Terminal Island (21 page)

There is no response, and Henry is about ready to despair when out of nowhere a thick, grumpy voice calls, “The hell’s your problem?”

It is Arbuthnot himself, up on the second floor. He looks like he’s been napping, dressed only in a shorts and a t-shirt. The unexpected sight of that brutal mug is as welcome to Henry right now as the appearance of a Christmas angel.

“Mr. Arbuthnot! I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help—it’s important.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Henry Cadmus—I overheard you the other day talking about some missing persons that you were checking into? Well, I’ve found out what it’s all about.”

Yawning and rubbing his eyes, the big man says, “Oh really? Well you better come on up, I guess, or I’ll never get any sleep.”

Once Henry is in the room with him, Arbuthnot holds off hearing the story to take some aspirin and go to the bathroom. “Fucking jet lag,” he grumbles apologetically. The room is a mess, with liquor bottles and take-out boxes and paperwork laid out on every available surface. It smells stale. After a moment Arbuthnot comes back out and starts putting on his pants.

Unable to wait another second, Henry blurts, “Mr. Arbuthnot, my daughter is missing, and I think she may have been kidnapped.”

“Do you know you smell like gasoline?”

“Yes. That’s all part of it. Earlier today I was almost killed trying to find my mother up at that Shady Acres place, and now I believe they’ve got my daughter, too. They’re following me! The whole town is in on it!”

Nodding thoughtfully, Arbuthnot circles behind Henry to get a shirt off the hanger. “Shady Isle, you mean. I see…”

All at once there is a gun pressed to Henry’s skull.

“Cut out the bullshit,” Arbuthnot says in his ear. “Who are you working for?”

Dry-mouthed, Henry says, “Nobody. I’m here for the same reason you are.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’m looking for answers.”

“Start making sense, asshole.”

“A few months ago my mother came to this island and disappeared. I traced her to that Shady Isle, but she’s not there—no one is. The whole place is just a front for a gigantic identity-theft mill. They take people’s identities and make them disappear.” He recounts everything that happened, everything he failed to tell Ruby. “I know it sounds insane, but I was just up there and saw the whole thing! They’ve got it going like a regular assembly-line.”

“That’s bullshit. I’ve been up there and interviewed some of the residents. It all checks out.”

“How did you manage to go in? By appointment?”

“Yes.”

“Then they put on a dog and pony show for you. That’s how it works!”

“And how did you get in?”

“I climbed up the hillside and went under the fence. It was pure luck. But they almost caught me—I barely got out with my life.”

The pressure of the gun lessens as Arbuthnot expertly pats Henry down with his free hand, scrutinizing his I.D. When he’s finished, he lowers the revolver and steps back. “Do they know who you are?” he asks.

“I’m not sure, but I’ve been to the police.”

“What did they do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then they know.”

Sensing that Arbuthnot is way ahead of him, Henry asks, “What the hell is
happening
on this island? How can they get away with this?”

Finishing getting dressed, Arbuthnot says, “It’s bigger than just this island. This is the tip of the iceberg. I’ve barely scratched the surface, but there are links to dozens of countries. It’s very well financed and politically connected.”

“What
is
it?”

“I’m still figuring that out.” Knotting his tie, he says, “A few people from the Treasury Department, the Secret Service, the FTC, the SEC, and the Social Security Administration have been running an unofficial investigation that is about to go official—big time. They’ve been working independently to blow the lid off this thing, because nobody else will look at it. It’s career suicide. That’s why they had to bring me in, a ringer, because nobody else wants the grief.”

“I still don’t understand what’s so—”

“It’s basically a religious cult that’s using modern technology to stage a comeback. But it’s a cuckoo’s egg—it camouflages itself in the trappings of fundamentalist Christianity, which makes it a political hot potato.”

“I’ve heard something about a Satanic cult. And animal sacrifices.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Arbuthnot zips opens a shaving case and pulls out an object wrapped in cloth. Handing it over, he says, “Say hello to Zagreus.”

Henry unfolds the napkin and finds a statue of a child—a young boy. The figure’s oversized head has two nubs like budding horns. It is carved from ivory, about eight inches long, and has a certain phallic contour.

“Wait a second…” Henry says.

“What?”

“I’ve
seen
this thing before. What is it?”

“That’s Zagreus—the Horned Child.”

“So it is the devil?”

“Not quite. Not unless you believe that Jesus Christ was cribbing from the devil.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of Christian concepts are borrowed directly from Zagreus: Immaculate conception, the whole water-into-wine thing, the martyrdom and resurrection. Eternal life for those who eat his body and drink his blood. Yet Zagreus predates Christ by five to ten thousand years. At one time, Zagreus-worship spread like wildfire all over Europe and Asia Minor, toppling the major religions of its day.”

“I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You’ve heard of Dionysus, haven’t you? Or Bacchus? It’s all the same god. Zagreus is just the kiddie version, like the baby Jesus.”

“But the horns…”

“Horns didn’t originally have sinister connotations—God himself could be a bull or a ram. Those horns were just signifiers that Zagreus was the authentic Lamb of God. The concept of a horned devil was invented by early Jews and perpetuated by Christians to discredit Zagreus so they could steal his customer base—like Pepsi versus Coke.”

“What does that have to do with what’s happening here?”

“Zagreus is alive. Here. Today. His believers use various forms of Christianity as a cover for their real purpose, which is massive financial fraud, racketeering, political corruption, you name it, all for the big Z. Anytime someone starts preaching the ‘prosperity gospel’ or wants to kill in the name of Jesus, that’s a clue that Zaggers might be pulling the strings. They are especially active in the movement known as Dominionism, which holds that wealth is proof of God’s favor, and anyone who’s not born rich can go suck it. Their goal is to repeal the Constitution and replace it with God’s Law—which of course would include bringing back slavery and killing all witches, queers, and disobedient children. It’s bananas.”

“But isn’t some of that right out of the Bible?”

“Yes, but remember that the original language of the Bible was Greek. It’s from the apostles, some of whom may have been initiates to the Greater Mysteries of Eleusis—the church of Zagreus. Christ himself was at least influenced by the liturgy of Eleusis, and perhaps more. In fact, these people think of Jesus as a usurper—a priest of Zagreus who wanted to
be
God. The original identity thief.”

“But how could such a thing still be happening?”

“It’s probably always been around, lurking in isolated pockets around the world. This island was one of them—rumor has it that Zagreus-worship came over with one of the Black Hand societies during Prohibition, when this island was a major staging area for bootleggers. Reconstituted, doped wine was manufactured here in huge amounts. But the Internet has caused a revival.”

“I just don’t—how is it possible to keep such a thing secret?”

“Because they all have a stake in it—it’s the golden goose. Also the drugs help.”

“Drugs?”

“Hell yes. None of this would be possible without the sacrament: the so-called ‘ambrosia’ they brew from either
amanita muscaria
or
datura stramonium
—Angel’s Trumpet. Zagreus is the god of wine, and they take that shit seriously.
Amanita
is a poison mushroom and
datura
is a flower, a powerful alkaloid with effects similar to PCP. There was one particular incident where it may even have gotten into the town reservoir when federal agents broke up some stills—the whole incident was covered up, but half the people on this island probably got permanent brain damage from drinking that crap. To this day they guzzle it nonstop during their festivals.” Arbuthnot stares pointedly at Henry as he says, “It’s how they achieve the state of religious ecstasy that permits them to do…what they do.”

Henry doesn’t flinch—this comes as no surprise to him. “Murder,” he says.

The investigator nods, donning his coat. “Human sacrifice. It’s the ultimate initiation—once someone has done that, they are committed to the faith in a way that no ordinary baptism can compete with. It’s what mobsters do to ensure ultimate loyalty. But these folks have added their own twist to it.”

“What’s that?”

“They think they’re doing their victims a favor, saving their souls by turning them into permanent subscribers. The people they kill are not human beings but
pharmakoi
—healing agents delivered by God. And there’s an added incentive: Each killing represents a fresh income stream—literally manna from heaven.”

“Unbelievable…”

“Yeah. And this is just the beginning, a template for what’s to come. This island is a testing ground for a Second Coming, ground zero for a church that thinks the meek are cattle and that the spoils belong to the victor. They’re engaged in a campaign to break down the culture and hijack all this disposable wealth that has cluttered the society with too many judges, too many lawyers, too many petty obstacles to the exercise of raw power. They mean to reduce the population to a superstitious, impoverished rabble that will be properly in awe of their greatness…or be swatted like flies. Only
then
will they openly speak the name of Zagreus. And the public sacrifices will commence.”

The investigator suddenly shakes his boulder-like head with wry disbelief. “Needless to say, I haven’t slept properly in years. But I’ll tell you what: if what you’re telling me is true, we’re about to bust this cocksucker wide open.”

Overwhelmed, Henry gathers his wits and says, “That’s terrific, but…right now I really just need you to help me find my daughter. Please—I’m going out of my mind.”

“Certainly, certainly. I’ll tell you what: I have a couple of inside connections here who may be able to tell me something. With just the information you’ve given me I should have considerably more leverage. I’ll go over right now.”

“That’s fantastic,” Henry says, dissolving in gratitude. “
Thank
you.”

“Don’t mention it. You’re doing me a favor.” He puts his coat on. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll have to ask you to wait for me. These people won’t talk if they think someone’s listening in.”

“Okay,” Henry says. “I won’t budge.”

“Well, actually I can’t leave you in here with all this stuff. This is kind of my office, you understand. I don’t even let the maid in here. Where are you staying?”

“At the Formosa. Room 318.”

“Good, why don’t you go back there and wait for me? I’ll call as soon as I know something.”

Henry can’t imagine facing Ruby empty-handed. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather just wait outside here.”

Sensing Henry’s desperation, Arbuthnot says, “Sure, whatever. Tell you what: Why don’t you wait on the plaza for me? It’s a more public place. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“I’m not sure it’s safe out there.”

“Why not?”

Unsure of how to put it, Henry says, “There was a nut in a costume before.”

“What kind of costume? What did he do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, really. It just kind of…worried me, with the rest of the town so empty.”

“It’s probably nothing—I wouldn’t think about it right now. Let’s focus on finding your daughter.”

“Okay…”

Out on the sidewalk, Arbuthnot says, “I have to go this way. Hang in there—we’re gonna nail these bastards, you’ll see.” He rests his big paw on Henry’s shoulder, then turns away and disappears around a corner.

Drained and hurting, suddenly feeling like his body weighs a ton, Henry goes half a block to the town plaza. Arriving there, he rests on a bench facing the drugstore.

Birdman of Alcatraz
…the vivid memory of feeding pigeons with his mother here almost brings him to tears. Suddenly he sees it all as through a cracked lens, a crystal ball that captures the whole dynamic of the situation: himself and his missing mother and daughter in a three-generation cycle of futility…with him at the center, being simultaneously torn in both directions, toward the future and the past. Being ripped in two.

But why? Why is this happening?

Hearing a baby crying, Henry’s mind contracts back to the size of the present, his eyes drawn to a pleasant and perfectly ordinary sight—and thus a profoundly welcome one.

Coming down the street are two women pushing a baby carriage. They are a couple of blocks away, idling along as if simply out enjoying a lazy fall afternoon. As if nothing odd could possibly intrude on their world. Henry walks over, self-consciously trying to appear normal himself so as not to alarm them.

The carriage is a big, Victorian-style pram. It is not only old-fashioned but
old
, its undercarriage rust-stained and rickety. He feels like he has seen it someplace before.

A bad feeling wells up out of Henry’s guts.

This is immediately followed by a second feeling—the urgent need to see who it is crying in that basket. The muffled wails are high and frantic, and the women aren’t doing much about it.

Approaching them, Henry says, “Good afternoon. Can I speak to you ladies?”

The women don’t acknowledge the question. They are middle-aged matrons, one frumpy, dark, and heavy-set; the other tall and slender, with long white hands—her face is obscured by a veiled sun hat. The swarthy one stares at him with a look of grinning contempt.

“Your baby sounds upset,” Henry says. Without asking, he cautiously tips up the canopy of the stroller. There is something moving under the blanket—large enough to be a toddler.