might be connected to the fact that she’s got to play her part every Sunday?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself.”
They were on the airport boulevard now, angling toward the sign marked “United,” “American,” “P.S.A.,” “Braniff.” Another moment of silence passed. There was more for them to say—more to share. But somehow the words weren’t coming, for either of them. The United loading zone was just ahead. Cars were parked two deep at the curb, while harried passengers unloaded their baggage, bid hasty goodbyes and hurried into the terminal—all under the baleful eyes of airport policemen, blowing their whistles, urgently waving the passengers into the terminal and the cars on their way.
Pulling in behind a slow-moving Mercedes, Peter said, “When do you think you’ll come home?”
“Two or three days—just as soon as I can. I’ll have to play it by ear.”
They were stopped at the curb now. Setting the parking brake, Peter sat silently for a moment, staring straight ahead. Finally he turned to face her squarely. His eyes were serious, his voice somber as he said, “I—ah—I’ve been thinking, lately, about that time in Mill Valley, after we had dinner with Ann and Cy, and we were talking about—about having children, and everything. Do you remember?”
Slowly—almost reluctantly—she was nodding.
Why reluctantly? And why couldn’t she answer him? Why could she only stare straight ahead—silently, helplessly? The next moment could mean everything to her. Why did the prospect numb her?
“I—” He swallowed. But, doggedly, he went on: “I was thinking that you were right, that night. I mean—” He swallowed again. “I mean, I guess I can be pretty one-way about things. I—ah—got burned so badly, getting divorced, and feeling guilty about what the divorce did to my kid, that I never stopped to think about you—about what having children would mean to you. I—” As his voice trailed off, she saw an irate policeman standing squarely in front of the car, urgently gesturing them to pull away from the curb. Peter nodded to the policeman, tried to placate him with a palms-out gesture, then turned again to her. Saying: “I was laying my hang-ups on you. Which isn’t fair. In fact, it’s a pretty crappy trick, when you come right down to it. So—” He gestured again, this time turning his palms up, eloquently signifying his inability to put it into words. He swallowed again, then doggedly continued: “So I—I was thinking,” he said, speaking in a low, husky voice, “I was thinking that, if you want to have kids, it—it’s all right with me.”
She knew the answer that she must give. She didn’t need to search for the words. Quietly, she said, “I wouldn’t ever want to have children without being married, Peter.”
She saw him nod: a grave, considered inclination of his head. “Yeah,” he answered, “Yeah, that too.”
As she reached out to touch his hand, a sudden crash made her jump. It was the policeman, hammering with the flats of both hands on the hood of the car—furious.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1981 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4656-4
This 2013 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
